Birdie's Book

Part One:
Seeds

1.
The Long-Lost Grandmother

2.
The Garden

3.
The Singing Stone

Part Two:
Shoots

4.
Aventurine

5.
The Underwater Journey

6.
The Willowood Fairies

7.
The Book of Dreams

8.
The Redbird Wind

9.
The Shadow Land

10.
“The Green Song”

Part Three:
Roots and Flowers

11.
The New Year

Epilogue

The train sped along, the wheels on the tracks whispering a humming rhythm …
Shh-shh, shh-shh, shh-shh, shh-shh
… as if they were telling all of us passengers to
go to sleep, go to sleep
. But I didn't want to fall asleep, because it was my first time on that train from New York to New Jersey. It was also going to be the first time I would ever meet my grandmother—my mom's mom.

It was New Year's week, and when Mom was called off to London, I had a dream that I met the grandmother I'd only heard about and who was now so close by. My father had always liked my grandmother, and he was sad that something had happened between her and Mom. Having lost his own mother, he was all for enjoying family while they were alive and kicking. Still, Dad had always told me that he
respected my mom's privacy on a very sensitive issue.

That's why I was totally surprised when my dad had said yes when I asked him if I could go. But he said that it was high time for this feud to be over, and what better way to end it than by holding out an olive branch (that would be me)—even if the wrong person was holding the branch (that would be him). Dad added that this was the perfect chance for me to go meet my grandmother, just her and me, for a few days, and that he would talk to my mom and take full responsibility. He actually seemed to be looking forward to it!

“I'd come, but I'd just be in the way,” said Dad. “Like a second fiddle. And just between you and me, I don't think Mo has got an ounce of craziness in her veins. And I know she's dying to meet you.” My dad always called my grandmother by her nickname, Mo, and it's what I always called her in my mind.

So that's how I ended up on the train. Now, in between the anticipation and the train's lullaby, I had a jitter in my stomach, jumping like a bug on a leaf.

Shh-shh, shh-shh
…
Shh-shh, shh-shh
… Bump! My head hit the window, waking me with a jolt. I'd fallen asleep after all. I looked down to check on my daisy, Belle, and saw that somehow her little clay pot had cracked.

Oh, I almost forgot somebody is reading this. I'm nobody special, just Sarah Cramer Bright (nicknamed Birdie), from California (which I like to call Califa). But I'm not from Califa anymore, I guess, because over Christmas I was painfully uprooted and moved to New York City.

But maybe I'm getting too personal. So before I go on, I must ask you to do something important: Please, please,
please
promise me that you will keep everything I say private. I don't like telling people really deep stuff about myself that is absolutely, positively not for public use. So please don't share this with anybody else, except maybe your very best, most trusted friend, okay? Because I guarantee you—not everyone will understand.

So, assuming we have a privacy pact, I'll tell you again that I am Sarah Cramer Bright, nicknamed Birdie by my dad (in honor of my red hair, which reminds him of his favorite California redbird). My mom says that my red hair and green eyes have been passed down from my great-great-grandmother Dora, who was Irish. I am told that my eyes twinkle bright emerald when I'm excited, but turn to dead moss green when I'm worried.

I took my feet off the suitcase that has been in my mom's family for years. My mom had specifically
instructed me
not
to bring it. She always insisted on far more upscale luggage, like the matched Louis Vuitton set that she took with her to London the day before I left. There are people in my mom's world who actually judge her based on the quality and quantity of her bags! Not people I'd choose to be around!

Since my own trip was just a three-day jaunt to my grandmother's, the only other thing I brought was Belle, now in her sadly cracked pot. But I'd be at my grandmother's soon, and from what I'd heard from my dad, she would certainly have a pot for me to put Belle in. Dad had said that she was pretty much a botanist, rather like Luther Burbank, who grafted plants to make beautiful new species. I took my hat off and carefully tucked Belle into it, cracked pot and all.

The train door opened—crank,
swish
. I dragged my bag behind me, ba
BUM
ba
BUM
down the steps. The second my feet hit the platform, my face was slammed with little bits of ice, and my hair whipped wildly around in the wind. My braces
were actually (truly and actually!) frozen to my lips.

I set the suitcase down on the platform and put Belle on the ground between my feet. I quickly zipped my spring green corduroy jacket to cover my favorite T-shirt and pulled on my gloves. I was not much warmer. I loved the jacket, but at that moment I realized I had not been very practical when I left this morning. I sighed. I guess my mind had been in Califa when I packed.

I picked Belle up again as the train rushed away. Around me the conversations mixed together in a rising mist that matched the overcast skies. I saw no sign of the grandmother I knew only from mailed cards, homemade gifts, my dad's few and careful descriptions, and my mother's stories about the “crazy old bat” who raised her.

People hurried toward warm cars with lightly purring engines, and I sat on my suitcase to wait, cradling Belle in one arm. Then I saw an older woman in a cowboy hat with a peacock feather striding through the drab crowd in the parking lot.

It
had
to be Mo. She was very tall and was smiling a big smile. Her boots must have been leaving size-nine imprints in the snow. As she came closer, I saw that her long green wool coat, as bright as spring leaves, was the exact same color as my own jacket.
Around her neck was an orange scarf with black specks.

I had a new name for her immediately:
Lilium tigrinum
, the Latin name for tiger lily, a constant tropical bloomer. That's practically the opposite of Mom, who is more like a calla lily
(Zantedeschia aethiopica)
—straight and stiff and stoically beautiful. Naming people after flowers and plants is one of my games. It's a great way to pass boring hours at school. Of course, I never use the same name twice, not even for twins. I know a lot of flower names!

“Birdie!” the woman said with certainty.

“Grandmother Mo
Lilium tigrinum,”
I wanted to say back. But instead, I said, “Uh-huh,” and clutched Belle a tiny bit closer.

Mo's voice was similar to Mom's but happier and, surprisingly, younger-sounding. Her hair, which curled out from under the hat, looked like it was mostly gray but maybe had once been red like mine. Her face? Smiling and kind, with lines creased around her eyes and the corners of her mouth. Not a trace of makeup. Her clear green eyes studied me matter-of-factly. I matter-of-factly studied her back. This was
not
the face of a crazy old bat.

“Well, well, Birdie Cramer Bright, I wouldn't mistake you for anyone else.” She wrapped me in a
tight hug that blocked the chill of the blowing wind.

“And you're wearing the family color,” she added, patting the sleeve of my jacket. “I'd say I'm finally a working grandmother, and it's about time! Hallelujah for your dad.”

“Okay” was all I managed to say, all of a sudden wondering what I was supposed to call her. Can you tell that I'm not good at first encounters? I like to size up a situation before I start giving anyone a reason to judge me or to not like me or to think that they like me when in fact they don't know much about me at all. Does that make sense?