“I know that!” She rolled her eyes, which was a huge relief. She held up the paper doll. “She’s Ned.”
“The doll’s name is Ned?” It was an odd choice. She looked like a Briar Rose, or a Snow White, or something more princessy than . . . Ned.
“Soon I’ll be NED too.” She clutched the doll to her heart.
“Junie, what are you talking about?”
“NED! NED is the coolest, bestest thing to be.”
Suddenly I remembered. NED stood for No Evidence of Disease, also known as remission, or cancer free.
She hugged the paper doll again. “Thanks for keeping her safe.”
I wasn’t sure that losing something in the back seat of the station wagon counted as safekeeping. “Let’s just say I hid her so well, even I had a hard time finding her.”
“Maybe she found you?”
I shrugged. Trouble was the only thing finding me lately.
“It’s not my birthday yet,” Junie said.
I felt my throat constrict. “I know. Think of the paper doll as a good-luck charm. For the surgery. And for everything that comes afterward.” If we could ever find a way to afford it. I still had Muriel’s card from the bakery, but I wasn’t sure it would help enough.
Junie took a few deep breaths. “You . . . Isa . . . good . . . sister.”
“You are a good sister,” I corrected. As if this was an appropriate time for grammar.
“No, you are Isa. And Isa is a good sister.”
“So is you,” I replied, leaning closer.
“How do you feel?” she asked, lifting her hand to my face.
“Me?”
“You don’t look right.” She poked my cheek, lifted my eyelid, pinched my nose. “You look . . . hmmm . . . you look . . .” The wordwilken was lost for words. That was a first.
I didn’t want to worry her about Dad’s job, but I was as see-through as Muriel’s crepe-paper-skin to Junie. So I told her about the watch and the tree’s unwanted harvest.
She stayed quiet for a while, then said, “Time isn’t such a bad thing. Around here, everyone talks about time. Everybody wants more time.”
I knew she was probably right. It was just hard to appreciate at the moment.
“How do you feel?” I asked. “That’s the more important question.”
“Missing.”
“What are you missing? Other than French-Fry-Fridays, of course.”
“I miss me.”
“You’re right here.” I tapped her knee with the paper doll, then made it do a silly dance across the bed, trying to lure out a laugh. “I see you. Ten fingers.” I lifted up the blanket and tickled her feet. “Ten toes. Arms, legs, nose. All accounted for.”
“Except Henry, that sneaky, meany blast-o-rama. He’ll be gone soon. Good riddance.” She frowned. “What if they take out something else? Something important, Isa?”
“The doctors and nurses are very good at their jobs. Even if they do wear pajamas.” I smiled at her. “They’ll only remove the bad stuff.”
She didn’t seem convinced. I thought about Kira’s hair, how cutting it helped her let go of some sadness about her dad. Then I remembered the book Ms. Perdilla had given me. I pulled it out of my backpack and flipped to a page with a diagram of a tree dashed with lines.
“Look. To keep an orchard healthy, you have to prune it. That means cutting branches.”
“Doesn’t that hurt?” She traced the lines in the picture with her fingertip. Then she touched her stomach. By the end of the day, more stitches would be dashed across her pale skin.
“Not if you do it right. I know it doesn’t make much sense, but it works. Apparently.” I turned the page, revealing a photograph of ripe, red fruit. “See? You have to remove old things to let new things grow. Like delicious apples.”
She tugged the strings on her purple cap.
“Try to think of your surgery like that. A little Junie pruning. Once it’s done, you’ll grow big and strong.”
“And delicious?” Finally, a giggle.
“Let me check.” I bent over and gave her cheek a little nibble. “Mmm, I think it’ll work like a charm.” She giggled some more. “Oh yes, nice and sweet. What should we make with you? Junie pie? Junie strudel?” I nibbled her again. “I’m sure Mom has some great recipes for Junie pudding.”
Her eyes bulged open. She sat up.
“What’s wrong? I was only joking. We’re not really going to cook you.”
“I know that!” She reached for the book. “Maybe that’s why your tree isn’t working anymore. Why it’s acting so strange.”
“Strange? That’s the best word you can come up with?! Try combining world-class jerk with about fifty curse words!” My muscles tensed. I remembered what Dad had said about our property. “It’s more of a liability than an asset.”
“Huh?”
“It means it’s causing more harm than good. Come to think of it, I might chop the whole thing down. Have a bonfire! Roast some s’mores.”
Junie gasped. “Don’t say that! You can’t get rid of it, just because it’s a little broken. Would you chop me down and use me for firewood if I were a tree?”
“Stop. That’s not the same at all.”
“It is so.” She shook a finger at me. “You said I need Junie pruning. Maybe the tree does too.” She wheezed and reached for a cup of water on her bedside table. She took a sip. “Have you even watered it once?”
“No,” I said sheepishly.
“Not even on Thirstday?”
“Nope. But it’s been raining a lot lately.”
Her forehead wrinkled. “It probably needs a nice cold drink and some attention. From you.” She gulped the rest of her water. “That tree’s been working hard lately, growing you all kinds of treasures. Poor thing could use some TLC.” She sank back into her bed.
I thumbed through the book’s pages. The words and diagrams all seemed to agree.
“Junie, I know you said you were a princess before. But I think you might also be a genius.”
“Technically, I’m a Junius.” Then she made a funny face, crossing her eyes, puffing up her cheeks, and wiggling side to side.
I laughed. “You are. A deliciously goofy Junius.” I wrapped my arms around her in a squg. I breathed her in.
“Isa . . .”
“Yes?”
She wriggled free. “Would you be scared if you were me?”
“Of being devoured by a cannibalistic sister?” I bared my teeth. “Most definitely.”
“No,” she giggled, swatting me away. “I’m serious. Would you?”
I had told enough lies lately. Junie deserved the truth. “Yes, probably. But it’s normal to be scared. You’re going to be okay.” I wanted to be strong for Junie, so I forbid myself from crying, which felt like holding a very determined Great Dane on a leash when all it wanted to do was run. “Everyone is going to take good care of you. The doctors, the nurses, the counselors. Mom, Dad. Me.”
“The tree?”
“Maybe even the tree. If it gets better and starts behaving.”
“I think it will. As long as you take care of it. Promise?”
I hooked my pinky with hers.
She looked at me with those big green eyes. “Isa, what if I’m not okay?”
An unsettling realization: anything is possible. Good and bad. I thought about the stats Dr. Ebbens gave us after Junie was diagnosed. Ninety percent of kids recover from Wilms. But ten percent don’t. My brain crunched the numbers over and over again, trying to come up with a better calculation. The fact was, anything other than zero was too high.
I didn’t know what to say. I tried to look confident, but I was terrified. I held Junie’s hand and squeezed it gently. Three times. I. Love. You.
“I can’t cry in front of Mom and Dad,” she said, squeezing my hand back.
“Of course you can.”
Even though she was only six years old, if you looked deep into her eyes, you’d think you were looking at a much
older person. “No, Isa, it hurts worse. I don’t want them to know.”
“Know what, Junie?”
She swallowed. “It’s a secret, Isa.”
“You can tell me anything.” I held up my pinky to seal the promise. And then Junie cried, sniffling sobs that swelled and rolled, so deep and shuddering that they got almost quiet. She told me how frightened she really was. How badly she hurt some days, even when her brave little face tried to hide it. Unlike the wishing pin or the countless other items I’d misplaced in my life, this was something I knew I’d never lose. Junie’s secret was something I would carry forever.
I held her in my arms and we cried together, neither of us embarrassed by the snot that ran in gooey rivers from our noses. By the time a nurse knocked on the door, we had cried all those feelings right out. And we were almost to the place of smiling again.
“Hello, girls,” the nurse said. “Everything all right in here?”
We nodded. Our eyes were probably red rimmed, our faces blotchy. But we both felt better. I was grateful the nurse left us in peace and didn’t start poking and prodding Junie.
“Today is Chooseday,” Junie reminded me once we were alone again.
“It is.” I wiped her cheek with a tissue, sopping up all the leftover tears and snot, because loving someone means cleaning up their boogers and not minding one bit.
“So far today, I haven’t been allowed to choose a single thing. Everyone is making decisions for me. I didn’t even get to pick which flavor Jell-O I wanted to eat!”
“I thought you hated Jell-O. Isn’t it a food unfittian? Not quite liquid, not quite solid?”
“You’re missing the point, Isa.”
“Okay, you want to make a choice. I get it. Maybe I can help.” I wasn’t feeling very capable of making anything but mistakes lately. But for Junie, I would always try my best.
She picked up the paper doll and waved it.
“What do you want me to do with her?”
“For goodness’ sake, make the poor girl some clothes! Something prettiful. And a whole assortment of hairdos. Long, short. Curly, straight. Red, brown, black, blonde. Maybe a few wild ones too. Like a purple mohawk. Just for fun.”
“Easy peasy. Consider it done. Anything else?”
She bit her lip. “Magic treesy. Yes, pleasey.”
“What do you mean?”
“Plant one more thing.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Junie. I told you what happened with the watch.”
“It has to be more special than that.”
I shrugged. “I searched the whole house and the car. I don’t have anything.”
“I do.” From beneath her pillow, she pulled a metal butterfly with crooked red wings. The wishing pin!
“Where did you find that?” I gasped, shocked to see it.
“You put it in my hospital bag, for safekeeping. Remember?” She pointed across the room at an old yellow duffle bag hanging from a hook.
“I did?” Suddenly I remembered stashing the pin in the bag’s zippered pouch. “I mean . . . I did!” I clutched the pin. “Listen, Junie, if I plant this, you probably won’t get it back. The seeds seem to disappear in the soil. Believe me, I tried to dig up the watch. Nothing but earthworms and grubs and a whole lot of regret under there now.”
“That’s okay. I don’t want it back. Just don’t forget . . .”
“What?” I asked.
“To make a wish. A wishing pin without a wish is just a hunk of junk.”
I studied the red rhinestones. “What should I wish for? Money?”
“Oh, Isa,” she huffed, from exhaustion or flusteration, or maybe both. “Even I know that doesn’t grow on trees.” She pulled off her knit cap and scratched her head, bare as the paper doll’s. A machine next to her bed made some ticking sounds. “Whatever you wish for, make sure it comes from there.” She pointed to the machine. A jagged mountain range of colored lines ran across its screen. Before she could explain further, a team of pajama-scrub clad doctors and nurses entered the room with my parents.
Chapter 30
After we helped Junie get ready for her operation and gave her oodles of kisses and squgs, my parents and I waited. The hospital waiting area had a television, magazines, even a snack bar. I had brought a deck of cards from home, but none of us was in the mood to play a game. It was hard to think about anything other than Junie. When Gregory’s misfit orchestra blared down the hall, sounding more off tune than ever, I covered my ears. I wondered when the shipment of bells would arrive. I hoped it would be soon. This place was in desperate need of some music and magic.
“Come with me,” someone whispered over my shoulder. I turned. Edith smiled and gestured to a set of double doors. Mom and Dad looked up from their magazines and nodded, giving me the okay to go.
I followed Edith down a long corridor and out a door into a garden full of herbs, lush ferns, and colorful flowers. There were even a few small trees. Magnolias, I thought, remembering the blossom Muriel had given Reggie as bus fare.
We walked along a smooth path, wide enough for at least two wheelchairs. We sat on a wooden bench and listened to a fountain bubbling. It wasn’t the same as being out in the orchard, but it was comforting to be surrounded by green, growing things. Plus, the air smelled alive, like rosemary and honey, instead of bleach and cotton balls.
“This therapeutic garden is one of my favorite places,” Edith said, leaning back. “We had one at my old hospital, too. A few hours in a place like this can work wonders.”
“For you, or your patients?” I asked.
“For everyone,” she said. “By the way, you forgot this.” She reached into a folder that she had carried outside. She handed me the paper doll.
“Thank you,” I said, holding it close.
“Your sister’s in good hands. She’s brave, and she needs you to be too.” Her eyes flicked in the direction of my parents, visible across the garden, through the waiting room window. “So do they.”
I lifted the paper doll and made her dance with all the bravado that I wished I felt.
“Good girl.” Edith patted my knee. “I’ve got to get back to work.”
“Wait,” I said, still trying to figure something out. “That machine in Junie’s room. What is it?”
“Which one? There are lots.”
I tried to remember what it looked like. “It has colored lines going up and down.”
“That’s probably the electrocardiographic monitor.”
“What’s inside it?” I asked, still puzzled.
“Inside? Wires and chips and electronic bits and pieces, I imagine.”
“No, I mean what does it do?”
Edith rose from the bench and straightened her scrubs. “It tracks cardiac activity, among other things.”
“Translation, please?”
She placed a hand over the upper left part of her chest and gave a little tap-tap. “That machine helps us see what the heart is doing.”
Now I understood. A sort of calm washed over me. Junie wanted me to make a wish from the heart.
***
Mom plopped down next to me on the bench in the garden, clutching a cup of coffee like it was the elixir of life. Her hands shook just the slightest bit. “Did I tell you? Junie said the oddest thing before I left her.”
“What?” I asked, eager for news of my sister.
“Right when she was about to get her sleepy medicine, she told me she wanted something.”
“Let me guess, an ice cream sundae? Or french fries? Wait, did she ask to change her name to Ned?”
Mom rubbed her forehead, like my answers were scrambling her brain. “No. She asked for a tree.”
“A tree? Why would she want a tree?” I asked, even though I had a pretty good idea.
“Beats me.” Mom took a sip of coffee. “I said, ‘Baby, do you want a tree to climb? Because we’ve got an orchard full of them at home.’ Junie said nope. Dad asked, ‘Do you want a tree to give you fruit
?’ She said no. ‘Do you need the wood to build a dollhouse?’ Junie said no, no, no.” Mom’s eyes sort of glazed over. She was sitting next to me, but I felt her drift farther away.
“So? Did she ever tell you why she wanted a tree?”
Mom snapped out of whatever thought she was lost in. “She was getting drowsy at that point. Right before she fell asleep, she said she wanted a tree for dreaming.” She tipped the coffee cup to her lips and drained it. “Must’ve been the medicine talking. Because for the life of me, I cannot figure out what a tree for dreaming could mean.”
If she had turned to me, looked at me, I might’ve told her exactly what a tree for dreaming was. Maybe I would even take her to see the seedling once I’d nursed it back to health, just as I promised Junie I would. But all she did was stare into her empty coffee cup. The moment passed. I didn’t say a word.
***
Later that day, we learned that Junie’s surgery had gone very well. Henry was officially gone and Junie was on the road to recovery. I got to see her briefly, but the medicines made her loopy and tired.
Dad stayed at the hospital. Mom drove me home. As soon as we got in the front door, she disappeared upstairs. I gathered a few supplies, and then I disappeared too.
Chapter 31
The book lay open in the grass. I read the words and carefully studied the intricate diagrams. I’d gathered a wheelbarrow full of tools from the shed. I was ready to work.
I looked up at the seedling. Its withered leaves hung limply.
“I’m sorry for the way I acted the last time I saw you. I want you to know that I’m not really mad.” My voice was tender and sincere. “Not at you. I’m mostly mad at me. For the record, I do wish Dad could keep his job. And maybe you could return Grandpa Isaac’s watch, but I understand if you can’t. At least I think I do. I’m trying.”
I read a line of text printed on the page:
To reap the benefits of a successful harvest, an arborist must develop a reciprocal relationship with his or her trees. Give your orchard as much as you expect to receive.
“I think this means you need a little TLC.” I touched the trunk with my palm. It brightened just a little. “Junie was right. I’ve been selfish and greedy. Harvesting away without giving anything back.” Hadn’t the stories about Melwick Orchard warned me that something like this could happen? “I want to help you,” I said. The bark grew warm to the touch. I could almost sense a faint rhythm, like a heartbeat, from somewhere deep inside its core.
The Magic of Melwick Orchard Page 20