There are lots of problems with hospitals: they smell weird, there are no comfortable places to sit, and the lights are always too bright. So bright that you see things you shouldn’t. Or don’t want to. Things that are hard to forget.
I don’t know which was worse, the look on Junie’s face or the look on Kira’s. I considered pushing the remote’s red button. Help! Emergency! I almost grabbed the oxygen mask for myself because I couldn’t breathe.
Then the fierceness welled up in me. I’m pretty sure I yelled something mean. I ripped the cap from Kira’s hands and tried to put it back on Junie’s bare head as fast as I could. I kept fumbling with the strings and the floppy pom-pom got in the way. Instead of making anything better, I was making everything worse.
“Stop, stop. Isa! It’s okay!” Junie pulled the cap from my clumsy hands.
“No! It’s not!” I shrieked.
“It is.” Surprisingly, Junie didn’t sound mad. She didn’t put the cap back on either. She just held it in her lap. Here I was freaking out, and she was cool as a bald cucumber.
When she spoke again, her voice was calm. Hairless and slightly hunched, she was like a very cute version of Yoda. “She didn’t know any better.” It was something Mom used to say a lot when Junie was younger and would smash my sand castles or break my toys by accident.
“It was a mistake for me to come,” Kira faltered. “I’m so . . . I’m so . . .”
“It’s fine,” Junie repeated. “Really.”
Kira looked up. “When will it grow back?” she asked hesitantly.
“Someday,” I answered for Junie, mostly because I wanted it to be true. I needed it to be true.
Junie’s eyes darted to the calendar on the wall. “Someday is not a day of the week, Isa.”
It was the same argument I’d made to Dad that morning.
“But someday could be any day. That’s the whole point,” Kira said. “Someday could be tomorrow.”
We soaked in that idea for a moment. Then Junie beamed, and I couldn’t be mad at Kira anymore. I resisted the urge to hug them both.
“She’s right. Someday really could be any day,” I said. “Because anything is possible.”
Kira’s eyes sparkled. “Oh! Did you tell her?”
I wished again that I could read people’s minds, or at least send Kira a silent brainwave message to sit and zip! If we told Junie about the tree, she would get all riled up. I knew it. Edith would have to come back and re-inflate her with that machine and maybe needles or other scary stuff from the worstible list.
“Tell me what?”
“Nothing.” It was agony, not telling my secret—our secret—to the one person I wanted to tell most in the world.
A loud clashing and banging interrupted our conversation.
Kira cupped her hands over her ears. “What is that?”
“Sounds like a riot,” I said, cringing. “Maybe the nurses are on strike?”
“Music it is,” Junie said, still all tranquil in Yoda mode.
“That is not music. It’s a cacophony.” Kira flexed her vocab muscles, but the wordwilken was too focused on the noise to be impressed.
“Listen!” Junie sat up taller. “They’re coming to serenade us!”
“You say serenade, I say torture.” I stuck my fingers into my ears and exchanged a look with Kira.
“It’s Gregory and his band!” Junie clapped and wiggled to a nonexistent beat.
“Orchestra,” someone said. The noise stopped. I rubbed my ears. A boy with big, white teeth stuck his head in the door and grinned. He looked vaguely familiar. “We’re an orchestra. We’re very serious musicians.” He drummed an overturned bedpan with a spoon, as if that supported his position. “I play percussion. Maisie plays wind.” An older girl tooted a whistle. “Wallace and Cal are on strings. Gemma on brass.” Two boys strummed tissue boxes tied with elastic bands. A girl in a wheelchair clutched a funnel attached to a loop of plastic tubing, apparently serving as a makeshift trumpet. A boy about Junie’s age shook a bottle of pills like a maraca. “And Derick plays . . . whatever that is.”
“Thanks for coming by,” Junie said. “This is my sister, Isa. And our friend, Rapunzel.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Gregory. I’m also the conductor.”
I realized why he looked familiar. “Hey, I know you. I mean I know your dad, James. I met him waiting for the bus. He showed me a picture of you playing the piano.”
“Ah, my keys,” Gregory said wistfully. “Too bad he can’t bring them here. The nurses said a piano won’t fit in the elevator. The child life specialists are working on getting us some better instruments, though. They say music can be a form of medicine.” He thumped the bedpan. “In the meantime, I’m stuck with this.” He shrugged. “Could be worse.”
I forced a cheerful face, even though my ears were still ringing.
“Hey, you want to play with us?” Gregory asked. “If you can find some instruments, you can join. The more, the merrier. We’ve been trying to get more kids, but it’s slow going.”
I resisted the urge to tell him why they were having recruitment issues.
“Thanks, Gregory.” Junie smiled brightly. “But we’re going to stay here for now.”
“No worries. If you change your mind, we’ll be down the hall, rehearsing for our next gig.”
“You have a gig?” I asked skeptically.
“Sure, every week. For the folks on the ninth floor. The audiological patients are big fans. They love our sound.”
“I bet they do,” I said. Because most of them are deaf, I thought.
“Time to practice. See ya later. And Junie—”
“Yeah?”
“Nice dome.” He pointed to her bald head. “It’s a good look on you.”
She blushed. From pride or embarrassment, I wasn’t sure.
***
We gave Junie a dozen cookies before leaving. To avoid discussing the tree, I claimed that Kira’s mom had baked them. The bug-eyed stare I directed at Kira kept her yappy mouth closed. Thank goodness. Junie was ready for another power nap, and didn’t have the energy for extra questions. If she didn’t quite believe our story, she didn’t show it.
We left another dozen cookies at the nurses’ station and gave the rest to Gregory’s misfit orchestra down the hall. They gladly put down their noisemakers so they could enjoy the treats. A doctor in a white coat walked by and gave us a wave of gratitude. The brief quiet was almost as delicious as a raspberry macaron.
Chapter 15
I was happy to tag along with Kira for the rest of the afternoon, not only because Mrs. Ritter promised us grilled cheese sandwiches and milkshakes at the local diner, but because I enjoyed their company.
On our way to lunch, we ran errands around town, visiting the bakery, the hardware store, the bank. While Mrs. Ritter stopped at her real estate office, Kira and I sat on a bench outside in the sun, chewing gumballs and blowing gigantic bubbles that splat across our cheeks like sticky face masks. It was a miracle the gum never ended up in Kira’s long hair. The sound our gum made when it popped reminded me of Junie’s balloon tradition. I thought of the lost wishing pin, but I wouldn’t let myself count the time until her birthday. There were just too many unknowns between now and then.
***
It was early evening when Kira and her mom dropped me off at home. I was pleasantly surprised to find an unexpected treasure waiting for me. A pepperoni pizza sitting in a box on the kitchen counter, still molten lava hot. I knew better. But I couldn’t resist. I raised a slice to my lips and took a bite.
“Ooooww!” I dropped it back into the box.
My father rushed into the kitchen, fast as Nurse Minkey in an emergency. A moment later, he handed me a glass of ice water. My mouth pulsed with pain. I thought about the side effects of Junie’s medicine. Is this what it felt like?
“There you are!” Mom appeared in the doorway, hands on her hips. I did a double take. I wasn’t used to seeing her downstairs in the da
ylight, dressed. Okay, it was only yoga pants and a cotton sweater, but compared to the bathrobe she was usually wearing when I came home, this outfit was practically a ball gown. Her hair was combed and she was even wearing lip gloss. She looked almost normal. It was nice, but also weird. Like she was wearing a costume of her old self. “Where have you been all day?” she snapped. Not exactly the warm welcome I would’ve liked, but at least she was noticing me for once.
“I was hanging out with Kira.” Not a lie. Just not a whole truth.
Mom frowned. “You said you wanted to see Junie and then you just ran off. I looked everywhere!”
“Everywhere?” Had she checked in the orchard?
“You cannot just do that!”
“Do what?” My insides lurched.
“Disappear, Isabel. You need to be more responsible. You need to think about other people and not just yourself.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I wanted to shout the exact same words right back at my parents. A wave of heat rolled through my body. More than just my tongue burned. “I left you a note,” I said. “I told you what I was doing.” Well, mostly. “You could’ve called Mrs. Ritter if you were really so worried about me.”
“Nel,” Dad said gently. “Don’t take this out on her. It’s been a long day. It’s not Isa’s fault the wind blew the note off the table.” He glanced over at me sympathetically. “It took a while to find it,” he explained. “Next time, try sticking your notes to the fridge with a magnet. Okay, sweetheart?”
I nodded, relieved that his face was no longer made of stone and that he was actually taking my side. “Sure, easy peasy,” I said, eying my mother wearily. She had turned her back to us and was wiping down the already spotless counter. “Can we eat now?” I asked, trying to break up the awkward tension. Luckily, my tongue was recovering from the molten pizza encounter, and I was starving.
“Yes, let’s,” Dad said, setting plates and napkins on the table. “Nel?”
Mom stopped scrubbing and joined us. She began extracting slices of pizza from the box. Three out of the four spots at the kitchen table were occupied. Better than usual. Still, something wasn’t quite right.
“We need to talk,” Dad said, then coughed like the rest of the words were stuck in his throat. I passed him my cold water. He gulped it down. “Thanks.”
I took a tentative bite, watching their faces for clues. “What’s going on?”
Mom ran her hands through her hair, making a mess of it. She inhaled, exhaled. “Something is . . . growing.” She looked across the table, directly at me. My stomach somersaulted. I hadn’t had time to check on the tree when I got home. Both cars in the driveway and the smell of pizza lured me right inside. Had my parents discovered the most recent crop? Would they be mad? Could they be mad? What was out there? Bells? Or something else?
“Growing?” I resisted the urge to look out the window toward the orchard.
“I suppose we knew this was a possibility,” Dad said.
They did? Everyone in town told stories about our strange property. It made sense that my parents would eventually hear the chatter.
“It’s confusing and overwhelming for all of us.” Mom peered down at her plate, searching the pattern of pepperoni for some kind of logic. She shook her head.
I tried to keep my voice steady. “Ms. Perdilla says it would be boring to have a scientific explanation for everything.”
Dad looked up. In a split second, his face shifted, hardened. He slammed the table with his fist. The plates rattled. It was the first time I’d seen him hit anything, other than a nail with a hammer or a ball with a bat. The wooden table legs shook, knock-kneed scared as I was.
Mom rested a hand on Dad’s fist. “Clearly your father and I were very upset to learn about this new growth.” Now that she was downstairs in the light, I noticed several hairs, as white as Muriel’s, on my mother’s head. After my visit to the hospital, I understood about worrying. Aging at warp speed. It was taking its toll on my mother. Not just inside, but outside too. “Very upset,” she repeated.
What on earth had the tree sprouted this afternoon that could be so terrible? Shoes and cookies had been relatively harmless. What sort of threat could some tiny brass bells pose?
“The growth,” I said, using their term, “might not actually be bad. Maybe it’s just misunderstood?” Like Frankenstein’s monster.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Isabel,” Dad barked.
Great. I was doomed.
Mom touched her fingertips to her temples, which meant a splitting headache was probably brewing. “What your father means is we have to get rid of it.”
Correction: my tree was doomed.
“No!” I yelled, slamming down my own fist. Poor table. It occurred to me that it had once been a tree. Probably not a magical one, but nevertheless my heart ached. “Please, no.” The clock on the wall ticked. The kitchen faucet dripped into the sink. My parents wouldn’t, or couldn’t, respond. “Why?” I asked that stupid question for the billionth time.
“We need to remove it quickly. In case it spreads.”
“Spreads?” The chance seedling had grown at an alarming rate. Perhaps new trees could sprout equally fast. But I still didn’t understand why that was bad or dangerous. It sounded wonderful to me. Too wonderful to destroy. I bit my lip and forced back tears.
“Your sister needs the surgery,” Mom replied.
If my brain could’ve made noise, it would’ve sounded like brakes screeching.
“Wait, what?” I dabbed my leaky eyes with a napkin. “Hold on—we’re talking about surgery?” Not selective deforestation?
“Junie’s most recent scans showed a new tumor. We didn’t tell you at first because we didn’t want you to worry. The doctors needed to run some extra tests, just to make sure they had the full picture. We met with Dr. Ebbens and his team this afternoon to go over our options.”
All I could say was, “Henry.” That jerk.
“Who?”
“Never mind.” I couldn’t believe I hadn’t put the pieces together sooner. No wonder my parents had been acting extra weird lately. They’d both been suffering from scanxiety—the mess of emotions that followed a CT scan, MRI, X-ray, and other tests that Junie had to endure.
“Wait—” My brain screeched again. “You went to the hospital today? When?”
“Around one o’clock,” Mom said.
“Oh.” I must’ve just missed them. I was equal parts bummed and relieved.
“We looked for you, Isabel. But we couldn’t wait around all day.”
“Are you sure the tumor’s not benign?” I asked. Benign, or B-9 as Junie called it, was a fancy way to say harmless.
Dad’s face softened. “We’re sure, unfortunately. It’s troubling that it wasn’t detected sooner. But sometimes these things happen.”
Now I felt like an unfittian. Stuck someplace between relief that my tree would be spared and fear that my sister wouldn’t. Junie was right. An unfittian was a crummy thing to be.
Dad straightened up in his chair. “Junie’s had her fair share of complications. Nothing is ever straightforward. But everyone agrees this is the best course of action. Assuming her blood counts are stable and she seems strong enough, the surgery could happen as early as Tuesday.”
I almost spit out my food. So much for Chooseday. I’m pretty sure that was not what my sister had in mind for that day of the week.
“After the surgery, she’ll finally be better? She’ll come home for good?” I held my breath, waiting. I wanted answers, but part of me only wanted those answers if they were the right ones.
“She’ll need time to recover, but then she should be able to come home. Of course, we’ll still need to go back to the hospital for follow-up treatments. There will be careful monitoring. Tests. Ongoing check-ins . . .”
Translation: more scanxiety plus a worstible list a mile long. I could feel worry creep into my body, see it reflected in my parents’ faces. Settling dark and heavy
beneath our eyes. Weighing even darker and heavier in our hearts. Pushing and shoving, bullying the fledgling seeds of hope I’d been trying to nurture.
“I’m going back to the hospital tonight to stay with Junie,” Mom said. “You and Dad will meet us there tomorrow. Okay? We’ll all spend the day with her. She really needs us now.”
“She needs us always.” I shouldn’t have to tell them that. It annoyed me.
Something resembling guilt slid into Mom’s tired eyes, joining the pooling worry. “This whole situation has been challenging. But we’ll get through it.” Her voice was unconvincing. She looked ready to crawl back to bed and never get out.
Dad put his hand on her shoulder, maybe to keep her from retreating upstairs. “First, let’s finish dinner,” he said, as if a slice of pizza was the answer to all our problems.
“You’re right,” Mom replied.
“Speaking of eating, we need to bring Junie something tomorrow,” I said.
“What’s that?” Dad asked.
“Ice cream. Plus bananas, whipped cream, cherries. And sprinkles. Lots of sprinkles.”
“That’s not a very healthy option,” Mom said. “She barely has an appetite these days. And even if she were hungry, all that sweet stuff might not be good for her body.”
“It’s good for her soul,” I replied.
“I don’t know . . .”
“Well, I do. Junie might need medicine and surgery, but she needs a sundae too. I know it will make her feel better.” I left out how I knew. About sneaking to the hospital and all that. Details shmetails.
Mom halfheartedly plucked at a glob of cheese.
“It’s important,” I said firmly. I took pity on the table and resisted slamming down my fist.
“All right.” Dad reached for another slice. “We’ll figure something out.”
“Good.” I picked the remaining pepperoni rounds off my pizza and arranged them into a smiley face on my plate.
Junie might not have a choice on Chooseday, but I would make sure Sundae happened.
Chapter 16
“Grab the bones and meet me at the millpond!” Dad hollered from the porch after Mom left for the hospital. Despite the news about that jerk Henry, the thought of some quality time with Dad perked me up. “And don’t forget your glove!” he added.
The Magic of Melwick Orchard Page 12