The Magic of Melwick Orchard

by Rebecca Caprara

  Dad leaned over, clasped a hand on my shoulder, and said, “Just hang in there, sweetheart.”

  Mom patted my back, adding, “You’re such a good girl. Keep it up. That’s all we ask. We’ll get through this.”

  So I did what they asked, week after week, month after month, the best I could. I paid attention in school. I did my homework without anyone asking. While Junie recovered from kidney surgery and a procedure to implant a port in her chest, I sat by her bedside, cutting and coloring an army of paper dolls and playing a mind-numbing amount of Go Fish.

  As Junie’s medicine weakened her immune system and germs became enemy number one, I helped Mom scrub and disinfect the house daily—even the toilets, which made me gag. At least I never threw up. My sister wasn’t nearly that lucky.

  When Junie napped, which was often, I tiptoed around the house and whispered in a voice softer than kitten fur, afraid to disturb her precious rest, and also terrified I might somehow wake the cancer.

  I didn’t complain when Dad stopped playing catch with me in the evenings. I tried to forget about our half-finished dollhouse project in the workshop. I understood why Mom occasionally picked me up late from school, and I even ate the disgustingly healthy kale casseroles she cooked for dinner without fussing. These were all small prices to pay.

  But then things got worse. A series of complications (which is basically a grown-up term for worstibles) sent Junie back to the hospital, for much longer than usual. Mom began to change. Dad too. With each passing week, I felt myself fading away. Heck, the only company I’d had for days was that nutso squirrel. Despite what I’d promised my parents, hanging in there was starting to feel like literally dangling off the edge of a cliff without any ropes or harnesses to keep me from falling. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep it up.

  Chapter 4

  Beep. Beep. Beeeeeeeep.

  I hushed the alarm clock and rolled over. The morning sun slashed its way bright and unwelcome through my blinds. My brain started waking up, trying to untangle dreams from dawn, but I wasn’t ready to face the day just yet. I wanted to stay in a make-believe world where magic was real, and the absurd made perfect sense. I tugged my blanket over my head and squeezed my eyes shut.

  As I drifted back to sleep, I felt blue ropes wrap around my waist, lifting me gently toward the leaves of a giant beanstalk. I reached for Junie’s hand and pulled her up too. Together we climbed higher and higher, until the clouds were close enough to touch. They were downy as dandelion fluff and tasted like cotton candy. The beanstalk swayed. We grabbed the blue rope and swung like monkeys onto a floating island in the sky. When huge boulders blocked our path, we pushed them aside, squealing as they bounced away as easily as beach balls. Beneath the boulders we expected to find salamanders and centipedes, but we discovered jewels instead. We filled our pockets until they were bursting with glittering treasures. Butterflies the size of eagles swooped down to greet us, and a squirrel in a tuxedo and high-tops served us a tray of cookies.

  BEEP! BEEP! BEEEEEEEP! My clock launched another attack, scattering the dream. I sat up, blinked my eyes, and growled.

  My room was nowhere near as exciting as my dream. The most disappointing difference was that Junie wasn’t there. In our old apartments, Junie and I had always shared a bedroom, out of necessity. When we moved to the Melwick farmhouse, there was finally enough space for us to have our own rooms. Junie liked to play in her room, but she still preferred sleeping in mine. Each night she’d sneak across the hall and snuggle next to me in my bed.

  At the crack of dawn, she’d poke me and try to peel my eyelids open. “Isa! Isa! Wake up! I have to tell you about my dream before it disappears!” she’d say, wiggling like a worm. I used to think it was the most annoying thing in the world. Now I’d trade my alarm clock in a heartbeat for a poke in the eye.

  I stood, stretched, then pulled on a cleanish outfit. It wasn’t quite warm enough yet for shorts, so yesterday’s patched jeans would have to do. I was planning to skip socks altogether, like I had the day before, but that had caused the volcanic blister on my heel, so I rooted around in my dresser for a bit. It was in a sad state. Mom obsessively washed Junie’s clothes and sheets and stuffed animals, but my laundry hadn’t exactly been anyone’s top priority lately. Eventually I found one yellow sock and one green sock covered with tiny snowmen. Certainly not fashionable, but they’d have to do.

  I slid my watch onto my right wrist and tightened the purple band snugly. When I looked into the mirror, I saw Junie’s face where mine should have been: pudgy cheeks framed by elfin ears and two pigtails spraying fountains of wispy hair so blonde it was almost white. I blinked and she was gone.

  Just my face. A pale oval. My eyes were the same steely blue as Dad’s. The freckles on my nose were faded. They were always that way after a long winter. I made a mental note to ask Ms. Perdilla if freckles hibernated. A few days of sunshine and they’d be back.

  I picked up an elastic hair tie and wrangled my frizzy hair into an acceptable hairstyle. I wished for the billionth time that it could be either curly or straight, instead of some maddeningly untamable combination of the two, then I instantly felt guilty for worrying about something so silly.

  In the next room, Mom was still asleep. I could hear her snoring. She usually left for the hospital before the bus picked me up for school, but she seemed extra tired lately, so I avoided the creaky steps, moving through the house silently.

  Isabel-Invisible.

  I inspected the kitchen for signs of Dad’s existence. A half cup of lukewarm coffee on the counter told me that he had, indeed, come home. The faint trail of aftershave lingering by the front door told me he had already gone again.

  I peered inside the tin can on top of the microwave where he left my lunch money each morning. Today it was as empty as the fridge. Not even a note. He must have forgotten. He often stayed overnight with Junie at the hospital. Then he’d wake up at dawn, come home to shower and change his clothes, and be off again. Which was one of the reasons he was completely fried, as my mother had put it.

  The word fried got me thinking about french fries and corn dogs and all the other good-but-bad foods Mom rarely let us have. My mouth began to water. I reached into the box of CrunchyFunPuffs! and scooped up a handful of stale sweetness. Both crunch and fun were long gone.

  This just wouldn’t do.

  I started opening drawers, hunting for coins. If I had to turn the house upside down, I would. When the kitchen yielded a disappointing thirty-two cents, I turned my search to the living room. The couch cushions generously produced one dollar and seventy-four cents. In the mudroom, the pockets of Mom’s raincoat offered a crumpled dollar bill and a stick of petrified chewing gum. Not great, but not so bad either. I tucked the money into my jeans and swung my backpack over my shoulder. I stopped. I looked down at my feet. I twitched my toes, making the tiny snowmen on my right foot wiggle. The blister on my heel was still raw, so I ran back to the kitchen and grabbed a Band-Aid from the catchall drawer. I bandaged myself up. As I slid my sock back on, I remembered . . .

  My shoes.

  That squirrel! That stupid orchard! What had I done?

  Between feeling so hungry and grumpy last night, I’d forgotten to remind Mom that I wanted a new pair of shoes. No, not wanted: I desperately needed a new pair.

  I stomped out an angry tantrum dance. If Junie were home, she’d call me flusterated. But that would be the understatement of the century. I steamed and stomped some more. It was strangely satisfying. I felt the same way at softball practice. Each catch, hit, and pitch was a welcome outlet for all those pent-up flusterations.

  Feeling calmer, I examined the closet’s footwear options: two pairs of Mom’s ticky-clicky high heels—almost my size but too flashy and bound to twist one of my ankles; one boat-sized pair of Dad’s loafers—perfect, if I was attending clown auditions at the circus; and Junie’s jelly sandals—so tiny they’d barely fit my big toes. Mom always said I needed to put
myself in other people’s shoes, but I didn’t think this was what she meant.

  I weighed my remaining choices: a pair of ice skates or fuzzy cat slippers. Wildly impractical versus utterly mortifying. I looked down at the slippers. Meow! they taunted. I accepted defeat. Bring on the mortification.

  Unless . . .

  I peered out the large bay window. Fog rose from the rolling hills of the orchard, catching columns of sunshine. Almost like a spotlight. Here! Over here! Dirty sneakers with earthworm shoelaces became suddenly appealing. I crossed the backyard and strode up the hill, trampling the dewy grass. By the time I reached the gate at the top, my socks were soaked. I pulled them off and hung them on a branch of the nearest tree to dry.

  The orchard was eerily quiet. Usually at this time of day, the birds were tweeting louder than my alarm clock. Wisps of morning mist wove between the apple trees and pooled thick and dense in the clearing. When a breeze rolled through, I caught a faint whiff of that sawdust-cinnamon-leather-strawberry smell from yesterday. Today there were also notes of coconut, wood smoke, and chamomile.

  With those smells came another wave of memories: building sand castles at the beach; roasting s’mores by a campfire; afternoon tea parties. I closed my eyes and lifted my chin, letting the sun warm my face. This time, I didn’t fight the memories. Like the sun, they warmed me up.

  There was a rustling in the trees. My eyes snapped open, expecting to see the squirrel. I looked left. Looked right. He was nowhere in sight. As the sun’s rays beat down, the fog thinned, revealing something in the clearing much larger than a squirrel.

  I squinted, blinked. When my eyes finally focused, I reeled backward, my bare feet slipping in the wet grass. I caught the outstretched limb of a nearby apple tree and held tight until I regained my balance. I straightened myself up and took a deep breath. I pinched my own arm, just to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. It hurt like heck and left a very real, very red welt.

  “Hello?” I called out, my voice shaky. I glanced around to check if someone was playing a practical joke on me. “You know April Fools’ was yesterday, right?”

  No one was there, not even a bushy-tailed rodent. I took a tentative step forward. I could hear the thrump-thrump of my own heart. It grew louder and faster as the fog lifted. I climbed over the old foundation stones and rubbed my eyes. I shook my head.

  There, in the center of the clearing, stood the sapling, completely transformed.

  In a single evening, it had more than quadrupled in size. Now it towered over me, nearly the same height as the nearby apple trees. Its trunk was as thick as a telephone pole, twisting upward like a bundle of ropes. The bark swirled like luminous marble, milky gray and green. A dense ruffle of leaves decorated each branch. The leaves were twice as large as any oak leaf, and almost see-through, with a hint of silvery blue streaked through them. The tree looked both ancient and futuristic at the same time. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

  The leaves shimmered and whispered, beckoning me to come closer. I couldn’t resist. I stepped beneath the boughs. A gentle breeze embraced me in a hug. I reached out and pressed my palms against the bark. It was warm to the touch and sent a faint tingling sensation through my body.

  As the clouds shifted overhead, beams of sunlight pierced the canopy. The sparkling leaves acted like the prisms Ms. Perdilla hung in our classroom windows, bending light and throwing little rainbows across the meadow.

  I laughed. A real, full, hard-to-catch-your-breath laugh. I spun and leaped, chasing the flickering splashes of color. My heart drummed wildly in my chest, in a good way, reminding me that I was healthy and alive and having fun for the first time in months.

  The clearing suddenly erupted with noise. Crickets chirped. Chickadees sang. The apple trees rustled and shook. Swallows swooped through the air, equally excited by the strange new addition to the orchard. I wished the squirrel would scamper out to see what had happened.

  I twirled like a top, making myself dizzy. The sapling’s branches swayed as though they were trying to dance with me. I stretched my hands over my head. Something feathery brushed my palm. At first I thought it was one of the birds, dipping down too low. But then I felt it again. I looked up and gasped.

  Dangling from the tree’s lowest branch was a cluster of extremely peculiar fruit. When I stood on my tippy toes to get a better view, I spotted several other clusters higher up. They were grouped in twos, like enormous cherries hanging by bright orange stems. Red feathered petals wrapped each fruit—or whatever it was—in a protective pod.

  I grabbed the nearest pair. With a tug, the pods broke free from their stems. They were so large that they tumbled out of my hands and onto the ground. My stomach, still waiting for breakfast, wondered aloud if they might be edible. If so, would they taste sweet or sour? Would they be fleshy like a peach or full of seeds like a watermelon? Maybe segmented like an orange or crunchy like an apple?

  I began peeling back the delicate petals, one by one.

  What I discovered disappointed my stomach, but delighted my feet.

  Chapter 5

  Nestled within the feathery peel was a sneaker. Yes. A sneaker. One in each pod. Believe me, I did a double take, too. Navy blue laces zigzagged between shining grommets, looping into a smiling knot at the ankle. Brand new. Left and right. A perfect pair. Hunter green canvas, crisp white rubber soles. My style. I didn’t even care that I wasn’t wearing any socks; I slipped the shoes on and wiggled ten very satisfied toes. My size. One hundred percent perfecterrific.

  My brain whirred at warp speed trying to make sense of what I was seeing, touching, smelling . . . and now wearing. All evidence suggested that my buried sneakers went to seed and sprouted an entire crop of, well, shoefruits. But something was missing from that explanation. Okay, a lot was missing. Whatever happened was definitely not part of Ms. Perdilla’s science curriculum.

  I knew chance seedlings had a habit of producing unexpected fruit, but this was ridiculous. Shoes were made. Shoes didn’t grow. My sneakers may have inspired this odd new crop, but the sapling had already been there, so what I’d planted wasn’t technically a seed. Plus, a tree couldn’t quadruple in size in a single night. Could it?

  All I knew for sure was that I’d given the tree a pair of old sneakers and, in return, it gave me a glimpse into a world where anything might be possible.

  Junie would insist it was magic. I could practically hear her squeaky voice, breathless with excitement. I could feel her fingers, sticky from some sweet she’d been eating, clasping my hand so tightly it almost hurt. I could see her olive-green eyes, wide as teacups and full to the brim with wonder.

  But, no. Magic didn’t exist. It couldn’t. There was no place for magic in a world where a six-year-old gets cancer.

  The leaves of that beautiful tree rustled. Tssk. Tssk. Tssk. Almost like it was disagreeing with me. Like it wanted to prove me wrong. The branches dipped gently, lowering another cluster of shoefruits within arm’s reach. It felt like a challenge I’d be silly not to take.

  I plucked and peeled the pods. I expected to find more sneakers, but to my surprise, I discovered a pair of softball cleats. They were sleek black and yellow. Exactly what I needed for the upcoming season. I laid them on a patch of grass and gazed at the tree in disbelief. Branches crisscrossed like arms linked together. Standing beneath them, I felt protected. More than that, I felt seen.

  I spied another cluster dangling from a higher branch. I bent my knees and jumped, pulling the pods down with me. Inside the peels were rubber rain boots. Not only were they my size, but they were printed with my favorite polka-dot pattern. I scratched my head, dumbfounded.

  The only explanation that made any sense was the impossible one.

  “Magic?” I said, testing the weight of the word. It hitched in my throat and I realized how badly I actually wished it could be true. Then I rolled my eyes. How ludicrous. I was acting nuttier than a squirrel. There was definitely no such thing as . . .

  T
he branches lifted up and down ever so slightly. If I hadn’t been watching the tree so carefully, I might’ve missed the gesture. Was it a nod? Or a shrug? Some sort of tree sign-language? Or just the wind, rolling on through?

  Suddenly my watch beeped. I looked at its blinking face. I had completely lost track of time. Even at top speed, I probably wouldn’t make it to the bus stop in front of our house. I could cut through the orchard, though, and try to catch the bus farther down the road.

  I needed to move quickly. I stuffed the cleats and boots into my backpack.

  I yanked my good luck key chain, a small brass bell clipped to the zipper. It jangled frantically as I tugged and tugged, until the backpack finally zipped shut. As I turned to leave, I noticed a few more pods hanging from the upper branches, but time was running out. The rest would have to wait. I could hear the bus chugging along the winding country road.

  I took off. New sneakers, fast legs, light heart. Across the clearing, through the orchard. For the past few months, I’d trudged through this landscape. Now I devoured it. The tiny bell sang. Ting-ting-ting! I chose a shortcut, leaping across a burbling brook. I skidded down a steep slope, past another house, toward the road. The yellow bus curved around the bend. I would beat it. I was unstoppable.

  Except . . .

  I tripped. Face first. Green grass, mean fall. My overstuffed backpack launched over my shoulders, hitting the ground. The zipper split, scattering textbooks and homework and shoes. One sad little ting! escaped from the bell. And I thought I’d avoided mortification for the day. I scrambled to my feet. Had anyone on the bus seen me? Hard to tell. I prayed the neighbor’s garage blocked the view. I reached for one of the rain boots.

  “Hey, Cinderella. Here you go,” a voice said behind me. “It’s not exactly a glass slipper, but . . .”

  I turned and grabbed the softball cleat from a tall girl with chestnut hair like a horse’s mane. Her mother had been our realtor when we moved to Bridgebury, and I was pretty sure they lived right down the road. But I’d never bothered to introduce myself to the girl before. It was part of my don’t-need-friends policy.