Birdie's Book Read online

  For my grandchildren: Bella, Kailey, and Kirian

  Contents

  Part One: Seeds

  1. The Long-Lost Grandmother

  2. The Garden

  3. The Singing Stone

  Part Two: Shoots

  4. Aventurine

  5. The Underwater Journey

  6. The Willowood Fairies

  7. The Book of Dreams

  8. The Redbird Wind

  9. The Shadow Land

  10. “The Green Song”

  Part Three: Roots and Flowers

  11. The New Year

  Epilogue

  The train sped along, the wheels on the tracks whispering a humming rhythm … Shh-shh, shh-shh, shh-shh, shh-shh … as if they were telling all of us passengers to go to sleep, go to sleep. But I didn’t want to fall asleep, because it was my first time on that train from New York to New Jersey. It was also going to be the first time I would ever meet my grandmother—my mom’s mom.

  It was New Year’s week, and when Mom was called off to London, I had a dream that I met the grandmother I’d only heard about and who was now so close by. My father had always liked my grandmother, and he was sad that something had happened between her and Mom. Having lost his own mother, he was all for enjoying family while they were alive and kicking. Still, Dad had always told me that he respected my mom’s privacy on a very sensitive issue.

  That’s why I was totally surprised when my dad had said yes when I asked him if I could go. But he said that it was high time for this feud to be over, and what better way to end it than by holding out an olive branch (that would be me)—even if the wrong person was holding the branch (that would be him). Dad added that this was the perfect chance for me to go meet my grandmother, just her and me, for a few days, and that he would talk to my mom and take full responsibility. He actually seemed to be looking forward to it!

  “I’d come, but I’d just be in the way,” said Dad. “Like a second fiddle. And just between you and me, I don’t think Mo has got an ounce of craziness in her veins. And I know she’s dying to meet you.” My dad always called my grandmother by her nickname, Mo, and it’s what I always called her in my mind.

  So that’s how I ended up on the train. Now, in between the anticipation and the train’s lullaby, I had a jitter in my stomach, jumping like a bug on a leaf.

  Shh-shh, shh-shh … Shh-shh, shh-shh … Bump! My head hit the window, waking me with a jolt. I’d fallen asleep after all. I looked down to check on my daisy, Belle, and saw that somehow her little clay pot had cracked.

  Oh, I almost forgot somebody is reading this. I’m nobody special, just Sarah Cramer Bright (nicknamed Birdie), from California (which I like to call Califa). But I’m not from Califa anymore, I guess, because over Christmas I was painfully uprooted and moved to New York City.

  But maybe I’m getting too personal. So before I go on, I must ask you to do something important: Please, please, please promise me that you will keep everything I say private. I don’t like telling people really deep stuff about myself that is absolutely, positively not for public use. So please don’t share this with anybody else, except maybe your very best, most trusted friend, okay? Because I guarantee you—not everyone will understand.

  So, assuming we have a privacy pact, I’ll tell you again that I am Sarah Cramer Bright, nicknamed Birdie by my dad (in honor of my red hair, which reminds him of his favorite California redbird). My mom says that my red hair and green eyes have been passed down from my great-great-grandmother Dora, who was Irish. I am told that my eyes twinkle bright emerald when I’m excited, but turn to dead moss green when I’m worried.

  I took my feet off the suitcase that has been in my mom’s family for years. My mom had specifically instructed me not to bring it. She always insisted on far more upscale luggage, like the matched Louis Vuitton set that she took with her to London the day before I left. There are people in my mom’s world who actually judge her based on the quality and quantity of her bags! Not people I’d choose to be around!

  Since my own trip was just a three-day jaunt to my grandmother’s, the only other thing I brought was Belle, now in her sadly cracked pot. But I’d be at my grandmother’s soon, and from what I’d heard from my dad, she would certainly have a pot for me to put Belle in. Dad had said that she was pretty much a botanist, rather like Luther Burbank, who grafted plants to make beautiful new species. I took my hat off and carefully tucked Belle into it, cracked pot and all.

  The train door opened—crank, swish. I dragged my bag behind me, baBUM baBUM down the steps. The second my feet hit the platform, my face was slammed with little bits of ice, and my hair whipped wildly around in the wind. My braces were actually (truly and actually!) frozen to my lips.

  I set the suitcase down on the platform and put Belle on the ground between my feet. I quickly zipped my spring green corduroy jacket to cover my favorite T-shirt and pulled on my gloves. I was not much warmer. I loved the jacket, but at that moment I realized I had not been very practical when I left this morning. I sighed. I guess my mind had been in Califa when I packed.

  I picked Belle up again as the train rushed away. Around me the conversations mixed together in a rising mist that matched the overcast skies. I saw no sign of the grandmother I knew only from mailed cards, homemade gifts, my dad’s few and careful descriptions, and my mother’s stories about the “crazy old bat” who raised her.

  People hurried toward warm cars with lightly purring engines, and I sat on my suitcase to wait, cradling Belle in one arm. Then I saw an older woman in a cowboy hat with a peacock feather striding through the drab crowd in the parking lot.

  It had to be Mo. She was very tall and was smiling a big smile. Her boots must have been leaving size-nine imprints in the snow. As she came closer, I saw that her long green wool coat, as bright as spring leaves, was the exact same color as my own jacket. Around her neck was an orange scarf with black specks.

  I had a new name for her immediately: Lilium tigrinum, the Latin name for tiger lily, a constant tropical bloomer. That’s practically the opposite of Mom, who is more like a calla lily (Zantedeschia aethiopica)—straight and stiff and stoically beautiful. Naming people after flowers and plants is one of my games. It’s a great way to pass boring hours at school. Of course, I never use the same name twice, not even for twins. I know a lot of flower names!

  “Birdie!” the woman said with certainty.

  “Grandmother Mo Lilium tigrinum,” I wanted to say back. But instead, I said, “Uh-huh,” and clutched Belle a tiny bit closer.

  Mo’s voice was similar to Mom’s but happier and, surprisingly, younger-sounding. Her hair, which curled out from under the hat, looked like it was mostly gray but maybe had once been red like mine. Her face? Smiling and kind, with lines creased around her eyes and the corners of her mouth. Not a trace of makeup. Her clear green eyes studied me matter-of-factly. I matter-of-factly studied her back. This was not the face of a crazy old bat.

  “Well, well, Birdie Cramer Bright, I wouldn’t mistake you for anyone else.” She wrapped me in a tight hug that blocked the chill of the blowing wind.

  “And you’re wearing the family color,” she added, patting the sleeve of my jacket. “I’d say I’m finally a working grandmother, and it’s about time! Hallelujah for your dad.”

  “Okay” was all I managed to say, all of a sudden wondering what I was supposed to call her. Can you tell that I’m not good at first encounters? I like to size up a situation before I start giving anyone a reason to judge me or to not like me or to think that they like me when in fact they don’t know much about me at all. Does that make sense?

  We fought the wind as we walked to my grandmother’s yellow car. Mo had to hold on to her hat to keep it
from flying away. The car was as huge as a boat and had fins like a fish. I loaded my suitcase in the trunk and then settled inside on the wide front bench seat, my daisy-in-a-hat on my lap.

  As Mo drove (I couldn’t stop thinking of her as Mo!), I imagined that the big-finned boat-car was swimming along over the slick roads. Inside, the car smelled like leather and gasoline, and the heater warmed my hands and Belle’s roots. The engine surged as my grandmother navigated an icy hill on the way to Colts Ridge, the town where she lives.

  Halfway through the quiet drive, Mo glanced sideways at me. “Quite a difference from California, I guess?” she said.

  “Yeah,” I said, nodding.

  “I can tell you miss it,” she said.

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “And this will be your first New Year’s in the snow, I suppose,” she said.

  I nodded. I could not find anything positive to say in response to that sorry fact.

  “From what your dad says, your mom finally landed her dream job and you had to move to New York. Then, boom, they send her clear to London for that big paper account. But there are upsides, right? First of all, you’re in my neck of the woods, so hopefully we’ll see each other more often. And … aren’t you looking forward to starting at that international school?”

  The hand not holding Belle went straight to my mouth, covering my braces. As if thinking about a new school wasn’t bad enough, I still had the brand-new stupid braces to make it worse! “Yeah, I guess,” I said. I wasn’t at all sure. I knew I’d meet girls from all over the world there, so it might be cool at the Girls’ International School of Manhattan. Then again, starting school midyear isn’t something you’d call easy.

  Lilium tigrinum was not looking at me or at my braces. She had her eyes glued to the road. The wipers slap-slapped the windshield as she tapped the large steering wheel with her thumbs. “Well, it was definitely high time you visited your grandmother, dontcha think? The last time I saw you in the flesh you were squiggling around in your mom’s arms.”

  I knew I should have a snappy, cheerful response to her chitchat, but I couldn’t think of one, so I just gave a sort of snort.

  “I’ve been thinking.” My grandmother tried again. “How about calling me Granny Mo? Mo is short for Maureen, and no one else in this whole world calls me Granny. Or do you prefer Grandma Mo? Nana Mo?”

  I was afraid she’d keep trying to find the right name, so I said, “I don’t know,” and I turned to gaze out the window at the passing mounds of snow.

  Mo fell silent. I was afraid that I’d hurt her feelings, which I didn’t want to do. It’s just that … well, I was already liking my grandmother a hundred times better than I had imagined, so much better than I thought my mom would ever want me to. It felt weirdly like a betrayal to Mom. And if I acted like I liked my grandmother right now, and then she turned out to be a crazy old bat after all, I’d be in trouble.

  “I think I’d like to wait till we …” I paused, trying to think of the right words.

  “Till we bond?” she asked. She nodded, like it was a decision not to be taken lightly. “Sure. And just Mo is fine, too, if that feels better. It’s what most people call me.” Mo flicked on her turn signal. “What’s your flower’s name?”

  “You think I have a name for a plant?” I asked, keeping my tone neutral.

  “Of course!” said Mo. “I know I would.”

  Tiny snowflakes swirled past the big windshield, dancing on the butter yellow hood of the big car. Mo turned on the wipers again.

  “Belle,” I said, smiling a little.

  “Ah. Short for Bellis simplex, no?”

  Hmmm. She did get it. “Absolutely,” I told her, my tiny smile expanding, but not enough to show my braces. I drew in a breath of the warm heater air. It was the first deep breath I’d taken since I got off the train.

  “We’re here!” Mo announced, turning the car slowly onto a snowy drive that wound between two trees standing like bare-leafed sentries.

  “They’re sugar maples,” said Mo, nodding to the two trees. “My own mother planted them for me, fifty-some-odd years ago. Grand, aren’t they?”

  “Acer saccharum,” I murmured.

  Now it was Mo’s turn to smile. “Speaking of acers,” she said as we continued down the driveway, lined all the way with two rows of smaller trees, “I planted all these moosewoods for your mom, right after she was born.”

  Did Mom even care? I wondered. I couldn’t imagine it.

  “Emma was four when she said she was happy because she had enough moose wings to help her fly away,” said Mo.

  “Moose wings?” I said. “What are moose wings?”

  Mo slammed on the brakes. Snow and gravel flew. Pulling off her glove, she opened the car door, leaned down, and dug around in the snow. A blast of cold air whipped through the car. I hunched down and breathed warmth onto Belle. I was glad when Mo straightened up and shut the door again.

  She grinned and opened her hand to reveal golden brown moosewood seeds. “Moose wings!” she said, like she was sharing a special treasure with me. Mo rolled down the window and, lifting her hand to her mouth, blew lightly. The delicate wings spun in the snowy air and floated down like twirling fairies.

  “Fruit of the moosewood tree. Otherwise known as—”

  “Acer pennsylvanicum. Striped maple,” I pronounced with a smile.

  “Hey, you’re better than good at this!” Mo said, rolling the window up and shifting back into first gear. “Emma called this her moose walk. We used to sing to the trees as we walked. And I thought—” Mo stopped abruptly.

  I was still amazed that my mom had talked about flying. I waited to hear more.

  “Until your mom was fourteen, she said it was her magical path.” Mo’s voice was quiet.

  Until she was fourteen? I thought. That’s only a couple of years older than me! What happened? But I didn’t want to ask. It seemed like an awfully deep subject to get into before we even reached the house.

  At the end of the long driveway was an eggplant purple Victorian house with violet trim. We got out of the car, and Mo grabbed my suitcase from the trunk. I held Belle, using my hand to make a little umbrella over her head to protect her from the snow.

  I looked up at the crooked house. Each window was a different size and shape, and some of the panes of glass were brilliantly colored. The house had many roofs, all pitched at various angles. Two sugar maples, just like the ones at the beginning of the driveway, grew right through the front porch and porch roof, forming gnarled columns. The porch itself rose and fell above the mounds of their humungous roots.

  “Never mind the bumps,” Mo said as we went up the uneven steps. “The trees are slowly taking over my porch. And I say, more power to them!” With that, she flung open the double front doors and announced: “Welcome to the Eggplant House.”

  Once inside, I just stood there, looking around, trying to get my bearings, which was not easy! Every wall was plastered with photographs, postcards, paintings, and handwritten pages. Growing things were everywhere, and not just plants in pots! A beautiful white-flowered vine had pushed its way through a floorboard and wound around the staircase.

  “Is that really a Passiflora?” I asked Mo.

  “Ah, yes, my passion vine,” said Mo, dropping the suitcase at the foot of the stairs.

  “But it’s freezing cold!” I protested, picturing those white flowers sprouting into deep purple passion fruit in a Brazilian jungle, or maybe in Califa, but certainly not in New Jersey, even indoors.

  “My dear, it’s never winter in the Eggplant House,” Mo said. She hung her coat up on a hook shaped like a snake and dropped her gloves on the hissing radiator painted gold. While she pulled off her snowy boots, I set Belle down on a table whose top had sheet music glued to it. I pulled off my gloves and dropped them on the radiator, too. Then I hung my matching spring green jacket on a snake hook beside Mo’s and kicked my own boots off to join hers.

  Mo smiled at me as she toss
ed her keys into a basket next to a dusty violin bearing the inscription Aventurine. There was something familiar about that word. Was it the name of a long-lost family member my mother mentioned once? Was it a color?

  Mo snatched up my suitcase again, carrying it effortlessly up the circular staircase. Her big feet in droopy socks clomped on the steps. I almost giggled at the thought that her plants might tighten up all their roots from the vibration. I picked up Belle and followed, my feet barely making a sound.

  I stopped at the crescent-shaped landing halfway up the stairs. It was crammed with old musical instruments webbed with spider’s lace. A clarinet rested on the floor next to a broken music stand.

  “I know people who would be tempted to give that clarinet a little nudge and watch everything come tumbling down,” I said to myself; then I realized I’d actually said it aloud!

  “I suppose those are people I would never invite into my home,” said Mo.

  I reminded myself to stay quiet until the jury was in on whether or not my grandmother was a certifiable C.O.B.

  “Do you play?” I asked.

  “These old things? No. I need to fix them,” she said, nodding toward the instruments. “I have a working violin and guitar,” she added.

  We climbed the rest of the stairs and Mo turned around, announcing, “This room was your mother’s. You may move things around if you want. I left it as it’s always been, figuring she’d be back to change it herself someday.” Mo swung open the door and stepped back.

  Neon pink bedroom walls were plastered with posters of old pop bands. Above the headboard, on the sloping ceiling, were two posters of a teenage boy with shoulder-length blond hair parted down the middle. I checked out the signature at the bottom of the poster.

  “Who’s Leif Garrett?” I asked.

  Mo sighed and playfully rolled her eyes. “He was a singer who was popular for a while. Oh, your mother had such a crush on him.” She smiled ruefully. “Closest thing to a plant I could get her to as a teenager was this Leif.”