Hope Girl (2 page)

My mom places her hand on my cheek and answers him, “More than I could have imagined.” She pulls me close to her chest and says, “I can't believe we finally found you, River—we've waited such a long time.”

But it was nothing like that. There was no music, my dad didn't pick me up or twirl me, and I haven't a clue where to find my mom. The only thing that happened was I fainted, which is probably normal when someone finds out their best friend's uncle just happens to be their dad.

But because all I've ever wanted was my real parents, meeting my dad (no matter how it happened) was like a dream come true. Maybe good things really do come to those who wait.

Gram thinks so. She says good things in life take a long time and compares it to having a baby. A mother has to wait
nine whole months for her baby to finish baking, but when it's finally done, it pops out all pink and perfect, smelling like a puff of baby powder and feeling softer than love.

But I've waited a lot longer than nine months, so it's only fair to think my life should be perfect by now. And it will be as soon as I meet my mom and the three of us are a family again.

Signed,

River

The floor outside my bedroom door squeaks (my signal Gram's waddling toward my room), so I shove my diary under my mattress, pull the sheet over my head, and pretend like I'm sleeping.

My door bursts open. “Morning, Sugar Pie. You didn't forget about the celebration today, did you? Elizabeth said they invited the whole extended Whippoorwill family… around seventy-five or so. That's a lot of kinfolk.” Gram waddles to my window and pulls back the blinds. “Would you look at that sun a-shining?” She presses her nose against the screen and takes a good, long sniff. “Smells like the fourth!” she says. “So why don't you put on that star-spangled sundress of yours—the one with those red, white, and blue ruffles? You always look so cute in that.” Then she leaves, still talking, “And come have breakfast. I've got eggs and bacon on the stove, just about done.”

I roll over and study the calendar hanging by my bed. It's July
fourth, Independence Day (and the reason I smell baked beans). Every Fourth of July, Gram bakes beans for some picnic we've been invited to. This year it's the Whippoorwills'. They're having it at the birding place. But for as much as Gram likes making beans, she hardly eats any. She says her old tank has enough propane.

My calendar's theme is kittens, and each month a different kitten is pictured. July's is a fluffy white one sitting in a picnic basket. I grab my pen and write 19 in the space for today (that stands for nineteen days since Billy died). Next to that I write a 2 (that means it's the second day since I met my dad).

But I should clarify that. Technically I met my parents the second I was born, and I lived with them until the day I was stolen (but since I was only eighteen months when that happened, I don't remember them). So when I say I met my dad for the first time yesterday, that's basically the truth.

I slide my clothes back and forth in my closet until I find that sundress. The tag says size 7/8. I don't think Gram realizes how much I've grown. I put on a pair of jean shorts and a T-shirt instead.

Another thing Gram doesn't seem to realize is that I have a lot more things to worry about than to celebrate.

Gram's in the kitchen with bits of scrambled egg and bacon grease splattered across her. We sit at the table and eat but don't say much.

Gram looks up. “You're quiet this morning, Sugar Pie. Cat got your tongue?”

I shake my head. “Just thinking.”

“Well, there's plenty to think about, especially with all that happened yesterday. I still can't believe Uncle Jay carried that picture of you in his wallet for nearly twelve years, searching for you the whole while. Then come to find out you've been right under his nose for
the past month.” Gram shakes her head. “The wind has surely blown something good to you this time.”

I shrug my shoulders. “I suppose.”

Gram stops chewing and cocks her head. “What do you mean, ‘I suppose?' ”

“First of all,” I remind her, “Uncle Jay's my best friend's uncle, and Billy's not here anymore. And second, I called him ‘Uncle Jay' too. So how can I call him ‘Dad' all of a sudden? Should I start now or wait until it might start feeling normal?”

“Well, Sugar Pie, that's up to you. But like they say, when you find yourself standing at the edge of a pool, there's no sense wasting time dipping your big toe when you can crack a cannonball and sink your whole kit and caboodle.”

“Like who says, Gram? You're the only one who does.”

“Well that don't matter none, Sugar Pie. It's the principle of the matter. Sometimes you just gotta do the thing you're hesitating 'bout.”

I raise my eyebrows at Gram and swallow the last of my juice. “I promised Mrs. Whippoorwill I'd help set up for the picnic. Do you mind if I leave?”

“Go ahead, Sugar Pie.” Then without warning, Gram jumps off her chair and hollers, “Whoa, hold on! You can't leave till you've seen my beans! Take a look!”

I open the oven door. “They look delicious.”

Gram grins ear to ear. “I wove sixteen bacon strips back and forth across the top so they look just like a checkerboard.” Then she scratches her head. “But come to think of it, they're gonna go fast. Maybe I should make another batch.”

“Good idea.” I open the screen door to leave but stop. “I almost forgot—Mrs. Whippoorwill needs another pitcher for the lemonade. I told her she could probably use yours.”

Gram's eyes get wide. “You did? My special Berry Burst pitcher?”

I nod.

While Gram ties a double knot in her apron string, she asks, “And what did Elizabeth say?”

“She said that'd be nice.”

Gram fiddles with her hair until she's got a knot in that too. “Well, with all those relatives coming, it sounds like she needs it. So as long as it don't get broken, I think that'll be fine.”

“Thanks, Gram.” I slide the stool over to the cupboard.

“Hold on, Sugar Pie. I'll get it. I've got more years handling glassware than you can count on your toes.”

“I'll be careful, Gram. Besides, your balance isn't good, so you shouldn't be climbing on a stool.”

Gram lets out a
humph
. “Oh, I suppose you're right.”

I climb up, get her pitcher, and hand it to her.

“Look at that,” she says. “It's as shiny as ever.” She sets it on the table.

“Why'd you put it down, Gram? I'm leaving now.”

“Then let me wrap it in a towel or two to keep it safe.” Gram gets a stack of towels, wraps them around her pitcher, and carefully puts it in a bag. “There,” she says, placing it in my arms like she were handing me a newborn.

I give Gram a smooch, then head down Meadowlark Lane to the Whippoorwills' place.

2

Her Name Is Maggie

T
he little Whippoorwills rush to the porch and greet me. Forrest jumps up and down, shouting, “Mama, Riber's here! Riber's here!”

Mrs. Whippoorwill hurries to the door. “Good morning, River. I'm so glad you could help. There's much to get done before everyone arrives.”

I hand her the bag. “Here's Gram's pitcher—and sorry about the towels. Sometimes she gets carried away.”

Mrs. Whippoorwill gives me a knowing smile. “I'll treat it like china,” she says. “Come to the kitchen, and we'll get you started making lemonade. We've got a bushel of lemons to squeeze.”

While Mrs. Whippoorwill shows me how to work the lemon squeezer, she explains the plans for the day. “All festivities will be at the birding place. Henry's at the church getting tables, and Uncle Jay's at the birding place hanging the banner.” Mrs. Whippoorwill shakes her head. “My goodness, River, listen to me calling him Uncle Jay in front of you. For heaven's sake, child, he's your father. I guess it hasn't fully sunk in.”

I squeeze another lemon but don't look up.

Mrs. Whippoorwill turns toward the window. “Well, look at that. Here he comes now.”

I shove another lemon in the squeezer and press down hard as I can. And since my eyes are watery, I start wondering if squeezing lemons will make you cry like chopping onions.

My insides feel tight and tangled as I try deciding what to call him. I wipe my eyes on my shirt.

All of a sudden, I feel his warm hand on my shoulder. “Good morning, River.”

“Uhhh,” I say, still wondering what to call him. Then all of a sudden, I remember what Gram said, “When you find yourself standing at the edge of a pool, there's no sense wasting time dipping your big toe when you can crack a cannonball and sink your whole kit and caboodle.” So I turn to him, look up, and go for the cannonball. “How ya doing, Dad?” But the second I say it, I realize how dumb it sounded.

He smiles and nods. “I'm fine, River. And how are you?”

I shrug my shoulders. “Okay, I guess.”

“Tell you what,” he says, “let's take a walk to the birding place. I'd like to show you the banner.”

I look at Mrs. Whippoorwill. “That's fine, River. Go with your father. I'll finish up.” Her gentle smile and nod in the direction of the door helps me feel like everything's going to be okay.

We cross Meadowlark Lane and walk through the cool shaded trail leading to the birding place. Dad pushes a branch out of the way and says, “You know we'll likely be the talk of the picnic today. What we discovered yesterday is big news. It's the very thing I've waited for since you were stolen, but it's also something that will profoundly change both of our lives.” He kicks a rock off the trail and turns to me. “I'm sure it's all been overwhelming for you.” After a few more feet, the trail ends, and we reach the open field at the birding place.

Dad points to the right. “There it is.”

I was expecting a boring Fourth of July banner, but what's hanging between two birch trees at the edge of the woods takes my breath.
Waving in the warm breeze is a gigantic red, white, and blue banner with gold letters that reads, “Welcome to the first annual Fourth of July celebration at the birding place, held in honor of William Forrest Whippoorwill.”