Snowbirds

by Crissa Chappell

  The axe is heavy in my fist. I stare at my favorite tree, the branches so thick with fruit, they sway toward the grass. It doesn’t look sick at all.

  I press my hand against the tree one last time.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  I blink away my tears. Then I swing the axe into the trunk. Chips of bark fly against my skirt. Over and over, I slam the blade into the wood, all my anger and sadness. My dress is soaked with sweat. The sun disappears behind the clouds, hinting at rain. Still, I keep hacking until my blisters crack and bleed.

  After what seems like forever, the trunk begins to lean. I back away, coughing as dust mazes the air. The tree seems to fall in slow motion. Branches swoop across the sky and smash into the ground. All that’s left of my favorite orange tree is a stump.

  I’ve cut down plenty of trees with Dad. It never was this hard. How can something so big disappear into nothing? The smell of sap and citrus lingers in the breeze. In a couple months, I would’ve picked that fruit. We always gave away oranges for Christmas.

  I kneel beside the stump and count the rings.

  It was the same age as me.

  chapter eighteen

  chain of stitches

  I rinse my hands at the kitchen sink. I’m so exhausted, I don’t even notice the plate of leftovers until I sit down. The cold chicken and potato salad is just stuff I’m shoveling into my mouth, keeping me alive.

  On the table, there’s a wicker basket. It used to be Mama’s, a long time ago. Inside it, I find her sewing needles. I close my eyes and try to imagine her in this chair, stitching a quilt.

  “You never learned.”

  Dad’s in the kitchen, tugging off his work gloves. Ever since I was little, I always thought my dad was strong. Now he looks tired and worn-out. For the first time, I notice the gray staining his beard.

  “Maybe you just need a little practice,” he says, sitting across from me.

  “Sewing isn’t really my thing,” I tell him.

  “That doesn’t mean you can’t try.”

  Dad reaches into the sewing basket and pulls out an Amish-style quilt. The blue and yellow squares are so beautiful, I’m afraid to touch them.

  “It’s an old pattern from Lancaster County,” he says, unfolding the quilt on the table. “This one’s called Sunshine and Shadow. We’ve got to deal with both in our lives, Smidge. The good and the bad. But that’s what makes us strong.”

  When I hear him say this, my eyes sting.

  He folds his hand over mine. “Maybe someday you’ll finish that quilt. You got your mama’s long fingers.”

  I can’t hold back anymore. Hot tears slide down my chin and splat on the table. It feels like everything is lost. All the breath I’ve got left.

  “You’re scaring me, Lucy,” he says. “I don’t know my own daughter anymore.”

  He doesn’t understand.

  I’m more myself than before.

  “What’s happening to you?” Dad stares out the kitchen window, as if the answer is hidden in the ponds, the Spanish moss, the orange trees. Even the sky looks darker now.

  I don’t want to stay still. I’m not like the oak trees in our backyard. I’m more like the Gulf, shifting back and forth. Or the sandhill cranes that swoop across the marshes in winter, too many to count.

  “So you met an Old Order boy,” he says quietly.

  I swallow hard. “Yes.”

  Dad’s been waiting for this. All he wants is for me to “get settled.” But I can’t think about settling down. Not when there’s so much I want to do.

  “It’s one thing to have an Old Order friend,” Dad tells me. “But their world is very different from ours.” He says it again, louder this time. “Very different.”

  “Faron is different.”

  He’s not like the Rumspringa boys on the basketball court. Maybe he grew up Old Order, but he chose to walk away. And if you grow up Amish, it’s supposed to be your choice. It’s not about the clothes you wear. Or if you’re allowed to drive a car or watch TV. It’s not about the outside world.

  It’s about the way you look at it.

  Dad grabs my hand. “Feel like talking?”

  I do.

  Once I get going, I can’t stop. I tell Dad about what really happened in Water Tower Park the night Alice disappeared.

  I finally tell the truth.

  “Me and Alice got in a fight,” I say, my voice shaking. “She didn’t want to go home. So I left without her.”

  “You made a bad decision,” he says. “But so did Alice. You both have to take responsibility. It’s done now. Can’t go back and change it.”

  He gets up and puts his arms around me. Now I’m sinking against him, letting it all pour out. The weight of my secrets. All the hurt I’ve carried inside.

  I glance at the calendar on the kitchen wall. A horse and buggy plowing through a snowstorm. I’ve never tasted snow. Never petted a horse. The only buggy I’ve seen is a mural outside the diner on Beneva Road.

  “There’s something I want to tell you,” Dad says.

  I’m listening.

  “When I was your age, I had an Old Order friend. We were close, like you and Alice. He came down to Florida on Rumspringa. Got himself a real nice car. Drove all over Sarasota in it. Always wanted to go fast,” he says, shaking his head. “Too fast.”

  At first, I don’t understand. Then I get a shivery feeling. No wonder Dad never lets me drive anywhere.

  “How come you never told me?” I ask.

  “It’s in the past now,” he says.

  . . . that’s where the past belongs . . .

  “Did your friend run away from the Old Order too?”

  “You can’t run from trouble, Smidge,” he says. “It will find you, one way or another.”

  I feel scooped out and empty. I can’t even cry anymore. If me and Dad are trading secrets, there’s more I need to say.

  “Dad I’m not going to . . .”

  I can’t get out the words.

  “Not going to do what?” he asks.

  “I’m not going to get baptized.”

  Silence.

  I wait for him to say I’m making a mistake. Instead, he sighs.

  “Tell me why.”

  “Because . . . I just . . .”

  What am I supposed to say?

  “I’m not sure.”

  “About baptism?”

  Dad thinks I’ve lost my faith. But he’s wrong. I’m supposed to follow the rules. If I do everything right, I’ll be okay. Keep my mouth shut. Don’t think too much. Stop asking so many questions.

  “I don’t want to stay in Pinecraft. I can’t get baptized now. I want to go to college and study the ocean.”

  “College is a lot of money. More than we can afford.”

  “I know. That’s why I’ve been applying for scholarships.”

  “What? You did this without telling me?”

  Now I’ve told the truth. If Dad’s going to start treating me like an adult, I need to be honest with him.

  He sighs. “Lucy, why do you love the ocean so much?”

  In my mind, I see the Gulf at sunrise. The Old Order girls in their long dresses, laughing in the surf. The poison in the water. The tide, how it gives and takes away.

  “The ocean is everything to me.”

  “Well, it’s too late to be making this decision,” he says.

  It’s not too late.

  “What if I get accepted? The school’s real close. I could work at home and take classes at night.”

  Now I’ve done it.

  “You already have work to do,” he says. “And that work is here.”

  Dad thinks school is all about getting a job. But it’s a lot more than that. He doesn’t want me taking classes. He thinks it’s dangerous because I’m filling my head with lies.

  The ocean is dangerous too.

  But that doesn’t mean I’m going to hide from it.

  All this time, I’ve been wishing for my own Rumspringa. I
was jealous of Alice’s freedom. The things I couldn’t have.

  I don’t need Rumspringa.

  I can make my own.

  “I’m waiting for that letter,” I tell him. “And if it comes, does that mean . . .” I can’t say it out loud. Would my dad push me away? I mean, would he shun me?

  He blinks. “Lucy, I don’t want to lose you. But if that school says yes, we’re going to cross that bridge together. Let’s talk about it later,” he says, getting up from the table. “Tomorrow’s a big day.”

  Tomorrow.

  My baptism.

  “I’m not going to church tomorrow.”

  Dad turns around. “And why is that?”

  “Because I won’t be here.” No more sneaking around. Dad needs to know the truth.

  “What do you mean?” he says, horrified.

  “I can’t go through with it, Dad. It’s not my choice. It’s yours. All this time, I’ve been trying so hard to be perfect for you. I was afraid of messing up. Scared of doing the wrong thing. But how am I supposed to learn if I don’t make mistakes?”

  “This is the biggest mistake of all,” he mutters.

  I’ve never stood up to Dad before. I get the feeling he’s having a hard time, learning how to listen.

  “It’s my decision.”

  “So that’s it? You’re running away?”

  He’s wrong.

  I’m not running from something.

  “I’m going to find Alice.”

  “How?”

  When I don’t answer, he says, “You and that Rumspringa boy?” Dad shakes his head. “I won’t allow it, Lucy. You’re pushing too far.”

  “I can’t stay here, Dad. Not if she’s in trouble.”

  “Yeah? Well, I need you here.”

  “What if it was your friend? Wouldn’t you do the same for him?” I’m almost shouting.

  Now it’s Dad’s turn to stay quiet.

  The house is quiet too. All the backyard noises drift into the kitchen, filling up the empty spaces. Cicadas buzzing in the oaks. The breeze scraping their branches across the roof. Music I’ve heard so often, it’s become part of me, like the sound of my own breath.

  The quiet doesn’t last long. I recognize the sway of those branches. It means the rain’s about to let loose. And then it does.

  Dad races outside. He heads straight for the workshop and I follow, running as fast as a girl can run in a long skirt. The paint hasn’t set on the gazebo. All that work, gone in minutes. It’s too late to save it, but Dad’s hauling out the blue tarp.

  “Help me,” he says, as I grab the other end.

  Together we yank the plastic tarp over the gazebo. Dad doesn’t need the ladder. He’s tall enough to snap it over the roof. I help him spread out the corners, blinking as the cold, hard drops plunk into my eyes. Still, Dad won’t give up. He keeps pulling that tarp in every direction, trying to make things right.

  “It’s no good now. We have to start over.” Dad throws the tarp on the ground in a crumpled heap. I’ve never seen him so worn out. It’s like he’s been tugging on a rope and finally let go.

  I fold the tarp like a blanket, pulling the corners to the middle. Gently, I lift it up and pass it to my dad.

  “Don’t do this to me, Lucy,” he says.

  Dad stands under the gazebo, his face slick with rain. He watches in silence as I turn and walk through the orange grove.

  • • •

  In Pinecraft Park, the streetlamps glow above the basketball court. Nobody’s behind the chainlink fence tonight. The storm has slowed to a drizzle. I stand under an oak tree, shivering as raindrops leak off the branches. Minutes pass. After a while, I’m starting to wonder if Faron’s going to show up. Then I see him walking toward me in the rain. He’s got his hood pulled up and his face is lost in shadow.

  My dress is soaked, the skirt clinging to my legs. I’m suddenly aware of my body, the rise and fall of my chest. It feels strange, meeting a boy in the park at night. But there’s nobody here to see. No eyes to judge us.

  “Thought you weren’t coming.” When I smile, he doesn’t smile back.

  “They wouldn’t listen,” he tells me.

  “Who?”

  “I told them you’re one of us.”

  He’s not making any sense. “What happened?”

  “I got kicked out.”

  “They kicked you out of the safe house?”

  “Something like that.”

  I remember the way those Old Order boys looked at me. The stares from the porch as we walked to the truck. “This is all my fault.”

  “It ain’t nobody’s fault.” Faron shakes his head. “I can’t stay down in Florida anymore. I got no money left.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Go back home, I guess.”

  I’m stunned. “But I thought you were . . .”

  He stares at his hands. “If I go crawling back north, I’ll have to ask Dad for my old job at the sawmill.”

  I know this isn’t what he wants. It would kill him inside.

  “What if I go with you?” I ask.

  “Lucy, you don’t get it. Things are different up north. We’re different.”

  I never thought he’d say that.

  “You don’t want me to go.”

  “Of course, I do. But you’ve got to understand. Up north, it ain’t like Pinecraft. It’s the real world.”

  “I don’t even know what that means. What’s real?”

  “This,” he says, leaning in.

  As we kiss, there’s the familiar tug of electricity. That’s all we are. The world is made of invisible things following secret rules, like seagulls and the tides, and all the things we feel but can’t see.

  I feel it now.

  We walk to Bahia Vista Street. Every car is speeding fast. If I tried to count their headlights, I’d lose my place. Just disappear. I think about Tobias, the way he smiled when Alice showed him that money. The make-believe games about death and blood.

  I explain about the video Tobias put online. “It’s more than a game to them. It’s like their own secret world. No wonder Alice got caught up in it.”

  All the LARPers will be camping at Blackwoods in Acadia National Park this week. Crystal’s going to be there. She can help us.

  If she ever talks to me again.

  “How long will it take to drive there?” I ask.

  “A couple days, if I punch it.”

  “What if I drive too?”

  “You want to drive the truck?”

  I nod.

  “Lucy, you’re something else,” he says, laughing.

  “I want to learn.”

  “You will. It just takes time.”

  The truck is parked on the side of the road. I’d hardly notice it, except for the frayed piece of rope holding the broken pieces together.

  “How did you learn to drive?”

  Faron shrugs. “Taught myself.”

  “Yeah, but you’re like a car expert or something.”

  “Nah. It ain’t hard,” he says, putting his arm around me.

  There’s another question burning in my mind. Something I’ve been wondering, but too afraid to ask.

  “Where did you get the truck?”

  Faron’s smile fades. “I already told you. Built most of it from scrap.”

  “But how?”

  “See this?” he says, crouching next to the fender. “It’s from another old truck. So is the engine. The brakes too. All from the junkyard.”

  “So you put it back together.”

  “That’s right,” he says, a little too quickly.

  “What about the rest of it?”

  Faron looks at the ground. “What about it?”

  I don’t want to ask this question. But I’d rather know the truth than keep pretending it’s okay.

  “Did you steal the parts for this truck?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “Did you?”

  “Yeah, I did,” he says, lowering his
head.

  It hurts, hearing him admit this out loud.

  “But you know what? Who gives a damn about a broken-down truck? After I got hurt at the sawmill, I couldn’t work no more. Believe me, Lucy. I tried. Got shot down every place I went.” He stares at his hands. “Nobody wants to hire the stupid Amish kid.”

  “You’re not stupid.”

  “Tell that to my dad,” he mutters.

  I want to take away the hurt. Fix him.

  But I can’t go back in time.

  “It’s in the past,” says Faron, like he’s eavesdropping on my mind. “I already told you, Lucy. I’ve done a lot of stupid things. No use lying. But I want to do better.”

  He’s not the only one.

  “I’m sorry I let you down,” he says. “You probably hate me right now.”

  “I don’t hate you.”

  Headlights cut across the park. There’s a car moving real slow, turning around the block. It cruises next to us and the window rolls down.

  “You guys okay?” a voice calls out.

  Ricketts.

  What’s she doing here? She’s not in a police car like last time. Maybe she’s driving around Pinecraft, looking for trouble.

  Or looking for me.

  “Kind of late to be in the park,” says Ricketts, glaring at me. “What do you say I give you a ride home?”

  “It’s not too far to walk,” I say, but she still doesn’t leave.

  “All right, Lucy,” she says. “I remember.”

  I bet you do.

  The window rolls up halfway. “Be safe now,” she adds, driving away. I watch the headlights fade behind the oak trees.

  “Let me guess,” says Faron. “That was your friend, the sheriff?”

  “She’ll go after my dad next. This could really hurt him. I mean, he could lose his job, the house . . . everything.”

  “Then we better move fast.”

  As we head to the truck, there’s a rustling above us. The green parrots. I watch them flicker through the branches. Then I notice someone coming toward us. Just by the slopey way he’s walking between the trees, I know it’s Jacob.

  “Your dad said I’d find you here,” he mumbles.

  “Go home, Jacob.”

  He glances at Faron. “So it’s true. You and him.”

  “This is none of your business.”

  “Why are you doing this?” he asks. “There’s nothing out there for you, Lucy. Nothing you can’t find here.”