“Perfect. How do people survive this cold?” How did the family in the woods manage in a house with no electricity or heat?
Girls hurried past on their way outside, their hats pulled low over their ears. Ruth and I were the last girls left. As Ruth finished pulling on her thermal pants, I said, “I want to snowshoe to the shack again to talk to that girl. I want to convince her not to tell about Patch.”
Ruth stopped. “What if the family is dangerous?”
“Helen and Dad didn’t think so. They met the family. They’re convinced the man’s safe. They aren’t worried.”
“But you’re worried.” Ruth finished tying her boot.
“About Patch. Please, Ruth. Will you come with me?”
“Ladies?” Mr. Tyree thumped on the locker room door and called loudly. “We’re waiting.”
Ruth slipped her ear warmers over her ears. “Okay. I’ll go with you.” She shook her head. “How do you get me into these situations?”
I grinned at her, grabbed my gloves and hat, and we hurried outside to freeze.
Chapter 8
Pieces
Sand caked my bare feet. Pips and I smoothed the sides of our ten-story sandcastle, complete with turrets and moat, when horses covered with jingle bells pulled a sleigh onto the beach. The driver, a woman in a poison green velvet coat, waved us over. I caught Pippa’s eye — should we trust this woman? The moment faded, the way dreams do, dissolving into cold morning air, colder than usual. Bells jingled outside my open window. Wait a minute … I sat up. The jingling bells didn’t go away. Who had opened my window? I shivered and pulled the covers tight.
Higgins, asleep at the end of the bed, groaned and rolled over. I slipped on my fuzzy purple slippers and brought the comforter with me as I peeked out the window.
Nothing. The bells faded into the woods on the far side of the house. I flipped my trailing comforter over my arm like the train of an enormous wedding dress and stumbled downstairs. Higgins bounced close at my heels, awake now, ready to be part of the fun.
“Strange sounds outside this morning, Sadie,” Dad called from the kitchen.
Pancakes sizzled, and the vanilla-sweet smell of baking batter wafted into the living room.
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know. You’d better go look.”
I rolled my eyes. Dad loved to play this game. He absolutely knew what was happening outside. I ran my fingers through my hair, just in case, and threw open the door. Higgins burst outside and stopped to sniff, instantly entering his hunting mode.
He circled the rectangular box on the porch, sniffing every angle of the shiny red and green striped paper, the red velvet bow on top, and the tag labeled Sadie. He cocked his head at me. I looked out toward the forest but couldn’t see anyone.
“What is this?” I called to Dad.
“What?” he asked, innocently, as if he was clueless.
“Come on, Higgy.” I gritted my teeth against the cold, tossed the comforter back into the living room and shivered in my pajamas as I picked up the heavier-than-expected box. I kicked the door shut behind me and carried the box to the kitchen table.
“You’re telling me this isn’t from you?” I asked Dad.
He shrugged, but didn’t turn from the stove.
“Should I open it?”
“It’s got your name on it.”
“See! How did you know that? You didn’t even look.” Still, after Pips had told me about her bigger-than-spectacular present for me this year, I knew this must be from her.
Dad grinned. He wore the ruffled pink apron he had worn on the first day in our new house. It said Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice. Someone had given the apron to Mom back in California, and it had been the only apron Dad could find when we unpacked. Now he wore it every time he cooked. I had tried everything, ignoring the apron, teasing him about the apron, looking pointedly at the apron. Nothing worked. The joke was funnier to him every single time.
Holding my breath, I ripped into the paper. The box was big enough to hold almost anything. Bigger than a book. Bigger than a sweater. Higgins put his paws up on the table and nosed my hand as I pulled tissue out of the box.
“No, Higgins, this isn’t for you.”
I lifted the painted wooden tree out and set it on the table. Small drawers, each painted with a picture of a bright ornament, numbered from one to twenty four. The tree was painted dark green and textured with lighter and darker greens, giving it a three-dimensional look.
“Dad, I didn’t know you painted. Or made stuff with wood. When did you …”
“Who says I built this?” Dad came over to look more closely. “Excellent woodsmanship.”
He hurried back to the stove to flip pancakes onto plates.
“Oh, come on, Dad.”
I hadn’t had an advent calendar since I was very young, maybe four or five, and then only the paper kind where you open a door to a new picture each day.
“Are you going to open number one?” Dad asked.
Today was December first. I pulled open the drawer.
Inside sat a yellow origami star. A label along one edge read Open Me.
I turned the star over in my hands. “It’s so cute. I don’t want to pull it apart.”
“Choices,” Dad said. “Why don’t you take your box upstairs and call Mom for breakfast.”
I closed the star back in the drawer. Maybe I would open the star later today. If the advent calendar was from Pips, who had rung the bells? I didn’t recognize the handwriting— carefully neutral block letters. As far as I knew, neither Mom nor Dad knew how to paint or fold origami. Pips knew that I’d love not knowing, too.
I tossed my comforter over the box and headed for the stairs. Higgins did his best to try to trip me all the way upstairs. After depositing my comforter and the box in my bedroom, I went to wake Mom.
“Breakfast!” I called, not daring to open the door. Even before she got sick, Mom had never been a morning person. She needed large amounts of coffee and an ocean of personal space to move from the land of sleep into the land of the awake.
I took the stairs two at a time, skidded back into the kitchen, and sat across from Dad. Higgins put his chin on my lap and looked up with huge, pathetic eyes. Maple syrup already dripped off the edges of Dad’s pancakes.
“Oh, fine, Higgy. Breakfast for you first.”
As I filled Higgins’ bowl, I watched snow fall outside the window, filling the disappearing footprints that led out toward the trees. Footprints. Dad had stood a foot from this window, flipping pancakes, so he had to have seen the bell ringer.
I sat back down and doused my pancakes with syrup. “So, who rang those bells?”
“Beats me,” Dad shoved a big bite into his mouth.
“Right.” I couldn’t fight the lure of the pancakes. Dad would eventually crack, admit he had asked someone to ring the bells for Pippa. Or could she be here? But that wasn’t possible. If Pips were here, she’d be here at our house with us. No present or grand scheme would keep her from actually coming to see me after three months of being apart.
After a few minutes of pure pancake bliss, Dad nodded at the thermometer outside the kitchen window, which read one degree. “Cold this morning. The roads are icy, so we need to leave a little early. Can you be ready in fifteen minutes?”
“Sure.” I’d perfected the art of getting ready quickly.
“And take some coffee up to Mom, will you? I’ll wash up.”
I poured a mug of coffee and took it upstairs. “Mom?”
“Mmmm.” She rolled over in bed and reached out for the mug, her eyes still closed.
I put the mug in her hands. “Love you.”
Part of getting ready quickly was planning ahead. While I ran down the hall to my bedroom, I chose my outfit. Soft, red sweater. Jeans. Fur-lined boots. I quickly made my bed and closed the window. No way was I changing with icy air blowing in. Other than Dad, who could have opened my window? Even if the tree was from P
ips, Dad was in on it too. No question.
After I dressed, I grabbed my backpack. On the way out the door, I opened drawer number one and slipped the star into my pocket.
The heater blasted in the Jeep. I climbed in, and gradually my body temperature climbed higher and higher.
“Okay. Heat off.” In coat, hat, and gloves, too much heat made the Jeep feel like a sauna.
When we pulled up to school, I kissed Dad’s cheek.
“Happy first of December, Sadie,” he said.
“You too, Dad. Thanks for the surprise this morning.”
“I’m telling you — ”
“It’s not from you.” I finished with him.
Chapter 9
Secrets
Ms. Barton had booked the town library for the morning so we had access to more research for our reports. For most of the first hour, I gathered books about St. Lucia Day, taking twice as long as I needed because I was preoccupied with my present. Finally, I sat next to Ruth, who grumbled through an oversized book on Israel.
“He still hasn’t agreed to do anything but food. Look at him.” Ruth nodded toward the table of guys: Ty, Mario, Dmitri.
None of the guys even pretended to look at books. Instead, they folded paper airplanes and tossed them at Nicole and Tess. Ms. Barton pursed her lips and walked toward their table.
I put my hand on Ruth’s book. “Ruth, jingle bells woke me up this morning. And I found an advent calendar wrapped on my porch. It’s a really cool wooden Christmas tree with drawers for each day.”
“No way. From who?”
“I don’t know. Pips told me my present would be extra special this year, but she couldn’t have pulled off the bells without Dad’s help.”
Ruth closed her book with a thump. “Did you open the first day?”
“Yes. This was inside.” I handed over the star.
“Working, ladies?” Ms. Barton asked, passing by our table.
I stuffed the star back into my pocket and opened the top book on my stack. Scholars have no common agreement on the exact beginnings of St. Lucia Day. Though the holiday has become culturally important in Sweden, it may have begun in Germany.
“If the holiday isn’t just a Swedish holiday, why does she want us to study Sweden?” I closed the book and opened the next.
“Listen.” Ruth looked up at Ms. Barton, who stood close enough to our table that I couldn’t take the star back out safely.
Ruth read from her book. “Hanukkah is an important Jewish holiday, but it is not a holy day. On holy days, all work ceases. Holy days are set apart. Hanukkah is considered a festival day, a celebration, but Jewish people are still allowed to go to work and school.”
I whispered, hoping Ms. Barton wouldn’t hear. “So why are we wasting our time?”
“Whoa.” Frankie slid onto the bench next to me, and pointed at the pictures in my book. A parade of girls in white dresses carried candles through city streets, and a close up showed a girl wearing a wreath of lit candles on her head. “Why doesn’t her hair catch on fire?”
Ruth stiffened, on guard. I didn’t blame her. Before, when Frankie single-mindedly aimed to ruin our lives, we knew what to expect. Now, anything was possible.
“I found some information on Swedish food and on the celebration itself.” Frankie piled her books on top of mine and opened a notebook.
We worked for a while, strangely, in silence. In the quiet, thoughts of Patch slipped into my mind. When would Ruth and I hike out to the cabin?
Ruth elbowed me again. “Sadie, help me find a book.”
I followed her to the shelf.
“What’s going on with Frankie?” Ruth asked.
I shrugged. Why hadn’t I told Ruth about Frankie and the library on Saturday? What was going on with me?
Ruth flipped through a book as Ms. Barton walked by. “I don’t trust her. Frankie wouldn’t be nice to you or me unless she wanted something.”
“Come on, Ruth.” To be honest, though, I had already thought the same thing. “I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head. “But when are we hiking to the shack?”
“This weekend maybe, if it’s not too cold. Will Helen really let us?”
“Maybe Andrew can work it out for us.” Andrew. Another sore subject. But the weekend seemed too far away.
Frankie looked up and frowned. I knew she couldn’t hear us, but she couldn’t miss our heads together, whispering.
“Let’s go back. I don’t want Frankie to think we’re talking about her.”
Ruth glanced over her shoulder before sliding the book back onto the shelf. “Okay, but first let’s see that star.”
I took out the star and pulled the small folded tab. When I smoothed out the paper, I saw that the decorative marks had meaning—part of a path, maybe, and a couple letters. As though this was part of …
“A map,” Ruth whispered, her words echoing my thoughts. “If it were me, I’d open every drawer tonight, and put it all together.”
But I wouldn’t. There were two letters, DR, and a line that looked like a path. I glanced up at Ruth sharply, a sudden thought shaking my confidence that the calendar was from Pips.
“Ruth, is the calendar from you?”
Ruth grinned and shook her head. “Maybe it’s from Andrew.”
Andrew hadn’t crossed my mind. No way. Andrew wasn’t even speaking to me. He never would have made me a present like this.
Chapter 10
Deception
The minute my eyes opened the next morning, I ran for the advent calendar. Trying to conserve body heat, I vaulted back into bed and tossed the covers over my legs. Higgins flopped down next to me and put his head on my lap with an enormous dog sigh. I scratched his ears.
A round ornament had been painted on drawer two, white with a red stripe around the middle. The careful painting wasn’t terribly difficult. Now that Ruth had asked about Andrew, I couldn’t be sure, one hundred percent, that the calendar was from Pips. Andrew? Again, the thought made me dizzy. I shoved the wish that Andrew made the calendar deep, deep down.
An origami boat, its base colored blue, sat inside drawer two. Even though the boat didn’t have an Open Me label, I smoothed it open. Another section of map. I took the star out of my bedside table drawer and lay it next to the boat, moving them so their sides touched in every possible variation. These two pieces didn’t go together. I didn’t mind the wait. The longer the wait, the better the surprise.
I got ready on autopilot, using most of my brain to think about the calendar. I tried not to worry about Patch. Hopefully, Dad would take me and Ruth to the research cabin this weekend. Over cereal, I asked Dad about yesterday’s footprints, but he didn’t crack, not even a little.
The only thing that got me through the school day was looking forward to youth group that night. Mom had promised to take me and Ruth to dinner in Hiawatha, the next town over, a rare treat. So when Mom pulled up at school to pick me up, her faced lined with pain, I wanted to kick the car tires. Mom wouldn’t go anywhere tonight.
“I’m sorry, Sades,” Mom said, as soon as I opened the door.
“It’s okay, Mom.” I meant it and didn’t mean it at the same time.
We didn’t talk much on the way home. Mom needed all of her strength to drive through the snow safely. And I couldn’t figure out a single thing to say that wasn’t a lie, or just plain dumb. You’ll feel better soon had become empty words. Words to express a wish we both knew was as likely as turning invisible or learning to fly.
After helping her back to bed, I clipped a leash to Higgy’s collar and shivered on our two laps around the house. Higgins was a good dog, but not good enough to be trusted outside without a leash. I needed to call Ruth to cancel plans, but when I came in from the cold I just wanted to lie on my bed.
I lay there, counting knots on the log ceiling, trying not to think about Mom, about how I wished she would fight the disease harder, even when I knew nothing helped. Still, I needed her, and my need filled me with g
uilt. I needed her for what, to take me out to dinner? She was miserable and sick and all I could think about was my ruined plan?
Higgins padded up the stairs and stood by my bed, eyeing me.
“I know, Higgy. I need to call Ruth. And Dad.”
Higgins nosed my arm. I rubbed his velvety ear between my fingers.
“Okay.” I dragged myself up and went to the phone.
Dad would come home as soon as he could. Ruth’s mom couldn’t take us to dinner, but she would drive us over to youth group.
I did my homework, made myself a peanut butter and Doritos sandwich, and then flipped open Masters of Deception to the M.C. Escher chapter. The first image, Day and Night, showed a daytime landscape blending into an identical nighttime scene. In the middle of the picture, the birds looked black with white sky around them, but when I closed my eyes and reopened them, the birds became white against black sky.
Page after page showed these patterns that forced me to look again, but still, like many of the pictures in The Art Book, I wasn’t tempted to draw any of Escher’s work. That is, until I turned the page and saw Drawing Hands. I took out my sketchbook and pencils. Escher had drawn hands that seemed to rise out of the page and draw themselves.
I traced the lines with my eyes, looking more at the book than at my drawing. If I thought too hard, my mind would convince me the angles were off. After all, I could hardly accept the picture in the first place. Three dimensional hands couldn’t be two dimensional at the same time.
I stepped away from my drawing to take a better look. Certainly not as convincing an illusion as Escher’s, but still intriguing. Why did the picture hold my attention so completely? As I struggled to see both realities, the mix of images, the clattering thoughts of the past few days became quieter. I turned back to the book and flipped the page to the Ron Gonsalves chapter titled Magical Realism. On each page, a picture showed one scene and another. Contradictions.
Pay attention. Look here.
I would have missed the whispering voice, had it not been for the calm focus that came along with the words, like the quiet after a storm.
Flickering Hope Page 4