Chapter 24

After Daddy and I went inside, Mama gave me supper. She didn’t ask me where I’d been and she didn’t sniff, but she gave me a hug when I sat at the table. After supper, I told her I wanted to make a cake, but this one with Meadow Lark, and she smiled like she understood.

Meadow Lark measured and I stirred. She filled the pans and I put them in the oven. She took them out, and while we waited for them to cool, we made a plan. It was the kind of plan best friends make without having to say many words.

The next morning, Meadow Lark carried the cake straight to Mr. Sievers’s room and put it on his desk. “This is from Ms. Zucchero,” she say.

According to her, Mr. Sievers’s eyes grew wide when he saw that cake. “For me?” he asked. “Why, thank you.”

At the same time, I carried a vase of wildflowers straight to Ms. Zucchero’s room and put them on her desk. “These are from Mr. Sievers,” I told her.

“For me?” she asked, drawing her nose to them. “They’re lovely. Tell him thank you.”

The rest, we’d decided, was up to them.

I felt everyone looking at me in art later that day. Sonya started to say something to me, but I cut her off and turned to Kevin Kale. “Tell your daddy to make an appointment for Mr. Clapton. I have a feeling he’ll be calling soon.”

That night, as I waited for Meadow Lark to fall asleep first, I lay listening to the rain. It had been raining off and on for so many days that I wondered if we’d all soon float away.

“That was fun today,” I say to Meadow Lark. “It felt good to make wishes come true.”

“I can’t wait to see what happens,” she say, her voice soft. “River, I’m glad you’re my friend. It’s what I always wished for.”

That made me smile. “Me too.” Then I realized that if I was really Meadow Lark’s friend, I should tell her the truth.

“Are you still awake?” I asked.

“Mmm-hmm,” she murmur.

“I have to tell you—I found a white feather at the river the other day. It floated across to me from the other side.”

“Mr. Tricks’s feather, right?” she asked.

“That’s what I thought, so I tried to go across the bridge to look for him . . . but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t go over that bridge. I wanted to find him and bring him home to you, but I’m sorry I couldn’t do it.”

“I can . . . go there and . . . look for him. . . .” Her voice faded, and then I heard her even breathing, which told me she was asleep.

I must have fallen asleep for a bit, because the next thing I knew, I heard the swishes and snaps of Meadow Lark getting dressed. When I opened my eyes, she was standing in front of my bureau.

I whispered, “Meadow—” but stopped, because in the dimness I saw her open up my ballerina box and heard her rummage through it. Maybe she thought the feather was in there. Then she opened the door, paused, and stepped into the hall.

I waited for her to go downstairs before I slipped on my sneakers, and then I went outside, following her. The raindrops bounced on the street like pearls, and fog swirled through them. Meadow Lark was way ahead of me by then, even with her slow leg. When she got to the baseball field and turned down the old path, I knew she was going to the covered bridge.

“Meadow Lark!” I called, but she was too far ahead and the rain poured down too loud for her to hear me.

I soon lost sight of her in the darkness and the fog, and the rain roared like a multitude of wings. “Meadow Lark,” I called again.

Finally I reached the end of the path, where it began to join the bridge. There was so much water everywhere—under my feet, falling from the sky, and rushing down the river. I’d never seen so much water in all my life, and my heart pounded out of my chest with fear for what could happen.

I squinted to try to see Meadow Lark through the darkness and fog and rain. Her black silhouette appeared at the mouth of the bridge. I could tell by the sound of the river that the water was almost touching it. Then I remembered what the men say that Sunday after church, and about Daddy trying to save June. I couldn’t let that happen to my friend.

“Meadow Lark!” I called again, not caring if I woke her up.

Then she stepped onto the bridge, into the place where the riverbank ended and the bridge began, where there was a floor but no walls and nothing to hold on to. At the same time I heard a crash against the side of the bridge, as if something mighty had hit the side.

Meadow Lark stopped. “Come back,” I called to her, but she was staring at something in the bridge. I looked and saw a dark form standing against the side about halfway in. By the shape, I recognized it as the same person I’d seen that night on the beach.

“Hello?” I called.

For a moment Meadow Lark turned around to look at me, and then she ran into the bridge.

I followed her, running as quick as spit and yelling, “Don’t! Come back!” but it was too late. Just then the river surged and washed across the floor, thrusting a log across the gap in front of me. Little bits of paper clung to its bark, holding fast against the current. That was our log!

Then another surge pounded the bridge. Meadow Lark screamed and slid across the floor to the downstream side. “Meadow Lark!” I yelled, and ran down the bridge to her, more afraid now of losing her to the river than of the river itself.

Just then the rain and fog lifted for a moment, and I could see that other person edging his way from beam to beam toward us. And as he got closer, I recognized him.

“Theron!” I cried as we reached Meadow Lark at the same time. Another surge washed across the bridge, and I braced myself against a beam.

“Grab on to her arms,” Theron yelled over the roar of the water. Then he reached me and pulled me inside the bridge, protecting us from the worst of the flooding.

We clutched her and waited for the water to clear the bridge floor. Then he yelled, “Run!” and we skimmed across the few yards of exposed floor. He lifted Meadow Lark over the log while I stepped over it, and then we scampered to the soggy path—and fell, still holding on to each other, and lay gasping for breath.

“Theron,” I say when I could speak again. I could hardly believe who I was seeing. I touched his face and jaw, and let my fingers sink into the dimples under his cheekbones. The rain mixed with tears on my cheeks.

“Theron,” I say, the way you say a wish, a prayer.

He stared at me, my brother—not a ghost and not my imagination, but my brother—all height and muscle and flesh of him. I’d been hoping for a miracle all this time, and then it come, and he was right in front of me.

After a few minutes he stood up, then wiped his face with his hand and brushed off his jeans. “You need to take her home and get her warm,” he say.

“But . . . what about you?” I asked.

“I can’t go home. You know that.”

Meadow Lark huddled against me, shivering so hard I could hear her teeth chatter.

“But—I just found you.”

“River, go,” he say.

I knew I had to get her home, but I didn’t want to leave without my brother. “But, Theron, you can come home now,” I say.

“No,” he say. “But I’ll watch until you’re safe on the path.”

I understood something then, so crystal clear that it almost blinded me, about why people hoped. I knew why Mama hoped to see angels. I knew why Meadow Lark kept hoping for Mr. Tricks, why Daniel hoped for a tutor and our teachers for love, and why Mr. Clapton hoped for straight teeth. Just as I knew why all that time, since the day Theron left us, I hoped for him to come back. Because when you find what you’re hoping for, you can call it a miracle.

I started back up the path with Meadow Lark, shivering all the way. Every few steps I took, I turned around, hoping to see Theron following us. For a long time he stayed on the path where I left him, but then come the time I turned around and he was gone.