She, Ava, was guilty of the same thing. She’d kept a secret from herself. A big one.
Last September, a couple of months before Darya’s Wishing Day, Ava had gone with Papa to an art fair. Darya had gotten up early to help load Papa’s lutes into his truck. Nothing strange so far, just a normal morning. But before Papa and Ava set off, Darya asked Ava to bring her back a caramel apple. Again, no big deal. Just one sister asking the other for a favor. But, because Darya was Darya, and Darya was picky, her request for a caramel apple had grown comically specific.
First, she’d said she wanted chocolate and peanuts on top, but not walnuts. Then she clarified that if there weren’t any with peanuts, to get one with just caramel and chocolate.
“But not white chocolate, because white chocolate is a scam,” Darya had said.
“I’ll try,” Ava replied, and Darya had said something like, “Um, no, you will. If you don’t, Papa will leave you behind. Right, Papa?”
Papa, hearing his name, had blinked and said, “What’s that?”
Then came the bad part. The not-normal part. Darya said, “Ava has to bring me a caramel apple or you’ll disown her. Right?”
Papa had frowned. “Disown her? Why would I disown her?”
“You wouldn’t,” Darya said. “I was teasing.”
“I don’t understand,” Papa said, and whoosh, the mood changed.
“Papa, it was a joke,” Darya had said.
“How is it a joke, when I’ve lost so much already?” Papa had said. He’d turned to Ava with glassy eyes, his expression blank. “I would never disown you, Emily. Never.”
Ava had lost her words.
Darya had stammered, “Papa, I know. I was just . . . I didn’t mean . . .”
Papa had remained not-Papa for several stomach-lurching moments. And at Rocky’s Diner, eons after that dreadful moment, Ava felt as if she were on a Tilt-A-Whirl. She remembered how the world had listed sideways as Papa stared at her. Finally, he came back to himself. When he came back, the world came back.
In his normal voice, with a normal expression, he’d asked what the holdup was. Ava had scurried into the truck, heart thumping. Papa cranked the key, and the engine rumbled to life, its familiar thrum steadying Ava’s pulse.
Ava had glanced back at Darya as they drove off. Tiny pinpricks of light had blurred her vision, making Darya look hazy and far away.
Ava shut down Aunt Vera’s iPad, suddenly weary. If Ava knew without a trace of doubt that Emily existed, or that she’d existed once upon a time, she felt sure she’d find the strength to persevere. If only the universe would send her a sign! Couldn’t the universe just . . . send her a sign?!
A waitress jostled the table, tipping over the sugar dispenser.
“Oops, sorry, hon!” the waitress said. “I’ll pop right back with a rag.”
“No problem,” Ava said. Her voice sounded croaky. She cleared her throat and gave the waitress a smile. “I’ve got it.”
Ava righted the container and swept the spilled sugar into her hand. Some of the crystals remained, lodged into strokes gouged into the table.
Ava froze. She squeezed her eyes shut, opened them, and reread the message carved on the old, scarred table. The words were faint, aged by time and grease, but Ava had no trouble making them out: Klara & Emily, best friends forever.
Klara was Ava’s mother’s name.
I wish I knew all the answers.
—THE BIRD LADY
CHAPTER FIVE
Emily, Age Eight
It wasn’t until Emily was eight years old that she knew for sure she wasn’t like regular kids. She wondered if she might not be like regular grown-ups, either, except maybe Grandma Elnora. Only, that wasn’t a good thing. Emily knew this because of the lines that formed on her mother’s face when Emily said something that reminded her mom of Grandma Elnora. When that happened—and Emily had yet to figure out the rules for making it not happen—her mother would grab Emily’s chin and make Emily look at her.
“No ma’am,” her mother would say. “That is not how we behave.”
Those were the words her mother said in her “out loud” voice. The words she said in her “not out loud” voice were Please, no. Emily has an active imagination, that’s all. Please don’t let my baby have my mother’s curse!
A curse was a sickness, and Grandma Elnora, who visited on the first Sunday of every month, had that sickness. It wasn’t a tummy ache or the flu. It was . . . well, Emily didn’t know what it was, except that Grandma Elnora, like Emily, said things she wasn’t supposed to.
Like what happened a few weeks ago. Emily, Emily’s mom, and Grandma Elnora had gone for a walk. Emily’s brother, Nate, stayed home with their dad. Grandma Elnora glanced at Emily as they were heading out the door and said, “You’re going to trip if you wear those shoes, sweetness. You’ll trip and ruin your pretty dress.”
“Mother, please,” Emily’s mom said. To Emily, she said, “Your shoes are perfect. They make you look like a little lady.”
Emily looked down at her shiny black shoes. They were called Mary Janes, and they had a strap and a buckle. They pinched Emily’s toes.
During their walk, Emily did trip. She went sprawling onto the sidewalk, and she did ruin her pretty dress. She ripped the hem and got dirt on it, too.
“Mother!” snapped Emily’s mom. She was so mad she forgot to hug Emily and check on her bleeding knee.
“What?” Grandma Elnora said. “I didn’t make her trip, Rose. Emily, darling, did I make you trip?”
Emily shook her head, hot tears building up behind her eyes. She’d tripped all on her own. She had a scab for a week. She pulled it off before the skin underneath was ready, and she touched the moistness of it with the tip of her finger. Then she touched her finger to her tongue. Salty.
And another time:
Just last Sunday, Emily’s mother baked brownies when Grandma Elnora
