Birdie's Book (2 page)

We fought the wind as we walked to my grandmother's yellow car. Mo had to hold on to her hat to keep it from flying away. The car was as huge as a boat and had fins like a fish. I loaded my suitcase in the trunk and then settled inside on the wide front bench seat, my daisy-in-a-hat on my lap.

As Mo drove (I couldn't stop thinking of her as Mo!), I imagined that the big-finned boat-car was swimming along over the slick roads. Inside, the car smelled like leather and gasoline, and the heater warmed my hands and Belle's roots. The engine surged as my grandmother navigated an icy hill on the way to Colts Ridge, the town where she lives.

Halfway through the quiet drive, Mo glanced
sideways at me. “Quite a difference from California, I guess?” she said.

“Yeah,” I said, nodding.

“I can tell you miss it,” she said.

“Yeah, I do.”

“And this will be your first New Year's in the snow, I suppose,” she said.

I nodded. I could not find anything positive to say in response to
that
sorry fact.

“From what your dad says, your mom finally landed her dream job and you had to move to New York. Then, boom, they send her clear to London for that big paper account. But there are upsides, right? First of all, you're in
my
neck of the woods, so hopefully we'll see each other more often. And … aren't you looking forward to starting at that international school?”

The hand not holding Belle went straight to my mouth, covering my braces. As if thinking about a new school wasn't bad enough, I still had the brand-new stupid braces to make it worse! “Yeah, I guess,” I said. I wasn't at all sure. I knew I'd meet girls from all over the world there, so it might be cool at the Girls' International School of Manhattan. Then again, starting school midyear isn't something you'd call easy.

Lilium tigrinum
was not looking at me or at my braces. She had her eyes glued to the road. The wipers slap-slapped the windshield as she tapped the large steering wheel with her thumbs. “Well, it was
definitely
high time you visited your grandmother, dontcha think? The last time I saw you in the flesh you were squiggling around in your mom's arms.”

I knew I should have a snappy, cheerful response to her chitchat, but I couldn't think of one, so I just gave a sort of snort.

“I've been thinking.” My grandmother tried again. “How about calling me Granny Mo? Mo is short for Maureen, and no one else in this whole world calls me Granny. Or do you prefer Grandma Mo? Nana Mo?”

I was afraid she'd keep trying to find the right name, so I said, “I don't know,” and I turned to gaze out the window at the passing mounds of snow.

Mo fell silent. I was afraid that I'd hurt her feelings, which I didn't want to do. It's just that … well, I was already liking my grandmother a hundred times better than I had imagined, so much better than I thought my mom would ever want me to. It felt weirdly like a betrayal to Mom. And if I acted like I liked my grandmother right now, and
then
she turned out to be a crazy old bat after all, I'd be in trouble.

“I think I'd like to wait till we …” I paused, trying to think of the right words.

“Till we bond?” she asked. She nodded, like it was a decision not to be taken lightly. “Sure. And just Mo is fine, too, if that feels better. It's what most people call me.” Mo flicked on her turn signal. “What's your flower's name?”

“You think I have a name for a plant?” I asked, keeping my tone neutral.

“Of course!” said Mo. “I know
I
would.”

Tiny snowflakes swirled past the big windshield, dancing on the butter yellow hood of the big car. Mo turned on the wipers again.

“Belle,” I said, smiling a little.

“Ah. Short for
Bellis simplex
, no?”

Hmmm. She
did
get it. “Absolutely,” I told her, my tiny smile expanding, but not enough to show my braces. I drew in a breath of the warm heater air. It was the first deep breath I'd taken since I got off the train.

“We're here!” Mo announced, turning the car slowly onto a snowy drive that wound between two trees standing like bare-leafed sentries.

“They're sugar maples,” said Mo, nodding to the two trees. “My own mother planted them for me, fifty-some-odd years ago. Grand, aren't they?”

“
Acer saccharum
,” I murmured.

Now it was Mo's turn to smile. “Speaking of
acer
s,” she said as we continued down the driveway, lined all the way with two rows of smaller trees, “I planted all these moosewoods for
your
mom, right after she was born.”

Did Mom even care?
I wondered. I couldn't imagine it.

“Emma was four when she said she was happy because she had enough moose wings to help her fly away,” said Mo.

“Moose wings?” I said. “What are moose wings?”

Mo slammed on the brakes. Snow and gravel flew. Pulling off her glove, she opened the car door, leaned down, and dug around in the snow. A blast of cold air whipped through the car. I hunched down and breathed warmth onto Belle. I was glad when Mo straightened up and shut the door again.

She grinned and opened her hand to reveal golden brown moosewood seeds. “Moose wings!” she said, like she was sharing a special treasure with me. Mo rolled down the window and, lifting her hand to her mouth, blew lightly. The delicate wings spun in the snowy air and floated down like twirling fairies.

“Fruit of the moosewood tree. Otherwise known as—”

“
Acer pennsylvanicum
. Striped maple,” I pronounced with a smile.

“Hey, you're
better
than good at this!” Mo said, rolling the window up and shifting back into first gear. “Emma called this her moose walk. We used to sing to the trees as we walked. And I thought—” Mo stopped abruptly.

I was still amazed that my mom had talked about flying. I waited to hear more.

“Until your mom was fourteen, she said it was her magical path.” Mo's voice was quiet.

Until she was fourteen
? I thought.
That's only a couple of years older than me! What happened?
But I didn't want to ask. It seemed like an awfully deep subject to get into before we even reached the house.

At the end of the long driveway was an eggplant purple Victorian house with violet trim. We got out of the car, and Mo grabbed my suitcase from the trunk. I held Belle, using my hand to make a little umbrella over her head to protect her from the snow.

I looked up at the crooked house. Each window was a different size and shape, and some of the panes of glass were brilliantly colored. The house had many roofs, all pitched at various angles. Two sugar maples,
just like the ones at the beginning of the driveway, grew right through the front porch and porch roof, forming gnarled columns. The porch itself rose and fell above the mounds of their humungous roots.

“Never mind the bumps,” Mo said as we went up the uneven steps. “The trees are slowly taking over my porch. And I say, more power to them!” With that, she flung open the double front doors and announced: “Welcome to the Eggplant House.”

Once inside, I just stood there, looking around, trying to get my bearings, which was not easy! Every wall was plastered with photographs, postcards, paintings, and handwritten pages. Growing things were everywhere, and not just plants in pots! A beautiful white-flowered vine had pushed its way through a floorboard and wound around the staircase.

“Is that really a
Passiflora?”
I asked Mo.

“Ah, yes, my passion vine,” said Mo, dropping the suitcase at the foot of the stairs.

“But it's freezing cold!” I protested, picturing those white flowers sprouting into
deep purple passion fruit in a Brazilian jungle, or maybe in Califa, but certainly not in New Jersey, even indoors.

“My dear, it's never winter in the Eggplant House,” Mo said. She hung her coat up on a hook shaped like a snake and dropped her gloves on the hissing radiator painted gold. While she pulled off her snowy boots, I set Belle down on a table whose top had sheet music glued to it. I pulled off my gloves and dropped them on the radiator, too. Then I hung my matching spring green jacket on a snake hook beside Mo's and kicked my own boots off to join hers.

Mo smiled at me as she tossed her keys into a basket next to a dusty violin bearing the inscription
Aventurine
. There was something familiar about that word. Was it the name of a long-lost family member my mother mentioned once? Was it a color?

Mo snatched up my suitcase again, carrying it effortlessly up the circular staircase. Her big feet in droopy socks clomped on the steps. I almost giggled at the thought that her plants might tighten up all their roots from the vibration. I picked up Belle and followed, my feet barely making a sound.

I stopped at the crescent-shaped landing halfway up the stairs. It was crammed with old musical instruments webbed with spider's lace. A clarinet
rested on the floor next to a broken music stand.

“I know people who would be tempted to give that clarinet a little nudge and watch everything come tumbling down,” I said to myself; then I realized I'd actually said it aloud!

“I suppose those are people I would never invite into my home,” said Mo.

I reminded myself to stay quiet until the jury was in on whether or not my grandmother was a certifiable C.O.B.

“Do you play?” I asked.

“These old things? No. I need to fix them,” she said, nodding toward the instruments. “I have a working violin and guitar,” she added.

We climbed the rest of the stairs and Mo turned around, announcing, “This room was your mother's. You may move things around if you want. I left it as it's always been, figuring she'd be back to change it herself someday.” Mo swung open the door and stepped back.

Neon pink bedroom walls were plastered with posters of old pop bands. Above the headboard, on the sloping ceiling, were two posters of a teenage boy with shoulder-length blond hair parted down the middle. I checked out the signature at the bottom of the poster.

“Who's Leif Garrett?” I asked.

Mo sighed and playfully rolled her eyes. “He was a singer who was popular for a while. Oh, your mother had such a crush on him.” She smiled ruefully. “Closest thing to a plant I could get her to as a teenager was this Leif.”

I found myself truly grinning (braces and all) for the first time in weeks. It was just the kind of joke
I
would make! “So she
did
have fun when she was a kid,” I said.

Mo looked around the room as if she were hunting for an answer. Then she said, “Probably more than she remembers, Birdie. She's forgotten so much, left it all behind.”

My good mood vanished, and suddenly and terribly, I missed Califa and my friends. I missed my dad. I even missed my mom. I put Belle on the nightstand, willing the tears to go away before they spilled over.

“Tomorrow, let's transplant Belle into new … uh … clothes,” Mo suggested. “But I must say, I'm very fond of the hat she's wearing now.”

I could tell Mo knew I was sad. But I was still feeling cautious, and I sure didn't want to start crying, so I said, as lightly as possible, “Thanks.”

I picked up my suitcase and tossed it on the bed.

“I'll leave you to it,” said Mo. And with that, she headed out the door. I could hear her big feet
thump-thump
ing all the way down the stairs.

I sat for a minute, gathering my thoughts. I liked my grandmother. I had to repeat this to myself to make sure I wasn't just imagining things. I
liked
my grandmother. Yes, I liked
my
grandmother, my very own Granny Mo. I liked her a lot. I even liked thinking about calling her the name she wanted me to, Granny Mo, though I'd always think of her as just Mo to myself.

All at once, I knew that I'd much rather be downstairs with her than unpacking my things in this way-too-pink bedroom.