Scrapped

Vera bristled at her mother’s question. Her memory since Elizabeth’s birth had been horrible. But she was certain she hadn’t invited Cookie to the crops. She sat there, her mind spinning with memories, running her fingers over the moon pages. The words blue moon spun around in her head, then the song, as she tried to remember if she had met Cookie before that first crop or if her friends had talked about her so much that she’d felt like she already knew her.

“Look at that!” Beatrice exclaimed, as she leaned across Vera.

Each turn of the page offered a feast for the eye. Pressed flowers and herbs were affixed in neat little rows. The pages had holes cut into them, where the flowers and herbs were displayed in little slips of plastic. Lady’s slipper. Foxglove. Henbane. Virginia bluebells. Handwritten descriptions accompanied them. In between the real botanicals were beautifully rendered—yet almost childlike—drawings of fairies.

“Look at that beautiful ink,” Sheila said. “It almost shimmers.”

“Shimmer is a good word for all of it,” Beatrice said.

Nothing shimmery about plants, Vera thought. Yet there was a shimmery, almost alive quality to the page. Was the effect from the ink alone?

Vera looked at one fairy, who appeared to be dancing. How had Cookie drawn her to show such action? The fairy looked like it was ready to dance off the page. Vera blinked, for suddenly it looked like that fairy was leaping off the page and spinning around in the air. Bright, sparkly dust suddenly blew into Vera’s eyes, making them burn.

“Ouch!” she said and closed her eyes. The scrapbook fell to the floor with a thud.

“What’s wrong?” Sheila said.

“My eyes!” Vera whined.

“What happened?” Beatrice said. “Open your eyes. Let me see.”

“I can’t! It hurts,” Vera squealed.

“Stop rubbing,” Sheila said.

“Go get a cool wet washcloth, Sheila. Something must have flown into her eyes,” Beatrice said. “I’ll rinse them out. It will be fine.”

“Fine? The damned fairy blew dust into them,” Vera said, her eyes still closed and burning.

“Fairy?” Beatrice said. “Are you having a stroke? Do we need to take you to a hospital?”

“The fairy in the book,” Vera said.

Sheila was back in the room now and was laughing. “Fairy?” She handed Beatrice the washcloth.

“You’re going to need to open them,” Beatrice told Vera.

“It’s going to hurt worse.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Beatrice said. “First, you’re seeing fairies. Now you’re behaving like you’re two. Open your friggin’ eyes. Hold her head.”

Beatrice wrung the washcloth over her daughter’s eyes, which were fluttering now, finally opening. Vera reached for the washcloth and wiped her eyes. She pulled the washcloth away from her face.

“Look,” she told them. Vera held the washcloth up for them to see. “It’s got some kind of fine glitter all over it.”

“Well, I’ll be,” Sheila said, pushing her glasses back on her nose.

“Where did it come from? I didn’t see any glitter,” Beatrice said.

“It must have come from the book. There’s plenty of glitter in there,” Sheila said.

“You mean it leapt from the page into my eyes? Just my eyes?”

Sheila shook her head. “No, I mean it just blew into them—”

“With what air current?” Beatrice said, sticking her finger up to feel for one.

Sheila shrugged. “How do I know, old woman? You’re the physicist.”

“I’m telling you that I saw a fairy leap off the page and fly around. It blew this glittery stuff right into my eyes,” Vera said.

“Humph,” Beatrice said. “Of all the things that could have happened, I’m fairly certain it wasn’t a fairy.”

Vera threw the washcloth down. “Oh, really? I saw it! This coming from you? You swear Daddy’s ghost was with you for years. And you don’t believe I saw a fairy? That’s rich.”

Sheila crossed her arms. “She’s got a point, Beatrice.”

“Okay, look,” Beatrice said after a moment. “We were sitting right here, looking at the book with you, and neither one of us saw a thing.”

Just then the tea kettle went off. “Tea, ladies?” Sheila asked, walking over to the stove in her basement kitchenette. “I’ve got leftover scones and muffins from last night.”

Vera pushed a long strand of her hair behind her ear, her hand shaking. “I just don’t know what happened. It looked like a fairy.... I don’t know. . . . Maybe it was pollen? A piece of a flower?”

“Pollen and glitter,” Sheila said, setting a tray with a teapot, cups, and scones and muffins in front of them.

Sheila poured the tea, and Beatrice reached for a gingerbread muffin. Vera noticed her mother’s hands trembling slightly. Vera took a sip of her tea. Yes. That was good. Real. Right.

Nothing else seemed to be. She still felt disoriented. Uncertain of what had just happened to her. But as she looked around the room, it seemed like she was seeing things very clearly, with much more vivid hues than before.

“Well, we are still back where we started from,” Sheila mused after taking a bite of a scone. “We still don’t know what to make of this book or of Cookie.”

The three of them sat there, eating, sipping tea, looking around the room. Not one of them picked the book up off the basement floor.