The Forgetting Spell

  Darya hated fairies, and she hated nice ways of putting things that weren’t nice at all. And she hated tea.

  Ugh. Shut up, stupid brain! She thumped her forehead with the heel of her palm.

  “Darya, what on earth . . . ?” Aunt Elena said.

  She hit herself again.

  “Stop!” Ava said, grabbing her wrist. “You’ll get shaken baby syndrome!”

  “She’s not a baby. She’s a young lady,” Aunt Vera said. “And young ladies do not pummel themselves during family dinners!”

  “They do if they’re me,” Darya retorted.

  “Why?” Ava asked.

  “I don’t know. Because I’m in a bad mood.”

  Aunt Vera harrumphed. “Well, perhaps if you stopped hitting yourself—”

  “Omigosh, I stopped! Okay?” She gripped the edge of the table. “And people do get grumpy. I’m allowed to be grumpy, you know.”

  “But you don’t need to take it out on others,” Aunt Elena said.

  Heat rushed to Darya’s face. Aunt Elena was the nice aunt; Aunt Vera was the scolding aunt. Yet Darya had been scolded by Aunt Elena. The wrongness of it expanded inside her, and the Bird Lady’s words flew through her mind: Things don’t always turn out the way you expect them to, do they?

  “You’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry. It’s just, nothing’s the way it’s supposed to be.”

  Aunt Elena lowered her fork. “How so, sweetheart?”

  “My birthday. It’s not supposed to be like this.”

  “Like what?” Ava said.

  “Like this! I don’t know!”

  “Has it been bad?” Ava asked.

  “Suki and Steph brought you a birthday cake,” Natasha said. “Suki, Steph, and what’s-her-name, the new girl.”

  “Tally,” Ava said. “The one who’s so good at art. She’s nice.”

  “Your mother liked art,” Papa contributed. “She had a friend who was very good at art. Her name . . . her name was . . .” A shadow crossed his face. “I’ve lost it. I’m getting old.”

  “Papa, no,” Ava said. “It was a long time ago. That’s all.”

  There was an awkward silence.

  “The cake had sprinkles,” Natasha told Ava.

  Ava lit up. “Oooh, I love sprinkles!”

  “It was from a mix,” Darya said.

  “So?”

  “So . . . it was made from a mix,” Darya repeated. “And there were sprinkles in the cake part, not just the icing, and the colors bled and looked all smeary.”

  The others looked at one another, and Darya squirmed. Unwanted thoughts swirled and smeared: Mama, Tally, the Missing Daughters Club. The Bird Lady. Darya’s dress with the cherries, which the Bird Lady somehow knew about.

  “Are you mad because of the cake?” Ava asked. “It was still nice of them to make it, though. Even if it was smeary.”

  Darya hadn’t thought about that dress for years, but now she saw it clearly. Vivid red spots on snowy white fabric, with a skirt that was excellent for twirling. Once upon a time, Darya had been a twirling sort of girl.

  Ava waved her hand in front of her face. “Darya?”

  “I’m not mad. I don’t know what I am.” She turned to her aunts. “Dinner was delicious, Aunt Vera. Thank you. Aunt Elena, are we going to have game night?”

  Aunt Elena’s eyes widened. “Oh! I’m meeting someone for coffee, actually. I didn’t think you liked game night, so I thought . . . well . . .”

  Aunt Elena glanced at Natasha, who shook her head so quickly that Darya nearly missed it.

  “I could cancel,” Aunt Elena offered.

  “No, it’s fine,” Darya said, although it wasn’t. Aunt Elena didn’t “meet people for coffee.” Aunt Elena read mysteries and went on long walks and came up with kooky games to play with her nieces.

  “You’re meeting someone for coffee?” Ava said curiously. “Is it a male someone or a female someone?”

  Twin spots of pink appeared on Aunt Elena’s cheeks. “Ah . . . yes.”

  “Yes? What do you mean?”

  “Yes, it’s a male someone or a female someone.” She rose from the table. “I better get going, or I’ll be late. But Darya? I’m sorry you’re having a rough day.”

  Natasha glanced at Aunt Elena again. Then, to Darya, she said, “Things are going to get better. You’ll see.”

  Darya snorted. “Will I?”

  Papa frowned and cleared his throat. “Sweetheart . . .”

  “I’m just teasing,” Darya said. “Everything’s great. Everything’s awesome!”

  Aunt Elena hesitated, then took a step back toward the table. “If everything’s great, then great. But if not, that’s okay, too.” She held up her hand when Darya tried to protest. “You’re ready to stop talking about this. I get it. But turning thirteen is a big deal, Darya, especially in our family. Especially if you’re a girl. It’s . . . well, it’s awfully loaded, isn’t it?”

  “Not really.”

  “And no matter how many lovely things are waiting just around the corner, that’s not much good to you now. You said it yourself. You’re allowed to feel whatever you feel.”

  “Good, because I’ll probably have extra feelings, even, because of hormones. I’ll probably pierce my nose and get a black-market tattoo.”

  “You most certainly will not!” Aunt Vera exclaimed.

  “What’s a black-market tattoo?” Ava asked.

  “I was joking,” Darya said. “Anyway, I’m pretty sure Willow Hill doesn’t have a black market.”

  Aunt Elena laughed, which had been the goal. Yet when she did, Darya thought of Tally, and of Tally’s mother, and Darya felt indignant on their behalf. Willow Hill might not have a black market (whatever a black market actually was), but some places did, and worse things than that as well.

  The world was so big. Mind-bogglingly big, which should have given Darya perspective on how small her own problems were. Based on her admittedly limited experience, however, everyone’s problems seemed big to them. Not just big, but bigger than everyone else’s.

  Aunt Elena gave Darya a warm hug and left, and Aunt Vera started collecting dishes. Papa got up and helped.

  Natasha folded her napkin, laid it on her place mat, and rose from her seat. “Hey, Darya, since we’re not doing game night, do you want to go on a walk?”

  “Absolutely,” Darya said. With so many things pressing in on her, the blank slate of the night sounded irresistible.

  Ava hopped up. “Can I come too? Please?”

  Natasha hesitated, and Aunt Vera said, “Yes, Ava. Girls, take your sister with you.”

  Natasha glanced at Darya, who shrugged. As long as it meant escaping for a while, it was all the same to her.

  The night sky was spectacular. Willow Hill was a small town, so there were no city lights to dim the far-flung stars. A crescent moon beckoned from behind a tree, and Natasha walked toward the rope swing that hung from a high branch.

  Papa had made the swing years ago. Its seat was a wooden plank, and Darya and Natasha used to swing on it together. Even after Ava came along, the three of them sometimes squeezed on all at once. Natasha and Darya would situate themselves first, before helping Ava scramble onto their laps.

  Tonight, Natasha sat down at the base of the tree, among its gnarled roots. Darya joined her, leaning against the trunk and arranging her skirt to cover her thighs. Ava faced them, drawing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around her shins.

  “That wasn’t much of a walk,” Darya said.

  “I didn’t want Aunt Vera to overhear,” Natasha said.

  “Overhear what?”

  “What I’m going to tell you.”

  “Which is what? And when will you be telling me?”

  “As soon as you give me a second! Sheesh!”

  Darya lifted her eyebrows. She drummed her fingertips on her leg.

  “The thing is, turning thirteen is a big deal,” Natasha said.

  Darya let her head fall back.
“Omigosh, never mind.”

  “Because of your Wishing Day. Aunt Elena didn’t say so, but that’s what she meant.”

  “Still not interested. Won’t ever be interested. Never not ev—”

  “Will you shut up and listen?” Natasha snapped, and Darya was so surprised that she did.

  “Thank you,” Natasha said. She turned to Ava. “And you. You weren’t supposed to be here for this, but here you are, so . . .” She flipped her hair over her shoulders. “You can’t freak out. Do you promise?”

  “I promise, yes! What is it?”

  By now even Darya was intrigued, though she did her best not to show it.

  Natasha gazed squarely at her. “Last year, on my Wishing Day, I went to the willow tree and made my three wishes.”

  Hip-hip-hooray, Darya considered saying. She went instead with, “And?”

  Natasha’s dark eyes glinted. When she spoke, Darya saw her neat, even teeth.

  “They all came true.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  (before)

  Darya is in her special spot behind the curtain. Baby Ava is taking a nap, and Natasha is at preschool, probably making macaroni art. One time Baby Ava tried to eat Natasha’s macaroni art, and everyone laughed, and it was the good kind of laughing, like bubbles and popcorn and fizzy drinks fizzing everywhere.

  Sometimes fizzy drinks make Darya burp, and that’s another good laughing thing.

  Unless Mama is in a black mood. When Mama is in a black mood, burps aren’t funny. When Mama is in a black mood, nothing’s funny.

  Today Mama is in a gray mood, and Aunt Elena and Aunt Vera are sitting on either side of her on the sofa. Mama is the ham and the aunts are the bread. Darya wishes she could join them. She could be a pickle! Or honey mustard, which Mama likes, but Darya doesn’t.

  Natasha doesn’t either, but sometimes she pretends. Then, when Mama isn’t watching, Natasha spits out the bite with honey mustard and wads it into her napkin. When Natasha’s eyes fly to Darya, they speak in invisible sister language.

  Don’t tell.

  I won’t.

  It would make Mama sad.

  I know. I won’t!

  But Natasha is at preschool, and anyway, she’s bad at spying. Her cheeks go blotchy and she says “uh-oh,” so Darya doesn’t let her anymore.

  “Klara, get ahold of yourself,” Darya hears. “We don’t have time for this silliness.”

  “Klara” is Mama.

  “This silliness” is Mama’s gray days.

  Aunt Vera is the one who calls them that. Aunt Vera is Mama’s big sister, like Natasha is Darya’s big sister.

  “Vera, give her time,” Darya hears. That’s Aunt Elena, who is Mama’s little sister. Aunt Elena is Mama’s Baby Ava.

  Mama is the middle sister, just like Darya is the middle sister.

  Vera, Klara, Elena.

  Natasha, Darya, Ava.

  There’s Papa too, of course. Papa loves Natasha and Darya and Ava to the moon and back, and the same for Mama. He calls all four of them “his special girls.”

  But Papa’s not here, and Mama is crying.

  “I can’t,” she says. “I just can’t!”

  “Klara, you can,” Aunt Elena says. “You have to, for the girls.”

  “I made this appointment weeks ago, and you’re not canceling again,” Aunt Vera says. “If I have to drag you there, I will.”

  Mama says something, but she’s got the hiccups, and her words jump around. Darya hears “Ava” and “my fault” and something about a bear. Too much of a bear?

  “Klara, enough,” Aunt Vera says.

  “It’s not enough!” Mama cries, and Darya shrinks against the wall. “Every time I look at Ava, do you know who I see?”

  “Klara—”

  “Her hair, her eyes. She even crinkles her nose the same way! I look at my sweet Ava, and I see her!”

  “Klara, hush,” says Aunt Elena. She’s not scary like Aunt Vera, but right now her voice has wire in it. “Ava is Ava, and nobody else.”

  “Come on,” Aunt Vera says, “up we go.” There is shuffling and sniffling. “Don’t you want to get better? For your daughters, if not yourself?”

  “Y-yes,” Mama says.

  “Good!” says Aunt Elena.

  “Except also”—the whisperiest of whispers—“I want to be gone.”

  “And do what?” says Aunt Vera. “Leave behind three little girls without their mother?”

  Everything squeezes inside of Darya, and she presses her legs together.

  “Pull yourself together!” Aunt Vera says. “For heaven’s sake!”

  Then, footsteps. Shoes with heels click-clacking away. The back door opening. The back door shutting. A car engine—vroom!—and tires crunching on the gravel drive.

  Silence.

  Good.

  Only, Darya’s underwear is wet. Something trickles down her legs. Only, four-year-olds don’t do that, because four-year-olds are big girls. Not big like Natasha, but bigger than Ava, who is Ava and nobody else.

  Darya bursts from behind the curtain and runs to the bathroom.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “So what did you wish for?” Ava asked Natasha in the backyard. “Omigosh. Tell us!”

  “I’m not going to tell you my first two wishes,” Natasha said. “They’re private.”

  “But they came true? For real?” Darya asked. She heard her skepticism and scolded herself. She could at least hear Natasha out.

  “They were dumb,” Natasha said. “Which is one reason you can’t waste yours, when it’s your turn.”

  “What was your third wish?” Ava said.

  The moonlight gave Natasha’s eyes an unearthly sheen. She lifted her chin and said, “I wished for Mama to be alive.”

  The world stopped.

  Darya didn’t know how to be.

  Then, with a judder—

  (cicadas, shadows, shining pupils)

  —it started up again.

  “I wished for Mama to be alive, and my wish came true!” Natasha’s tone sounded too bright, even shrill. “You guys! Don’t you get what this means?”

  “That . . . Mama’s back?” Ava said with a wobble. She scanned the yard as if Mama might pop out any moment from behind a tree. Not that she was likely to recognize her if she did. Ava was four when Mama disappeared!

  “You wished for her to be alive?” Darya said. “I never thought she was dead.”

  “Never, not ever?” Natasha said with a sharp look. She breathed out. “I didn’t either, or I hoped she wasn’t. But we didn’t know for sure.”

  “Ok-a-a-ay,” Darya said. “So there you were, thinking maybe Mama was dead, and you wished for her to . . . what? Come back from the grave?”

  Ava’s eyes grew huge.

  “Which, if she did, would make her a zombie,” Darya stated. She adopted a posh voice that no one in Willow Hill would use. “Oh, don’t mind Mummy. Her skin’s a bit flaky, but nothing a good exfoliator can’t fix. And that rotting smell? It’s her new perfume. Isn’t it to die for?”

  “Darya, stop,” Natasha said.

  Darya bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. She didn’t like how she was acting any more than Natasha did. She was horrified at herself, in fact.

  “I think I need to lie down,” Ava said, and she flopped back and sprawled on the ground.

  “Mama’s not . . .” Natasha said. She tightened her mouth, as if the word was too dumb to say. “Mama didn’t ‘come back from the dead,’ Ava, because Darya’s right. She never was dead.” She tried to pull Ava up. “Will you sit back up, please? Darya, will you help?”

  Darya scooted over, slid her hands under Ava’s armpits, and pushed. Ava’s shirt was damp from the grass, and her shoulder blades punched through like bird wings.

  “It’s a lot to take in,” Natasha said once Ava was basically upright. “I know.”

  “It would help if you explained,” Darya said. She was relieved to hear that she sounded more or less like herself aga
in. “You kind of haven’t told us anything.”

  “After my Wishing Day—well, I made my wishes in the night, but whatever—I found a note,” Natasha said. “It was from Mama. Then she left me more notes. At first I thought they were from someone else, but they weren’t. They were definitely from her, which is how I knew she was alive.” She held up her hand to correct herself. “Which is how I knew she was back. She’d always been alive.”

  “‘Back’ meaning here in Willow Hill?” Ava asked.

  “I asked if we could meet in person. We went for coffee.”

  “You don’t drink coffee,” Darya said.

  Frustration flashed over Natasha’s features. “Mama had coffee. I had a strawberry Frappuccino. All right?”

  Darya drew her lower lip between her teeth. She’d wanted this forever: to have Mama back. To solve the mystery of her disappearance. To show Ms. McKinley from the library and all those other busybodies that Mama was fine, thank you very much, and that she hadn’t left because she was a Bad Mother. That she wasn’t a bad mother; she was the opposite! That Mama’s reason for leaving, whatever it was, had been important.

  Only, what was the reason? Did Natasha know? And what if it turned out not to have been important? Would that matter? How much?

  Darya’s thoughts, already buzzing, flew to Tally and Tally’s mother, who’d lived on the streets and maybe still did. Who invented stories to make herself feel better. Who was maybe a Bad Mother, or maybe just sick, or maybe that was just two ways of saying the same thing. In the end, she hadn’t taken care of Tally, had she? Tally had been sent to live with a foster mother instead.

  Quit it, Darya told her racing brain. You’re overthinking everything, when you don’t even know everything. Not even close!

  Plus, wasn’t she forgetting the most important part?

  Mama.

  Was.

  Back.

  Couldn’t Darya just be happy?

  “When can we see her?” she asked.

  “Soon,” Natasha said.

  “Where is she?”

  “At a motel.”

  “A motel?” Darya said.

  “What does Papa think?” Ava said. “Wait—does he know? ’Cause Aunt Vera doesn’t, does she? Or you wouldn’t have cared if she overheard. Does Aunt Elena?”