Chapter Eight
Eight
A Pearl of Wisdom
from Tenn Greenlee
“As much as I love Gilbert and Sullivan, the best music around is birdsong. It’s a proven fact that listening to it is good for your mental health and well-being.”
Juliet
I woke up the next morning to a soft tap at the door and faint light slipping under the window shade.
“Come in,” I said, sitting up. I dragged the covers up to my chin, then tried to rub the sleep out of my eyes.
“Juliet!” Still in her pajamas, Katy tiptoed toward me, the movements deliberate and theatrical. She looked like a cartoon burglar sneaking through a house. “Are you awake yet?”
I closed my eyes and flopped back on the pillow. “Nope!”
Katy giggled and climbed onto the bed. Last night, Tallulah had let Katy sleep in her own room, which I took as a sign that she was starting to trust me.
At least a little. Which was enough. It had also been when Katy introduced me to her stuffed animal collection, lovingly telling me about each animal.
Which I took as a sign that Katy trusted me. Which was everything.
I’d taken particular interest in the platypus named Cal. It was, as I’d suspected, quite cute.
“Papaw’s back is still throwed out,” she said. “Can you walk me to camp today?”
“I sure can.”
“Can we leave a little early and stop by Miss Vera’s to see if Daisy is out?”
It had taken the veritable village last night to get Vera Ingleby’s garage apartment whipped into shape for Jake and Daisy, but we’d gotten the job done in less than two hours.
After coming back here, I’d spent an hour or so answering texts from my family, who wanted to talk about the teddy bear picnic, because Amy, the blabbermouth, had spilled all the tea.
My sister had also told them about Tenn, which set off a string of creepy-old-man memes from the twins and safety suggestions from my mother, as though she hadn’t already given them to me when I left on the road trip.
After a while, I’d had enough, so I texted the family chat that Tenn was a sweet, kind man; that I hadn’t recalled any other memories; and that I was tired so was going to sleep. Then I put my phone on Do Not Disturb.
I still didn’t tell them about my car.
Apparently, its catalytic converter had died. When Callum called last night, he’d told me he didn’t know how long the repair would take, because it depended on how soon he could get a replacement. It was a pricey fix, but necessary, and he said he’d give me the family discount.
I’d asked, “Are you allowed to do that?”
“Of course. Didn’t you read your contract? It’s in the fine print.”
“I think I need to borrow Tenn’s magnifying goggles and take a closer look at that fine print.”
He’d laughed, and after we hung up, I found I was still smiling.
There was just something about him.
I wasn’t worried about how long the fix would take. Not really. I already had my heart set on staying until the Flour Festival, which was weeks away.
“Sure, we can stop and see Daisy,” I said, smiling, because Katy sure did love that dog.
“And can you do my hair like yours?”
I ran a hand over my braid, completely loose and falling apart at the moment from sleeping on it. “If it’s okay with your mom.” I didn’t want to overstep.
Outside, birds were singing their dawn chorus, which I wish lasted all day long.
I sat up again and glanced at the old digital clock on the wooden nightstand.
Glowing red numbers told me it was a little past six in the morning.
Much too early to be thinking about camp, which started at nine thirty. An eternity from now.
I must’ve groaned a little because Katy leaned in. “Did you have a bad dream, too?”
I searched her small heart-shaped face. “You had a bad dream?”
She nodded and stared at her toes, then began picking off their polish. “I don’t like them.”
Oh my heart. “I don’t like bad dreams, either. Do you remember what yours was about? Sometimes it helps to talk about it.”
She shook her head and adjusted her glasses, pushing them up the bridge of her nose. “Do you remember what your dream was about?”
I wasn’t sure why she was so certain I’d had a dream at all. But she was right. I’d had one.
“Mine wasn’t a bad dream,” I said as the air conditioner rattled awake, shimmying and clanking. “It was just a dream. Or it might’ve been a memory. I’m not sure.”
“Why aren’t you sure?”
I wrinkled my nose. “My memory isn’t the best. I can’t really remember my childhood, and my dream was from when I was little. About your age.”
In it, the twins had been sick all week and my mom had to miss work to care for them—something she didn’t like to do because she hated falling behind.
All her focus had been on the boys and trying to get them well.
Dad had been traveling for work. Amy and Eric were away at college.
I’d walked on eggshells around the house.
Trying to help. Trying to stay out of the way. Feeling invisible.
Grandpa had walked me to the bus stop as usual, and I’d dragged myself the whole way, quiet and yearning for something I didn’t quite understand at that age.
I hadn’t been at school too long before I was called to the office, where Grandpa waited, all smiles.
He was dressed in long shorts and a T-shirt that said #1 GRANDPA that stretched over a slightly rounded stomach.
His silvery hair was combed back, and there was a gleam in his eyes that had me skipping toward him, not a worry in the world.
He’d told the school that I had a doctor’s appointment and would be gone for a while.
But we didn’t go to an appointment. We’d driven to the zoo.
We spent hours there, wandering from exhibit to exhibit.
I ate ice cream and a warm pretzel with gooey cheese sauce and rode a carousel horse and talked his ear off.
Grandpa made sure we returned before school dismissal and swore me to secrecy about our day out and about.
“School is important,” he’d said as he walked me back into the building, his voice like a big hug, “but sometimes what you’re supposed to do isn’t what you should do. Some days it’s more important to take care of yourself. Your heart. Your mind. Understand?”
Now, Katy tipped her head. “How do you find out if you remembered or if you just dreamed?”
Her blond hair was tousled, some of it tangled, and I hoped her nightmare hadn’t led to a full night of tossing and turning.
With the thought came a vague image. Of me as a little girl standing in a bathroom as someone combed my hair, gently teasing loose knots.
Older hands. The tops were sprinkled in coarse hair, the knuckles slightly swollen, the skin sun-spotted and deeply lined. Grandpa’s hands?
“I can ask my family,” I finally said, trying to focus on the here and now. “They might know.”
“I hope it was a memory.” She pulled the covers around her like she planned to stay awhile.
The air conditioner cycled off, allowing the birdsong to filter through once again. “Why’s that?”
“Because remembering it made you happy.”
A sudden rush of emotion made my chest ache, my throat tighten, my nose sting. I nodded. “It did.”
How could I have forgotten him? Why had I forgotten?
But I knew why, didn’t I?
My gaze skipped over the two feathers on the nightstand as I checked the time: 6:12. “I suppose I should get up and get ready. What’re you doing at camp today?”
Her face fell. Completely crumpled.
“Hey now,” I said, tipping up her chin. “What’s wrong?”
“I wish I could stay home today.”
“Why? I thought you liked camp.” When we ate dinner last night, she had excitedly told us about the scavenger hunt they’d done yesterday, culminating in a tussle over a wooden idol, Survivor style.
“I do. But we’re canoeing today.” Her lower lip twisted, and her hands balled up.
Clearly she did not want to canoe.
I nudged her with my elbow. “Afraid of paddles?”
She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth lifted. “No.”
“Can you swim?” I asked.
She nodded and pulled her knees to her chest, then wrapped her arms around her legs. “It’s not that. I just don’t want to canoe today, but Mama says sometimes we have to do things we don’t want.”
Somewhere below us, Mary Joy whimpered. A soft cry. Not the ticked-off screams from last night. The poor thing had just wanted a nap. I’d had many of those days myself.
With a burst of energy, Katy scooted off the bed. “I’m going to go ask Mama about my hair.”
I smiled as she skipped away, then flopped back onto the pillows, which caused the feathers on the nightstand to scatter. I gathered them up, running my fingers along the soft barbs, my mind spinning.
Thinking about Katy not wanting to go to camp today.
Thinking about the dream I’d had.
And how maybe, for Katy, this was a day better spent taking care of herself. Her gentle heart. And her curious, wonderful little mind.