Swan Sister (11 page)

“No, please.” Dr. Munder spoke gently. “Go on.”

“Well. He died several months ago. Sudden illness. A little cough—you think it’s nothing. Well. It wasn’t nothing.”

“How frightening. I have a little cough myself.”

“We’d only been married a short time. Whirlwind romance, very passionate, you understand?”

Dr. Munder coughed. “I wonder . . . Maybe I’ll see the school nurse. This cough. Just in case.”

“I didn’t have children—never wanted them, frankly—but when Ava came with the package, so to speak, I was pleased. We didn’t click right away, but I figured, give it time. Well, I tried—I tried hard. I got her a new wardrobe. Oh, I know she has to wear a uniform to school, but I got her beautiful weekend clothes and barrettes for her hair. She has very long hair—I saw her come out of the shower—it’s down below her waist. Did you know that?”

“No,” Dr. Munder said. “We ask that our girls wear their hair off their faces, off their necks.”

“But she wears her hair like that at home, too—even at night! Does she ever wear anything I got for her? No. She had this old blanket, practically in shreds. Now she
has a down quilt. I’ve created a dream-come-true bedroom for her, with a canopy bed and lace curtains. Does she spend any time there? No. She sits in the
attic
—that musty old place!”

“Perhaps she misses her real mother.”

“She was only an infant when her real mother died. Her poor father had to raise her all by himself. That was why he was so happy, so grateful for me. He and his daughter were very close, but when the girl turned thirteen last year, he felt she needed a woman to talk to. Well. If he only knew!”

Ava was summoned to the room. Dr. Munder had fluffy hair you could see through. Ava sat in a wooden chair next to her stepmother, who adjusted herself in a swivel chair, crossing her long, slender legs at the ankles.

“Ava, is this true, that you won’t talk to your stepmother?” Dr. Munder asked.

Ava shrugged.

“You see? You see?” Ava’s stepmother was a beautiful woman, even in anger, with high, chiseled cheekbones and large, dark eyes.

Ava, in the attic, watched the sun dip below the tree line. Sparrows and blue jays and even a cardinal flew by, from branch to leafy branch. She liked sparrows because they looked sturdy, and she liked blue jays, too, even their harsh voices. Cardinals, with their shocking redness, might be the most beautiful of all.

But that day a different bird showed up and sat right
on the windowsill. It wasn’t much to look at. It was little and round, and had a light brown breast with dark streaks of brown, and darker wings with even darker streaks of brown. It tilted its head at her, stared at her with eyes that were bright and alert.

“Little brown bird,” she heard herself say. “Are you hungry?”

The bird looked at the windowsill and flew away.

She ran downstairs to the kitchen, got a slice of bread, and came back to the attic. She tore apart the bread and placed several small pieces on the windowsill.

The little brown bird came back. It ate the pieces of bread and then stared at her.

“More?”

The bird flew away again.

This time she got several slices of bread. Lined up the pieces, and waited. But the bird didn’t come back. She put the bread away in a plastic bag.

That night she looked up the bird in one of her father’s books—all she had left of him, except for a few photographs. He’d been a bird-watcher and for years belonged to a group that went outside in the early hours with mosquito nets and binoculars. So. It was a house finch—female, because the males had a bright red forehead. So. The bird was a
she
.

The next afternoon Ava sat at the windowsill with the pieces of bread all lined up and ready. It was a beautiful fall day, cool and glowing.

The little brown bird came back.

“Hello! Are you hungry?”

The bird ate every piece. This time she didn’t fly away, but sat there looking at Ava.

“More?”

“No,” the bird said.

Well.

“Are you really talking?” Ava said, “or am I crazy?”

“I don’t have time for this,” the bird said, and flew away.

By dinnertime, Ava had convinced herself she had imagined the whole thing—including the tiny bird’s surprisingly deep, vibrant voice. As always, she ate in silence, cleared the table, loaded up the dishwasher.

“Honestly, Ava,” her stepmother said. “He was my best friend too! You’re not the only one who wishes . . . wishes for something she can’t have.”

Ava went to her room. She slept in a sleeping bag on top of her mattress. She didn’t like the new puffy quilt—it was too soft, too warm. She missed her old blue cotton blanket. And that new paisley wallpaper . . . it hurt her eyes to look at it.

The next day she went to the attic, spread out the bread. The bird came, and ate, and stared at her.

“All right, maybe I’m not crazy,” Ava said. “Maybe you can talk.”

“I can talk. Maybe not excessively, but when necessary.”

That sounded familiar.

“You don’t understand,” the bird said. “Every time, they have to convince themselves they’re not crazy. It’s so tedious.”

“So you’ve spoken to other people?”

“As I told you. When necessary.”

“Why is it necessary now?”

The bird shook her head and flew away again. Such impatience! Ava would have to be careful. Maybe not ask so many questions.

Ava sat quietly while the bird ate the bread.

“All right, then,” said the bird. “You may now ask for three wishes.”

“I knew it! You’re enchanted, and this is your punishment! You’re a princess or something, horribly trapped in a tiny bird’s body!”

“I am
not.
”

Ava had ruffled her feathers, so to speak. “I didn’t mean
trapped
.”

“Never mind. Let’s move on.”

Three wishes. But she had only one. “Could you—”

“No.”

“But I miss him so much.”

The bird said nothing.

Ava thought awhile, but not for too long, given the bird’s extreme lack of patience. “I wish I had my old room back, the way it was. I hate what my stepmother’s done to it—it’s like something in a magazine, all fancy and frilly.”

“Have you told her that you don’t like your new room?”

Ava shrugged. “Not exactly.”

“Never mind. Tomorrow you shall have your wish.” With that, the bird flew off.

When Ava got home from school the next day, she couldn’t believe it. Her room was her room again! There was a blue cotton blanket, almost identical to the one her stepmother had gotten rid of, and plain curtains fluttering in the window, and even the horrible paisley wallpaper had been papered over—with a lovely design, clouds and blue sky.

At dinner, she didn’t say a word.

“I don’t know what possessed me,” her stepmother said, as if Ava had asked. “I had so many things to do today, and instead I changed your room all around, back to the way it used to be. Do you like it?”

Ava nodded.

Ava couldn’t wait to tell the bird all about her room, but of course the bird knew. “Thank you, thank you,” she said. “It’s perfect!”

“Don’t thank me. I wasn’t the one who stood on stepladders and put up new wallpaper.”

“But—”

“Next wish,” the bird said.

She didn’t have one ready. Her new room, and how happy and comfortable she felt in it, had occupied all her thoughts. She had to think. . . . “I hate all the clothes my stepmother bought—slinky pants with shiny studs, suede shirts with fringes, hair barrettes that weigh about ten pounds. I wish I had my old stuff back.”

“Have you told her you don’t like these new things?”

Ava shrugged. “Not exactly.”

“Never mind. Tomorrow you shall have your wish.”

Ava, home from school, rushed to her closet. Amazing! These were clothes she would have bought for herself—they were her taste
exactly
. Flannel shirts, sweatshirts, T-shirts, pants with deep pockets.

“It happened again,” her stepmother said at dinner. “I had so much to do, but I didn’t do any of it. Instead I donated all your clothes to charity and bought you new clothes, like what you used to wear. Do you like them?”

Ava nodded.

“I suppose . . . Well. My mother was always buying my clothes, arranging my room. She said she knew better than I did what a young lady needed. It never occurred to me to question her, so when it came to you . . . Well. I just assumed. But, after all, they’re your clothes, and it’s your room, isn’t it?”

She nodded again.

In the attic Ava couldn’t wait to tell the bird how pleased she was. “Thank you, thank you!” she gushed.

“Don’t thank me. I wasn’t the one who stood on long lines to buy you all those new things.”

“But—”

“Last wish,” the bird said.

Again Ava didn’t have one ready. She had to think. “I wish . . . I wish I had someone to talk to!”

“Tomorrow you shall have your wish.”

Ava couldn’t sleep that night. What would the bird
come up with? Maybe a new student would show up at school. She would sit next to Ava, of course, and they would hit it off right away. Or maybe one of the girls already at school would decide, out of the blue, to become her best friend. Or maybe the elderly couple in the house next door would move out, and a new family would move in with a girl exactly Ava’s age. . . .

None of those things happened.

After school Ava went to the attic with several pieces of bread, but the bird never showed up. She felt cheated.
Three
wishes, the bird had promised! Three, not two!

Ava sulked at dinner.

“What’s wrong?” her stepmother asked. “You look upset.”

Ava said nothing.

That night she lay on her bed. Even in the darkness, something shiny caught her eye. There was something on top of her bureau, something that hadn’t been there before. She got up. It was . . . a hairbrush. With a large silver handle. She ran her fingers over the bristles—not too stiff, not too soft. Exactly right.

She went downstairs and stood right in front of her stepmother, who was on the living room couch, reading.

“Did you get this for me?”

“Oh! Oh! You scared me half to death!” Her stepmother took several deep breaths. “Oh. That’s better. Honestly, Ava, it was so quiet, and you haven’t said a word in so long—” She looked at what Ava had in her hand. “Well. That hairbrush. It belonged to my mother. I
thought . . . I don’t know what I thought. I just saw it, and the next thing you know I put it in your room.”

“It’s wonderful,” Ava said.

Her stepmother watched as Ava pulled an elastic band out of her hair. Ava had thick, gleaming, golden hair that covered her like a blanket. “Oh, Ava. You’ve let your hair down.”

“Could you brush it?”

Her stepmother stood behind her and brushed—not too rough, not too light. Exactly right. And as she brushed, Ava talked and talked—the words spilled out of her. Her stepmother didn’t say much. But Ava could tell she was listening with all her heart.

L
OIS
M
ETZGER
admits, “I’ve always been fascinated by ‘Rapunzel.’ A wicked witch holds a young girl prisoner at the top of a tower. To get to the girl, the witch calls out, ‘Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!’ The lonely, unhappy girl lets her long hair spill out a tiny window and down the length of the tower, and the witch climbs up. In the story for this book, a lonely, unhappy girl is also hidden away—inside herself. But, unlike Rapunzel, when this girl finally lets her hair down, so to speak, she frees herself.”

L
OIS
M
ETZGER
has written many short stories and several novels for young adults, including the award-winning
Missing Girls
. She lives in New York City with her husband, the writer Tony Hiss, and their son, Jacob.