Part 4 (1/2)

”Who is Penelope's daughter?”

She shrugged. ”She never said. Maybe it's a friend she used to know. Poor woman.”

Penelope's daughter. Strange. Maybe the braided girl was right, that it was an old friend. Or maybe it was nonsense.

Once the lunch was over and the chairs were stacked away, Christopher told me that Mary had been coming to the shelter for about a month and she seemed to be suffering from dementia.

I guess I sort of knew how she felt. But I decided if I saw her again, I'd ask her about Penelope's daughter. Maybe I could help her figure out what she was looking for.

There was nothing I could do to make up for everything I'd done, but if I could help just one person finish these next six months better off than she started them, that would be something.

Home.

My mother used to make pancakes every Sunday morning. After she died, my dad avoided the kitchen each week. Now that I was home, I decided to reinstate the Sunday tradition.

I put a kettle of water to boil on the stove and then I looked out the window. Tommy was sitting in the chestnut tree, holding a fis.h.i.+ng pole.

Tommy. I thought of all the things he'd been through in his short life and all the loss he'd experienced. He was so confused about where I'd gone and why I was suddenly back. I owed him more than I was giving him. Maybe not an explanation, but I had to try to make it better.

I watched as he balanced on a thick branch, raising his fis.h.i.+ng pole and swis.h.i.+ng it forward and back. Ten o'clock to two o'clock. I smiled. He was giving his latest batch of homemade flies a ”test run.”

I put a tea bag in my mug and set it on the counter. Then I went outside, creeping around the side of the house to where the chestnut tree towered over our tall wooden fence.

Tommy didn't see me at first. I watched him send a cast out, expertly avoiding branches and flowers. I couldn't think of any other ten-year-old who would consider this a fun Sunday morning, but Tommy always was different from other kids in the neighborhood, and sometimes those other kids teased him for it.

I looked at the rough bark on the tree and the wooden slats nailed into the trunk for climbing. I used to climb the tree too, with Jules. We would sit at the top, where the summer pruning created perfect flat seats. We'd pluck the spiky chestnuts, leaving their green outer sh.e.l.ls intact, and throw them at the neighbor boys.

I always took particular care in aiming for Jack's head. He told me later that he rode his bike by my house on purpose. I asked him if he liked pain.

Jack, Will, Jules, and I became inseparable. Stayed that way for a long time, until Will left for the war right before Christmas.

A fis.h.i.+ng fly landed at my feet.

”Hey, Nikki,” Tommy called out from his perch. ”What do you think? Would you take the bait?”

I picked the fly up and squinted one eye as I examined it. My hand started to shake, and the fly slipped from my fingers. ”Definitely. She'll fly true.”

”Wanna come up and cast with me?”

I thought about my trembling hands and the spasms that had plagued my weak muscles since my Return. Hanging from branches wasn't a good idea. ”Thanks, buddy, but I don't think I'm much for climbing trees lately.”

”You're no fun anymore,” Tommy said, sounding disappointed.

”I'm sorry, Tommy.”

”Everyone says sorry,” he said. ”I'm tired of everybody being so sorry. I just want things to be normal.”

I didn't say anything, because my first instinct was to apologize again.

”Now that you're home, can we be normal again?”

How was I supposed to answer that truthfully? I knew my Return would be difficult, but as I watched Tommy playing in the backyard, hoping for something that could never happen, I was struck by how painful it had become. It hurt to see the life I'd never have.

”Can't we, Nikki?” Tommy pressed. ”Be normal?”

”Yeah.”

I'd started to walk away when he added, ”You can pick a fly. From my personal collection in my room.”

I knew how precious his collection of favorites was. I forced a smile. ”Thanks, Tommy. How about I pay you for it?”

He smiled wide, then started to reel in the line as I turned to go.

FIVE.

NOW.

After school in Mrs. Stone's cla.s.sroom. Five months left.

A week pa.s.sed and my mark doubled in size, to two fingers wide. One morning, Mrs. Stone offered to help me catch up since I'd started school almost a month later than everyone else.

She'd a.s.signed the cla.s.s thirty-page ”practice thesis” papers, due in the spring. I decided the finished paper would go to my dad, to give him some sort of physical evidence that for six months I was here and making an effort.

When I showed up in her cla.s.sroom after school, she was talking to a student at her desk. I didn't get a good look because I kept my head down and went directly to my normal seat in the back, even though every chair was empty.

I pulled out my textbook, ignoring the conversation at the front. Until I heard Jack's voice.

”The deadline's not for a couple of months,” he said.

My heart sputtered. I glanced up. Jack's back was to me, so I watched, grateful for the chance to stare at him.

”That's fine,” Mrs. Stone answered. ”I stay late most days, so you're welcome to work here-then I can help you when you need it. But don't you have football?”

”Practice doesn't start until three thirty. So that'll give me an hour.” Jack peeked toward the back of the room and I ducked my head. ”I really appreciate your help.”

”I'm happy to see you taking more of an interest in English,” Mrs. Stone said. ”Those compet.i.tive college programs are looking for well-rounded applicants. Too much math and science isn't nouris.h.i.+ng to the soul.”

I smiled at her enthusiasm, flipped through the pages of my book, and took my notebook out of my bag.

I didn't hear his footsteps, so his voice startled me.

”Hi,” he said.

I dropped my notebook.

Jack sat down beside me in the same seat he used during cla.s.s. I couldn't move. He reached to get my fallen notebook and held it out for me.