Wishing Day (15 page)

            
I wish I could tell someone.

            
—
E
MILY

N
atasha ducked off the path, sat on a rock, and opened the note. She read the words, fast-fast-fast. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to empty herself of everything.

A bird sang. A small animal scuffled. A breeze ruffled the note, and Natasha smoothed it against her thighs. She looked down and read it again, each and every word:

Natasha, I saw your name in the paper! Oh, honey, an honorable mention! If I were there, I'd wrap you up in the biggest hug ever and take you out for ice cream.
I'd ask to read the story you submitted, and I hope you would let me, but if you didn't, I'd understand. Certain things are private. Certain things can't be shared, not in the ordinary way. But writing, whether you show it to anyone or not, is a safe way to let things out, isn't it?

Safer, at any rate
.

You and I are alike, I think. We can both say things on paper that we can't say out loud. That's why, for me, notes are easier than talking.

That's why I got scared. I thought maybe you'd want to talk; that's why I suggested it way back when. Then I thought, “What if she's better off without me?”

The same old problem. It's always the same old problem. But that's why the notes stopped, in case you were wondering. It was me, not you. It always has been.

Oh, Natasha, you must have hated me when you read the Wishing Day letter I left for you. (You did get the letter, didn't you? Of course you did. I'm sure you did. It's just, your father . . . I hope he did as I asked, that's all.)

Well.

Sweet girl, I can't say what I need to say, out loud or on paper. I try to open my heart, and the wings
come crashing down. My tears are smearing the ink.

I love you, Natasha. Always.

—Mama

When Natasha lifted her head, the forest was just as it had been. Leaves rustled. Two chickadees quarreled above her, then flew to another tree and took up their argument again. A bar of light fell across her lap, brightening the faded blue of her jeans.

Was the note truly from Mama? If it was, then the others were, too . . . right?

Natasha folded the note and tucked it into the small pouch at the top of her backpack, which she carefully zipped closed. She walked to Papa's workshop. She rapped on the wooden door.

No one responded.

“Papa?” she said.

She heard a bang, followed by a short exclamation of pain. He'd stubbed his toe, maybe, or banged his elbow on his drafting table.

“Papa, it's me. Natasha. I'm coming in.”

Papa stopped nursing his thumb when she stepped through the doorway. “Natasha,” he said.

Natasha thought three things in rapid succession:

He looks so old, way older than he should.

He loves me so much.

I love him, too.

Then an ache of loneliness pierced her heart. Those things
were
true, but threaded through all of them was a sadder truth:

And yet he doesn't know me, not really.

“Is it time for supper?” he asked. He squinted at the window, where dust motes floated in the gold, filmy light. “Surely it's too early for supper, unless—oh no. I didn't forget another birthday, did I?”

“Papa, stop,” Natasha said. Two years ago, Ava staged an elaborate birthday dinner for Papa. She made place cards. She planned the menu. She left personalized invitations on everyone's pillow the night before, requesting that “all guests be seated in the dining room by five p.m. on the dot.” It was very cute and very Ava, and at 5:01, she stepped proudly out of the kitchen with a tray of stacked blini, the Russian version of crepes.

They were delicious and buttery and warm, or they would have been if they'd been gobbled up straight away, as they were meant to be. But Ava insisted they wait for Papa, who didn't come and didn't come, and who wasn't in his workshop when Natasha pushed
back her chair and went to get him. He'd gone into town because he'd run out of wood stain. He'd forgotten it was his birthday entirely.

The blini were cold and rubbery when Aunt Vera said, “For heaven's sake,” and forked a bite into her mouth despite Ava's protests. The others followed suit, and everyone lied and told Ava they were perfect. Papa showed up half an hour later, baffled by everyone's chilly response.

“No, you didn't forget anyone's birthday,” Natasha said, “and no, it's not time for dinner.”

Papa relaxed. “Right. Yes. Good.” He hesitated. “In that case . . . ?”

“Do you have a letter for me?” Natasha asked.

Papa looked at her without comprehension.

“From Mama, and you were supposed to give it to me on my Wishing Day?”

Papa rubbed the back of his neck. “Oh. That.” He looked sad, like he always did when anyone mentioned Mama. “It's just that your aunts said it would be better, you see, to wait. So I held on to it.”

Natasha willed herself to act calm. “But there
is
a letter? From Mama?”

“She left one for each of you girls,” Papa said.

“Can I have it? The one for me?”

A shadow moved across his face. Natasha felt a swell of frustration.
Yes, be sad
,
she thought
. Yes, stay in your own world. That's nothing new. But give me the letter first!

“Papa,” she said.

He pulled himself together. “Yes, yes. If Vera and Elena changed their minds, then of course.” He went to the desk he used when he did his accounting. With a small gold key, he unlocked the uppermost drawer. He opened it and took out three creamy envelopes.

For all of Natasha's life, Papa's desk had stood at the far end of his workshop, and ever since she was five there'd been a locked drawer and a letter within the drawer from her mother. Three letters from her mother, and she'd known nothing about any of it.

What else didn't she know?

Papa shifted, and his broad shoulders blocked Natasha's view. She heard the drawer slide shut and the clink of the key hitting home. When he turned, he held a single envelope against his chest. He crossed the room and offered it to her, but he didn't let go when she took hold of it.

His eyes swam with tears. Seeing them made tears spring to Natasha's eyes.

“I love you very much, Natasha,” Papa said.

“I love you, too,” she said. She could feel the sealed flap on the underside of the envelope. On the front was Natasha's name, written in the same loopy cursive as the other notes she'd received.

“Your mother was a good woman,” he said. “
Is
a good woman, and she loves you, too. You need to know that.”

“Okay,” Natasha said.

Papa let go of the envelope, and Natasha stumbled back. Her backpack hit a lute. Its string sighed a lonely note.

“Natasha?” he said.

“Yes?”

“Will it be dinnertime soon?” He looked old and lost, and Natasha hated him a bit, even as she loved him.

“Yes.” She turned and hurried out the door.

S
he went to the tree with the rope swing, but she didn't sit on the swing. Instead, she stood on one of the tree's big roots and looked back at Papa's workshop. Then she looked at the house, cheerful and reassuring in the setting sun.

The lights were on in her sisters' rooms. Darya's blinds were shut, while Ava's curtains, gauzy and purple, were wide open. Natasha spotted Ava's feet at the end of her bed, one on top of the other in purple socks with yellow polka dots. Her top foot waggled back and forth. She was probably reading a book. Probably about magic.

Natasha shrugged off her backpack and set it by the trunk of the tree. Now she took a seat on the wooden swing. She dug the toes of her sneakers into the ground to keep from swaying.

She ran the pad of her index finger over the creamy envelope. She flipped it over, dug her thumb beneath the flap, and pulled out the letter. It was several pages long. The sheets were folded in half and creased in the middle, and when Natasha shook them open, she caught a whiff of roses.

Again, a flash of memory. A glass bottle tied with a dove-gray ribbon, and Mama saying, “You put it here, where your skin is warm,” as she dabbed a drop of perfume on the inside of Natasha's wrist.

With a thudding heart, she read her mother's letter:

Dear Natasha,

If you're reading this, that means I wasn't able to fix things. Or myself. I am more sorry than you will ever know.

Oh, sweetheart.

I've started this letter a thousand times and ripped it up just as many. I can't say what I need to say. I'll never be able to say what I need to say. I have to try,
though, don't I? So I'm not going to rip this one up. This is the one, because tonight will be my last night here.

Take care of your sisters and your father. No, that's not fair—you're only five, after all! You're already so accomplished, though. So smart and funny and creative, and so sure of what you want. Today you asked me to braid your hair, and you got very stern with me about the bumps. “No bumps, Mama!” you cried. “My reputation is at stake!” Papa and I laughed at that, and you got even sterner.

“Molly has bumps, and everyone in the class calls her Bumpy Molly,” you informed me
.

“Oh dear,” I murmured, thinking about how callous children can be, even in kindergarten.

You saw my expression, and your eyes widened, and you flung your arms around me and said, “They don't, Mama! I made that up! Nobody calls her Bumpy Molly, and I just said that and I don't know why. She has the unbumpiest hair of anyone, she really really does, so change your face back, Mama. Please!”

But Natasha, I share that as an example of what an imagination you have, not to suggest you're callous. You're not callous. You couldn't be if you tried. Last
week you tried to pet that mean old tomcat that lives down the road—do you remember? And he clawed you, and I was so upset. But you patted my hand and said, “Mama, shhh. Poor darling Mama. He was just having a rough day, that's all.” Then you spun off into a story about all the mice you would feed him to cheer him up, but only mice that were already dead and that died of “natural causes,” as you put it.

Do you still make up stories?

Do you still know Bumpy Molly, who isn't bumpy at all?

Except you're not five anymore. Maybe you wear your hair short now. Maybe you have a new best friend. (Although selfishly, I hope you don't. Molly's a good friend, and good friends are worth holding on to.)

This is awful, Natasha. I miss you already. Please just . . .

I don't know. Stay kind. Stay funny. But do be careful what you say. The world is slippery. It's easy to make mistakes, and some mistakes can't be undone.

And, yes. That's why I'm writing this. To say good-bye, to say I love you, and to warn you about your Wishing Day, which is tomorrow. If you're reading this letter, it must be, because I'm going to leave Papa
specific instructions on when to give it to you. I'll be quite firm, just like you were about how you wanted your hair, you silly goose.

Thirteen years old.

Impossible.

I'll say it, then: Be careful what you wish for.

Because the old saying is true, Natasha. Do you understand? I wished for something terrible, and my wish came true. I unwished it many times over, but unwishes don't count. Although I wonder, if you wished for my wish to reverse itself, would it work?
Would Emily and I be best friends again?

Don't, darling. Never mind. Wish for chocolate cupcakes or a new dress or a patch of sunlight for that mean old tomcat. Or don't wish for anything at all!

I'm still going to try, you know. To fix the wish I wished, to be back before you know I'm gone. But the wings are beating, sweet girl. I hear them in my head, and I fear I'm losing my mind. My heart, however, is yours forever.

Love always,

Mama

The sun dipped farther below the horizon. Natasha's spine hurt from sitting so rigidly on the wooden swing. She dropped the letter to her lap and pushed at the ground, flexing her feet and pointing them to make the swing move.

She wore her hair in braids when she was little? She called Molly “Bumpy Molly,” and Mama “poor darling Mama”? That sounded more like Ava than Natasha.

She didn't remember a grouchy tomcat, either. Or Emily, whose name Mama had scratched out.
Emily, Emily, Emily
, the Bird Lady had said.
It's always about Emily, isn't it?

Everyone wanted to scratch Emily out, it seemed. Had Emily once been real? Had Emily been Mama's best friend? Had Papa and Aunt Vera scratched those memories out—or was Mama crazy?

I fear I'm losing my mind.
Mama wrote those words herself.

But wait
,
Natasha told herself
. Go back a step and THINK, Natasha. Think what this means.

Mama.

Is.

Alive.

A shadow caught her attention. It was Papa, standing in the window of his workshop, his hands propped against the window frame. He wasn't looking at Natasha. He wasn't looking at anything, as far as Natasha could tell.

But when he heard that he was right and that Mama
was
alive . . . !

She hopped out of the swing and ran across the lawn, tingling with the knowledge of how happy he'd be. Then she stopped. Mama was alive. Yes. But she wasn't here.

She was alive, and yet she wasn't with them, and she wasn't with them
on purpose
.

All this time, Mama could have been with them.

She could have saved Papa from his grief. She could have saved all of them from their grief.

Why did she decide to reach out now? And why why
why
did she reach out to Natasha instead of Aunt Vera or Aunt Elena, who were her very own sisters, after all? Why didn't she reach out to
Papa
, her very own husband?

Natasha swallowed and gazed at the house Mama had walked away from nearly eight long years ago. Inside the kitchen, she saw Darya setting the table, and she saw Ava following behind, straightening the knives
and forks and arranging the napkins more neatly.

Aunt Vera stood at the stove, stirring soup or maybe spaghetti sauce, and Aunt Elena opened the oven and slipped in a foil-covered loaf of bread. Natasha knew what would happen next. Aunt Elena would set the timer for twenty-five minutes, and Aunt Vera would say, “Twenty-two minutes would be better. You can always leave the bread in longer, but if you leave it in too long, there's no going back.”

Their routine was as predictable as clockwork, and
this
, the cheerful dance of meal preparation and easy chatter, was what defined Natasha's childhood. Maybe their family
was
broken, but in the cozy light of the kitchen, Natasha didn't see it. In the light of the kitchen, her family seemed pretty whole.

Mama was alive. (Because Natasha wished it?)

A rough beast slouched toward Bethlehem, indignant birds throwing shadows on its thick thighs. (But no, because Mama wasn't scary. Mama wasn't a
beast
.)

But maybe, in a way, Mama was
getting ready
to be reborn, only not in a scary way? (Because Mama was the one who was scared, that's what she said in her last note—the notes that had made Natasha feel so special. Maybe Natasha had called her back? Maybe all of this
was
happening, in some mysterious way,
because of Natasha's wishes?)

Feathers brushed Natasha's cheek, and she spun around. A nighthawk cawed and circled above her. It plummeted down, and Natasha ducked, covering her head with her arms.

“Stop it!” she cried.

The tree behind her shivered, and a flock of blackbirds took flight. Natasha was lost in a tumble of bodies and small thrumming hearts. Beaks stabbed her shoulders and her back and the bare flesh of her legs. Wings flapped noisily.

They were shooing her toward the path that led to the old willow.

“All right, all right!” she cried. Her calves burned as the trail grew steep. When she tripped, warm things kept her from falling. When she slowed down, the sting of beaks increased.

Panting, she crested Willow Hill. The birds swooped away in a tremendous flurry of wings.

The old willow tree waited. Its slender, curved branches were no longer covered with buds, but dressed in proud green leaves.

She approached. Its leafy branches rustled.
Come in, come in
, they whispered.

She pushed through the swaying curtain. Each leaf
caressed her. When she was fully within the willow's sweeping canopy, something loosened inside her.

“My mother
is
alive,” she told the Bird Lady, who sat between the tree's great roots.

“Is she, now?” the Bird Lady said.

“She is. And you knew it.”

“Hmm,” the Bird Lady said. Her frail body rested against the willow's trunk, and her pajama bottoms were bunched over her outstretched legs. Her bunny slippers peeked from the hem. The bunny ears were white and fluffy.

She patted a spot beside her. “Come. Sit.”

Natasha picked her way over and sat.

The Bird Lady searched the folds of her skirt and produced a rumpled white bag with DINO'S CANDY printed across the front. “Would you like a gummy worm?”

“No, thank you.”

“I really think you should have a gummy worm.”

“I don't want a gummy worm.”

The Bird Lady examined her with her shiny, intelligent eyes. “Do you always get what you want?”

It felt like a trick question.

The Bird Lady opened the bag and held it out. She jiggled it.

The night could hardly get stranger, Natasha decided, so she reached into the bag and pulled out a juicy red gummy worm.

“Good,” said the Bird Lady. “And now I will tell you a story.”