Chapter 26

It had worked.

Amazingly, miraculously, it had worked. There was Fern, safe in Alder’s arms, and here was Walnut, curled contentedly (and perhaps sleepily) in Oak’s. The four of them pressed close together on the tree stump in the yard. Around them, the wind was softer now, gentle.

Oak stepped down from the stump. Alder did too.

What could someone even say in the face of such a thing? It was too big, too beautiful for words, so, with a little wave, Oak turned toward her house, and Alder did the same.

When she was safe inside, Oak found that she felt a little bit weepy and very, very tired. She kicked off her shoes and went with Walnut to her bedroom, curling up and pulling the covers over them both.

Opossums and teacups and kittens and doors. Fathers and sweaters and yarn balls and more. Howling winds. Sparkling air. Tree stumps and found books. A house that wasn’t there.

Maybe she was dreaming. Maybe part of her was still traveling—some part that took longer than the body to get from one space to another, trailing behind her like a scarf. Maybe it was that part that felt confused, mixed up, and a little bit lost.

She would lie very still, Oak decided, so that the part of her that was still traveling would know where to find the rest of her. Walnut’s purr grew louder, his whole being a warm, fuzzy comfort in her arms.

And then Oak was definitely asleep.

“Oak?”

Mom’s voice jolted Oak awake. She sat straight up in bed, and Walnut, displeased with the sudden movement, shot out of her arms and ran from the room.

“Honey, what are you doing home?” Mom crossed the room and sat next to Oak on the bed. She felt Oak’s forehead. “Are you sick?”

Mom’s hand felt so good on Oak’s skin. Cool, and comforting.

“The school called me at the office to say you were absent. You had me so worried!”

Oak’s eyes overfilled and tears spilled down her cheeks. And then she was sobbing, crying loud like a little kid, messy crying, and Mom put her arm around Oak’s shoulders to pull her close.

At first Oak resisted, pulling away, but when Mom’s arms loosened, like she was going to let Oak go, Oak collapsed instead into her mother’s embrace.

Mom caught her, strong and solid, and held Oak as she cried.

“It’s okay,” Mom said. “It’s all right.”

Oak cried until her tears were gone, and then she sniffed and hiccuped and wiped her nose with her sleeve. It was rough and itchy—she was still wearing Dad’s wool sweater.

Her mom pulled a tissue from the box on the nightstand and gave it to Oak. “Honey,” she said again, “what are you doing home?”

“I didn’t get on the bus,” Oak said. “I just . . . stayed home today.”

Her mom nodded. “I can see that.” Her gaze traveled over the sweater Oak was wearing. “You’re missing your dad,” she said.

It was true. Oak nodded, sniffing.

“He’ll be here soon,” Mom said.

“And,” Oak said, “I’m mad at you.”

“Ah,” said Mom. She smoothed Oak’s hair from her face.

“You didn’t ask me if I wanted to move. You never ask me anything.”

Mom nodded. Even as Oak said it, she knew it wasn’t completely true, though it felt true.

“Let me ask you something now,” Mom said. “Are you sorry we moved?”

Was she sorry? No. She wasn’t. Not really. “That’s not the point,” Oak said.

Mom laughed, but not at Oak. “I know,” she said. Then she said, “It’s okay to be mad at me, baby. You can be as mad as you need to be. I’ll love you just the same.”

This, Oak knew, was completely true.

Mom patted Oak’s knee through the blanket. Then she looked around and said, “You know, you’re right about this room. It could use some color.”

“I was thinking lavender,” Oak said.

“Lavender,” Mom mused. “That sounds lovely. Well, what do you say?”

“You mean . . . today? Like, now?”

“Well, you’re home from school, and I’m home from work. Why not?”

“Okay,” Oak said. “But I’m still going to be mad at you.” Except, right now, she wasn’t.

Mom laughed. “Tough but fair,” she said. She stood up. “Come on. Let’s go buy some paint.”