Words and Their Meanings (23 page)

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T
he tree outside my window is full of starlings. They cry out to one another, hundreds and hundreds of high-pitched chattering calls in a closed loop. Even with the window closed, it echoes around me.

This is my favorite part of fall. Each year, when limbs and branches go skeletal, the starlings return for a week or so, fluttering in and out of our tree, soaring together in breathing black clouds. Sameera told me once this is called murmuration. I love that word. It feels like a feather, floating slow to the ground.

I watch the window a while, until Bea runs outside and tosses an orange ball, scattering the birds. She twirls around and around, looking up, laughing, as they swoop and dive and sway skywards.

Reaching up to touch the glass, I wince. The soft spot on my left inner arm itches like mad, and I don't dare scratch it. Under the Post-it-size white bandage there, the skin is still red and puffy.

Art is an accurate statement

of the time in which it is made.

These words have become my permanent daily verse. Two lines of small typeface quoting Robert Mapplethorpe, Patti Smith's first love and eternal best friend. Her keeper
of secrets.

Nat went with me on my eighteenth birthday, held my hand, all the while claiming that not throwing a hissy about my decision to get a real tattoo was a present in itself. Mom cried a little when I pulled up the green sleeve on my Sarah Lawrence hoodie and showed her what I'd done. But she didn't lecture, or get mad or even roll her eyes. Instead, she took a deep breath, said she liked the quote choice, and
reminded me to take the dishes out of the dishwasher.

“Anna-mana-bo-fana-fee-fi-mo-manna—”

Bea skips into my room, still twirling.

“We have an hour,” she says between pirouettes. “Will you rake leaves into a giant pile for me? We can jump in them, and then, when Dad gets here to pick us up, I'm gonna hide inside the pile and jump out and scare him! Oh, and do you think Josie is gonna wail when she sits on Santa's lap, like I did when I was little?”

“You've cried every year. It's our day-after-Thanksgiving tradition,” I interrupt, jabbing her playfully in the ribs.

“What? The mall Santa is gross and smells like boogers,” she says with a shrug. “I'm a big sister now, though, so I'll be cool. But you'll be there, right?”

“Of course.” Dad's almost as clumsy with a four-month-old as Lori, who dumped my dad in a postpartum haze. She claimed he had way too much baggage. Bea thinks Lori gave him the boot because Dad let his black curls turn salt and pepper, and ditched the Corvette for a shiny blue minivan. I think it's all the time he's been spending over here.

“So can you help me make a leaf pile now?”

“I would, Buzz, but I'm short on time. I have a couple errands I need to run.”

She crosses her arms and sticks out her bottom lip.

“Go ask Mom. She wanted the yard raked.”

She stomps out the door, but a second later I hear “Mom!” followed by “Yipee!” and then the slam of our fron
t door.

Pictures of the last three months are scattered across my desk. Seniors, I'm learning, document every second of life. I brush aside pics of Nat and me dancing at Homecoming; of the day I pixie-cut my hair, which is more mousey brown than black these days; of Mom and me visiting Bronxville, New York, where I'll be a freshman at Sarah Lawrence next fall. This picture is my favorite, taken minutes after I rocked the interview so hard they bumped my application to the top of the early decision Y-E-S pile. My arms are spread open wide, my head is tilting up to the sun, and Mom's clapping beside me, hints of laugh lines creasing her eyes.

The Patti grid above my desk is gone. The only thing hanging there now is a small pencil drawing. It arrived a month ago in a manila envelope. It's a girl's face, wild hair falling down over one eye. I recognized the expression. It's me, looking at Mateo. A replica of the photo he took with my camera. On the back, in his slanted handwriting, it says, “Still needs a title. Let me know when you decide what it should be.”

Two letters sit unsealed on the corner of my desk. The first is addressed to Mrs. Risson, just two miles from here. The second is addressed to New York. The New York-bound letter is thick, page upon page of little details and big stories. (How my dad and Lori broke up, how my mom is going back to work, how Bea got a standing ovation at the school talent show. Her magic act included pulling a live bunny from a hat. The bunny's name is Houdini and now lives, mostly cage-free, in her bedroom.) It also contains a few careful truths: turns out Don't-Call-Me-Doctor Liza isn't so bad. Your picture is still up in the alley. It's still my favorite.

We haven't spoken in months. But he'll be home soon for holiday break. So I end the letter by telling him I've finally titled the drawing he sent. I kept changing my mind on what to call it. “Fragile Magnets.” “Mirrors.” “It was a moment.” But all those words could mean different things to him. So I opted for simple. Clear. “I miss you. Come see me.”

Mrs. Risson's envelope doesn't have any pages inside. Instead, it has a cheap jump drive. If she plugs it into her computer, she'll find every assignment I blew off my junior year. Not because I want her to change my old grade or anything. I just want her to know I did them.

I seal both and set them on a large cardboard box on the floor next to Patti's book,
Just Kids.
I've read it several times now, because I love how she tells her truth, and because her words still sit warm and heavy in the depths of my chest.

Walking outside, I see Bea diving into a growing leaf pile, throwing up handfuls of red and orange and brown. Mom's leaning on the rake, laughing.

“Hey,” she calls to me. “What's in the box?”

I stop in front of my car and glance down at the box in my arms. It's big, but weighs almost nothing. The envelopes still sit on top.

“Just some papers. I have to go to the post office and then run a quick errand. I'll be back before Dad gets here.”

Mom nods and turns her attention back to Bea, who swims through a sea of crunching leaves.

Driving downtown, I keep the windows down. Air rushes against my hands and cheeks. When I get to the post office, there are only three people in front of me. I sort of wish the line could be longer. My palms sweat against the envelopes. The clerk weighs them, stamps them and before I can think twice, drops them into a slot in the counter. She doesn't even pause to see my reaction as she calls, “Next!”

I step aside. One errand down. One to go.

The river is a steely gray today. It matches the sky. Yellow knit beret yanked down over my ears, I get out, open th
e back door of my car, and pull the box from the seat.

A few days after Gramps died, Dad and I were at his house, going through some of his things. I found the box of five hundred paper cranes he finished just before Joe died. I asked Dad if I could have it. Later, when Mom and Bea were sleeping, I snuck down to the basement and retrieved a similar box of Joe's. It had three hundred and ninety-two cranes. At night, when I can't sleep, I've been slowly adding to his collection, and yesterday, I hit five hundred.

One thousand paper cranes. Some stories say they grant one thousand years of prosperity. Some claim eternal good luck. Others promise a wish, or good health to those who fall ill.

Reaching the middle of the bridge feels like reaching the climax in a story arc. I'm at the top of the mountain. Nowhere to go but down.

In this case, down is okay.

It means I'm free.

The breeze picks up just as I reach the center. Cars whiz east and west, drivers mostly staring straight ahead. I wonder where they're going, who they are going to see. One slows down to make sure I'm not dumping a body or something. I lean over the edge. The waters of the Grey Iron move fast, swirl in strange currents, as if waiting for something. Above me, a steady stream of charcoal clouds moves like a sky river in the opposite direction.

For a second I'm frozen here, holding a box of memories, watching water and sky. And then, without fanfare or a big shift of psyche, I turn the box upside down. I watch cranes dive and swing and catch in the air. I watch as it rains a thousand different colors. I watch as a flock of stories lands in the river. Just as I turn to leave, I see one last paper bird laying at my feet. I hold it in the palm of my hand.

One paper bird means something different than a thousand birds together, just like one piece of a life, one memory, is never the whole story. We are made of secrets and contradictions, stardust and possibilities.

My instinct is to tuck this red crane in my jacket and go home, put it on a shelf, and remember. But I lift my hand high and wait. A gust answers. The bird flies from my fingers. It darts in the wind. When I can no longer see it sailing downriver, I take a purple marker from my coat pocket and pull up my sleeve as far as it will go. I need room to write, as I start to scribble against my skin:

Everyone gets one last line. But first lines, stories of love and loss and hope floating on backs of paper cranes? We choose how many of those we get to tell.

All we have to do is breathe deep. Breathe life in.

My eyes slip closed, and I do. I breathe. I breathe. I breathe.

Acknowledgments

This book exists because of the people in my life who never let me stop rewriting my story.

To my agent, Sarah Davies, thank you for believing in me and in the heart of this book. Sarah cares for those who grow in her Greenhouse with a fierce passion and I am lucky to be a part of her community. To Brian Farrey-Latz, who loves Anna's story as much as I do and passed that love to the entire Flux team. This book could not have a better home.

Alison DeCamp is the kind of friend a writer dreams of having. Thank you for pushing me, saving my sanity, and having a great teenager to be my first official reader (thanks, Anna!). My critiquers, who are also dear friends—Caroline Starr Rose, Valerie Geary, Taryn Albright, Emily Meier, Molly Baker, and bookseller extraordinaire Katie Capaldi—all had such valuable insights. Also, fellow Greenhouser Tess Sharpe, whose sharp eyes and wise thoughts kept me accountable and brave.

I'm forever indebted to the educators and co-workers who made me a writer. Louise Harrison, my high school creative writing teacher, is the reason (still, almost two decades later) I believe in words. Through countless books of poems and short stories, thousands of Hershey Kisses, and more patience than a patron saint, she served as the guide I needed to find my true voice. Skip Renker is the best college professor anyone could ever ask for, and quite literally saved my life by helping me find my words again. For fourteen years now, my Harbor Light Newspaper family has proved writing can be such a joy-filled career. What a gift it is to work with folks who love words, and each other, so much.

Even at my angst-filled teenage worst, my parents, Max and Pat Spaulding, and my brother Zach, still turned up for every poetry reading. Their support has never wavered and I am beyond grateful. This book is yours as much as mine. As an adult, I can still be oh-so-difficult, especially when drafting a novel.

There will never be an adjective strong enough to describe the wonder of my husband, Justin. And finally, Noah, Max, and Elizabeth—you have shown me time and time again the gift of new first lines. Being your mom will always be my greatest joy.

© Charles O'Neill

About the Author

Kate Bassett (Harbor Springs, MI) is the Michigan Press Association award-winning editor of her small town's paper,
Harbor Light News
, and a contributing writer for the magazine
Traverse
. She has covered Mount Everest climbers,
New York Times
bestselling authors, and pet pig obituaries with the same philosophy for eleven years: voice matters.