“Papa,” whispered Ava.
“Your papa, yes. Also Emily’s older brother. Klara knew he was the one for her from the first time she met him.” Color bloomed on the Bird Lady’s cheeks. “She wanted to impress him, that’s all! She never meant . . . I never meant . . . nobody ever meant for Emily to disappear!”
Ava felt queasy. The nook in the tree wasn’t cozy. It was claustrophobic. Not enough air. She tried to rise, but the Bird Lady pressed down on her leg.
“It’s not easy for me, either, pet,” she said, and to Ava’s horror, fat glossy tears welled in the Bird Lady’s eyes.
“What am I supposed to ‘understand’?” Ava asked. “What haven’t you told me?”
The Bird Lady lifted her chin. “Natasha and Darya did their part. You should be proud of them. You should be proud of yourself as well.” She nodded and sniffled. “You’re starlings, all three of you.”
“Starlings?”
The Bird Lady gave a quivery laugh. “Darlings. You’re all darlings.”
The wisteria draping from the oak tree rustled, and Ava heard the flapping of wings. Three birds swooped past the entrance of the nook.
“Ava!” they cried. “Ava, Ava, Ava!”
Ava’s breath caught. She stretched forward, straining to see past the flowering vines. “Did . . . did that just happen?”
The Bird Lady gazed at Ava. “It’s up to you to finish what your sisters started. I think you know that already.”
“What do you hope I’ll understand?” Ava whispered.
“It concerns your mother. But before I tell your mother’s story, I need to tell my own,” the Bird Lady said. “They’re . . . connected.”
“And Emily, and Aunt Elena?”
“We’re all connected.” She spread her arms. “Everyone, everything, and if one piece is knocked out of place . . .”
“Someone has to set it right,” Ava finished.
The Bird Lady nodded. Her eyes were still shiny. “Here we go, then. I’ll get to it as best I can.”
Ava waited.
“We don’t have much time, you see.”
Ava waited.
The Bird Lady sucked in a breath of air, then blew it out.
Ava started to speak, but didn’t. A quiet sort of calm spread through her body. She shifted positions within the cramped space, sitting criss-cross applesauce and brushing a twig from under her bottom.
She folded her hands in her lap and waited.
I wish, just sometimes, that people could know what I was thinking, without my saying a word.
—EMILY BLOK, AGE TWELVE
CHAPTER TEN
Emily, Age Thirteen
On Emily’s thirteenth birthday, Emily, Nate, and their mom had a special birthday breakfast, meaning that the three of them sat at the table and ate their cereal together. Nate plucked the colorful marshmallows from his bowl of Lucky Charms and gave them to Emily. He also gave her a clumsily wrapped box of colored pencils. Good ones, from the art store.
“Nate, thank you,” Emily said, already in love with the pencils in their perfectly aligned spectrum of colors.
Her mom gave Emily a pink blouse made from a flowy fabric that looked silky but felt scratchy. It had capped sleeves. A loopy bow hung from the collar.
“It’s exactly like the one that nice Maggie Stanton has,” her mom proclaimed.
Maggie Stanton, whose parents gave her a kitten in the third grade. The kitten would be a cat now. Had Maggie named it Mittens? Emily wondered.
“I saw Marjory and Maggie having a mother-daughter tea, and Maggie was wearing a carbon copy of this blouse, only in pale blue. They were going to get their nails done afterward. Doesn’t that sound fun? Would you like to get a manicure together, sweetheart?”
“Um, sure?” Emily said.
Her mother beamed, and Emily felt a stab of guilt. If agreeing to a manicure was all it took to make her mother happy, she should do it more often.
Emily headed for her bedroom after putting her bowl and spoon in the dishwasher. Her mom called her back and placed a box on the counter. Her lips twitched. She said, “It’s from your father.”
Emily’s eyes flew to the return address: California, where oranges grew in people’s backyards. Maybe in her father’s backyard. Emily didn’t know. She and Nate had yet to visit. Their dad had extended dozens of invitations, volunteering to pay for their plane tickets, but their mom always came up with reasons to say no. The timing was bad. They’d miss too many school days. There was a chance that the kids’ long-lost uncle might pop by for the weekend, no matter the weekend.
Sometimes Emily wondered if her mom was holding them hostage to punish their dad.
No. Emily knew that her mom was holding them hostage to punish their dad.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” her mom asked.
Emily would have preferred to open it alone, but felt helpless against the force of her mother’s curiosity. Her parents had been divorced for two years, her mother refused to let Emily and Nate see their dad, and yet she grasped for any detail, large or small, about Emily’s dad’s new life . . . and his new wife. Especially his new wife.
Emily opened the box and pulled out a soft white throw pillow with a unicorn on it. Her heart lifted, then fell. She liked the pillow. She did. Just, last year—twelve months ago, and no more—she would have loved it.
Emily was growing older. Her dad no longer knew her as well as he used to.
“How cute,” her mother said, peering over Emily’s shoulder. “Is there anything else? A card?”
Emily upended the box, and a card slid out. On the front was a potato wearing a party hat. Beneath the potato were the words, “This is the day you’ve been waiting for . . .”—and inside the card—“. . . since you were a tot! Congratulations! You’re officially a teenager!”
Ah, Emily thought, getting the pun. No longer a tater tot. Melancholy washed over her, pale and familiar.
Happy birthday, kiddo, her father had written in his slanted penmanship. Blaine and I wish we could celebrate with you. Remember, our doors are always open. Say the word and I’ll arrange a plane ticket. Same for Nate. Say hi to him for us. We miss you both.
Blaine, the stepmother Emily had never
