The Forgetting Spell

  Natasha opened her mouth to respond, but Ava plowed on.

  “Why did she leave in the first place? Did she tell you? And where in the world has she been this whole time?”

  The silence, when Ava stopped speaking, hung heavily.

  Natasha cleared her throat. “It’s . . . complicated.”

  “What is?” Darya asked.

  “All of it. It’s good, but it’s complicated!”

  A screech owl called from the trees, and Darya jumped. Most people liked owls, she knew, but she thought they were creepy.

  It was because of the jawbone she once found. She’d been seven, and she’d found an owl pellet in the woods, and when she picked at it, it had crumbled apart. Inside had been a tiny white bone.

  “Looks like a mouse,” Papa told her.

  “It does not!” Darya had replied. She’d glared at him. “Mice have fur. Mice have whiskers!”

  “It looks like it came from a mouse,” Papa clarified. He ran his finger over four minuscule teeth at the thick end of the bone, then showed her the single, pointed tooth at the opposite end. That was how he knew it was a rodent, he’d said. The bone was smaller than a penny, which told him it was a mouse.

  “Used to be a mouse,” Darya had insisted.

  “You guys—that owl!” Ava exclaimed. “Maybe it’s a sign from Mama. She loved owls!”

  “She did?” Darya said.

  “According to Aunt Elena. She loved dragons, too, and princesses in tall towers, and her favorite color was sea-foam green.”

  “Is sea-foam green,” Natasha corrected. She paused. “Unless it changed. People’s favorite colors do change.”

  Darya didn’t care what Mama’s favorite color was or whether she liked owls.

  “I asked when we could see her, and you said, ‘soon,’” she said. “When is soon?”

  “First I need to explain some stuff,” Natasha said. “Also—about Papa. Mama’s not ready for Papa to know, so you have to promise not to tell.”

  Darya thought of Papa’s lost look at the dinner table and shifted uncomfortably. Was it right for her to promise such a thing? Then again, so much of what Natasha had shared so far made her uncomfortable! Darya was jealous, for example, that Mama had reached out to Natasha first. That she’d left Natasha notes. That they’d met for coffee or whatever.

  Darya wanted to get to the “just be happy” part.

  “Fine, we promise,” she said. “Now explain.”

  Natasha gazed at the far end of the yard, where the grass left off and the forest began.

  “Natasha,” Darya said.

  Natasha turned back. “Mama has a secret, but I’m the only one who knows. Well, and kind of Aunt Elena.”

  “So Aunt Elena does know she’s back!” Ava broke in. She slapped her leg. “Ohhh. That’s who Aunt Elena went to see tonight, isn’t it?”

  Natasha’s eyes flew to Darya, who tried to hide her hurt feelings. “What’s the secret, and why does Aunt Elena only kind of know?”

  “Because Aunt Elena doesn’t believe it’s true.”

  “Doesn’t believe what’s true?”

  Natasha hugged her upper arms. “That Papa has a sister.”

  There was a beat.

  “Except Papa doesn’t have a sister,” Darya said.

  “Papa’s an only child,” Ava said.

  “He is now,” Natasha said. “But once upon a time, he had a sister.”

  “No, or we would have heard of her,” Ava said. “If Papa had a sister, why have we never heard of her?”

  When Natasha failed to provide an answer, Ava turned toward the house, and Darya saw what she was thinking. She’d go to Papa herself. She’d ask him to explain.

  “Don’t,” Natasha said.

  “Then stop dragging things out and tell us!” Darya said.

  Natasha took a breath. “Papa had a sister. A little sister. Her name was Emily.”

  Emily. The name sent a jolt through Darya, though she didn’t know why.

  “Emily?” Ava said dubiously. “What happened to her? Did she run away?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Did she die?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “How can you not exactly die?” Ava asked. “Oh! Is she in a coma?”

  “She’s not in a coma. At least, I don’t think.”

  As they went on like this—“What do you mean, you don’t think? Wouldn’t you know if she was in a coma or not?”—something nagged at Darya from the far reaches of her memory. Something dark and shadowy, and when Darya poked at it, it retreated.

  “Maybe she is in a coma, okay?” Natasha said. “I don’t know! What I do know is that her name was Emily, and she was Papa’s little sister, and he loved her. The reason he doesn’t talk about her is because—”

  “No,” Darya interrupted, because all at once it came to her what Natasha was going to say. Natasha was going to say that Papa didn’t remember Emily. Only that wasn’t quite right. It was more than that.

  Ava looked at her, puzzled.

  “Emily was Mama’s imaginary friend,” Darya said slowly, pulling the shadow thing into the open.

  An odd expression crossed Natasha’s face.

  “I’m right, aren’t I?” Darya said. The shadow squirmed and tried to ooze away, but Darya was right. She’d heard the aunts talking about it last winter, around the time of Natasha’s Wishing Day.

  “And Papa does remember!” Darya exclaimed.

  “Remember what?” Ava said. “His sister, or Mama’s imaginary friend?”

  “Both. They’re the same. Or, they’re not, but that’s the Emily Natasha’s talking about,” Darya said. She dug down deep, and it fell into place. “She wasn’t Papa’s sister. Mama made her up.”

  “That’s what Aunt Elena thinks, too,” Natasha said. “But it’s only half the story. The wrong half.”

  “Then what’s the right half?” Ava asked.

  “Papa did have a sister. Her name was Emily. She was Papa’s sister for thirteen years.”

  Darya swallowed, because Natasha sounded so certain. “And then what? Poof, all of a sudden she was gone?”

  “And then yeah, poof, all of a sudden she was gone,” Natasha said. She let out a long whoosh of air. “Mama didn’t ‘make Emily up.’ She made her disappear.”

  I wish Mama would stop acting crazy, like Aunt Vera says she should.

  —NATASHA BLOK, AGE FIVE

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Natasha told them little more, no matter how hard they pressed, and Darya wondered if she had any clue how unfair she was being. She’d basically co-opted Darya’s birthday to announce that Mama was back, only to throw in the teensy little wrinkle that Oh, and by the way, she kind of killed Papa’s little sister.

  Although, fine. Natasha never said Mama killed this Emily. She said Mama disappeared her, which made things clear as mud.

  “I’d tell you more, but I can’t,” Natasha insisted. “Mama wants to tell you herself.”

  “So let’s go see her right now,” Darya suggested. “It’s not that late.”

  “We can’t,” Natasha said. “It’s . . . tricky.” She explained awkwardly that Mama wanted to get reacquainted with Darya on her own, not Darya plus Ava.

  “Hey!” Ava protested.

  “She wants time with you, too!” Natasha assured her. “Just not at the same time. Not this first time.”

  After going around in circles for several more minutes, she made the Official Big Sister Proclamation that they’d talk more in the morning, and she rose and headed for the house. Darya assumed they truly were going to bed, and though she was frustrated, she called out “good night” and “love you” as the three sisters retreated to their separate bedrooms.

  Five minutes later there was a soft rap on her door.

  “It’s me,” Natasha said, slipping into Darya’s room and easing the door shut behind her.

  “Yes, I can see that,” Darya replied.

  Natasha was already in her flannel
nightgown, because Natasha was that kind of girl. She settled beside Darya on her bed and said, “The thing is, we can’t hurt Ava’s feelings.”

  Darya didn’t like Natasha’s ownership of Mama’s return. She didn’t like Natasha’s smugness, either. It wasn’t on purpose, Darya had no doubt. But that only made it worse.

  I am the oldest, and I know things, Natasha’s concern suggested. Mama chose me to first reveal herself to, after all. It’s quite a responsibility.

  “I have no intention of hurting Ava’s feelings,” Darya said. “Let’s sneak out now. You know how quickly she conks out.”

  “It’s more than that. Mama does want to see you—so much! But she needs time.”

  Darya groaned and fell back against her pillow. “She’s had time. She’s had eight years.”

  “She wants to take things slowly.”

  “How slowly?”

  “She wants to be ready. She’s nervous.”

  “Well, so am I!” Darya exploded, not realizing she was on edge until she said it.

  “Then see?” Natasha said. “It’s for the best, for both of you.”

  Darya flung her arm over her eyes and groaned again.

  “I’ll take you to her next weekend. Papa has an art festival to go to, and Ava’s going with him. You can wait till then, can’t you?”

  Darya moved her arm just enough to eyeball her sister. “Do I have a choice?”

  “Well . . . no. But the week’ll pass in a flash, and then you’ll see Mama, and it’ll all be worth it.” Natasha stood up, and the mattress jiggled. “Good night for real. And . . . oh yeah. Happy birthday.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Darya had kept the tiny mouse jawbone, the one she’d found in the owl pellet. She’d washed it and put it in an empty spice jar, which she’d hidden behind a row of books on the highest shelf of her bookcase. She was well aware that some people, possibly most, would consider her to be the creepy one, while continuing to coo over the darling sweet owls who ate the mice and digested the flesh and left the bones behind.

  Darya spent little time worrying about it. It wasn’t as if anyone knew. And if nobody knew, then who’s to say it was true?

  That went for most things, not just mice bones.

  Before she fell asleep, she dragged her desk chair over to her bookshelf and climbed up on it. She pulled five books from the top shelf and stacked them on the shelf below. She reached through the gap and felt around until . . . there. She felt smooth glass and she drew out the spice jar.

  “Hi, little mouse bone,” she said in her quietest voice. “I hope you’re happy, wherever you are.” She meant the mouse, or rather the mouse’s soul, and not the bone itself.

  She thought of Mama.

  She thought of Papa.

  She didn’t make a birthday wish, because . . . she just didn’t.

  But she closed her eyes and kissed the jar, and knew it was practically the same.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Darya had grown up missing her mother. It was part of her identity, so in that way, maybe Tally’s Missing Daughters Club was aptly named after all.

  Darya had longed for Mama when she needed her first bra, and Aunt Vera had taken her to buy one, even though Aunt Vera was the worst person in the world to go bra shopping with. Even worse than Papa. With Papa, there’d have been embarrassment, but he’d have let her choose whatever bra she wanted. Aunt Vera had bought Darya three identical bras, each one beige and each one ugly.

  When Darya got her period, she’d at least had Aunt Elena, who wasn’t afraid of talking about things. And she’d had Natasha. Still, she’d yearned for Mama.

  She’d wanted Mama when she got a D on a sixth-grade math test and Mr. Barnes made her stay late after class. He’d been kind about it, and she’d gnawed the inside of her cheek to keep from crying. For days, her tongue had gone compulsively to the ridge of wounded flesh, prodding and exploring.

  She’d wanted Mama when she got an A-plus on a project about sea turtles. When a baby sea turtle got stuck inside its egg, it was called “half-pipped,” Darya had learned, and she’d known that Mama would have liked that. Darya had never been to the beach, but she’d imagined rescuing a half-pipped baby. She’d have kept it safe in a cool, dark place until it was strong enough to live on its own, and when it was time, she’d have taken it to the edge of the shore and watched it make its way into the sea.

  Oh, my baby girl, Mama might have said, standing barefoot in the sand and squeezing Darya’s shoulders. I’m so proud of you.

  Missing Mama was hardwired into Darya’s soul. But when she woke up Saturday morning and remembered that Mama was in Willow Hill and close enough to touch (if only Natasha would take Darya to her!), the missingness throbbed with almost unbearable intensity.

  She needed to distract herself, so she called Tally to see if she wanted to go out for coffee. Not real coffee, more like a coffee-ish drink of some sort. Even a strawberry Frappuccino, although Darya preferred mocha chip.

  But Tally’s foster mom told her that Tally was at the art studio at their middle school, because Tally was awesome that way. Tally’s foster mom didn’t say that last part, but it was true. Darya had met Tally in a summer art class—it was supposed to be jewelry making, but it turned out to be “Sketching in Graphite” or something equally unshiny—and Darya had quickly learned that Tally was the real deal.

  Whereas Darya thought about how cool it would be to make art, Tally went out and actually did it. Or made it. Or whatever.

  Maybe Tally had inherited her talent from her mom? Maybe being an artist was something the two of them shared?

  Mama hadn’t been a visual artist, but she had been creative. Darya remembered that. Stories, word puzzles, and picture puzzles too, come to think of it.

  So maybe Mama had been good at drawing. Maybe she still was. Maybe being an artist could be something Darya and Mama shared, and it could be their thing. Natasha wasn’t any good at drawing. Ava? She wasn’t bad, but dancing was more her thing.

  Go do it, then. What’s stopping you? Darya thought.

  (Oh, my talented girl, Mama might say when Darya brought her a brilliant drawing of . . . whatever. I’m so proud of you!)

  And yet a sucking lethargy held her back. Gathering pencils and paper seemed like such a lot of work. Finding something to be inspired by seemed like such a lot of work. Anyway, anything she drew would turn out stupid. She had decent ideas sometimes, she thought, but the few sketches she’d completed were massive failures.

  For example, she and Ava had gone on a picnic over the summer. It was after the jewelry-making class turned out to be an art class, and Darya had an assignment to complete. “Draw something from nature” was the gist of it, so she’d headed out to get inspired.

  The air had smelled like apples, and the sky had been an enormous placid lake. They’d drunk lemonade from a thermos and shared a package of sweet, crunchy cookies shaped like windmills, which Ava wanted more and more and more of.

  She made grabby fingers and said, “Hand over the cookies now, you cookie hog, or I’ll run off in tears!”

  Only Darya heard “or I’ll run off in deers,” and she imagined a girl running down a hill, but with hooves instead of feet. She’d have velvet ears sprouting from flowing hair, and she’d run with widespread arms, her fingers flinging out a trail of deer after deer after deer, each one smaller than the one that came before.

  Ava, running off in deers.

  At home, Darya tried to draw it, but what came out was flat and potato-ish and captured nothing of Ava at all. Or of deers. She’d ripped the picture to shreds, then burned the shreds, then flushed the charred bits as well as the match down the toilet. Ava, swirling away in smears.

  Even so, Darya could go and join Tally today. Ms. Meade opened the art room to students over the weekends if they respected the space and didn’t mess anything up. Maybe, with a few tips from Tally, Darya could manage to draw a brilliant picture for Mama.

  But Tally was so good an
d Darya was so bad. What if, deep inside, Tally felt embarrassed for her? What if she pitied her?

  Or . . . shhh . . . what if, deep inside, Darya wanted to see Tally for an entirely different reason? What if, deep inside, Darya wanted to let it slip that her missing mother might not be missing anymore?

  Darya would despise herself if she acted on that impulse, and Darya despised herself far too much already.

  She called Steph, who answered on the first ring.

  “Darya, hi!” she said. “Omigosh, I would love to talk, but—hold on, Mom! I’m coming!—my mom’s taking me shopping.” She must have heard the brightness in her voice, because she quickly toned it down. “It’s going to be so boring, but I already said I would.”

  Darya took a sort of mental deep breath and reminded herself that fair was fair—and also, wow, mommy issues popped up everywhere. Whereas Tally had a crap relationship with her mom, Steph got along with hers almost too well. If anything, Steph downplayed how good their relationship was the way certain girls downplayed their size-zero figures by pinching their tummies and bemoaning their nonexistent fat.

  Except what the skinny girls were saying, without words, was, Why yes, I am skinny, even if I pretend I’m not. Go on, then. Envy me.

  What Steph was saying was more along the lines of, You don’t have a mom, which is really super sad, and I don’t know what to do about it. Maybe it’ll help if I pretend you’re not missing out on much?

  “Steph, you love going shopping,” Darya said.

  “I do?”

  “Have fun. Buy lots. Just resist the leopard print thong this time, ’kay?”

  “Ew.”

  “Don’t let your mom get one either,” Darya said.

  “Ew!” Steph said, but she laughed, and Darya hoped Steph heard what she was really saying, which was that she was fine with Steph having mother-daughter bonding time. More than fine!

  She wished she could tell Steph about Mama, but if she told Steph then she should tell Suki, which brought back the question of telling Tally, and . . . not yet. Soon, she told herself. The missingness burned as intensely as ever, and frustration, too. Resentment that she’d been forced to miss Mama for so long?