21
ONCE I WAS ON THE ROAD, everything seemed less mysterious. Without the thousands of rustling cornstalks all around me, the day took on an almost boring note. The July heat came up off the stones like a mirage. Even the cemetery and the church, both vacant, seemed drab and normal.
Soon I walked the stretch where the dogs had attacked me the day before. But again, the earth seemed to deny that anything supernatural had ever occurred. I wondered what had happened to the dogs’ bodies. I thought about the tiny plant in the log, and it all seemed silly and impossible.
By the time I arrived at Abra’s house, I fully expected us to find the closet empty. Maybe there was no Mr. Jinn. Maybe there was no Mr. Tennin.
Maybe my mother had never died.
Yet when I walked up Abra’s driveway and slipped my hand into my pocket, there was the key. The skeleton key that would unlock the door. It was hard and metal and very, very real in my pocket. I knew that all of it had happened, every last strange thing, and in that moment I also knew that I would have to make a choice soon about what I was going to do with that Tree, a very real choice that would have very real consequences.
Abra’s baby brother was crying when I knocked on their front door. I walked in without anyone answering or inviting me in.
“Hello?” I called out to the house.
Mrs. Miller came into the room, carrying the baby. I could never remember his name. He cried a lot.
“Hi, Sam,” she said with an apologetic smile. “Abra went out with her father to the milk barn. She’ll be back in a minute. Can I get you a drink?”
“No thank you,” I shouted over the loud cries of the baby.
“Oh my. Oh my,” Mrs. Miller said to the baby. She placed him on one of the sofas, on his back, and looked over at me. “Would you watch Francis for just a minute? I have to run upstairs for something.”
That’s right. His name was Francis.
“I’m not so sure,” I said.
“Just one minute. I promise. Here.” She waved me over. “Sit here, like this, and make sure he doesn’t roll off.”
I walked to the sofa, but I didn’t want to watch the baby. Babies were breakable, like fancy glasses with stems.
“Oh, stop it,” she said, laughing at my hesitancy. “You’ll be fine.”
She was off and I was left sitting there on the edge of the sofa, my skinny, twelve-year-old legs the only things that separated the baby from a long fall and certain death. But he clearly didn’t appreciate the crucial role I played in keeping him alive, and he kept crying.
“Francis,” I said in a singsong voice. “Francis. Stop crying. Stop crying.”
For a moment his cries grew even more shrill, making me even more nervous, but then his eyes caught mine, and he stared up at me. His mouth uncurled, smoothed out. His eyes went from that squinty crying position to wide open, though still filled with tears.
I looked down and understood what it was about babies that so fascinated people. Inside those bright blue eyes, eyes that reminded me of Abra, I saw the essence of life. A spark resided there that could not be explained biologically. It was life, and it was moving and beautiful and a little scary, like a flash of lightning or a fish showing its shiny self for a moment in a fast-moving river.
Francis looked up at me and, as if disappointed by what he found in my own eyes, started crying again. This time a louder, more persistent cry than before. Abra came running in the front door.
“Francis?” she called, dashing over to where I sat.
“He’s crying,” I said, shrugging.
“Is Sam being mean to you?” she asked the baby, picking him up.
Mrs. Miller came down and reached for Francis. “Aw, you poor thing. Thanks, Abra. Thanks, Sam.”
Abra looked at me and raised her eyebrows, wondering why I was getting any praise.
“Hey,” I said, “I was watching him.”
“Is that what you call that?”
“I’m taking him up for his nap,” Mrs. Miller said. “You two have fun. And be careful.” She looked at Abra. “Your father found an enormous set of tracks by the river. He’s still not sure what it might be. So stay close to the house.”
She walked up the stairs, carrying little Francis, who by now had stopped crying and was sucking on his fist. He looked over at me with obvious contempt. Or at least that’s what I thought I saw.
Once Mrs. Miller had disappeared upstairs, Abra looked over at me. “Want to go see it again?” she asked.
I nodded.
“Did you bring the key?” she asked.
I reached into my pocket and held it up like it was the answer to every question anyone had ever asked.
The feel of the correct key turning in a lock is a satisfying feeling. I pulled the skeleton key back out of the slot and looked at Abra before turning the knob and opening the closet door. Everything was where we had left it. The log was back in the shadow, the hole facing away from us just as I had placed it the night before. The duffel bag sat on the other side of the closet, the square edges of the box visible.
“There it is,” I said, not knowing what else to say. I walked into the closet, picked up the log, and carried it out into the room. It was heavy. I wasn’t sure how I would carry it all the way to Mr. Jinn’s house.
“Oh no,” Abra said in a sad voice, pointing to the hollow side of the log. “That little plant is gone.”
I practically dropped the log and looked upside down into the end where the Tree of Life had been the night before. Nothing. I turned around, got down on my hands and knees, and peered deep inside the log, hoping that maybe it had fallen in further. But there was nothing there, nothing except the rich dirt and small patch of moss that I pulled out and held in my hands.
I thought I was going to cry. Every dream I had ever had about my mom returning evaporated into that hollow log.
“It was so pretty,” Abra said. “But it was a sign. Your mom is watching over you.”
No! I wanted to shout. No! That was the thing that would make my life normal again. It would bring back everything I’ve lost! That little plant was what I needed. I had to have it.
But it wasn’t there. It wasn’t dead, at least not in the log. Someone must have taken it.
Who?
I stared over at Abra. The darkness that had moved into my soul flared up.
“Did you take it?” I asked.
She looked hurt. “Take it? I gave it to you! I gave you the key to the closet. Why would I take it?”
The darkness subsided. She was right. If she had wanted it, she could have chosen never to show it to me. And she didn’t even know what it was.
“What about your parents?” I asked. “Were they in here?”
“They never come over here,” she said. “Why are you so paranoid? Why would anyone even want that thing? It was pretty, but that was it. It was just a flower.”
I sat down under the weight of loss and shook my head, and before I could stop them, the words came pouring out.
“It wasn’t. It was the Tree. The Tree of Life. Mr. Jinn told me to bring it to him so that we could bring my mom back. He said he could do that.”
I wondered what she would say. I knew she had been skeptical from the beginning. But her response surprised me.
“So what’s he going to do if we don’t have it?”
“You believe me?”
“He won’t be happy.”
“Were you going to tell me, or were you just going to take it to him?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I didn’t know what to do.”
She sat down on the floor beside me. We both stared into that empty log for a long time. And strangely enough, I felt a small seed of peace.
“So what’s in the bag?” she asked.
I stared at it. The box seemed suddenly important again. Even without the Tree, I was left with something. Maybe something in there would lead me to it. Maybe something in that box would put the whole thing back on track.
“This has been one crazy summer,” I said, looking over at Abra. She smiled, and it made me smile.
“What’s in the bag?” she asked again, this time punching me in the shoulder, but not very hard.
“You’re not going to believe it,” I said, shaking my head. There was nothing believable about that summer. Not one single thing.
I pulled the bag over to where we were sitting. Everything seemed to grow serious, but the sun still shone in the window. The empty half of the house we were in felt even emptier. I felt like I always did on that side of the house, like we were the only two people in the entire world. But maybe that wasn’t it—maybe we were the first two people in the whole world, and this was the first day.
“You’re not going to believe it,” I said again as I pulled the zipper back and lifted out the box.
“Try me,” she said, staring as I drew the lid back.