Swing Sideways

by Nanci Turner Steveson

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  California looked shrunken under the sheets, colorless and frail, like a naked baby bird with see-through skin and blue veins that popped like worm trails. In only a few weeks her eyes had sunk deep into the sockets. A breeze lifted white lace curtains into the room, but even with the fresh air, I knew what I was smelling was the sickness that would take her life. I wished I could hold her cupped in my hands the same way she’d taught me to hold a baby chick: gentle but firm, so she wouldn’t fall.

  I sat down and watched her breathing oxygen through a tube under her nose, knowing she was slipping away and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I’m not sure how long I’d been there when she woke up and smiled a tiny smile. Her lips were so chapped I touched my own to wipe away the phantom pain.

  “Hey, Annie-girl.”

  “Hey.” I rubbed my fingers along a purple bruise on the back of her hand.

  “The IV line. I bruise easily.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I’m pretty sure you didn’t give me cancer, did you?”

  We both smiled before she drifted off to sleep. Her breathing changed, she opened her eyes and we stared at each other in silence, and she slept again. We went through that cycle several times before she said anything else.

  “You’re not mad at me, are you?”

  “About what?”

  “Not telling the truth.”

  “No, I’m not mad.” Hot tears streamed down my cheeks, and she jiggled my hand.

  “Hey, hey, Annie-girl, don’t cry. Please don’t cry. Hey, you wanna know something funny?”

  “Sure.”

  “I think you’re the bee’s knees.”

  The bee’s knees. Such a California thing to say. I giggled, and she smiled until her cracked lips bled. I dabbed at the blood with a tissue. That sent me into tearful spasms, so she took the tissue and dabbed my cheeks. We both started laughing, and when we were done, we cried and held tight to each other’s hands until there were no more tears.

  “You found the willow.” Her voice was weak, barely any California there.

  “We did, you and me.”

  “You’ll take Piper, right? You’ll show her we found it so she’ll stay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you be sure they take good care of Field?”

  “Of course.”

  The corners of her mouth rose. She settled against the pillows and closed her eyes. A little later she woke up and pressed my hand against her chest. “Annie, what’s inside your red notebook?”

  I’d never brought the notebook back after the day she said it was like a binky. “It’s a story I’m writing.”

  “About what?”

  “A girl and a wild horse and the horse is hurt and the girl is trying to help it but the horse keeps running away.”

  “What happens in the end?”

  “I, um, I don’t know. I haven’t finished.”

  “Can you finish it and read it to me?”

  I nodded and grabbed a fresh tissue.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I needed one person who didn’t know. I wanted to be like a normal kid for the summer. You were my one normal-summer friend.” A few more minutes went by and she whispered, “Thank you, Annie,” before falling back asleep.

  Piper came in a while later to say the hospice nurse had arrived to check California.

  “Can I come again?”

  “Come whenever you want.”

  “How—how much time—how will we know—”

  Piper stroked the back of her fingers across California’s forehead. “There’s no way to tell exactly. But it will be peaceful, and it’s what she wanted, to be here at the farm with me and her grandfather.”

  I leaned over to kiss the top of California’s head and whispered close to her ear.

  “You make my heart swing sideways.”

  Then I turned and ran down the hallway, straight into Mom’s arms.

  THIRTY-NINE

  California died a week later.

  It was sooner than we expected, but Dad said he thought once Piper came home, she let go. I’d gone to see her every day and, even though she never woke up when I was there, I finished my story and read it to her. I don’t know if she heard, but just to be sure, when I was done, I lay the red Story Notebook on the bed next to her. Later that night Piper and Mr. McMurtry were each holding one of her hands when she went away.

  The next day Mom and Dad carried a bouquet of flowers and a casserole into Mr. McMurtry’s kitchen. Mom and Piper hugged, Dad put his hand on Mr. McMurtry’s shoulder, then they both left without saying anything. Mr. McMurtry sat by the fireplace, head down, elbows on knees, his big, gnarled hands clasped together. He hadn’t spoken to me since that awful morning after the night before.

  I held out the metal box to Piper. “The letters are in here. She left them in the carriage, and I wasn’t sure what to do with them, so I took them home for safekeeping.”

  She smiled. “It’s okay, Annie. Everything’s okay.” She handed me a white envelope. “California left you something.”

  On the outside she had written To Miss Annabel Sinclair Stockton, affectionately known as Annie to those who love her.

  Mr. McMurtry looked up with bloodshot eyes. “She wrote that a few days back, before the end was imminent. It took all her strength. Must be important.”

  He turned away from what must have been too painful to see and lowered his head. The envelope shook in my hand.

  “Would you rather read it in private?” Piper asked.

  “I think I want to go down by the river.”

  She winced, nodding sadly.

  Field stood to follow me. By the time we got to the oak tree, Lacy had caught up. I plopped down in the sandy dip where Field’s shelter had been and stared at the crooked words she had struggled to write for me. Inside was a single sheet of folded paper with only five words.

  Take her to the willow.

  Underneath she had tried to draw a picture of two ponies and a tree with long, stringy branches reaching all the way to the ground. In the center of the tree, she had penciled in a faint heart. It was good I hadn’t opened it in front of Piper, because I sat under that tree and cried until my stomach hurt. All my loneliness, my sadness, my memories of her laughter, her lessons, her funny words echoed through my ears. My agony poured out until nothing was left inside except quiet and still. Only then, when I felt that peace, did I stand up and walk out of those woods for the last time.

  It was almost September before we scattered the ashes. Piper picked a Tuesday because that was California’s favorite day of the week. She invited Mom and Dad to come with us, but Mom suggested we go—just Mr. McMurtry, Piper, me, and Field—and she and Dad would stay at the farm and cook dinner for everyone instead.

  I hugged Mom in the driveway before we left. “Thank you,” I whispered.

  She brushed hair out of my face, put her hand on my cheek, and said, “I’m so in awe of you.”

  Piper drove the old Buick a mile toward town before turning onto a narrow dirt lane cutting straight through the woods. About a hundred feet down, the road ended abruptly.

  “The willow is no more than a quarter mile down this path,” she said, pointing to a slight opening between the trees. “Of course, you girls didn’t know that, but isn’t that just like California, so hardheaded and impulsive. God forbid she should ever ask for help.” She rested her forehead on the steering wheel for a moment before we all got out of the car.

  In the daylight everything looked different. A trail wound its way through the trees all the way down to the tiny peninsula. The willow stood tall and wide, with sweeping chartreuse branches rustling gently against the earth.

  “I used to come down here with the ponies on hot summer days. It was their vacation spot. They loved it.” She looked out across the lake and pointed to a white dot nestled in the green on the other side.

  “The farm,” Mr. McMurtry said quietly. He’d had
a haircut and trimmed his beard, and on that important day he wore a jacket and slacks, like he was going to a real funeral in a church. Piper leaned her head against his chest and looped an arm around his waist. I hoped it meant she was going to stay, but she’d already told me she hadn’t decided.

  “It depends on where I feel California’s presence the most, and I won’t know that for a while. I miss her.”

  I missed her, too. Fiercely. I cried myself to sleep every night. Mom slept in the rocking chair next to my bed and let me cry without hovering. For the first time since I was little, she understood how to comfort me.

  Piper opened California’s backpack and lifted out the porcelain urn from the secret room. Unscrewing the lid, she reached inside, then handed a soft, purple velvet bag to her father. She took out another bag, this one sapphire blue, and held it up close to her heart.

  “California can be with Kit now.”

  No one had to tell me how much Mr. McMurtry hurt. All those years he could have been a part of California’s life. But he wasn’t because he’d been stubborn, and now it was too late. He’d got only a tiny slice of her, only a few weeks more than me. I moved behind them and stared at the ground, wrapping my fingers around the soft fur on Field’s neck, and remembered what California had told Piper about me.

  Be strong. Don’t fall apart. Be strong for them, and for California.

  In tandem, Piper and Mr. McMurtry reached into their bags and flung their hands toward the aqua sky, letting loose a fog of ash that blew out over the water and mixed together, blending grandmother and granddaughter into one puff before disappearing into the air. Piper and her father stood with their arms touching, looking out over the lake where the people they loved had gone. Mr. McMurtry searched for his daughter’s hand, found it, and held on tight. I wanted to wrap my arms around the two of them from behind, to join them together forever, but instead I closed my eyes and wished California could have seen them. It would have meant everything.

  I wished I could hear her voice one more time, see her climb a tree faster than a monkey, lope through the woods with Lacy tucked under her arm, her broad knees lifting as high as a parade pony. I wished for one more kooky lesson, one more moment when she looked at me and made me feel powerful. I wished for many things, just one more time.

  Warmth cascaded from the top of my head, down my back, through my arms and legs, all the way to the tips of my toes. I looked up at the sky where the ashes had gone, and there she was, flying out over the water, laughing, her face full and pink again, her yellow hair all wild and free, and her big, ugly toes wiggling in the wind. She twirled her body around and around, somersaulting through a loop of the pink scarf she’d worn to dinner, until it wrapped itself around her like a blanket.

  Up there California was so full of life—she blew me kisses, telling me she was free. I didn’t understand and started to weep. I wanted to stay in her light forever. She pointed, telling me to turn around. When I did, I knew it was real. She had been there all along. Pushing through the long fronds of the willow were two old ponies—one chestnut with a yellow mane and blue eyes, the other a soft, cream palomino.

  Right then, something bound up tight inside me broke free and sailed away. When I looked back, California was gone, but I heard her voice one last time, like a song carried off by the wind.

  Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye—

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing a novel is like sewing a quilt made from scraps of love from those who believe in you. My gratitude reaches far beyond the generous and talented people here, because so much comes from random expressions or words that unknowingly ignite and inspire.

  Everlasting thanks for the grace, shelter, and love of Kate, Brian, Bryce, and Brayden Jenkins, who blessed me with family dinners, wisdom, and the Happy Writer’s Room;

  My insightful critique partner, Betsy Devany Macleod, who always insists the best of me rise to the top;

  My mother, Liz Turner, who is not a math professor but rather a highly creative bubble of effervescence;

  To my five siblings, especially Michael, whose vicious red pen made me persevere just to prove him wrong, and Ashley, who devoted so much of herself to my dreams;

  My patient and all-powerful agent, Al Zuckerman;

  My dream editor, Andrew Harwell, thank you for guiding and encouraging me with the authority, insight, and patience of an editor, an educator, and a shrink;

  Rosemary Brosnan, Erin Fitzsimmons, Olivia Swomley, Dawn Cooper, and all the HarperCollins teams who loved this story and made it happen;

  SCBWI especially in Austin, NJ; and MD/DE/WV;

  The Jackson Hole Writers;

  The Highlights Foundation;

  Dr. Susan Rheingold of Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia;

  Bethany Hegedus and the magic of The Writing Barn;

  Janet Fox for answers to my never-ending questions, often sent in the middle of the night;

  The writers whose use of language inspired me, especially: Victor Hugo, Anna Sewell, Laura Ingalls Wilder, Robert Frost, Mary Oliver, William Shakespeare, Kate DiCamillo, Sharon Creech, Kathi Appelt, Jacqueline Kelly;

  To all who offered support and encouragement on this journey, including my sons Parker and James, Kathy Temean, Patti Lee Gauch, Teresa Crumpton, Bettina Whyte, Maureen Dorsey, April North, Kat Yeh, Brigid Kemmerer, Annabel Winters-McCabe, and Elizabeth McCague;

  And finally, to my dad, Michael G. Turner, who passed away before Swing Sideways was finished, but whose life and death inspired so much of what is beautiful and lovely in this story. Thank you for never thinking I would be anything but what I wanted to be.

  You all make my heart swing sideways.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo by Ashley Turner

  NANCI TURNER STEVESON grew up with a book in one hand, the reins of a pony in the other. She wrote her first “novel” at the age of nine about a wild horse named Liberty. Nanci is a theater stage manager, riding instructor, and reading fairy to children. The mother of two grown sons, Nanci lives in a meadow in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, with assorted horses and dogs, and is dedicated to getting books into the hands of homeless people through her Literacy for Hope project.

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  CREDITS

  Cover art © 2016 by DAWN COOPER

  Cover design by ERIN FITZSIMMONS

  COPYRIGHT

  SWING SIDEWAYS. Copyright © 2016 by Nanci Turner Steveson. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  www.harpercollinschildrens.com

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  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015955158

  ISBN 978-0-06-237454-7

  EPub Edition © April 2016 ISBN 9780062374561

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