Flickering Hope (5 page)

M
s. 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.

T
he 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 guilt. 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.

I slowed, trying to truly see the images. Light spilled from the pages. Reality bent. Two boys rode down a leaf-lined street that was also treetops for a street below. People ran stocking-footed down a road, carrying mirrors that blended together into what looked like a river running between buildings. When I reached the chapter’s end, I riffled back to the beginning and began to sketch. Maybe if I took time
with these pictures, drew them with my own hands, I could climb inside them and understand how two contradictory things could be true. Why did the need to understand this impossibility burn against my wall of doubt? Face after face flashed in my mind. Frankie, Mom, Andrew, the girl in the woods, and finally me.
What am I supposed to see?

And then the moment passed, and I still didn’t have any answers. I felt like I’d struggled through a thick fog toward a lighted doorway, and when I finally made it across the room, the door slammed, leaving me lost and blind in the darkness. I laid my forehead down on the desk and squeezed my eyes shut, hoping Ruth’s mom would come soon.

E
very time I crossed the church’s back field, I stopped for a minute to take it all in: the treehouse with its turrets and weathervanes and wind chimes. Climbing up the rope ladder had been treacherous since the snow had started. Tonight, my boots slipped and slid on the frozen rungs. Still, when Doug asked, our group voted unanimously to meet in the treehouse through the winter, despite the challenges. Youth group wouldn’t be the same in a church classroom. Usually on the first Thursday of a month, we’d be off for an outdoor adventure, but for December, Doug had announced the schedule would be different.

Penny muscled Ruth and I onto the deck. A few weeks ago, Doug had thanked Penny for power blowing snow
off the treehouse porch every other day. Apparently, even with the strong supports, too much snow could break the porch off the side of the building.

Penny wore a Santa hat over her spiky teal-tipped hair. Cold reddened her nose and cheeks, but she gave us her usual grin. “Turn around!”

She taped papers to each of our backs. “Head on in. The space heaters are blasting, there’s fresh baked chocolate chip cookies, and you have five minutes to figure out whose name is on your back. Yes or no questions only. Famous people. Have fun!”

Inside the treehouse, most people roamed from windowseat to windowseat, asking questions. A few of the younger boys body slammed one another with pillows, and the band members checked microphones and guitar amps. Ruth and I headed directly for the cookies.

She groaned. “I’m terrible at this game. I’ll bet you fifty bucks I don’t even know my person. I have no popular culture.”

I checked the slip on her back.
Abe Lincoln.
“Sure, I’ll bet you. I could use fifty bucks for Christmas shopping.”

The hot, gooey cookies fell open onto our napkins as soon as we took bites.

I licked chocolate off my lips. “So who is mine? A man?”

“No.”

Lindsay and Bea, the only other youth group girls our age, joined us at the cookie table.

“I already guessed mine,” Lindsay said. “But Bea can’t figure hers out.”

“Is mine a singer?” Ruth asked Lindsay.

“No.”

“A dancer?”

Lindsay caught my eye, and we both doubled over with laughter as we imagined Abe Lincoln dancing, with his top hat wobbling on the top of his tall, pole-like body.

“What?” Ruth asked.

Three questions later, I knew who I was. “Beyonce?”

“Yes!” Lindsay and Bea shouted.

Ruth still hadn’t figured out her character by the time Doug asked us all to sit down. We pulled the names off our backs, and Ruth rolled her eyes.

“You didn’t tell me he was a president.”

“You owe me fifty bucks.”

We settled into the regular routine. Doug prayed, the youth group band—Equilibrium—played, and people sang along. Cameron, the lead singer of the band and an eighth grader at our school, had been friends with Ruth since mid-fall. Everyone put extra emphasis on the word friends, which irritated Ruth, but she couldn’t hide the smile that crept across her face every time she saw him. I teased Ruth about Cameron, but honestly, I liked they way they acted around each other, comfortable, like best friends. The way Andrew and I used to be. Andrew. Every time I thought about him, I wanted to hide under a rock.

When the band finished their set, Doug headed to the front. “So, it’s December. Penny, Ben, and I decided to let you decide how we should celebrate Christmas. Thoughts?”

“Pizza party!” Ted played football for Hiawatha High and seemed to think only about two things — food and football.

Bea raised her hand. “Secret Santa? You know, where you pick someone’s name and give secret presents and everyone tries to guess who their Santa is until the end when we find out?”

Jasper, the youngest member of our group, called out, “We could do one of those living nativity things, where you stand in costume and …”

“Freeze in the snow?” Ted asked. “No, thank you.”

“It’s better than eating pizza for Christmas,” Claudia said, in a rare moment of standing up for Jasper. Usually she couldn’t wait to pounce on his suggestions.

“All right,” Doug said. “Let’s back up a second. Before we decide the particulars, let’s toss out thoughts on what we all want from a Christmas celebration, here as a group.”

“Not just a party,” Lindsay said. “We should do something for someone else.”

“In elementary school, our Sunday school teacher gave us shoeboxes that we filled with toothbrushes and shoelaces and combs and toys, and sent them to kids in Africa,” Claudia said.

“I …” Jasper frowned and broke off.

“What are you thinking, Jasper?” Doug asked.

“Well it sounds bad, I guess, but why don’t we help people around here? People we can see? Not that I don’t think kids in Africa need stuff, but …”

“Oh!” Ruth looked sharply at me.

For a second, I had no idea what she was thinking, but slowly her idea became clear. The family in the woods. I shook my head, hoping no one could see my heart thudding against my ribcage. Telling our parents about the family was one thing, but involving the whole youth group would only multiply the problem and put Patch in even more danger.

“What, Ruth?” Doug asked.

I grabbed her arm and held tight.
Don’t say it, Ruth. Don’t.

She tossed me an exasperated look before she said, “Well, maybe we could find some people in our own community who need help. We could get presents for them.”

“Oh, and a tree!” Bea said. “We could bring a decorated tree, and presents and Christmas Eve dinner … to someone who wouldn’t have any of those things otherwise.”

“Everyone has a Christmas tree.” Ted rolled his eyes.

“You’d be surprised,” Penny said from her windowseat perch. “I think we’ve got the beginning of a fantastic idea here.”

“Let’s break into teams,” Doug said, “First, brainstorm what we’ll need to pull this off. If you want to work on presents, meet over there.” He pointed to the pillows by a windowseat. “Decorations by the books. Food by the snack table, and research up here with me. No need to do anything yet. Just break the project into manageable steps.”

“Don’t you see?” Ruth asked as soon as people started to move. “Sadie, this is the perfect answer. You didn’t know how to convince the girl to listen to you … this is it.”

“Ruth, if the entire youth group hikes out to the shack, they’ll disturb Patch. And Christmas is weeks away, too, so how will giving gifts to the family make any difference? The problem is now. The little girl could tell about Patch any second.”

“But she hasn’t told yet. Sadie, they live in the freezing cold. Obviously they need help.”

“Sadie, Ruth, you guys okay?” Doug asked.

“Yes. We’re fine.” I steered Ruth over to the decoration group, where she ignored me as the group brainstormed ornaments to make on a tight budget.

After about ten minutes, Doug called, “Come on back.”

He gathered feedback from all the groups.

“So, sounds like Penny will head up the tree-cutting expedition, which we’ll do December twenty third. The decoration committee will create glass ornaments that will catch the lights—thank you, Sadie—and the presents committee is going to shovel snow—thank you Cameron — as a fundraiser so we can purchase gifts. The research committee will ask Pastor George if he knows of a family in need.”

Ruth shot me a look, and I shook my head, whispering quietly, “After we talk to the girl, we’ll decide what to do. Okay?”

Doug continued. “The food committee will bake on Christmas Eve, and we’ll gather that night to deliver the celebration, complete with caroling and hot chocolate.”

“And we’ll have pizza before we go,” Ted said.

“Right. How could I forget the pizza?” Doug asked.