that night.
All of us.
And suddenly it’s like a
giant bank of klieg lights
flashes on
in my head.
Anil is also
now,
and
here,
in my front doorway,
asking me out on
a date.
So is it possible that maybe,
just maybe,
Anil might be
a new now time,
like in Joey Pigza,
that bit I was reading Felix
when he
woke
up?
Anil is looking at me,
intently,
watching my face
as if his
entire life
depended on
my
answer.
Then he suddenly says,
Oh wait . . .
and digs into his pocket.
He pulls out something small
and puts it
in my hand.
I look down at what lies
in my palm.
A piece of frosty green
sea glass.
Then I look back up at him
and smile.
He smiles back,
that great shining smile of his
I’d almost forgotten,
and all at once
I can
breathe
again.
In fact, I feel light and radiant,
like a thousand tiny suns
are shining
in my heart.
Yes, I say.
ANIL
1. I feel as if gulal has just been
thrown all over me.
That I am drenched
with color.
A walking talking
incarnation of
radiant
Technicolor.
Tie-dyed.
Anointed.
Happy.
Tuesday, July 12
EMMA
We are at Gillson Beach,
the three of us,
Max, Felix, and me.
It is about five o’clock
on a hot, but not too hot,
evening in July.
Most of the sunbathers and
swimmers have gone home,
but the smell of suntan lotion lingers.
The sand is still warm and I dig
my toes in, gazing down at the
webbing of scars on my right leg.
We’re up at the top of the beach,
where the grassy area
meets the sand.
And we’re sitting on a blanket, eating
guacamole Felix made. He’s still obsessed
with guacamole, which is okay by me.
I have a date this weekend, Maxie says out of the blue.
What? I say, not sure I heard right.
A date, with Anil Sayanantham, she says.
About time, says Felix, giving Maxie a high five.
Well, hey, that’s great, I say, surprised, but at the same time happy for her.
Then I lie back on the blanket,
closing my eyes and listening to the
steady gentle sound of waves on the sand.
I can feel Maxie get up off the blanket,
then hear the click of her camera, and I open my eyes,
to see what she’s taking a photo of.
She’s pointing her camera at a bur oak tree,
and sitting on one of the branches,
is a black bird. A crow.
And for just a second my vision goes red.
I see blood smearing the surface of
Polly’s rubber crow, and I start to shake.
Emma? comes Felix’s voice.
Oh God, I’m sorry, cries Maxie, instantly lowering her camera. I didn’t think . . .
and takes my hand.
His is warm, reassuring.
It’s okay, he says, his voice definite. Crows are beautiful, Emma. Smart and strong. Survivors. Like us.
MAXIE
Emma is eating
a brownie,
and Felix is reading
a book out loud to her,
not Joey Pigza but some
new book of poetry he’s
obsessed with,
about a
hidden driveway.
It must be funny because
they’re both laughing
a lot.
I wander down to
the water and walk
along the shoreline.
I am clutching the piece of
sea glass Anil gave me.
I come to this intersection
of sand and a long promontory
of rocks
that juts out
into the lake
and spot something large-ish
sticking up
out of the sand.
I think it’s just a big rock
that’s fallen
off the seawall,
but when I look closer
I see I’m wrong.
Not quite believing
what I’m seeing,
I whip out
my camera.
Lodged in the sand,
its head at an angle,
is a stone statue.
It is worn and faded
and streaked with
seaweed and lichen,
but I can clearly see that it is a
garden gnome.
I start taking photos
from different angles,
and am so absorbed that I
don’t even notice when
Felix and Emma
come up behind me.
We wondered what you found, says Emma.
They peer at the gnome.
Excellent, says Felix, bursting out laughing.
And the three of us
sit in a semicircle
around it
while I take a few more
photos.
I kind of remember reading about this, says Emma, in the town paper, about a bunch of statues that were stolen from people’s yards and then buried in the sand at Gillson Beach. Some middle school boys playing a prank. It was last summer, back before . . . , she trails off.
Yeah, I remember, I say.
I gaze at the gnome
and think how he must’ve gotten
washed out
into the lake,
but the tide finally
brought him back
to shore.
And then I look at
Emma’s leg,
Felix’s fake eye,
and even into
my own fragile but healing heart
and think that somehow it all
fits together.
We fit together.
EMFAX.
On this day.
On this beach.
With this garden gnome.
In this new now time.
Acknowledgments
It has been a long road back and here is who I want to thank:
MELANIE, my editor and own personal white bird miracle, who said yes and asked all the right questions. I can’t imagine a finer travel companion.
RUBIN, agent extraordinaire, who took the train from Boston, bought me a Cobb salad, and told me what he would do. And he did it, with persistence, creativity, and grace.
DAVID and JACK, for bringing me back to life that night in the labyrinthine Italian restaurant. And also to Jack for his good will about using Joey Pigza. I know it’s the way I’d want to wake up from a coma.
CILLE, cousin/sister/best friend, who always believed.
VITA and MATT, who read the manuscript side by side in the sunroom and gave me two thumbs-up. And also to Matt for turning me on to the Poetry Foundation app.
TIM, for giving the green light, being glad to see me b
ack, and for his excellent taste in music.
MICHAEL, former editor, former agent, and still dearest pal, for sending me pics of Aidan Quinn and for still making me laugh.
MIRIAM, who deftly guided me through the home stretch with patience, wisdom and a keen eye.
MY OHYA LADIES—Erin, Linda, Lisa, Margaret, Rae, Natalie, and Julia—whose support and good cheer have meant the world to me.
MY TROL LADIES—Beth, Carol, Claudia, the other Edie, Kristen, Lorrie, Nancianne, Sandy, and Sylvia—amazing librarians, teachers, and passionate champions of children’s literature.
DRS. TIM RICHARDS and CHRIS SAUNDERS, for their impeccable consultation on all things medical.
CHARLES, for being my first reader and best friend.
About the Author
EDITH PATTOU is the author of the New York Times bestselling picture book, Mrs. Spitzer’s Garden, as well as three award-winning fantasy novels for young adults, including East, which was chosen one of the “100 Best of the Best Young Adult Books for the 21st Century” by the Young Adult Library Association. It was also selected an ALA Top Ten Best Book for Young Adults, an ALA Notable Children’s Book, and a School Library Journal Best Book of the Year. A former librarian and bookseller, Edith Pattou lives in Columbus, Ohio. You can visit her at www.edithpattou.com