At school, she felt pity radiating from the teachers and some of the kids. Curiosity, too. Several times she caught Klara Kosrov gazing at her, and for no reason, it made her mad.
She reminded herself that Klara Kosrov had always been one of the nice girls in her grade. She still felt unnerved, so she reached out to test Klara’s thoughts.
At once, she felt Jell-O-y in her knees.
Klara did feel bad for Emily, like the other kids. But not in a self-righteous way or a tsk-tsk way. Klara felt bad in a sad way.
Klara wanted to reach out to her, Emily could tell. Twice, Klara almost said something. The third time she tried to work up her nerve, Emily took pity on her, offering up a melancholy smile.
“Hi,” Klara said, stepping closer. She twirled a strand of her dark hair around her finger. “I, um, heard about your parents. I don’t want to say anything dumb like ‘it’ll all be fine’ or ‘it’s better for them to be happy, even if it means they’re apart.’ Because what do I know? My parents aren’t divorced.”
Klara smacked her palm to her forehead. “That came out wrong. Omigosh, that’s not what I meant to say.”
“It’s all right,” said Emily.
Klara’s hand went to her hair again, pushing it past her ear so that it spilled in a glossy waterfall over her shoulder. “I’m just sorry. It must really suck.”
“Yeah,” Emily said.
Another sixth grader, Holly Newcomb, wasn’t nearly so kind. Holly was new to Willow Hill. She wore black eyeliner and ironic plaid skirts.
“Did your parents tell you it wasn’t your fault?” Holly said, accosting Emily during PE.
“Excuse me?” said Emily.
“If they did, they lied,” Holly said.
Emily paused before speaking. She sensed Holly’s deep loneliness. She sensed Holly’s need to make someone else feel bad in a desperate attempt to make herself feel better.
“I can tell you’re upset about something,” Emily said carefully, doing her best to channel Klara’s generosity. “Do you, um, want to talk about it?”
Holly drew back. She called Emily a word that rhymed with “witch,” spun on her heel, and didn’t speak to Emily again.
I wish for no more pimples.
—VERA KOSROV, AGE THIRTEEN
CHAPTER NINE
Ava
Ava strode through the woods near City Park, craning her neck to look for what Aunt Elena had called the Bird Lady’s hideaway. She’d said something about a huge oak tree, but Ava wasn’t positive what an oak tree looked like. Oak wood, she could recognize from Papa’s shop. But the tree itself?
She knew maple leaves. So pretty, like stars or outstretched fingers. She knew sarsaparilla, because Papa had taught her that its stem was good to chew on. A sarsaparilla leaf looked like a ghost, a friendly, cartoon ghost with a large round head and two up-stretched arms.
But oak. Oak, oak, oak. She knew a song about an oak tree. She’d learned it in preschool. It had to do with . . . oh! Little acorns growing into big oaks!
Well, acorns, sure. She shifted her perspective, scanning the ground instead of the sky.
“Over here, pet,” called a voice.
Ava froze. Then, slowly, she lifted her head and turned in the direction of the voice.
“Well done, pet!” exclaimed the Bird Lady.
Ava’s heart pitter-pattered beneath her T-shirt, but she wasn’t scared, exactly. Startled? Yes. But the Bird Lady looked kind, just as Ava remembered. Her voice was old, but not croaky, not witchy. Certainly not wicked-witch witchy, as in, “I’ll get you, my pretty—and your little dog, too!”
“I was looking for you,” Ava said.
“And I for you, Ava Blok,” replied the Bird Lady. “Or rather, I was waiting for you.”
The Bird Lady stepped out of the shadows. She wore overalls and a faded plaid shirt. Her gray hair looked as soft as dandelion fluff—and was there a bird nestled within?
There was: a brown sparrow with bright, curious eyes. Warmth spread through Ava, a shimmering, golden appreciation for the wonders of the world.
The Bird Lady beckoned Ava forward, indicating a tree several feet away. “Come. It’s lovely, you’ll see.”
Ava went to the tree—the oak (the ground around it was sprinkled with acorns)—and touched its rough bark.
Its roots were thicker than Ava’s thighs, and a mass of vines clambered clockwise around its trunk, reaching twenty feet high and extending along the uppermost branches. Purple tendrils drooped from the vines, reminding Ava of the feather boas she used to sling around her neck when she was playing dress-up.
“Blue Moon wisteria,” the Bird Lady said, stroking one of the tendrils.
“But it’s purple, not blue.”
“Not in the moonlight,” the Bird Lady said.
Ava circled the oak, trailing her finger along the wisteria blossoms. Several times, Ava caught the Bird Lady sneaking peeks at her. Ava stopped midway around the massive trunk, feeling an urge to dig into the soil and unearth what lay beneath.
May I? she asked the Bird Lady with a lift of her eyebrows.
You may, the Bird Lady replied, dipping her head.
The Bird Lady’s gesture was queenly, stirring something deep within Ava. She thought of ancient times and ancient ways. She thought of ancient rituals, possibly brought to Willow Hill from Russia, where Ava’s ancestors hailed from and which Mama and her aunts called the old country. Legend had it that it was one of Ava’s ancestors, a great-great-many-times-great-grandmother from Mama’s side, who had brought magic from the old country to their small town of Willow Hill.
It could be true, Ava thought. When she was a child, she’d been entranced by the legend. As she’d grown older, she’d talked herself into dismissing it, especially after Grandma Rose had scolded Ava for living in “a fantasy world.” Grandma Rose had tutted and quoted a Bible verse at her: “When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child. But when I grew up, I put away childish things.”
The verse had hit home. Ava did not want to be a child.
Yet now, standing with the Bird Lady in the heart of the forest, a timeless feeling seeped into Ava’s pores. The past, the present, the future . . .
Ava sucked in her breath: all of life was one long moment!
The revelation dazzled her.
She blinked and came back to herself. She kicked at the soil with the toe of her sneaker, uncovering a gnarled root. It looked no different from the other roots, but something about it tugged at her.
She glanced at the Bird Lady, and the Bird Lady swept the wisteria vines to the side, revealing a large, dark hollow within the trunk of the oak.
“Whoa!” said Ava.
The Bird Lady smiled more broadly. “I know.”
The hollow was big enough for a person to duck into. To sit, to hide. “It’s fantastic.”
“It’s where I store my secrets.”
Secrets! Yes! At once, Ava remembered why she’d come. “My aunt. Aunt Elena. When she was my age, you told her to wish to forget Emily!”
A shadow crossed the Bird Lady’s face. She bade Ava to step into the oak’s hidden nook, and Ava did. Within the hollow, wedged into nooks and crannies, Ava spotted dozens of glass soda bottles. More bottles hung from the roof of the hollow. The bottles dangled from lengths of twine, one end of the twine looped around the bottle’s neck and the other end secured to one of the many knobby bits in the upper reaches of the trunk.
Within each glass bottle was a rolled-up scroll of paper.
“What are these?” Ava asked.
“My secrets, as I said.”
Ava reached for one.
“No,” the Bird Lady said. Ava withdrew her hand.
Unsure what to do, she lowered herself to the moist soil. Bark dug into Ava’s back, and she shifted positions, drawing her knees to her chest and holding them with her arms. The Bird Lady mimicked Ava’s posture. The space was so tight, their knees touched.
“Tea?” Ava would ask.
“Oh, yes,” Mama would say. “And biscuits, if you please.”
In England, cookies were called biscuits. Mama had taught Ava that, and Ava had been charmed. When they sipped their pretend tea, they’d lifted their little fingers.
Ava, at four, hadn’t understood her mother’s depression, just that on some days, Papa or one of her aunts picked her up from preschool instead of Mama. “Your mother is tired,” Ava was told, or “Your mother had a rough day.” Ava had no premonition that one day Mama would be gone. Not resting, not having a rough day, just gone.
“Hold on,” Ava said, giving herself a shake. She was sitting knees-to-knees with the Bird Lady, not Mama. “How did you know my name?”
“How did you know mine?” the Bird Lady retorted.
“I don’t. I mean, obviously ‘the Bird Lady’ isn’t your real name. What is?”
The Bird Lady’s eyes darted away. She picked at an imaginary bit of fluff on her overalls.
“Fine,” Ava said. She wasn’t here for games. “You said you were waiting for me. Why?”
“I imagine it’s the same reason you came looking for me.”
“My aunt said you knew Emily.”
“I did. I hope to again one day.”
“You do? Meaning what?”
“Meaning exactly what I said: that I hope to know her again one day.”
“So she existed? For real?”
The Bird Lady huffed. “Of course she did! Hopefully, she still does!”
“Will you tell me about her? Please?”
The Bird Lady didn’t answer.
Ava picked up a leaf, damp and beginning to rot. She shredded it into strips.
“I knew your mother, too,” the Bird Lady said. “Klara.”
Ava stopped.
“Emily and Klara, they had such big plans,” the Bird Lady said.
“For their Wishing Days,” said Ava. Only moments ago, she’d assured the Bird Lady that she had no doubts Emily was real, but she’d said that to make sure the Bird Lady kept talking. Also, Ava had always wanted Emily to be real, because she wanted to believe her mother. The story about Emily was horrible, but the story without Emily was worse. If Emily didn’t exist, and never had existed, then Mama hadn’t abandoned their family out of grief and guilt. She’d just . . . abandoned them.
But now, listening to the Bird Lady—hearing the wistfulness and the regret in the Bird Lady’s voice—Ava realized she’d turned a corner.
Emily was real.
Emily was real.
Emily. Was. Real.
“She and Klara had planned to meet at the top of Willow Hill at sunrise and make their wishes together,” the Bird Lady said. “But Klara failed. Klara broke their promise, and Emily suffered the consequences.”
“But it was an accident,” Ava said.
“Your mother wanted to be special,” the Bird Lady said.
Ava bristled.
“As for Emily, she was special,” the Bird Lady went on. “She was an artist, a good artist, and one day she’d be famous. Everyone said so.”
“So why did you tell my aunt to forget all about her? Did you tell Aunt Elena that?”
The Bird Lady jiggled her knee. “Do you want me to continue?”
“If you don’t deny it, I’ll assume you did.”
“Assume what you please. If you want to hear from me what I may or may not have told Elena, however, I suggest you shut up.”
Ava set her jaw.
“Klara was special, too,” the Bird Lady said, giving Ava a reproving look. “Of course she was. I’m just . . . I’m hoping you’ll understand.”
“Understand what?”
“Klara didn’t think she was special,” the Bird Lady continued. “That was the problem. She was popular, she was pretty, but she wanted more.”
“Well, I think that’s a good thing,” Ava said. She was proud of Mama for not caring about superficial qualities.
“There’s something else,” the Bird Lady said. “That silly contest. The Academic Olympiad.” The Bird Lady pursed her lips. “Emily didn’t care whether she won or not. For Emily, art was about creation. About adding beauty to the world.”
Ava got a bad feeling in her stomach.
“And then there was Nate,” said the Bird Lady.
“Papa,” whispered Ava.
“Your papa, yes. Also Emily’s older brother. Klara knew he was the one for her from the first time she met him.” Color bloomed on the Bird Lady’s cheeks. “She wanted to impress him, that’s all! She never meant . . . I never meant . . . nobody ever meant for Emily to disappear!”
Ava felt queasy. The nook in the tree wasn’t cozy. It was claustrophobic. Not enough air. She tried to rise, but the Bird Lady pressed down on her leg.
“It’s not easy for me, either, pet,” she said, and to Ava’s horror, fat glossy tears welled in the Bird Lady’s eyes.
“What am I supposed to ‘understand’?” Ava asked. “What haven’t you told me?”
The Bird Lady lifted her chin. “Natasha and Darya did their part. You should be proud of them. You should be proud of yourself as well.” She nodded and sniffled. “You’re starlings, all three of you.”
“Starlings?”
The Bird Lady gave a quivery laugh. “Darlings. You’re all darlings.”
The wisteria draping from the oak tree rustled, and Ava heard the flapping of wings. Three birds swooped past the entrance of the nook.
“Ava!” they cried. “Ava, Ava, Ava!”
Ava’s breath caught. She stretched forward, straining to see past the flowering vines. “Did . . . did that just happen?”
The Bird Lady gazed at Ava. “It’s up to you to finish what your sisters started. I think you know that already.”
“What do you hope I’ll understand?” Ava whispered.
“It concerns your mother. But before I tell your mother’s story, I need to tell my own,” the Bird Lady said. “They’re . . . connected.”
“And Emily, and Aunt Elena?”
“We’re all connected.” She spread her arms. “Everyone, everything, and if one piece is knocked out of place . . .”
“Someone has to set it right,” Ava finished.
The Bird Lady nodded. Her eyes were still shiny. “Here we go, then. I’ll get to it as best I can.”
Ava waited.
“We don’t have much time, you see.”
Ava waited.
The Bird Lady sucked in a breath of air, then blew it out.
Ava started to speak, but didn’t. A quiet sort of calm spread through her body. She shifted positions within the cramped space, sitting criss-cross applesauce and brushing a twig from under her bottom.
She folded her hands in her lap and waited.
I wish, just sometimes, that people could know what I was thinking, without my saying a word.
—EMILY BLOK, AGE TWELVE
CHAPTER TEN
Emily, Age Thirteen
On Emily’s thirteenth birthday, Emily, Nate, and their mom had a special birthday breakfast, meaning that the three of them sat at the table and ate their cereal together. Nate plucked the colorful marshmallows from his bowl of Lucky Charms and gave them to Emily. He also gave her a clumsily wrapped box of colored pencils. Good ones, from the art store.
“Nate, thank you,” Emily said, already in love with the pencils in their perfectly aligned spectrum of colors.
Her mom gave Emily a pink blouse made from a flowy fabri
c that looked silky but felt scratchy. It had capped sleeves. A loopy bow hung from the collar.
“It’s exactly like the one that nice Maggie Stanton has,” her mom proclaimed.
Maggie Stanton, whose parents gave her a kitten in the third grade. The kitten would be a cat now. Had Maggie named it Mittens? Emily wondered.
“I saw Marjory and Maggie having a mother-daughter tea, and Maggie was wearing a carbon copy of this blouse, only in pale blue. They were going to get their nails done afterward. Doesn’t that sound fun? Would you like to get a manicure together, sweetheart?”
“Um, sure?” Emily said.
Her mother beamed, and Emily felt a stab of guilt. If agreeing to a manicure was all it took to make her mother happy, she should do it more often.
Emily headed for her bedroom after putting her bowl and spoon in the dishwasher. Her mom called her back and placed a box on the counter. Her lips twitched. She said, “It’s from your father.”
Emily’s eyes flew to the return address: California, where oranges grew in people’s backyards. Maybe in her father’s backyard. Emily didn’t know. She and Nate had yet to visit. Their dad had extended dozens of invitations, volunteering to pay for their plane tickets, but their mom always came up with reasons to say no. The timing was bad. They’d miss too many school days. There was a chance that the kids’ long-lost uncle might pop by for the weekend, no matter the weekend.
Sometimes Emily wondered if her mom was holding them hostage to punish their dad.
No. Emily knew that her mom was holding them hostage to punish their dad.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” her mom asked.
Emily would have preferred to open it alone, but felt helpless against the force of her mother’s curiosity. Her parents had been divorced for two years, her mother refused to let Emily and Nate see their dad, and yet she grasped for any detail, large or small, about Emily’s dad’s new life . . . and his new wife. Especially his new wife.
Emily opened the box and pulled out a soft white throw pillow with a unicorn on it. Her heart lifted, then fell. She liked the pillow. She did. Just, last year—twelve months ago, and no more—she would have loved it.
The Backward Season Page 7