Emma-Jean Lazarus Fell Out of a Tree (12 page)

She opened the cage door. In the darkness she could see only the outlines of Henri’s tiny body as he hopped out and fluttered up onto her shoulder. Emma-Jean was too tired to whisper her usual greetings. She hoped Henri would understand. He leaned his head against her cheek. Emma-Jean stood very still. She reached up and lightly scratched Henri’s neck. But she was so tired, and it hurt to stand. She went back to her bed and sat down. Henri fluttered up and settled on her head-board. He stood very straight, with his head up, like a sentry.

Emma-Jean lay down and closed her eyes.

It was not normal practice for Henri to spend the night outside of his cage. But this, after all, had not been a normal day.

It was past noon when Emma-Jean woke up. Henri was perched on her desk, regarding an exceptionally bright and sunny day out the window. Emma-Jean’s mind was refreshed and filled immediately with scenes from the day before—Colleen’s flowered carpet, the open window, the magnolia tree. With great effort, Emma-Jean pushed those images from her mind. No amount of thought would enable her to understand the sequence of missteps that led her into the cold dirt under the Pomerantzes’ tree. And it made no sense to squander her intellectual energy on fruitless reflection.

She resolved to spend the day on some of the hobbies that she had neglected these past weeks. She was eager to resume her old routines.

Her mother, who had taken the day off from work, helped her dress and made her an egg for breakfast. She suggested that they go to a movie, or take a drive, but Emma-Jean declined. She went back up to her room, sat down at her desk, and looked out the window. She began reciting the names of all of the flora and fauna she could see. She started with just the trees: Bradford pear, possumshaw holly, river birch, dogwood, pine, ash. She recited the names out loud, followed by the Latin names
—pyrus callerana, ilex desidua, betula nigra, cornis florida . . .
Her mind started to drift. She thought of Colleen. She thought of Will Keeler, and what preparations he might be making for basketball camp. She thought of Vikram and his mother and the mango tree outside their home. She thought of Ms. Wright and the interesting insights she might have into the last chapters of
To Kill a Mockingbird.

Emma-Jean redoubled her efforts to remain focused on the flora and fauna, but now she wondered about the point of this activity. It had been enjoyable when she and her father had stood in the yard together, reciting the names like a song, faster and faster, until one of them began to laugh.

But what was the point of reciting them over and over by herself?

She sat at her desk and took out her sketchpad, paging through the drawings she’d made over the years. There were detailed studies of many tree species, including some exotic varieties. Some of the drawings had taken days to complete, days on which Emma-Jean had been so engrossed that she had barely eaten or even looked up from the paper. Now her drawings failed to inspire her. She could not imagine picking up a pencil and applying it to the paper.

Worst of all was the sight of her father’s dogwood tree, which had always filled her with calm. Now looking at it made her angry. Her heart began to race.

She did not want her father’s tree. She did not want her father’s photographs or his books or his briefcase.

She wanted her father.

And right then it hit her, the most outlandish, illogical notion of all: that her father was gone from this world, and that Emma-Jean had been left behind to live without him.

Chapter 24

Colleen’s mother had woken her up at 9:00 with a gentle pat on the head.

Colleen’s eyes were so swollen, she could barely open them. Her pillow was damp.

“Can you get dressed right now?” her mother said. “I made you an English muffin that you can eat in the car.”

“Where are we going?”

“To talk to someone.”

Colleen figured they were going to see Emma-Jean, but she was wrong.

“No!” Colleen cried as they pulled into the parking lot of St. Mary’s Church. “Not confession!”

“You’re not going to confession,” her mother said. “You’re going to talk to Father William.”

Colleen wailed. “I don’t want him to know!”

“Colleen!” her mother said, unbuckling her seat belt. “Please! Father William can help you.”

Colleen let her mother lead her through the church’s carved metal door, and down a small, creaking staircase that led to the rectory. Mrs. White, the ninety-four-year-old church secretary, smiled and loudly told them to just have a seat. Colleen sat down on one of the metal chairs, but her mother did not.

“I want you to talk to him by yourself,” she said.

Colleen grabbed her mother’s wrist. “But . . .”

Her mother removed Colleen’s hand, holding it for a second before letting go.

“It’s better this way, Colleen.” Her voice was gentle and her eyes were wide open. For the first time in her life Colleen realized that she and her mom had exactly the same hazel-colored eyes. “Talk to Father William, Colleen. Let him help you.”

Her mom turned to leave, but then suddenly reached out and took Colleen by the shoulders and pulled her into her scratchy wool coat. “I’ll be right in the car waiting, if you need me,” she said, letting go and hurrying out the door.

Colleen almost ran out after her, but then she heard a door open.

“Colleen? How did you know I needed a little light in my day?” Father William stood smiling, his collar a little crooked, his thick gray hair not quite combed. Hanging from his neck were his reading glasses and also the carved wooden cross he’d gotten in Guatemala, where he’d been in the Peace Corps. At youth group meetings he’d take it off and let the kids try it on.

Colleen held back her tears until they had stepped into the small office and Father William had closed the door. Then, for the millionth time, she started to sob.

Father William did not try to stop her. He leaned close to her as she cried, patting her arm. Somehow, she sputtered out the whole story.

“And that’s why Emma-Jean fell out of the tree,” she said finally.

“But I understand from your mother that Emma-Jean is all right.”

Colleen nodded.

“But here’s the thing, what I’ve realized . . .” She took a deep, hiccupping breath. “I’m really not a good person, Father William. I try to be, but inside I’m really not.” She gulped hard and came out with the rest. “I don’t really care about other people. Mainly I think I care about myself.”

She knew Father William would shake his head in disappointment, like he did during his sermons, when he spoke about people who were greedy and didn’t care about the environment.

“I’m so, so sorry, Father William,” she said, dropping her head, afraid to see the look on his face. Probably he would ask her to leave the youth group.

“Oh, it’s a struggle, isn’t it?” he said.

“What is?”

“To be kind. To do the right thing.”

Here it comes, Colleen thought.

“We’re all a little selfish, a little thoughtless and unkind,” Father William went on. “I know I am.”

“You?”

She looked at him. He did not look totally disappointed. He wasn’t exactly smiling, but he wasn’t not smiling either.

“Some days I’m a little tired, or impatient, and when someone comes to me with a problem, I don’t give them the attention I should. I make them feel like their problem is silly.”

“Really?” Colleen said.

Father William nodded. “And sometimes, when that good woman Mrs. White doesn’t wear her hearing aid, and she can’t hear one thing I say, or the phone ringing, or that someone’s knocking on the door, I get impatient with her.”

Colleen nodded. Mrs. White was so sweet. She hoped Father William never made Mrs. White feel embarrassed about being practically deaf.

“But here’s what happens to me. Can I tell you?”

Colleen nodded.

“I realize I’ve behaved in a shabby way, and I feel lousy about it. I sit here, right in this chair, and think to myself, well, Bill, you blew it!”

Colleen watched Father William closely. Her bangs were limp and soggy from all her crying, so she pushed them back.

“I remember that I can make things right again. I call that person with the little problem. And I say, gee, Max—I’ll call him Max—I was thinking about your problem, and I’d like to talk about it a little more. And we have a good talk and by the time we’re ready to hang up, I can tell he feels better.”

Colleen was sure that person felt better after talking to Father William, just like Colleen was starting to feel better now.

“And when I’ve been a little short with Mrs. White, I sneak out and buy her some chocolates. And not the cheap kind. She loves those samplers, with the soft centers. Do you like those?”

“I love those!”

“Me too,” Father William said, taking a sip of water from the tall glass on his desk.

Father William took the box of tissues from his bookshelf and held it out to Colleen. She took one and gave her nose a good blow.

“I will apologize to Emma-Jean,” Colleen said, wiping her nose. “I mean, I already did, but I’ll make it up to her.”

“I’m sure you will.”

Colleen would! She would invite Emma-Jean over and they would make popcorn balls or bead necklaces or . . . they could sit and look at trees, if that’s what Emma-Jean wanted to do. Who knew? Maybe that was really fun! And Colleen would tell Kaitlin and Valerie and Michele how Emma-Jean had tried to help her, and that once they got to know Emma-Jean they’d see that she wasn’t so weird, not really, and even if she was a little weird, she was such a good person, it didn’t matter.

Colleen’s mother was so smart to have brought her to talk to Father William!

“I’ve known you your whole life, haven’t I?” Father William said.

Of course he had. He had baptized Colleen when she was just a few weeks old.

“And I’m looking at you now, and I can tell you, with great authority, that you are a very fine human being.”

“Really?” Colleen said. She tried not to smile, but she couldn’t stop herself. “It is so nice of you to say that.”

“Just promise me one thing?” Father William said.

“Anything!” she said.

“Never stop struggling!” he said in a sharp voice, smiling and giving his hands one sharp clap and stamping his foot.

“I won’t!” Colleen said, giving her own hands a clap in return.

Mrs. White opened the door. “Yes Father, you needed me?”

Father William and Colleen looked at each other, but of course Colleen didn’t laugh.

Father William stood up. “Mrs. White, I always need you! What would you say if I asked you to let Colleen and me sample a couple of those chocolates I gave you yesterday?”

Chapter 25

The following afternoon, Emma-Jean was cleaning out Henri’s cage when out of her bedroom window, she saw something extraordinary: Colleen Pomerantz, followed by Kaitlin Vogel, Valerie Rosen, and Michele Peters. The procession of girls marched up her brick walk and onto the porch. The doorbell rang, and Emma-Jean heard the squeak of the front door, followed by a chorus of high-pitched voices.

Moments later her mother appeared at her bedroom door.

“Emma-Jean. There are some girls here to see you, some friends of yours from school.”

“They are not my friends,” Emma-Jean informed her mother.

“They said they were.”

“What did they say exactly?”

“They said, ‘Hello, we’re friends of Emma-Jean’s. We missed her and wanted to see if she’s feeling better.’”

“They said that?”

“Yes.”

“Are you certain that is all they said?”

“Yes. And they brought you some cookies, and some of your homework from school.”

“That will not be necessary because I am not planning to return to William Gladstone.”

“What? Emma-Jean, of course you are! You’re going to feel much better over the next few days.”

Emma-Jean knew she needed to explain her plan to her mother, but now was not the appropriate time.

“Come!” her mother said, taking Emma-Jean’s hand. “We can’t keep those girls waiting. It’s very rude!”

Emma-Jean held her mother’s hand as they walked down the stairs into the waiting cluster of girls. Her mother let go as the girls encircled Emma-Jean.

“We just wanted to stop by for a minute to see if you were okay!” Colleen said.

“Yeah!” said Valerie.

“That’s right,” said Kaitlin. “Everyone misses you!”

“Everyone!” said Michele.

The girls huddled closer around her.

“I hope you’re better by Friday,” said Colleen. “For the leprechaun dance.”

Emma-Jean recalled the posters taped to the walls of the William Gladstone lobby, advertising the special event in celebration of St. Patrick’s Day. There would be music and dancing, food and drink. Emma-Jean had not considered buying a ticket. She imagined that the cafeteria would be crowded and loud and overheated.

“We were thinking we could all go together,” Colleen said.

“Yeah,” said Valerie.

“That’s right,” said Kaitlin.

“Together,” said Michele.

It took Emma-Jean a long moment to realize that “together” included her.

Emma-Jean opened her mouth to say no, but shut it quickly when, quite surprisingly, she nearly said the word
yes.

Did she want to go to the dance?

No, of course she did not.

“No, thank you,” she said, righting herself. “I won’t be at the dance.”

“Why not?” said Colleen.

“Yeah,” said Valerie.

“Come on!” said Kaitlin.

“You have to come!” said Michele.

“I am sorry,” Emma-Jean said.

The girls looked at one another. They exchanged shrugs and raised eyebrows and soft sighs. And then Colleen suggested that maybe they should be going.