I’m super excited about going to Jane’s house, but there’s one thing I have to do first.
“When your mom picks us up, could we maybe stop by my house and then my dad’s apartment?”
We’re at our lockers after lunch. Jane carefully turns her dial. “Your dad? I thought he left.”
“I know where he lives.”
“You need to talk to him?”
“No. Just give him something.”
“I can ask my mom, but she’ll probably say yes. What are you giving him?”
I pass her the hat.
“Oh, yeah. Do you think it will work like when he was little?”
“I don’t know.”
She hands the hat back. “That’s okay. You have to try everything when it’s important, right?”
And suddenly, I’m a tree transplanted between orchards, and I can finally sink my roots down deep into the earth. I can finally feel at home again.
After school, Jane’s mom picks us up. First, she takes me to my house. I bolt inside, drop off my guitar, grab the shoebox full of notes from under my bed, and then run back to the van.
I can’t seem to get out when we get to Dad’s apartment, though. The box of letters is heavy on my lap. Sometimes it’s hard to know the right amount of love and the right amount of letting go.
“Is this the place?” Mrs. Chu finally asks.
I nod because my throat’s too scratchy to talk.
“I can go with you if you want,” says Jane.
“No,” I whisper. “I want to go alone.”
Jane nods. “Okay. Good luck.”
At the door to Dad’s building, I turn and wave. Mrs. Chu rolls down the window.
“We’ll wait here,” she calls.
I run up all three flights of stairs because the elevator is taking too long, and then tiptoe to his door. The numbers are still crooked. He’s probably inside lying on the bed, or sitting in his chair, looking at nothing.
I know then I don’t want to see him. And really, he doesn’t want to see me.
But he still needs a hat. I take it out of my pocket. It isn’t beautiful. Grammy dropped some stitches and there are bumps where she tried to pick them back up. It’s good enough for keeping out fears though.
I stare at the shoebox of letters in one hand and the hat in the other, wondering what Dad will think when he sees them. Will he understand what I’m giving him? What I’m trying to say?
I sit down, put the hat and shoebox on the floor, and open my backpack. All I need is some paper, but my fingers touch the orange notebook I’d given to Sofia. It’s the perfect solution.
I pull out the notebook, open it to the first page, and read the poem I wrote for Sofia.
Roses are red, violets are blue, write a poem in this notebook, because that’s what best friends do.
After tearing out the page, I start writing to Dad. The words pour out of me faster than a river after spring’s snowmelt.
Dear Dad,
I’m leaving you this hat Grammy made and a box of letters I wrote, because they’re the most magical things I have to give. Each one holds a little piece of me. A little bit of magic. Family is family, forever and always, no matter what.
Love,
Kate
P.S. I love you.
I close up the notebook, set it on the shoebox, then put the hat on top. There will be more knitted hats for Dad in the future, since he might need them, and I know how to knit now. But there won’t be any more letters. Because I can’t keep taking all my hopes and shoving them under my bed. Hope doesn’t belong in a shoebox.
When it’s important, you try everything. And now I have to trust that the magic will work and make … something happen. Perhaps one day, Dad will able to believe and then give.
After I’ve arranged everything outside his apartment, gentle as an almond blossom, sure as magic, I give three short knocks.
Just before running away, I think maybe I hear the sound of guitar chords floating through the door.
Maybe. Just maybe.
I make my way back down the three flights of stairs and out into the blinding, brilliant sunlight. With one last look at Dad’s building, I can’t help whispering something between a prayer and a wish for him.
“The magic is real. I promise.”