Flickering Hope (11 page)

I
watched Frankie take it all in, the treehouse, the rope ladder, the turrets and chimes, and Penny with her teal spiked hair. Somehow, I had to talk to her about not telling her dad what I had said about Patch. I didn’t know if I had actually given Patch away or not, but Frankie knew too much, either way, especially if she knew about the family in the woods.

“Hold this while I climb up?” She handed me the shoebox of carefully wrapped ornaments.

I took the box, climbed a few rungs up after her, and passed it off when she reached back down. Ruth and I joined her on the deck and introduced Frankie to Penny.

“Welcome,” Penny said. “Gingerbread cookies and all the fixings tonight. You get to decorate the cookies yourselves.”

“Not what I’d expect from church,” Frankie said.

We went inside. Gingerbread cookies of every shape and character were set out on trays. I chose a reindeer. Ruth chose a star, and Frankie chose a tree. We swirled frosting onto our cookies and added red hots and silver sprinkles in patterns. I used mini black M&M’s for my reindeer’s eyes, and Frankie painted a star with yellow frosting at the top of her tree.

“Maybe you should come take an art class with me, with Vivian,” I said to Frankie, trying to lighten everyone’s mood.

Ruth poked at the glops of frosting that had come out too fast on her ornament. “No invitation for me? Thanks a lot. I’m an art failure.” She stopped poking and took a bite. “At least I have more frosting than either of you.”

We compared frosting on our way to three beanbags on the floor, and I had one of those moments where I see myself as though from a camera, a few feet away. Three girls, seeming to have fun at Christmas, bringing back their ornaments they had made together. No one would guess that Frankie and I had bitterly disliked each other all fall, and that even now, she might have told her dad about Patch’s den, totally betraying my trust. But she’d made no promises, and I’d been careless. I should have listened to Andrew.

Ruth melted into her dreamy smile when Cameron started to play. Frankie noticed, but she just poked Ruth and smiled teasingly, nothing like she might have done just a few months ago. At least Ruth and Frankie seemed like they were becoming real friends.
I closed my eyes and felt the drumbeat thud against my lungs. I didn’t like to sing in public, so though most people sang along, I always just listened to the words. Tonight, Cameron and the boys had arranged a medley of Christmas carols, and the military beat of “The Little Drummer Boy” blended into the softer rhythm of “O Little Town of Bethlehem” which faded away into “Silent Night.” As the music slowed and then stopped, I kept my eyes closed.

I sat there, thinking about Mom, healthy for most of December, decorating the house, making cookies. Frankie’s mom, so far away in New York, made art out of glass and wanted Frankie to come live with her. After being away from her mom for so long, Frankie must feel horrible: wanting to go live with her mom because she missed her, but also wanting to stay with her dad, who she’d been with for all of this time.

“So.” Doug’s voice brought me back to the treehouse and away from my thoughts. “We’ve found a family to whom we’d like to bring Christmas.”

Everyone started talking, and Ruth leaned over Frankie to whisper, “I can’t wait, Sadie. Doug checked them out and thinks they’ll be perfect.”

“Checked who out?” Frankie asked.

Ruth turned her attention back to Doug as she answered, “This family in the woods.”

Frankie grabbed Ruth’s arm. “What family?”

“Ouch!” Ruth yelped.

“Ruth, why don’t you come up and tell us a little more about the family that you and Sadie discovered,” Doug said.

Ruth threw a confused glance at Frankie as she pulled her arm away. Frankie looked over at me, her question clear on her face. My stomach filled with nervous energy as thoughts came together, fast and uncontrollable. Frankie knew about the family in the woods. How could I not have seen that? I had known her dad knew about them. Now, she looked furious about Ruth announcing their presence in the woods to the youth group.

Ruth began, “Sadie and I found a family. A little girl about eight years old and a baby with their mom and dad living in an abandoned shack in the woods. We think — “

Frankie leapt to her feet. “That family is none of your business. Leave them alone.”

Ruth stared at Frankie, and I watched them both, too surprised to react. For once, Doug didn’t seem to know what to say either.

Penny broke the frozen silence. “Doug, why don’t I chat with the girls, and you can move on with the other preparations?”

“Right,” Doug said. “Sounds good.”

Penny led Frankie and Ruth outside, and I followed them down the rope ladder, across the snowy yard, and into her tiny office. Frankie carried the shoebox the whole way, and I could see from the whiteness around her knuckles that her grip was deathly tight.
No one said anything. When Pennyclosed the door, Frankie slumped into a chair, her old attitude and posture back.

“Frankie, I don’t …” Ruth began, but then her voice trailed off. Neither of us wanted to cross Frankie while she wore that expression.

Penny looked at Frankie, then at Ruth, and then at me. “Okay, I’ll go first, then.” She sat cross-legged on Doug’s desk. “Out at the shack yesterday, Doug and I spoke to Quinn and Robin Thompson and their daughter, Roxy. Apparently, they’d been living out of their car until they accepted a job surveying the forest. A man, who is finalizing his purchase of the land, offered them the shack in exchange for their work. Why anyone needs the forest surveyed midwinter is beyond me, but I didn’t ask. A shack may be cold in the winter, but it’s much better than a car.”

“They just want a home to live in,” Frankie said. “Why can’t you just leave them alone?” She turned on me. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew about them?”

“I didn’t realize you …” My words trailed off. Maybe I hadn’t known Frankie knew about the family, but I’d been pretty sure her dad did.

“You’ve ruined everything. Dad was barely willing to give them the shack before. The one thing they had to do was keep quiet. Now you’re blabbing about them to everyone, and Dad will kick them out, and they’ll be back in that freezing car for Christmas. Nice work, Sadie.”

“But I didn’t …” While Frankie’s anger crystallized into clear, angry words, my confusion became foggier with each
second. I hadn’t told her about the family because of Patch, because I hadn’t wanted her dad to know about Patch’s den.

“You know, it’s like you care more about bears than you do about people. You’re so worried about keeping Patch safe, you don’t consider what finding her means to those people.”

“What does it mean, Frankie?” I asked, not wanting to hear the answer.

“It means he’ll give them the shack,” she said, not looking at me. “Roxy found a bear den, but she wasn’t sure if the bear was Patch. It could have been any hibernating bear. Then last night, when you told me that you’d been walking out past Patch’s den, I knew.” She looked up at me, her eyes hopeless and angry and trapped. “I just … He has to give them that house, Sadie.”

“So what, you’re going to give Patch away to your dad?”

Frankie hugged the box to her chest. “I didn’t say that.”

But she hadn’t denied it either.

“Girls,” Penny said, reminding us that she and Ruth were in the room.

“Frankie, your dad did a very generous thing, offering to give the shack to the Thompson’s after he buys that parcel of land. You never know, having a few more people know about the deal might be the very thing he needs to ensure that he follows through.”

Frankie shrugged, took out her cell phone and sent a text. Even Penny couldn’t pull her into a conversation now. Frankie’s phone beeped with a new text.

“My dad’s on his way. I’m out of here.” She slammed the door on her way out.

I stood to follow her, but Penny caught my arm and said, “Why don’t you let her cool down first?”

I looked from her to Ruth and back again. I hated not doing anything. I hated knowing that whatever happened to Patch was all my fault.

D
ad passed me a plate filled with bacon and eggs. “Sadie, no, for the last time. You can’t go sit out by Patch’s den waiting for Jim Paulson to show up.”

Higgins jumped up, and I didn’t even stop him from stealing a piece of bacon from my plate. Mom pushed his paws off the table. “Down, Hig.”

Dad and I had carried on this argument since Ruth’s mom had dropped me off last night. “Dad, you don’t understand. Jim Paulson is going to shoot her. Today. You can’t just let him.”

Dad sighed. “Look, Sadie, he might not know where the den is. By sitting out there, you’ll only give him more information. And you can’t guard Patch until spring.”

I shoved my plate away and blinked back tears. “So we’ll do nothing?”

Mom wrapped her arm around me and pulled me close, but instead of feeling comforted, I felt smothered. I didn’t want hugs. I wanted to save Patch.

“I’ll go to the research cabin today,” Dad said. “We’ll hike into the woods, and see what we can discover without giving Patch’s den completely away. All right?”

“I saw Vivian at the grocery store yesterday,” Mom said. “She hopes you’ll come back for drawing lessons. Do you want me to call and see if she has time today?”

No
dangled at the edge of my lips, but sitting at the kitchen table, suffocated in Mom’s overly cheerful hug and fuming at Dad, the chance to be anywhere but home appealed to me. “Yeah. Okay, sure.”

I went upstairs to grab my backpack. On my desk, the Advent calendar sat, today’s drawer still unopened. All the anger and worry which shuddered through me focused on the calendar, and I grabbed it and hurled it across the room. The wood splintered at the top, and I kicked it for good measure. I wasn’t a kid anymore, and no tree with painted pictures and little mysterious pieces of map inside could change the fact that the bear I loved would be shot in her sleep. Andrew was right. Being shut out was worst of all, worse even than trying to do something ourselves and failing. Everything I had done, all for the sake of doing the right thing—telling our parents about the family, telling Doug, trusting Frankie, all of it, had blown up in my face anyway. So much for doing the right thing, following the feeling I’d been so sure was God.

Thanks a lot. So nice of you to care.

I kicked the tree again and left it, broken against the wall. I left the Santa hats behind too.

Frankie didn’t look at me once during school, which was fine by me. And I avoided Ruth. I hid in the library during lunch and ate alone. Talking to anyone would only turn to shouting, and most likely sobbing too. So much for celebrating the last day of school before break. Ms. Barton showed
The Grinch Who Stole Christmas
during the last two hours of the day, and I found myself chanting along,
I hate Christmas. Christmas stinks.

Mom waited for me at the curb. “Off to Vivian’s. She had time.”

I didn’t know how to feel about this. I’d rather be at Vivian’s house than at home, but most of me, my mind, my heart, curled up next to Patch in the woods.

Mom chattered about next week’s preparation for Christmas — decorating cards, wrapping presents, stuffing Dad’s stocking, mailing gifts to relatives. I could only nod, choking back tears.
Patch could be dead now.
All I could see was her trusting brown eyes, the glance over her shoulder at Andrew and me as she led us to her den last fall. Maybe it hadn’t been a trusting glance. Maybe I was imposing human thoughts and feelings on her like Dad always warned me not to do.
They aren’t people, Sadie. They’re wild animals.
Still, I felt connected to her. I loved her. And today, because of my bad decisions, she would die. When we finally arrived at Vivian’s, I forced a smile. “Thanks, Mom.”

I hurried out of the car, thankful that the icy air froze my tears before they rolled down my cheeks.

When Vivian opened the door, she took one look at me and said, “To the blue room.”

I allowed myself to be marched down the hall and into my favorite room in Vivian’s house, with three glass walls looking out to the snowbank beyond, and the one wooden wall painted indigo blue, decorated with glow-in-the-dark stars. Vivian had already set out mugs of steaming hot cocoa and Santa cookies with red frosted hats, coconut beards and eyebrows, half a maraschino cherry for a nose, and two blue M&M’s for eyes.

“May I look at your sketchbook?” Vivian asked.

I passed over my sketchbook and watched her turn pages. Copies of
Starry Night
and the magical realism images filled the first pages. From there, my sketchbook exploded with sketches, doodles, lists of words. Vastly different than capital A art, this messy collection of thought had spilled out with little planning. I’d drawn a series of Mom cartoons as she zoomed around the house, decorating. A caped figure delivering a box to my porch in early morning light filled a double page spread. Patch, yawning, stepped out of her den in spring, and on the next page, Frankie and Ruth laughed together over their ornaments.

“Sadie, I’m so proud of you,” Vivian said, passing the sketchbook back to me. “You let go of trying to do it right, and just started drawing.”

Why couldn’t life be like my drawing then? Because
everywhere else I had tried too hard to get it right, only to get it very, very wrong.

Vivian opened her sketchbook. “Let’s talk about layering, and then we’ll draw and talk.”

I nodded. My need to talk boiled up and threatened to spill out, but I fought back. Words couldn’t help Patch. Even though I couldn’t stand the sickness in my stomach, even though I might explode if I didn’t escape the guilt and frustration and disappointment and sadness, the thought of doing anything to soothe myself seemed wrong, selfish. I had betrayed Patch. I had tried to do the right thing, but I’d been all wrong, and now her death would be all my fault.

“Every drawing starts with base shapes — we’ve talked about that a lot.” Vivian drew a circle next to a square with rounded corners. “But we haven’t talked about how a drawing develops. If you stick with a piece, restating your lines, shading, adding layers and details, you find something richer than if you turn the page and start fresh.”

I frowned across the table at her. “I prefer starting fresh.”

“Me too.” Vivian smiled down at her page as she added rounded ears to her doodle. “I like the idea of a fresh start with no mistakes. But by starting over fresh, you leave something important behind.”

“Just mistakes. Can’t you take what you learned to the new page?” I asked.

“Yes, absolutely. But you’re at the point where working with your mistakes, pushing yourself beyond what’s easy, will help you.”

I sighed and opened my sketchbook to a clean page.

“Choose one you’ve already started.” Vivian paged through her drawings. “I will too.”

I flipped page after page, and stopped on Patch. I couldn’t think about anything else, anyway. I retraced my lines, not sure what to add.

Vivian had chosen a picture of me, biting my lip as I drew in her blue room. “Here I could add to the background, detail the images, or superimpose an element that wasn’t there to begin with. Such as an audience cheering you on as you draw, or the stars peeking down from the sky to see your stroke marks, anything. Sometimes I close my eyes to see what a picture needs.”

I looked at my drawing of Patch’s den and closed my eyes. What did I see? Hunters, surrounding her den, closing her in. I didn’t want to draw them, so instead I sketched trees, strong, solid, guardian trees, posted all around. Still, Frankie slipped into my charcoal forest, reminding me of the danger.

“So, Frankie was only pretending to be my friend.” I slashed at my page, making angular branches. “Everyone warned me not to trust her, but I didn’t listen. I never listen.”

Vivian kept drawing, giving me room and space to keep talking.

“And now, because of me, Patch is going to be murdered.” Tears dripped onto my sketchbook, and the water smeared the graphite. I swept through to the first blank page.

“Try something for me, Sadie.” Vivian reached for mysketchbook and found my water-streaked page. “Try sticking
with this drawing, no matter what happens.”

I rolled my eyes, and picked up a paper towel to scrub at the stains. A blurred, watercolor-like effect began on my page.

Vivian watched over my shoulder. “There’s something I hadn’t expected.”

I studied the lines, the way some blended smoothly into the others, and the way others stood out, choppy and rough. Patch’s cheek and ear had blurred, making it appear as though she shook her head as she yawned and took in the sunrise. The soft edges against the rough ones were like the pain that both melted and stabbed inside me.

And suddenly, looking at Patch’s eye, I crumbled. An involuntary sob ripped through me, doubling me over with the pain. I wanted to run and hide and scream and throw anything I could find against the walls, but I couldn’t release my arms which hugged tight against my body. “It’s too much,” I choked out. “I can’t save her. They won’t let me save her.”

Vivian’s arms circled around me, but her hug didn’t feel like Mom’s. This hug wasn’t protective, pretending to shield me from the world and all of the hurt from which no one could protect me. This was a hug with no lies in it, a hug of
I know. This hurts. It’s okay to cry.

I rocked there, knotted up on my stool, with Vivian holding me for what felt like hours. And then Vivian’s phone rang. To me, it sounded like a bell tolling on an old-time church, the signal of death. Another sob racked through me, and Vivian let it ring. But when the caller hung up on the answering machine and called again, Vivian lifted me gently to my feet.

“I should answer.” With her hand on my back, she led me to the phone. “Hello?”

A voice I hadn’t expected tumbled out from the other end of the line.

“Wait, slow down, Frankie. Yes, Sadie is right here.” Vivian held the phone out to me, but I motioned for her to listen too. I couldn’t do this on my own.

Frankie’s voice tumbled across the phone line. “He’s on his way over there now, to the shack, to convince Quinn Thompson to kill the bear. Then he’s going to blame it all on Quinn, and Dad isn’t giving them the shack. Maybe he would have, but Dad says Quinn talks too much. He’s afraid Patch’s death will be traced back and blamed on him, and he’ll lose his hunting license. And the only thing I could think of was to find witnesses, lots and lots of witnesses, so Dad can’t go back on his word. Sadie, you have to go out there. Someone has to catch Dad with Quinn. Take your dad and Helen and Meredith and anyone else you can find. Please, Sadie. Roxy …”

And then Frankie started crying. My mind stalled in confusion. Frankie didn’t cry. And she didn’t care if her dad or Quinn or anyone else shot Patch. I should be the one crying.

“Sadie, Roxy believes her family will have a new life,” Frankie choked out over her tears. “But Dad is sending them back to live in a car.”

Vivian recovered first. “Yes, Frankie. We’ll call out to the research cabin and let Matthew and Helen know that your dad is on his way. We’ll go out there ourselves right now, too. If there’s anything we can do, we’ll do it.”

Frankie sniffed and then whispered, “Thank you,” and hung up.

Vivian grabbed her cell phone and handed me the cordless. “Call every number you know.”

We both dialed madly for a few minutes, catching Andrew on his house phone and Dad on his cell. Dad and Helen were just on the cabin front steps, back from their trip into the woods.

“We’ll head back on the ATV’s,” Dad said. “No time to worry about Patch and the noise.”

I heard Andrew shout, “I’m coming too.”

I couldn’t stand waiting here at Vivian’s, yet again, left out of the action. She nodded. “We’ll load up Peter’s ATV in the truck. The ATV will hold us both, and we can follow your dad, Helen, and Andrew out to the den.”