Chapter 19
BIRTHDAY WISHES
Isit on the bench in the Midnight Garden, playing with a fallen ribbon.
I rub the delicate fabric between my fingers and stare at the pond, no longer choked with fallen leaves.
Its dark, glassy surface reflects the twisted silver tree behind me.
Several of its limbs are still tied with ribbon like the one in my hand.
I wonder what they were tied for? Protection? Remembrance? Wishes?
If I could make a wish right now, what would it be about? The portrait, which remains a mystery? Or perhaps it would be about the boy I’ve been investigating the mystery with.
Just like the Vandenbergs.
Just like my mother.
Or, possibly, Elijah.
Was Molly the girl from my dream? I’ve read my journal entry a thousand times, but I haven’t shared it with Jude.
Over the past eight days, as we’ve sifted through his family’s sweeping archives—letters and journals sorted by century but rarely in order—I’ve kept this morsel of information to myself.
If he’s still operating under the assumption that the subject of Ezra’s Obsession is one of my relatives from the past, he’s not going to accept the idea of me having dreams about tragedies long ago.
I twist the ribbon around my thumb.
Early evening sunlight filters through branches, casting shifting shadows along the cobbled path.
Mushrooms and bloodroot bloom between the stones.
But the thick tangle of weeds has been cleared away.
Several days ago, the news became official.
The Vandenberg Estate would host this year’s Hunter’s Moon Masquerade Ball.
Upon the announcement, Dad acquired a three-man crew and they’ve been getting the grounds into tiptop shape ever since.
The smell of autumn weaves through the crisp evening air.
It’s the eve of October.
The best month of the year.
But I feel restless and out of sorts.
Jude and I have been carpooling to school. Eating lunch at the same table. Sitting next to one another in U.S. History. And I’ve discovered none of the adages hold true.
When it comes to Jude Vandenberg, proximity and exposure haven’t dulled his appeal.
The shine hasn’t worn off.
The magic hasn’t faded.
Familiarity has not bred contempt.
On the contrary, every moment with him is kindling, fueling a fire deep down in my abdomen that sometimes burns so hot, I feel like I might crawl out of my skin if he doesn’t touch me already.
But he never does. He doesn’t even reach, leaving me to wonder if the things I feel are completely lopsided.
But then, what about the wounded expression he wore when he dropped me off this afternoon?
I failed to mention the significance of today, and he caught wind of it after school.
Would he have looked so hurt if I was just some girl he was doing research with?
“What a sad little picture you make Selah Whitlock.”
I look up from the ribbon.
Rafe has stepped out of the shadows, impeccably dressed as always, twirling a small clover between his fingers. He sits next to me on the bench. “Clutching your ribbon like a love-struck maiden.”
I ignore him.
I wasn’t lying to Jude in The Cobbler last Sunday. When it comes to Rafe, this really is the best course of action.
He leans close. “Funny, isn’t it? You sitting here, thinking about him. Him somewhere in there, thinking about you.”
I stare resolutely at the pond.
“Wondering why he hasn’t swept you off your feet yet?”
My spine stiffens. How in the world could he possibly know what I’ve been thinking?
“He’s probably brooding about it. My poor, lonely cousin does love to brood. Tell me, sweetheart, do you think he’s being moody and mysterious, or is he just hot and bothered?”
I turn and glare. “What do you want?”
“I want to help. You’re pining. Jude’s pining.
But you must remember, the poor boy has spent the last six years attending an all-boys boarding school.
” Rafe shudders, like the very idea is torture.
“I’m not convinced he knows what he’s doing.
Which means you might have to make the first move.
Or …” He crawls his fingers along the backrest of the bench and extends his arm long behind me.
“We could help him along by making him jealous.”
He nips my ear.
Actually nips my ear.
With his teeth.
My response comes like a reflex.
I slap him across the face.
Then I surge to my feet, my palm stinging.
Rafe rubs his cheek, and I remember him from a fevered dream, turning into a werewolf.
Thankfully, when he removes his hand and looks up at me, his eyes aren’t red.
They’re as blue as ever, sparkling with that infuriating amusement.
He cocks his head slightly, examining me in that way he often does.
Like I’m a puzzling riddle, and he isn’t used to being stumped.
“Ouch,” he says, his lips curling into a pout.
“Why was your car at the football game on Friday?” I ask.
He gives his eyebrows a wag. “Were you looking for me?”
“What would compel you to attend a high school football game in Foggy Hollow?”
“I think the better question is, what wouldn’t compel me to attend a high school football game in Foggy Hollow?” He stands with a devilish grin, hands me the clover, and leans close to my ear again. “Happy birthday, sweet Selah. I hope you get everything you wish for.”
With that, he strolls away.
When he’s gone, I look down at his gift.
It isn’t just a clover. It’s a four-leaf clover. Only it’s not green, but yellow with curling leaves.
A lucky charm on the brink of death.
Dad and I step inside the Calloway’s split-level home, immediately engulfed in the glorious scent of homemade chili and cinnamon rolls.
He claps Twig on the shoulder, then follows his nose up the short flight of stairs to the main floor.
Twig looks down at me with a smile. “You’ve been obsessed with Mexican food lately, right? Maybe some tamales?”
I swat his arm. “Don’t you dare.”
He laughs as we join the others in the kitchen.
Compared to our former trailer home, it always felt so big.
But in actuality, the Calloway kitchen is small and cozy, separated from the dining room by a bar counter lined with mismatching stools.
On one side, Mrs. Calloway moves about, an impressive multitasker.
On the other, their well-loved dining table, already set with a basket of cornbread, sits under the glow of a hanging light.
Dad gives Mrs. Calloway flowers.
She gushes over the grocery store bouquet, then asks Kate to put them in a vase while she stirs the chili simmering on the stove and flips the bacon sizzling on the griddle.
The kitchen is a war zone of food. My birthday dinner has turned into a smorgasbord of oddity, with the same standard main dish, and a growing collection of random sides.
It started innocently enough.
On my twelfth birthday, over a meal of chili and cornbread, Twig casually mentioned I like my chili with cinnamon rolls.
On my thirteenth birthday, cinnamon rolls joined the fare.
That also happened to be the year I was obsessed with Red Lantern, a hole in the wall sushi bar that was never destined to succeed in a town like Foggy Hollow.
But man, did I do my best to keep it afloat.
Twig made another innocent comment, and lo and behold, there was a tray of sushi from Red Lantern on my fourteenth birthday.
At this point, Twig had caught on, and—being an avid fan of bacon—made a more strategic comment.
Last year, Kate joined the fun and insisted I couldn’t live without egg rolls.
Mrs. Calloway asks her children to set the table, but not me. The birthday girl isn’t allowed to lift a finger. So I sit on one of the stools while Kate and Twig move in and out of the kitchen and Dad and Mr. Calloway talk about cars and the weather and the grounds at the Vandenberg Estate.
I find myself gazing at their refrigerator, an explosion of quirky magnets and motherly pride.
There’s Twig’s official invite to the STEM symposium at CMU, along with the science fair ribbon he won in middle school.
There’s Kate’s spelling bee certificate from fifth grade, a playbill from her last show, and a team photo from cheer camp.
There’s also a car repair schedule for Mr. Calloway’s shop, a rotary magnet, and a family photo from their trip to Gatlinburg last spring.
Twig towers over them all. Carl, Kelly, Kate.
And Spencer—the only one without a Cuh name.
Unintentional, for sure. But just one more way in which he feels other.
No matter how much they love him, he can’t quite escape it.
Mrs. Calloway hands him a sushi platter from Kroger.
“Ah,” Twig says. “The finest sushi in all of West Virginia.”
“I’m not about to make it myself. You know how nervous I get about raw fish. The last thing I want is for anyone to get sick on Selah’s birthday.”
“Mom,” he says, completely deadpan. “It’s imitation crab meat.”
Mr. Calloway grabs a beer from the refrigerator. “Hey Spence, you know why crabs don’t share their food, right?”
He waits a short beat, his eyebrows raised as he holds back the punchline.
We stare at him warily.
“Because they’re all a little shellfish!”
Groans ensue.
Mr. Calloway laughs.
So does Dad, which is something I don’t often see.
I enjoy seeing it now, despite this ache inside I can’t quite shake.
You would think I’d relish my birthday. But it always comes with a bout of melancholy.
It’s a somber holiday, like Good Friday at St. Oswald’s, only Dad and the Calloways try really hard to make it festive.
The thing is, my birthday makes me think of Mom.
Is she alive out there somewhere? And if she is, is she thinking of me—her peaceful pause?
As soon as I was born, did the demons latch back on?
I set my chin in my hand.