Wishing Day (16 page)

“O
nce upon a time, there was a girl named Klara,” the Bird Lady began.

“My mother,” Natasha said.

“Klara lived here in Willow Hill,” the Bird Lady went on. “She had an older sister, Vera, who was excellent at crossword puzzles and bossing people around. She had a younger sister, Elena, who liked to flatten caramels into long ropes and then roll them up to look like snails.”

I know all this
, Natasha almost said, but she swallowed the words. Anyway, she didn't know about the crossword puzzles. The caramel snails, yes, because
Aunt Elena still made caramel snails every so often.

“Klara also had a best friend,” the Bird Lady said. She gazed at Natasha. “Do you know who your mother's best friend was? Can you guess?”

Natasha dug her fingernails into her palms. “I'd rather not.”

“Hmm,” the Bird Lady said.

Natasha pushed the back of her head against the willow's trunk. “Fine,” she said.
“Emily.”

“Good girl.”

“But is she dead? Did . . . did Mama wish her away?”

“I don't know. Did she?”

“You do so know! Because Papa talked about Emily that one time. He said Emily was Mama's invisible friend, or imaginary friend, or whatever. And Aunt Vera freaks out whenever Emily's mentioned, and Aunt Elena knows
something
, it seems like . . .”

Natasha felt ashamed. She was yelling at an old lady wearing bunny slippers. But she also felt unjustly accused. Accused of what, she couldn't say.

“Why are you so mean?” she whispered.

The Bird Lady blinked. “Mean? Am I mean?” Her expression softened. “Oh dear, I'm going about this all wrong. Don't cry, pet.” She reconsidered. “Well,
do
cry if you need to. Or even if you want to. There's nothing wrong with tears.”

The Bird Lady slipped her hand into Natasha's. It was a child's hand, but with wrinkles. She gave a gentle squeeze.

“Shall we start at the beginning?” she asked.

“I don't care where we start. I just want to understand!”

The Bird Lady chuckled, but not in a mean way. “Don't we all.”

“
Is
my mother alive?”

“You're the one who said so, not me.”

“Yes, but is she?”

“Did she tell you she was?”

“I don't know. I think so.” Natasha got braver. “Because she's the one who's been leaving me notes—and you're the one who delivers them.”

“Hmm,” the Bird Lady said.

“She said she couldn't fix things, and I think she meant about . . . you know. Emily. Did Mama make a wish about Emily? Is that what happened?”

“Hmm.”

“Okay, then please answer this, and tell the truth. Do you know Emily?”

“Hmmmmm.”

Natasha exhaled. The Bird Lady withdrew her hand from Natasha's and held up one finger.

“Yes . . . and no,” she said.

“Meaning what?”

“I know the idea of her,” the Bird Lady said carefully.

“Okay.”

“And yes, I knew her when she was a girl.”

“Okay.”

“But no, I don't know her now.” Her words sounded like an apology. “No, I can't say that I do.”

Natasha bowed her head. Mama had wished for Emily to go away, hadn't she? Or for something to happen to her. Something bad. Mama made a wish on her Wishing Day, and it had to do with Emily, who once upon a time was Mama's best friend. But now no one remembered her, except for a teeny bit.

Except . . . it wasn't so much that people didn't
remember
Emily. It was more as if Emily had been erased.

Natasha shuddered. She'd watched a horrid movie with Molly about a boy who could make anything he wanted come true. His sister said something that upset him, so in the blink of an eye, he made it so that
she could no longer talk, ever. Natasha could see it in her mind, a girl with long hair, terrified eyes, and no mouth. No scar or gash where it used to be, just a slick of smooth skin below her nose and above her chin.

A mouth, and then no mouth.

Emily, and then no Emily.

What had Mama done?

“Is that why my mother left? Because Emily disappeared?”

The Bird Lady's eyes were full of sorrow.

“Because Mama made her disappear,” Natasha clarified.

The Bird Lady didn't argue.

“But that would have been years and years ago. I mean, if it happened because of Mama's Wishing Day. Wouldn't it? Because Mama would have been thirteen, right? So why would she wait so long to leave? Did she just get more and more sad? Did nothing make her happy anymore, not even her . . . ?”

Natasha broke off. She put the pieces together and reeled.

“I was supposed to make it better, wasn't I?” she said. “I was supposed to read Mama's letter
before
my Wishing Day. I was supposed to wish for Emily to come back!”

“Is that what your mother told you?” the Bird Lady asked.

“No, but that's what she meant. That's what a good daughter would have done. But I messed up and everything's ruined and I can't even
tell
anyone!”

The Bird Lady raised her eyebrows.

“You know what I mean. I'm telling you, yes, but you don't count.”

Her eyebrows went higher.

“Darya would think I'm crazy,” Natasha said. “Molly, too—or maybe not. I don't know.” She rubbed her hand over her face. “Ava would believe me, but she'd believe me too much, if that makes sense. She'd get excited and bounce up and down and want everything to be better
right this second
. But I'm not sure everything is going to be better. Is it?”

“I can't answer that,” the Bird Lady said.

“You could if you wanted to!” Natasha cried. “I know you could!”

“If wanting something to be true was all it took, don't you think your mother would be home by now?”

Natasha fell silent. She thought about Papa and how much he wanted Mama to come home. She thought about what he would say if she told him that Mama
could come home—that it was possible—but that she chose not to.

It would break his heart. It would break his heart
all the way
, into such small crumbles that it might never be able to be fixed again.

Aunt Vera and Aunt Elena couldn't know, either. What good would it do?

“It has to stay a secret, doesn't it?” Natasha said. “Mama's kept a secret all these years, about Emily. Now it's my time to keep a secret. About Mama.” She searched the Bird Lady's face. “Am I right? Are you allowed to answer
that
question?”

The Bird Lady patted Natasha's leg.

“Never mind,” Natasha said bleakly. “I already know the answer.”

From far, far away, Natasha heard Aunt Vera's voice. It was faint and thin. She was calling Natasha in for dinner.

Natasha got to her feet and brushed herself off. Heaviness hung in her chest. “Well . . .”

The Bird Lady stayed seated. The shadows had deepened so that she blended in with the trunk. “It's going to be all right,” she said.

“Is it?”

“You're a good girl.”

“Am I?”

“Yes,” the Bird Lady said. “And you
do
have choices, you know. We all do.”

Natasha took a shaky breath.

“Natasha!” Aunt Vera called distantly. “Na
ta
sha!”

It seemed impossible that Natasha could hear her, but everything about this day seemed impossible.

“Go on, then,” the Bird Lady said.

Natasha gazed up, but she couldn't see the sky. The willow branches were too thick. She gazed at the Bird Lady, but the Bird Lady was gone. Natasha frowned and touched the willow's trunk. Its bark was solid and real beneath her fingers.

She stepped away and pushed through the canopy of leaves. She walked down the steep hill. Slowly at first, but then more quickly as Aunt Vera kept calling.

“I'm coming!” she called back.

She stopped at the wooden swing, which Mama had loved. She thought for a long moment, and then she knelt by her backpack, which waited on the ground where she'd left it. She fished out a pen and a scrap of paper.

Come home
, she wrote.

She folded the note into a neat square, kissed it for
luck, and wedged it into the knotted rope at the base of the swing.

Please?
she added silently.

She breathed in the night air and listened to the night noises. She thought about magic. Then she slung her backpack over her shoulder and headed toward the warmth of the house.

            
I wish for all of it.

            
—
T
HE
B
IRD
L
ADY, ALWAYS

Bookmaking is a magical process, and so much pixie dust was blown onto this one that I'm dazzled by its shimmer. Thank you to Edward Eager, Eleanor Estes, and E. Nesbit for cementing my conviction that what appears to be ordinary rarely is, and thanks to my parents for putting those authors' books (and so many others) into my eager little-girl hands. Thanks, too, for not being
ordinary
parents in the slightest—a compliment I extend to my entire glorious, messy family. Since this is a novel about sisters, I especially thank Susan, Mary Ellen, and Eden for being born and being awesome. Without y'all, I would neither be
a sister nor know the secrets sisters share.

Thanks to everyone at HarperCollins who breathed life into this project: Kate Jackson, Susan Katz, Suzanne Murphy, Amy Ryan, Bethany Reis, Lauren Flower, Alana Whitman, Ro Romanello, Stephanie Hoover, Patty Rosati, and Molly Motch. Also, a wide-eyed and bashful thank-you to Katherine Tegen. I'm honored to have been granted passage into your world.

Thanks to Barry Goldblatt and Tricia Ready, whose magic is crazy powerful, because no way would I get the boring stuff like signing contracts and paying taxes done without y'all. Plus, you keep me afloat, and when people throw stones at me (because they sometimes do), you hug me and tell me all will be well, and then you make it so. You amaze.

Thanks to my writing buddies, especially Emily Lockhart, Sarah Mlynowski, and Bob. Good heavens, y'all keep the fairy tale alive.

Huge sloppy “thank you”s to Anica Rissi for trusting me with this box of wishes, to Alex Arnold for helping me sort them out, and to Claudia Gabel for stepping forward at the end and wrapping things up with an elegant French ribbon. I am fortunate beyond belief, and I know it.

Al, Jamie, Maya, Mirabelle, and Alisha—thanks
for being my kids and for letting me into your lives. All my best material comes from y'all.

And Randy? You are my wish come true. I love you.

Photo by Randy Bartels

When
LAUREN MYRACLE
was thirteen, she spent hours lying on her bed, staring at the cracks on her ceiling and wishing so hard to be magic. She wanted to bend spoons with her mind, talk to her sister telepathically, and rearrange her molecules so she could walk through walls. She wanted fairies to leave gumdrops on her windowsill. She wanted well-known paths to unexpectedly lead to mystical lands and times. She also wished she would grow up to become a writer—and that part came true! (Which is not to say the other parts didn't. . . .) She's written many books for tweens and teens, including the bestselling Winnie Years series and the Flower Power series. She lives with her family in Colorado, and she thinks life is the most magical adventure of all. You can find her online at
www.laurenmyracle.com
.

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