Silhouette of a Sparrow

“You certainly know your way around,” I told Isabella as we set off past the strip of sand, through a little clearing, and into the woods. “How long have you lived in Excelsior?”

“This is my second summer here. They were hiring performers last spring when the park first opened—I jumped at the chance to get out of St. Paul. Avery showed me around some, and I tromped around with the other new park workers. Mostly I’ve just explored a lot on my own. Last winter stretched on forever—the off-season is so dead out here that I had to wait tables in a tearoom for a while to get by—and when spring came this year I was desperate to get outside. I’ve been all over! I came out to Big Island earlier this week and found something I knew you had to see.”

As we picked our way through the woods, every rock and twig jabbed into my too-soft feet, but I bit my lip and vowed not to complain and not to ask what kind of snakes lived in these woods. My dress caught on bushes and mosquitoes bit at my ankles, and part of me minded. It was habit, being concerned about those things. But another part of me, a deeper part, rejoiced in the dirt between my toes and the leaves in my hair. Before I could stop myself, I wished Daddy were here with me—the old Daddy who had always wished for a son but made do with a little girl instead.

We picked our way through the brush and at last came out in a large overgrown clearing littered with heaps of rusting metal and rotting wood. The place had a mournful feel about it, like a graveyard.

“The ruins of the old amusement park, the Big Island park that ran back when the huge steamboats ferried tourists around the lake. Not much left now.” She looked out over the piles of scrap lumber and bent nails.

She moved her hand and pointed to a nearby elm tree. “Two,” she said, pointing first at the little black-and-white flecked body that clung to the bark of the tree, and then at the nearly identical bird poking its head out of a hole farther up. The male’s short bill rapped against the wood in search of bugs while his mate gazed down at him. “What kind are they?” Isabella asked.

“Downy woodpeckers. See the white patch on the back, and the red spot on the male’s nape? They’re too small to be hairy woodpeckers.”

She looked over at me, impressed, and I gave her a little shrug and a smile. I couldn’t fish or row or dance, but it was nice to be the expert sometimes.

“They’re a mated couple,” I went on. “I’ll bet they hatched four or five eggs in that hole earlier in the season. The little ones have probably flown off already, but the pair is still together.”

But as I watched the pair of birds go about their domestic routine, little holes opened up in my chest, like the woodpeckers were drumming their beaks into my heart. What was happening? I’d been so looking forward to this day trip, so ready to enjoy some time with Isabella. So why did I feel like I was breaking into pieces just as we reached our destination?

“No,” I said, my voice choked. For once, I didn’t feel like it. After a moment my heart was so full of holes I had to turn away. I took a few shaky steps away from the birds, away from the elm, away from Isabella. Then I stopped, steadying myself on a piece of roller coaster track, dizzy as I’d been after stepping out of the twisting tunnel on my first visit to the amusement park. I gazed out over the rubble of this old park and fought the tears down. It looked as though the whole world was in ruins. Somehow it had all fallen down around me while I was busy pretending and forgetting—lying and stealing and sneaking around.

What was I doing here hiding in the woods with this smoking-drinking-dancing girl, watching a pair of happily mated birds while my family fell apart at home and my hope chest waited, half full and neglected. Maybe Isabella could run away from the people she cared about in order to live an unpredictable life without the solid safety of home—but I couldn’t. I couldn’t.

Then the idea struck me—I needed to write to Teddy, have him come for a visit, urge him to go ahead and ask me that important question. I couldn’t wait six more weeks. It was the sixeenth of July and I’d gotten in enough trouble in the month since I’d arrived in Excelsior. Teddy needed to come. He needed to settle it, before I got carried away wishing for things that could never happen. I would write him as soon as I got back to the hotel. I had to.

“What’s wrong?” Isabella asked, approaching me slowly from the edge of the woods as though I was a wild animal she didn’t want to frighten away. “Should I take you back?”

“Yes.” Teddy. The hotel. Teddy. Yes. But then I faltered, my resolve vanishing as quickly as it had come. “No . . . I don’t know.”

Isabella laid a hand on my shoulder, and without another thought I threw myself into her arms. She held me a minute in silence and then pulled back to look at me, concern etched into creases on her forehead. Tears streaked my face and the world looked bright and blurry. But her face was clear. And close.

Isabella stood for everything uncertain and unstable and risky, and yet as my mind threatened to reel back in frantic circles, I found stillness in her dark eyes. I held onto that stillness for dear life.

Just then a spatter of rain tickled my face, cooler than my tears. Isabella let go of me and held up her bare arms to feel the drops. She looked off to the west where dark clouds gathered. “Oh, no. There’s a storm coming.”