fingerspelling firecrackers.
“My, but we had wonderful
adventures.”
Firecrackers?
“We were bold
cheerful
adventurous.”
She points
at one of the women
says, “That’s me.”
A sadness comes over her then
settling on her like heavy rain
weighing down
a fawn lily.
Iris decides she’s not up to sorting
so I slip away
return to Anne
and my window seat.
The empty spot feels raw
gnawing
at my insides.
After school the next day
I return to Iris’s.
She sets a handwritten page
before me
hands me lemonade
offers cookies dusted
in cinnamon-sugar.
“Snickerdoodles,” she tells me.
You baked again
I write on the edge of the paper
ignoring the story
for a moment.
I wasn’t sure…after last time.
“I didn’t think I would,” she says
“but with this—”
she taps the oxygen tube
turns over the story page
scrawls a note.
This made me think
I’d best do what I love doing
while I’ve got the days left
to do it.
Mind you, I don’t leave the kitchen now
until I’ve triple-checked that the oven’s off.
I help myself to a cookie
take a bite
then write
below Iris’s note.
I feel better already.
“You were sad?”
Iris asks.
I nod
take another bite.
This helps
I say
wondering if snickerdoodles
have magic cheering-up messages
baked into them.
Iris writes
I’ve found it’s quite difficult to be sad
while you’re eating a cookie.
Then she adds
What’s bothering you?
I miss my best friend.
“Ah,” she says
turning the paper over again
and tapping a finger
on her story.
“I understand.”
When my sister died
my friends became family—
my true saving grace.
We shared our joys and sorrows
and loved extravagantly.
But now, besides me
only Marjorie is left.
She lives in Rosewood
and I visit each Thursday.
She often doesn’t know me.
One crisp day last fall
I took my usual route
but oh, coming home—
coming home I lost my way.
I walked and walked for so long.
Wrong corners, wrong roads
wrong shops all along the way.
I was just like her—
Marjorie would do the same
before she moved into care.
Such terrible fear—
thought I’d never find my way
until finally:
Mr. Henderson’s market—
something familiar to me.
He directed me
to Pemberton Street, and then
the flaming red leaves
of my dear old maple tree—
a beacon to lead me home.
Each week without fail
I gather up my courage
go to visit her—
bosom friend, true family—
but it scares me every time.
I can’t imagine
being afraid to go see Olivia
—or worse
not being able to see her
because of moving
sixteen stupid blocks away
—or even worse than that
not being friends at all
because she never forgives me
for being mean.
I need
my best friend.
Everyone needs
Iris visits Marjorie on Thursdays
—tomorrow.
I snatch the paper
flip it over
write
I’ll go with you
and hope
Mom will say okay.
Chapter 20
That night as I’m lying in bed
I think of Iris
how her friends
were her family
and I think of those flaming leaves
calling her
helping her find her way
almost as if
they were whispering her story to her
reminding her
where home was.
Suddenly I know what to do
for my project.
Leaves
telling my story
—leaves for all the people
who feel like home
a family tree
that’s about belonging and love
and being part of one another’s stories
a family tree
that’s not limited
to actual family.
I sleep well
so relieved
to finally have a plan.
I bound out of bed
eager to tell Olivia
—until I remember
she’s not talking to me.
My energy vanishes
and I trudge to the kitchen
settle for telling Mom
instead.
What kind of leaves?
she asks
as I dump cereal into a bowl.
Paper ones.
I’ll write on them
list how each person fits
on my family tree.
That’s not quite what Mr. Tanaka
will be expecting, is it?
Grr.
This is why I’d rather be telling Olivia.
Olivia would love my idea
and even if she didn’t
she’d be happy
I had one.
I’m about to tell Mom
I don’t care
what Mr. Tanaka thinks of it
when her face brightens
abruptly.
Oh!
she says.
You can paste them
on a giant poster-board tree!
She obviously thinks
that’s a brilliant idea
but I shake my head.
The leaves
will be pages
of a book.
Mom considers this
nods appreciatively.
Because they tell a story
she says.
Exactly.
Chapter 21
Mr. Tanaka needs two students
to go to the library
pick up the bin of books
Ms. Cleary the librarian
put together for our class study
of France.
He sends me
and Olivia.
We walk down the hall
togethe
r but not
Olivia and me
until the doorway to the library
forces us
closer together
almost touching.
Olivia steps back
lets me go in first
alone.
We each take hold
of one side of the bin
carry it between us
down the hallway
toward our class
—books
between us
stories
linking us
like Iris and the bookshop man
only I couldn’t stand it
if Olivia and I ended
the same way
never seeing one another
after this chapter
is over.
My feet stop moving
just before we arrive
at our classroom.
Olivia has to stop too
looks at me
questioning.
I hold my bin handle with one hand
sign with the other:
I’m sorry
for what I did
sorry
for what I said.
I don’t hate you
could never hate you.
I’m sorry.
Olivia drops her gaze
stares at the floor tiles
not answering
refusing
to look at me.
Then her head jerks up
and she makes a face that says
yikes!
tells me Mr. Tanaka just called out
asked if we were planning to stay out here
all day
said they were all waiting
and I think he means
they’re waiting
for us to be friends again
but really
they just need the books
about France.
Olivia steps toward the door
tugs the bin along
tugging me
but I stand firm.
Remember going to the library together
at the beginning
of second grade?
Mr. Tanaka came in
with his sixth-graders
so big
so old
and we pretended
we weren’t even scared of them
but we were?
Olivia laughs
maybe forgetting for a moment
that she’s mad.
I was scared
she says.
You were all We’re just as cool
as they are.
And now we’re the sixth-graders
I say.
I wonder if the little kids
are afraid of us.
She glances toward the class
smile fading.
We should go in.
I try once more:
I miss you.
You’re supposed to be
part of my story.
Olivia’s brow scrunches.
I circle my fist on my chest
once more.
I’m sorry.
Slowly—so slowly
it feels like waiting for a sunflower
to turn toward light
—she turns her head
toward me.
Okay
she says.
I’m sorry too
for saying that thing
about your dad.
She pauses.
Grimaces.
And for ignoring you
in Art.
The book bin suddenly seems lighter
the hallway brighter.
Want to come over after school
to work on our projects?
she asks
and I know
she’s missed me too.
I want to go—really want to—
but I think of Iris
waiting to visit Marjorie.
Or
I say
we could go
on a field trip.
Chapter 22
It’s only a couple of blocks
—four stops
along the bus route—
but these days it’s too far
for Iris to walk.
Iris and Olivia and I climb off the bus
in front of a low building
with a long row
of windows.
We file along a petunia-lined walkway
pull open the double doors
step inside
where an odd mix of smells
greets us:
the sharp scent of cleanser
layered with a softer
rich
homey smell
…banana bread?
I look across the lounge area on my left
where a few people relax on couches
two men in wheelchairs
work a puzzle at the table
and I spy the source
of the good part of the smell.
A kitchen area
where two women who must be near Iris’s age
are clapping
while a younger man
lifts a loaf pan above his head
like an athlete
hoisting a trophy.
A nurse stands behind the reception desk.
When she spots Iris
she lights up
bright as the Tweety Birds
flitting across her scrub top.
She comes around the desk
hugs Iris
shakes hands
with Olivia and me
then disappears down a long hallway.
A couple minutes later
she’s back
pushing an old woman
in a wheelchair.
Iris grins
like a kid at the entrance
to Disneyland
and I know
this must be Marjorie.
The nurse—Natalee—
parks Marjorie in her wheelchair
next to a table.
“Girls,” says Iris
“this is Marjorie.”
Marjorie frowns
—almost a scowl.
She looks us over
speaks to Iris.
Olivia interprets
as much as she can.
I don’t know you.
I’m Iris. We’ve been friends
a long time.
Who are these kids?
New friends of mine—they came
to meet you.
Why?
To hear your stories.
As it turns out
Marjorie doesn’t seem to have the words
to tell her stories.
Not today.
Iris fills in the blanks.
“She was a pilot, you know”
Iris says
face turned to me
so I can see her words.
A pilot?
At the moment
I can’t imagine Marjorie
steering her wheelchair
never mind sitting at the controls
flying a plane.
I must’ve misunderstood.
A what?
I ask.
Iris carefully forms the letters
p-i-l-o-t
and my mouth drops open
in surprise.
Reall
y?
I say.
Iris nods
begins telling us more.
I look to Olivia
for help
hope she won’t mind
interpreting.
She flew a courier plane
did some charter work
for a few years
at a time when there weren’t many women
in the job.
How did you two meet?
I ask.
You weren’t…
I imagine a rainbow goddess
orange flight uniform
zipping around real rainbows
in a jet.
But no.
Iris says they met
at the airport
but she never wanted to fly planes
herself.
Movement catches my eye.
One of the older women
in the kitchen
is doing some kind of dance
gesturing
with oven mitts on her hands.
I turn my gaze back
to scowling Marjorie
wonder how she and Iris
ever became friends
so different, it seems.
But maybe they weren’t always
so different.
What other stories are hiding
behind that scowl?
Later
as we wait for the bus
that will carry us home
Iris starts talking.
Olivia interprets again.
That’s where I’m going.
Rosewood Manor—or as I like to call it
The Home for People Whose Stories