pajamas. “She is, isn’t she Friar.”
She was certain Mémé didn’t want her to sleep in her room across the hall. Mémé wanted her to sleep in the attic, in the white cottage bed where the two of them often took afternoon naps. With Friar at her heels, she followed Mémé up the main attic staircase, hearing the sound of the stairs sighing just ahead of her, each one bearing and releasing an invisible weight.
She woke hours later to the sound of her name being called. The attic with its white floor, walls, and ceiling held the faintest light, not morning light, or moonlight, but an ethereal light.
Luessy stood at the foot of the bed looking radiant. I wasn’t as surprised to see her as she was to see me. She’d been so sure that Willow and I were the same person.
Willow stared at Mémé’s appearance. Her grandmother looked thirty years younger than Willow had ever seen her. She stood whole and solid, not floating on a wire like pretend angels in a school play, not with clouds swirling around her feet like holy cards of Jesus. She also stood taller than she had before, and her back was straight.
For every inch of Mémé’s new health, Willow felt more disfigured and alone. This Mémé wasn’t old and didn’t need a cane or pictures on her wall. This Mémé didn’t need to be read to, and she didn’t need Willow. She had plans and meant to leave and be happy away from Willow.
The younger, not-Mémé nodded toward the foot of the bed. Willow’s gaze followed the direction. Mother Moses lay folded in a thick pad, and on top lay a fresh-picked Damask rose.
Mother Moses had been down on Mémé’s bed a floor below, and Willow knew exactly where in the summer garden the Damasks bloomed. But a winter storm blew outside, and the roses had been pruned and wrapped in burlap. She looked back up. Mémé was gone.
As the heater churned in the basement and north winds buffeted, the wood, brick, and glass of Farthest House creaked and sighed.
In the morning, the sound of Papa hurrying up the stairs and into the attic startled Willow awake. Sun reflected off the snow outside, bouncing light up the three stories and over the creamy walls. Papa stepped into the attic, his face relaxing on seeing she was all right. He crossed the room and squatted beside her bed. “Willow, I have something to tell you.”
She slapped her hands over her ears. Her body wouldn’t be still. She sat up, rose to her knees and slumped, sitting back between her heels. “Where’s Friar?”
“He’s all right.” Julian’s eyes searched hers. “You know? Your grandmother has died.”
Her hands slid from her cheeks and came down together, steepled as if she meant to pray. Then her fingers spread and clasped together, and her hands formed a tight ball. Mémé wasn’t dead. Dead meant you never moved. Dead meant you were buried and turned into ashes. That’s why there was Ash Wednesday. But she’d seen Mémé young and moving, and that was different from dead. Mémé had pulled out of her old skin like a locust, leaving Willow behind. “She’s not dead.”
Julian had no soothing words for death. Losing Jeannie still hollowed out a pit in his stomach. He sat down on the bed beside Willow and stroked her sleep-tousled hair. “She loved you very much.”
Willow flopped back, away from his touch. She remembered Mother Moses and the rose. If they weren’t there, she couldn’t be sure Mémé had visited in the night. Mémé might only have been a dream, and if only a dream, then Papa was right and Mémé was dead. Never-coming-back dead. Jeannie dead. If the things were there, then Mémé was alive, maybe not in the regular way, but alive, which meant she could visit again if she wanted.
Her heart leapt, and she rolled up onto her knees again and flopped forward and stretched out, grabbing the flower and back, almost crawling into Julian’s lap. She told the story as quickly as she could—except for how Mémé’s back was
She was certain Mémé didn’t want her to sleep in her room across the hall. Mémé wanted her to sleep in the attic, in the white cottage bed where the two of them often took afternoon naps. With Friar at her heels, she followed Mémé up the main attic staircase, hearing the sound of the stairs sighing just ahead of her, each one bearing and releasing an invisible weight.
She woke hours later to the sound of her name being called. The attic with its white floor, walls, and ceiling held the faintest light, not morning light, or moonlight, but an ethereal light.
Luessy stood at the foot of the bed looking radiant. I wasn’t as surprised to see her as she was to see me. She’d been so sure that Willow and I were the same person.
Willow stared at Mémé’s appearance. Her grandmother looked thirty years younger than Willow had ever seen her. She stood whole and solid, not floating on a wire like pretend angels in a school play, not with clouds swirling around her feet like holy cards of Jesus. She also stood taller than she had before, and her back was straight.
For every inch of Mémé’s new health, Willow felt more disfigured and alone. This Mémé wasn’t old and didn’t need a cane or pictures on her wall. This Mémé didn’t need to be read to, and she didn’t need Willow. She had plans and meant to leave and be happy away from Willow.
The younger, not-Mémé nodded toward the foot of the bed. Willow’s gaze followed the direction. Mother Moses lay folded in a thick pad, and on top lay a fresh-picked Damask rose.
Mother Moses had been down on Mémé’s bed a floor below, and Willow knew exactly where in the summer garden the Damasks bloomed. But a winter storm blew outside, and the roses had been pruned and wrapped in burlap. She looked back up. Mémé was gone.
As the heater churned in the basement and north winds buffeted, the wood, brick, and glass of Farthest House creaked and sighed.
In the morning, the sound of Papa hurrying up the stairs and into the attic startled Willow awake. Sun reflected off the snow outside, bouncing light up the three stories and over the creamy walls. Papa stepped into the attic, his face relaxing on seeing she was all right. He crossed the room and squatted beside her bed. “Willow, I have something to tell you.”
She slapped her hands over her ears. Her body wouldn’t be still. She sat up, rose to her knees and slumped, sitting back between her heels. “Where’s Friar?”
“He’s all right.” Julian’s eyes searched hers. “You know? Your grandmother has died.”
Her hands slid from her cheeks and came down together, steepled as if she meant to pray. Then her fingers spread and clasped together, and her hands formed a tight ball. Mémé wasn’t dead. Dead meant you never moved. Dead meant you were buried and turned into ashes. That’s why there was Ash Wednesday. But she’d seen Mémé young and moving, and that was different from dead. Mémé had pulled out of her old skin like a locust, leaving Willow behind. “She’s not dead.”
Julian had no soothing words for death. Losing Jeannie still hollowed out a pit in his stomach. He sat down on the bed beside Willow and stroked her sleep-tousled hair. “She loved you very much.”
Willow flopped back, away from his touch. She remembered Mother Moses and the rose. If they weren’t there, she couldn’t be sure Mémé had visited in the night. Mémé might only have been a dream, and if only a dream, then Papa was right and Mémé was dead. Never-coming-back dead. Jeannie dead. If the things were there, then Mémé was alive, maybe not in the regular way, but alive, which meant she could visit again if she wanted.
Her heart leapt, and she rolled up onto her knees again and flopped forward and stretched out, grabbing the flower and back, almost crawling into Julian’s lap. She told the story as quickly as she could—except for how Mémé’s back was
Similar Books
