Junonia (7 page)

Alice watched silently for a few moments, then resumed eating.

Her mother reached out and touched Alice's wrist. “Happy almost-birthday,” she whispered. Her face was glowing because of the sunset.

“Happy almost-birthday,” Alice whispered back.

 

When Alice woke up on her birthday, she didn't feel different, but she
was
different. She was ten. And, then, because she
knew
that she was different, she felt different. Ten! She could hardly believe it.

She dressed quickly and went into the kitchen. Her parents were there, waiting under a clutch of balloons hanging from the overhead light fixture. Twisted strands of pink crepe paper were strung from the light fixture to the corners of the ceiling—four loose curves. When Alice had gone to bed, the kitchen had simply been the kitchen. Overnight it had become something new and beautiful and bright. And it was all for her.

“Happy birthday!” said her parents. They spoke in unison, but their voices were separate—high and low—and one complemented the other.

Her father studied her face. “Looking for changes,” he said.

Alice laughed.

“Impossible,” said her mother. “I can't believe you're ten.”

“Believe it,” said her father. “Just look at her.”

Her parents hustled her out of the cottage into the gray light of morning and down to the water.

“Grab my arm,” her mother said when they got to the beach, “and close your eyes.”

Alice was led a short distance, which seemed a hundred miles. “Keep them closed,” said her father. She took careful baby steps, and then hands gripped her shoulders and turned her around. This is what it must feel like to be blind, she thought.

“Now you can open them,” her father told her.

In front of Alice, above the tide line, was a huge, perfectly formed, heart-shaped mound of sand. Clamshells and cockles had been used to make a border around the heart. Inside the border, more shells, smaller ones, had been used to fashion the word
Alice
and the number
10
. The
i
of
Alice
was dotted with four pieces of sea glass—two pale green, one blue (which is rare), and one red (which is the rarest of all).

Alice couldn't speak at first, but when she could, she said, “I love it.”

The decorated kitchen. The sand heart. The blue and red sea glass. How did her parents do such things without her knowing anything about them?

The next moments were a warm blur. Her parents hugged and kissed her. The sky was brightening. Strangers walking by stopped to admire the heart. Suddenly the Wishmeiers were there, too.

“Birthday greetings, miss,” said Mr. Wishmeier, tipping his hat. He tapped his walking stick against a piece of driftwood for emphasis.

“Happy birthday,” said Mrs. Wishmeier.

Alice smiled. “Thank you,” she said.

A woman, a teenaged girl, and a little boy approached. The little boy squealed when he saw the heart. He yelled, “Giant heart!” and charged straight at it. Alice was certain that he was going to ruin it, so she edged over to block his way. The woman was fast. She caught up to the boy and swept him up right before he would have crashed into it.

“Sorry,” said the woman. She plopped the boy down and pushed him along in a hasty manner.

“Who would've cared anyway,” said the teenager. She curled her lip as she passed. “It's just a stupid heart.”

Alice glared at her, but it was more an act than real. She was so happy, the girl's comment couldn't spoil her mood.

“We should take a picture before it's too late,” said Alice's mother. She pulled her camera from her pocket and took photographs of the heart with and without Alice. Then Mr. Wishmeier took several photographs of the heart with Alice and her parents kneeling beside it.

The Wishmeiers walked on.

Alice's father called after them, “Cake at our place tonight!”

“And pie!” Alice added.

With a delicate touch, Alice plucked the bits of sea glass off the heart before someone else did. They looked like flower petals in her hand. She smoothed the sand with her other hand. In places, the heart was crusty, and already there were some cracks along the edges. Where Alice straightened one of the shells on the border, she caused a tiny avalanche. She wondered how long the heart would last. It was out of the ocean's reach, but there were always dogs, and there were always nasty kids who enjoy wrecking things for fun. If nothing else, over time, the wind would wear it away.

“When did you find the red and blue glass?” asked Alice.

“Yesterday,” replied her mother.

“Where?”

“By the lighthouse.”

“How did you . . .” Alice's voice trailed off because something had caught her eye; something stirred inside her. Her mouth hung open. A silvery shape had moved in and out of the water. Her concentration sharpened. She held her breath. The shape reappeared, and after a graceful rolling motion, disappeared again. “A dolphin!” Alice cried, pointing.

The dolphin's fin came and went, came and went. The three of them tried to keep up with the dolphin by jogging along the shoreline. They followed it until it changed course and headed for the horizon.

When it was gone from sight, Alice's father said, “A birthday dolphin. What more could you ask?”

On the way back to the cottage, Alice's heart seized. Mr. Barden was coming toward them. Alice hadn't seen him since he'd made his comment about Mallory two nights ago, and she still felt angry about it, and hurt.

Her parents said hello. Alice kept silent. She managed a tight-lipped, lame smile, and looked above Mr. Barden's head.

“A little bird told me it was your birthday,” Mr. Barden said.

Alice nodded. She reached down and scratched her ankle.

“Did the little bird also tell you to come for birthday cake tonight?” said Alice's mother.

“Oooh,” said Mr. Barden. His old, bony face expanded with a wide smile, a smile that was a sharp contrast to Alice's skimpy one. “Yes, yes,” he said, jingling change in his pocket.

“It won't be too late,” said Alice's mother. “One of us will come to get you.”

Mr. Barden slipped his hand from his pocket and offered a few coins to Alice. “A little something for the birthday girl,” he said.

“Thank you,” Alice replied in a soft voice. She forced herself to look right at him as she accepted his small kindness. A part of her remained hardened toward him, but she felt much better. And she was glad to have gotten through this first encounter since he'd made his remark. Seeing him again wouldn't be so awkward for her. She was relieved. She pushed the coins into the same pocket in which she'd put the sea glass.

Alice and her parents waved good-bye and continued on.

Alice wiggled her fingers. Next year she wouldn't be able to count how old she was on her fingers. She'd have more years than fingers. For some reason this fact seemed important. She walked slowly, deliberately, as if by doing so everything about her day would last longer.

“This is my best birthday,” said Alice. “Already.”

Her father laughed. “You always say that.”

“Hey! Hey!” called Mallory. She seemed to have come out of nowhere, galloping directly at them, clutching Munchkitty to her chest with one arm. She stopped abruptly and took a deep breath. “A man from the office brought a package to your porch,” she said, her eyes darting wildly. Then her eyes focused on Alice, and she added, “It's the size of a shoe box, and it's for you!”

 

“Why don't you open it?” asked Mallory.

Why don't you say happy birthday? Alice wanted to ask. But she didn't. She lifted her shoulders and kept them raised for the count of ten before dropping them—a nice long careful shrug.

Mallory was leaning over the package and was so close to Alice that Alice could smell Mallory's milky breath.

The package was from Helen Blair. It had come via overnight mail from New York City. Alice had stared at it, picked it up, shaken it lightly, and brought it into the kitchen and set it down on the table.

“Are you a present waiter?” asked Mallory.

Alice looked at her with a puzzled expression.

“I'm not. I'm a present opener. As soon as possible.”

“Oh,” said Alice, understanding what Mallory had meant. “I like to wait.” There was something wonderful—something potent even—about a present before it's unwrapped. Especially an unexpected one. Anything could be inside.

One of Mallory's curls fell onto the package, one of her fingers traced over the address. “Well?” she said.

Alice sucked on her lower lip, trying to ignore Mallory. She was excited about receiving something in the mail from Helen Blair, and she wanted to hold on to that feeling. She also thought that she might like to open the package without Mallory being there. She turned her head to the side and looked at her parents over her shoulder.

Her parents and Kate were behind her, drinking coffee and banging around the kitchen making pancakes—measuring flour, cracking eggs, stirring batter. Ted was still sleeping. Kate had pecked Alice on the top of her head and wished her a happy birthday while they were all still outside examining the package.

“Munchkitty wants you to open it,” Mallory chirped. Right on cue, Munchkitty's head popped up above the edge of the tabletop. Mallory made Munchkitty take a little bow before she dropped her back onto her lap.

“It's
my
birthday,” Alice whispered.

“Oh, yeah,” said Mallory. “I forgot to say it. Happy birthday, Alice. I even made you a card yesterday. I'll give it to you later.” She blinked several times. “So, are you going to open it?”

Alice puckered her face and cast her glance upward to the ceiling as if it might offer advice. Then, abruptly, she reached forward and let her fingers splay out across the package. She had just begun to pull it closer to her when her father came over and said, “We'll need to move the package to set the table.” He was holding a stack of plates. The balloons hanging from the light fixture obscured his face so that he looked like a strange man with numerous ice-cream–colored, eyeless, bald heads. “Did you make up your mind, kiddo? Are you going to open it now, or save it for later?”

“Save it.” There. She'd said it.

Mallory slid away from the package and slumped low in her chair, all eagerness drained from her face. She sighed deeply, letting her lips flap loosely as she exhaled. She seemed to be dwindling from disappointment, getting smaller and smaller.

Telling her father had made it official. Alice rose from the table and scooped up the package. Now she could put the package in her room and enjoy her birthday breakfast, knowing that she could open it later, without Mallory breathing down her neck.

After breakfast, Alice's father used his pocketknife to break the seal on the package from Helen Blair. Mallory and Kate were gone, although Mallory had wanted to stay.

The knife sliced cleanly and easily through the shiny brown tape encircling the box, and the flaps sprang apart with a faint, satisfying sound. “All yours,” said Alice's father. He pushed the box across the kitchen table to Alice.

Cushioned between layers of crumpled newspaper, Alice found three small boxes wrapped and tied in orange and purple, and a note. The note was written in a beautiful, slanted cursive hand.

“What does it say?” asked Alice's mother.

Alice read the note aloud.

Dear Alice
,

The snow seems endless here. Yesterday, people were walking and skiing down the middle of Lexington Avenue! And it's cold—everyone has cherries on their cheeks.

I miss you all, but the airports are still a mess, and so I've decided to stay put. I hope you've found someone to play Sweet or Sour with.

The enclosed birthday gifts are from my trip to Venice this past summer. The little spoons are gelato spoons. I saved them because they seemed too pretty not to keep. The beads were too pretty not to buy. And the euros were in the bottom of my suitcase when I returned home. You can use them when you go to Venice one day. And you will. It's heaven. Like being dropped into a jewelry box.