Some Kind of Happiness (2 page)

She is coming.

It was the beginning of summer. There were soft breezes in the air, and the Everwood was using them to speak.

The ancient guardians used spells and charms to weave a golden cage around the secret at the heart of the Everwood.

But still the secret grew and darkened, deep underground. It reached for the roots of the great Everwood trees like poison. Someday it would rise. Someday, soon, it would escape.

But those who lived in the Everwood—the witches and the goblins, the barrows and the fairies and the wood spirits—knew nothing of this. They turned their faces to the trees and listened, as they did every day.

Today the message was different.

She is coming,
whistled the Everwood winds.

She is coming,
rustled the Everwood leaves.

“Who?” the creatures of the forest asked. “Who is coming?”

The little orphan girl,
groaned the trees.
She carries a great sadness inside her. We must put our hope in her nevertheless.

And the guardians stood at the edge of the wood and gazed into the sun, waiting.

W
HEN WE MAKE OUR WAY
down Brightfall Lane and Hart House comes into view, I see a curtain fall over Dad's face, closing him away from me.

He is driving now; Mom switched with him at a gas station at the edge of Billington, where Grandma and Grandpa Hart live.

Dad told her outside while he filled up the car, “I want to be the one to drive up to their door. I don't know, it feels like it ought to be me.”

I don't understand why that's such a big deal.

Hart House is enormous and white, the largest house I have ever seen in real life. Hidden by a sea of green leaves, it sits back from the road, the only house at the end of a long driveway lined with trees.

Our car and this house and these trees feel like the only things left in the world.

For the next two and a half months, this will
be
my world.

I want to leave,
I try to say, but my voice doesn't seem to be working.

As we drive up to the house, we see Grandma standing on the wraparound front porch beside a column, waving.

Dad squares his shoulders and plasters on a smile. Mom does the same thing—straightens her blouse, puts her chin up and her shoulders back.

I hope I am not so obvious when I try to hide myself.

I want to tell them about the stones piling up in my stomach. That my thoughts are tangled and wordless.

My brain does not like being brought here against my will. It is shouting at me to make Mom and Dad turn the car around.

Grandma Hart steps out the front door onto the porch.

Dad shifts the car into park. His hands grip on the steering wheel hard.

“It'll be okay, Lewis,” Mom says quietly. “You're doing the right thing.”

Does she think I can't hear her?
What
will be okay?
What
right thing?

My chest is knotted up. I feel like a person standing in the middle of a crowded street. The person is screaming, but nothing is coming out, and no one's paying attention anyway.

Grandma stands there, on that porch the size of our apartment, holding up a pitcher.

Everything looks like a painting: blue sky, white house, bright flowers.

How can the world look so perfect when I feel so broken?

•  •  •

There are so many of them.

A swarm of Harts: They all have their own faces, but each
face has a piece of me inside it. Almost everyone's hair is thin and blond, like mine, but none of them have Mom's freckles, like I do.

I catalog as much information as I can while Grandma gives me and my parents a tour of the house:

Seven bedrooms, five bathrooms, two living rooms, a dining room, a parlor, a kitchen, a sunroom, a rec room. A dark study with glass doors. This is Grandpa's private space. Children aren't allowed inside unless Grandpa says so.

I am used to an apartment in the city. This house is a planet.

I hear whispers, bare feet slapping on wood floors, bodies moving throughout the house. Some of my cousins are following us. Some of them scamper away and others take their place. I see adult women. My three aunts.

There are smiles, and hugs that are honestly painful to me because I'm not accustomed to strangers invading my personal space.

The Harts are a storm, and I am its bewildered eye.

I wonder what they are saying about me.

I feel like I'm being dragged through a fun-house mirror maze that reflects distorted versions of myself.

I see two little kids, much younger than me. A girl my age, another one a little older, and a teenage girl.

The teenager is inside a bedroom, lying on her bed, playing on her phone. She glances up as we pass her open door. Her hair is a waterfall of gold rushing over the side of her
bed. She looks irritated that we have disturbed her peace and quiet. She does not get up.

“And this is where you'll be staying, Finley,” says Grandma, opening a heavy white door. “This is your father's old room. We don't use it much.”

“It's lovely, Candace,” says my mother. I can see her work self take over.

(Gwen Hart of Gwen Hart Designs! Your one-stop renovation destination!)

Mom silently critiques the paint colors, the fabric choices, the arrangement of the furniture. Over the bed hangs a miniature chandelier made of crystal and dark brass. Against one wall stand shelves full of books organized in alphabetical order by author. The curtains are lace, and the rug is white.

The wrinkle between Mom's eyebrows vanishes. She approves.

I wish the wrinkles inside me could disappear so easily.

“It looks so different,” Dad says quietly.

Grandma fluffs a pillow, not looking at him. “I redecorated some time ago. I didn't think you'd mind. We weren't sure you'd ever come back, so I thought, what did it matter?”

Dad rubs the back of his head and says nothing. The room is full of secrets—on Dad's face, hanging in the air like clouds of dust—but I don't know how to read them. Dad looks smaller than he ever has before.

“Don't you think this is a beautiful room, Finley?” Mom's eyes are wide.
Say something nice. Quick.

“Yes. It's exquisite.” (Nine-letter word for “mighty fine.”) I try to smile, but it feels all wrong, like someone else's smile is being sewn onto my face. “Thank you.”

Grandma's smile has been plucked from the pages of a magazine. She could be an actress. A ballerina in silk and pearls with piles of soft white hair.

Four of my cousins hover at the door—the girls around my age, the two little ones.

I feel like a creature at the zoo being gawked at. I roll my notebook into a spyglass.

“Kennedy,” says Grandma to the oldest girl, “why don't you come say hello to your cousin? Where are your manners?”

“Hi, Finley.” Kennedy wraps me in a hug. She is tan and blond and perfect. She looks like she has leaped right out of the ocean; she smells like vanilla. “I'm so excited to finally meet you.” She turns to the other kids. “We all are.”

I am probably supposed to say something, but all I can think about are these five pairs of strange eyes staring at me. This house that smells different from mine and is far, far too big.

Mom and Dad will be gone soon. They are going to leave me.

My brain has yet to stop screaming. It bashes against the walls of my head in protest.

I can't help it: I start to cry. Not loudly or anything; I am not one for fits. One minute I am not crying, and the next minute tears are sliding down my face, and I wish they weren't, but I can't stop them, and that makes me cry even harder.

I don't want to be here. This place is all wrong.

Grandma's mouth goes thin. She turns away from me. “I'll go put on some tea.”

Dad says, “She's just overwhelmed. This is all new for her.”

“Yes,” says Grandma, “I suppose it would be. Tea is the thing. We'll have tea and get her washed up.”

I hear my cousins: “Is she all right?” “What's wrong?” “Why is she crying?”

Grandma: “She's only tired. Come, now. Don't stare.”

I am sitting on my bed, and Mom is holding me, telling me things:

“Please stop crying, sweetie. Please.”

“The summer will be over before you know it, and then we'll be back to get you.”

“You have to be brave. This will be fun. I promise.”

She pries my rolled-up notebook from my fingers.

After a while I appear to have cried myself out. My head is so heavy, I can't lift it from the pillows on this bed that is not mine. The room is empty except for me and Mom.

She kisses my forehead and tells me I should come down soon. She and Dad can't stay long.

The longer they stay, she tells me, the harder it will be for her to leave me. And this is the right thing to do, she says. She and Dad have decided it will be good for me, to spend time with my family.

I think she sounds like she has been crying too, but I don't want to know if that's true.

Once she leaves the room, I lie flat and stare at the
chandelier above my bed. This is a room for a princess, and I am anything but that.

What am I?

A lump of heaviness. A stranger. A thing that does not fit.

I can't seem to stop the poison inside me from spreading.

(I mean, I've never been poisoned, so I am only speculating.)

(But I do feel something spreading inside me. Something heavy and dark.)

I can't let them see it.

They can't know my secret. Not these people in this clean, white palace. Not even Mom and Dad know. And they never will.

Later Dad comes in and hugs me. “We'll talk every day,” he tells me. “I love you.”

He and Mom are leaving now. No, they cannot stay for dinner. Yes, they love me, forever.

A few minutes later I hear voices drifting up from beneath my window and get up to look outside. My parents and grandparents are standing by the sidewalk that leads to the driveway.

Dad tells Grandma, “Finley likes her space.” He speaks quietly, but I am good at listening. “She's a dreamer. She loves to write. Just don't . . . push her.”

Grandma's chin is square. “I think I'm used to taking care of grandchildren by now, Lewis.”

Dad hugs Grandpa, who claps him on the back. Grandpa says,
“It was good to see you. You look good. You look . . . tall.”

Dad clears his throat. “Yeah. You too.”

Dad and Grandma do not hug. She tells him to drive safely.

Then Mom and Dad get into the car and drive away. I watch them until the trees swallow them up.

I am alone.

I wipe my face with tissues I find on my nightstand, unroll my notebook, and begin to write.

The Everwood won't leave me.

The Everwood is always right here, in my notebook, on these straight lines.

The Everwood is one thing I can always understand.

A
T HOME, DINNER IS TYPICALLY
a haphazard affair.

Mom camps out at the kitchen table, scarfs down her food in five minutes, and spends the rest of the night poring over some client's renovation blueprints.

Dad sits at his desk in the corner of the living room to work on lesson plans or write the novel he'll never finish because he gets distracted too easily.

Every now and then he'll take a bite of food. Mom inhales; Dad pecks.

I sit on the couch with my TV tray and my homework, usually with some kind of nature documentary on in the background. Dad says the narration soothes him and helps clear his mind.

Some people might think it's odd that we hardly ever eat dinner together at the table. I like our way, though. It makes me feel grown-up, like Mom and Dad don't have to pretend to care about typical dinnertime rituals.

We're all adults here. We eat how we want to eat.