He waits for me to say more, but I don’t, and neither
does he, and neither does Mom, for a long time.
Silence stalks around us like a cat. Even Zanna
doesn’t chatter it into pieces. I look around
at these five people and at the beautiful
dog we love. I take a deep breath.
Will you listen to me? I ask.
Much to my surprise,
they do. Let me tell
you, I begin,
why I love
Roxy.
In
case you
haven’t noticed,
I say, I’m not exactly
Miss Popularity. (They could
try to act surprised, but never mind.)
In fact, I only have one friend, and now
it looks like she likes a boy better than me,
so Roxy might be my best friend. I know that
may sound a little pathetic, but Roxy is always
glad to see me. I count on her. I want to take care
of her, and I know I might need a little help—a lot
of help—from you guys. I know it’s true that it’s my
fault she’s blind, and maybe you think a friend would
not want to let someone suffer like this, but she could
get better! Maybe the vet is wrong; maybe Roxy won’t
be blind forever. Even if she is blind, she’s still Roxy.
It’s probably the longest speech I have ever made.
I’m amazed: they all listen right to the end. They
actually seem to be thinking about what I said.
Zanna walks right up to Roxy and holds out
her hand for Roxy to sniff; Roxy licks
Zanna’s hand, and Zanna pats her
on the head and grins. Then she
comes over to me, gives me
a long, serious look,
and says, Willow,
can I be your
friend,
too?
We
all say
what we love
about Roxy. Dad says,
She always seems to know what I
expect, like she can listen to my thoughts.
Mom says, Roxy came to us when we were sad
and brought her happiness to us. Grandma looks
at Mom like she’s waiting for her to go on, but Mom
stops at that, and Grandma says, Roxy has always been
gentle with children. Zanna thinks about that, then says,
I’m not as scared of her as I used to be before, when she
could see. Grandpa listens to everyone, holding Roxy’s
head in his lap, stroking her ears. I’ve been thinking,
he says. He looks at me. He looks at Mom and Dad.
Maybe it’s time for us to tell Willow—he pauses
just a split second, like I do sometimes
when I’m not sure if I should say
something I want to say,
and then he finishes
the most amazing
sentence—about
the other
baby.
Diamond, Willow’s twin sister (Roxy)
Last night, when I slept beside Willow, curled next to her in the shelter under the tree, I recalled when we were together long ago.
It was warm and dark. Something like a river pulsed through us and around us. We heard music. We heard voices. They were softer there than they are here. For a while, Willow and I moved together in a kind of dance—maybe it was then I learned to love to run, moving my arms and legs so freely. But we grew bigger; it became more difficult to move. Soon we could hardly move at all. It seemed the space closed in on us, tighter and tighter, until the day Willow left me there alone. I didn’t know where she had gone—it seemed like she just disappeared.
And then I followed. For a while I didn’t know where Willow was. I was in a room with bright lights, loud noises, people moving everywhere, handing me from one person to another, laying me down, picking me up, washing me and wrapping me in blankets.
Our parents held us in their arms and chose our names.
Look how long and thin she is, and so strong—she won’t let go of my finger. They named my sister Willow.
This one is so beautiful. Look at her bright eyes—she looks like she can see right through you. We will call her Diamond.
It was only later that they gave both names to Willow.
We need to run a few more tests.
… twisted so she cannot eat or drink … inoperable … nothing we can do …
… four or five days if we keep her here … no more than two days if you take her home.
We will take both our babies home.
Three days in the hospital, one day and night at home. That’s all I knew of being human.
An airplane ride, cradled in my father’s arms, Willow in our mother’s arms beside us.
Cool air against my face.
The smell of spruce trees.
An open door. A woodstove with a chair beside it. Grandma sitting in it, rocking. They put me in her arms. She looked at me and told a riddle: I see a dewdrop shining at the center of a rose.
Grandpa whispered, You’ll be back. I’ll watch for you.
Marty was six years old. He kissed my hair, and asked, Why, Mommy? She looks perfect. They let him hold me in his little arms, and he looked at me so deeply, I wondered later, when he held me as a puppy and looked at me that same way, if he might recognize me. I’m certain no one else does. Not even Grandpa.
That one night in their house, I slept beside Willow. They covered us with a soft yellow blanket and they all sat beside our crib. Our father played a long, slow song on his guitar. Our mother sang to us. Our brother reached into the crib and held our tiny hands. The room grew dark. Through a window, red and green and purple lights shimmered in the sky. A beautiful half moon shone on our faces.
I heard a wolf howl in the distance. Was it calling for me?
I loved the world and everything I saw and smelled and heard. I wanted more than anything to stay.
I went to sleep. Once I woke when Willow cried. Our mother picked her up and fed her, put her gently down.
She picked me up. She checked to see if I was breathing. She put her ear against my heart. It was still beating. She held me for a long time, then kissed me and put me back with Willow. I went to sleep.
In the morning, Willow woke, but I did not.
I
had
a sister,
a twin, not
identical. (They say,
She was so beautiful, as if that
proves the point.) Why haven’t you
told me this before? I ask. Long silence,
before Mom answers, I’ve always planned
to tell you. I know I’ve missed a few chances,
but it’s hard to talk about her without crying,
and I don’t like you to see me cry. Dad says,
We’re so lucky to have you. I try not to think
too much about what might have been.
Grandma looks at Grandpa, who says,
It was not our place to tell you.
Zanna says, Don’t blame me,
I didn’t know. Everyone
laughs at that. Roxy
gives a quick, sharp
bark, as if to say,
Hey, I’m here,
too! I would
have told,
but who
listens
to a
dog?
Why
are they
telling me this
today? When they
were worrying about me
last night, did it remind them
of those four nights Diamond was alive?
Or are they telling me that they know how it feels
to love someone you can’t help, like I love Roxy now?
It’s like walking through the kind of
deep snow where each step
makes you break through the crust and sink down to your knees.
After they tell me about Baby Diamond, I say, Whatever we
decide about Roxy, I’ll always remember the day we all
went to pick her out. Remember her intelligent
clear eyes? (Will we ever see them again?)
I say Whatever we decide, like it’s
obvious to everyone: no matter
what happens, I’m part of it
as much as they are.
Dad nods, Yes,
he says, I do
remember
Roxy’s
eyes
that
day.
Roxy (Diamond)
I like hearing Willow say she remembers my eyes from the day they brought me home. I remember her eyes that day, too.
I was born to a malamute who had led her team through six Iditarods, winning one of them. We were so proud of that. All the puppies scrambled for attention, tumbling over each other to get our mother to notice us. Maybe we’d grow up to win races like she did.
But there were too many of us in that dog yard. The musher put out word that she was selling puppies, and people started coming by. They’d look us over, ask a lot of questions, and sometimes leave with one of us. I figured out that if I tucked my head into my paws, closed my eyes, and pretended to sleep until they left, no one would notice me.
So I was “sleeping” when I heard voices I remembered from way back in another life. I opened one eye and saw a big boy, a little girl, and a man and woman I thought I’d seen before. The woman was wearing a red jacket that she could barely close.
I opened both eyes and watched them closely.
Willow, look at this one, said the man. The whole family came and looked me over. I stared at Willow and she stared at me—a long, deep gaze. She got down on her knees and held me in her lap. I licked her face, and she looked up, eyes shining.
Let’s take her home, Dad! Willow said.
They brought me home and put fresh straw in my doghouse. They fed me well, and I was happy.
Until the day they came home with the baby. When they took her inside their house, I wanted so much to go in with them, I started howling. I couldn’t stop for hours. Willow and Marty came out, bringing extra food and water. I ate and drank, and then I howled some more.
Roxy, what’s wrong? they kept asking. But of course I couldn’t tell them.
I couldn’t say, I want to be the baby, not that one you call Suzanna.
That’s when Marty looked at me, that penetrating look that made me wonder if he knew me. All he said was, Maybe she’s jealous of the baby.
Willow answered, Why—just because Mom and Dad sit around looking at her whenever they aren’t feeding her, talking about her, or giving her a bath?
Marty laughed. Come on, he said, let’s hitch up Cora and I’ll take you for a ride in my new sled. Get away from Babyland for a while.
I watched them, wishing I could ride in the sled with Willow, knowing my best hope was that maybe someday I could grow up and pull the sled with Cora.
Once
we start
talking—really
talking—it doesn’t take
us long to decide to keep Roxy.
Mom canceled the vet appointment
when she saw I’d taken off. She said she
and Dad were relieved that Roxy was alive—
even while we were sick with worry about you.
So maybe in a way I did help, just not the way I
planned it. We all agree that Roxy should go home
with us. I get her settled into Dad’s sled, hitched to
the snowmachine. What about me? Zanna asks, and
Dad hugs her and says, We want you to go with
Willow, in her sled, Zanna. She thinks about it,
then stands up tall and says, Okay, I’ll help
my sister. So Mom rides with Roxy,
and I take all five dogs and Zanna.
We head home together and we
stay together on the trail.
We arrive without
any trouble.
Not one
bit.
When
Marty heard that
I was missing, he flew
home to help look for me.
By the time he got here, we
were all back, but he’s staying
an extra day anyway, and Mom
is letting me miss a day of school
to be with him. He stares at Roxy
like she’s made of gold, then looks
at me like I’m his equal. Hey—he
puts his hand on my head—I think
you’re taller, Willow. I smile. No,
I say, I’m not; you must be shorter.
He laughs. Marty always does this:
laughs like he is really enjoying me,
but with a look on his face like he
understands that my joking has
a serious side, and there’s
more to me than
most people
see.
I
ask
Marty
why he’s never
told me about Diamond.
You were Zanna’s age when we
were born—I know you must remember.
(It’s weird to say that: we were born.) Marty
answers, How do little kids learn all the things
they’re not supposed to talk about? Poop and farts
and sex, Uncle Henry’s drinking, Mom’s gray hair. He
turns to look at me … And the other baby, those few days
she lived, the birchbark box of Diamond’s ashes, scattered
in a secret, sacred place. You were with us, he tells me.
In my memory, you’re wide awake. Mom is carrying
you, zipped up inside that red down jacket she wore
when she was pregnant. I know the one he means;
she wore it before Zanna was born; she still
has it. Where? I ask him. Where is the
secret, sacred place? Marty says,
Come on, let’s hitch up Lucky,
Cora, Samson, and Magoo.
I still know the way.
I’ll take you
there.
love
riding
in the sled with
Marty driving. New
snow looks like diamonds …
like ashes … like Diamond’s ashes …
I’m daydreaming, looking around, so I don’t
notice when Marty turns the dogs onto the old trail,
the one Kaylie and I took by mistake when we got lost.
When Marty stops the dogs, I look around. Could he know
this is the exact spot where Kaylie and I camped out that night?
Or could it be that maybe Cora remembers when we stopped here,
and that’s why she stops now? But Marty says, This is the place. He looks
around like he’s in church. This is the place they scattered Diamond’s ashes.
Marty couldn’t have heard from Mom and Dad that this is where Kaylie and I
camped. I haven’t told them. Way back then, Marty says, the spruce tree was
much smaller. When they spread the ashes on its branches, it reminded me
of falling snow. I blink. It was snow, I say, that kept us warm that night.
Marty looks at me. What night? he asks. I tell him about camping
here, and staying warm under the snowy branches of this tree.
We see a spruce hen sitting on one of the low branches.
Is it the same one I saw that night? It looks
at me and doesn’t fly away. I say,
Hi. Don’t I know you from
somewhere? I almost
hear it answer, Hello
Willow. Yes, my
dear, you
do.
My
diamond
willow stick
is almost finished. I’m
sanding each diamond one last time
before I polish it, trying to figure out why
Kaylie has so many friends and I don’t. Could it be
because she’s happy all the time? Maybe. That would be
kind of interesting, if being happy gets you friends and
having friends makes you happy. I don’t want
a million friends, just enough so that
if one friend starts eating lunch
with a boy, I don’t have to
sit there all by myself.
Tomorrow, I’ll go
back to school.
I wish I felt
happier
about
that.
Dad
and I go with
Marty to the airport
and watch his plane take off.
On the way home, I tell Dad about
the coincidence, how Marty showed me
their sacred place, and it was the same place I
camped that night. Dad nods, then asks, Do you know
why we picked that place to scatter Baby Diamond’s ashes?
(Of course I don’t. I was six days old; no one ever told me.)
That was where I found the diamond willow stick—the one
you’re working on. So in a way, that place is where your
name came from—your names. I’m not sure how I feel
about them giving me both names. I ask Dad, Why
does diamond willow have the diamond shapes?
He thinks for a minute and answers, As I
understand it, a diamond forms
in the sapwood at a place
of injury, or sickness,
a place where a
branch has
fallen
away.
Cora (Willow’s great-grandfather’s sister)
It looks like Roxy got herself back into the house, where she’s always wanted to be. I should try something like that, break a leg or something, see if they’ll take me inside, too. Sit by the fire like I used to, before they got the idea to hitch me up. Whose crazy idea was that, anyway, to take a mutt like me and try to make a sled dog out of me? Oh well, I did my best. I was a good leader when I was young, and I can still do it when I have to.
I understand all their commands, and I usually follow them. They like that. But I’ve lived around here for a long, long time, and I know a thing or two. So sometimes I take them places they should go, even if it’s not what they’re telling me. A few days before the twin babies were born, I brought their father to the diamond willow grove. I knew how much he loved that beautiful, light-dark diamond willow wood. It makes a good strong stick you can hold on to when you’re walking up a long hill in the dark.