Diamond Willow (7 page)

brought Roxy in so she's
safe
, too, and now she's

eating beaver soup, and someone must have changed

her bandage and Grandma puts a plate of pancakes

in front of me and fried moose meat and potatoes.

I'm more hungry than I have ever been in my life.

I finish eating and slump in my chair, and then

Grandma picks up her sewing and says,

Willow, you want to talk
—even

then it's not exactly

a question.
Yes,
I

say,
I want

to talk.

To you.

About

Roxy.

 

See,

I say.

I struggle

for words and

Grandma listens

with her hands and ears

and eyes, and that's exactly

what I want to tell her, how Roxy

does that, too.
Grandma
, Roxy doesn't

need her eyes—she still
sees me
. Or maybe she

knows me without seeing. She trusts us! How can

Dad and Mom just let her go? I can't let them do that.

So I brought her here to you. If you can keep her, I'll

bring food for her. I'll come out every weekend and

brush her coat. When her eyes are better, I'll take

her out and let her run.
Grandma doesn't

answer for the longest time, and I try

to think of something else to say,

but I can't, so I just stop.

Grandma looks at me,

she looks at Roxy.

Finally, she says,

Maybe this dog

doesn't want

to stay with

us. I bet

she wants

to stay

with

you.

 

 

 

Jean, Willow's great-great-great grandmother (Spruce Hen)

What's become of Kaylie and Richard (and Albert, that old lynx)? Let me see what I can see.

There they are. Richard's dogs are well behaved. He lets Kaylie drive them for a while, standing on the runners in front of him, so happy, like she's forgotten all about the mischief she's been making, the trouble she'll be in when she gets home.

I fly to the place where the old trail meets the new trail. It looks like half the town is here, reading the tracks in the snow.

They went this way, down the old trail,
says Kaylie's mother.

No, that's where they came from,
Willow's dad points out.
Then they turned this way … Look.

Little Zanna is walking around by herself, off to the side.
What's this big track? Kind of like a cat, only bigger.

Lynx!
says Willow's mother.
I haven't seen a lynx around here for thirteen years!

Prince and Samson look down the trail and bark. Everyone looks up.

Listen!
Willow's father says.
Dogs in the distance … coming this way. Willow and Kaylie!

When Richard and Kaylie come down the trail, everyone stares at them like Kaylie is a ghost and Richard has brought her back to the land of the living.

Now listen to them, all talking at once. I've never seen so much hugging and handshaking. It looks like Richard is meeting Kaylie's parents for the first time—he has that proud I-saved-your-daughter look. If Kaylie is in trouble, her parents forget to tell her. Everyone stops talking and lets her tell her story.

Soon everyone but Willow's family heads back into town.

 

I

hear

something,

Grandma says.

Our snowmachine!

Dad's driving it, fast.

Even though I'm glad he's

here, and
I know I'm
lucky to be

alive, I'm still
a little
scared. But when Dad

comes in, it is
amazing
—he is way, way

more happy to see me than he is mad

about what I did. He comes in and

hugs me hard, for a long time.

His first question takes me by

surprise: not,
How is Roxy?

but,
How is your leg?
I

haven't thought about

it since yesterday.
Fine,

I say, and I realize it's

true. After a while, I

hear Mom coming

with the dogs. She

doesn't really like

dog-mushing, but

she can do it when

she has to. Zanna

is fast asleep in

the sled, so

warm, so

safe.

 

They've

already heard most

of the story from Kaylie:

the blinding snow, the wrong trail,

the shelter under the spruce tree. And Zanna

found the lynx tracks, so they know about that.

What's left for me to say? I know I have to tell

them
I'm
sorry, and I am, and I do. But Roxy

is
older than
Zanna! Part of the family!

Shouldn't
they
be a little sorry, too?

Why did they
think
it was

okay to make such a

huge decision

without

me?

 

Dad

starts to say,

Willow,
why
didn't you—

I interrupt:
You
can't
blame it

all on me, Dad.
Then
they
give each other

that look, like all the adults
trust
each other

and none of them want to know
me
, I mean really

know me, who I really am, what I really think, why

I do what I do, or don't do what they think I should.

Dad starts to answer, looks at me, closes his mouth.

He doesn't want to fight about it any more than I do.

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.