I hand her the hundred-dollar bill, and when she takes it from my hand, she pauses, staring at my face.
“It’s a real bill,” I say.
She tilts her head like she is trying to get a better look at me. “Do I know you?” she asks.
I avert my eyes. “I don’t think so,” I answer. I don’t recognize Babs or her name, but I have my mother’s face, right down to my golden irises.
She hands me my change. “Ever take music lessons?” She is still eyeing me carefully. Behind me, Aidan pecks out an off-key tune on the piano. The sound vibrates through me. Miss Barbara. That’s what she called herself. She was all chatter and cheer and stacks of music sheets. And she always brought me a lemon drop wrapped in flowery paper.
“No,” I answer. “No lessons.”
Babs shrugs it off. “So many people come through here. I guess a few are bound to look alike.” She reaches over to a hook on the wall behind her and fishes off a long blue leash and studded collar. “Here’s a little something extra for Fido. No charge.” She hands Seth the collar and leash, and he gingerly takes it from her, raising his eyebrows at me.
“Oh! Fido,” he says, finally connecting that the leash is for Lucky.
Ya-oooooooof!
“Another customer! Pete’s better than a bell.”
We crowd the window and look out. A large wide-eyed man bounds out of his car and up the steps. Babs is right. We are amused.
And she was also right about the music lessons.
Not for me, but for my mother. I remember sitting on the piano bench as she took lessons. And then I would lay my head in her lap listening to what I thought was the most beautiful music in the world until finally Mother’s belly grew too large with the new baby for me to fit. Mother said I would take lessons one day, but that never happened. After that, it was all about my brother. The one they kept. The one still here in Langdon.
When we reach the car, Mira raises her arms to the world and her face to the sky. “We look fabulous!” she shouts.
I look at our reds, grays, blues, faded greens, blacks, and lamby whites, my new colors of Langdon, undistorted by time, and they pierce me in a way that hurts and exhilarates all at once, like walking out into blinding sun after a long period in a dark room. For a moment it is difficult to see and my head hurts, and then my focus returns, the colors brilliant. Fabulous. Yes, we are.
Seth looks at me and nods. “You’re right, Mira.”
My stomach jumps. “Shoes next,” I say, feeling the momentum of the day and wanting it all to be true and real.
“Onward!” Mira proclaims.
My heart beats madly. Onward.
I open the door of the car, and I am stopped, reminded that some days are not ordinary in any way and never will be. A long, elegant peacock feather lies across the seat, perfectly placed, perfect in every way.
“Where’d that come from?” Seth asks.
“Not from Pete, that’s for sure,” Mira answers.
Aidan scans the parking lot. There are no birds. “Maybe the wind caught it and blew it from one of those baskets on the porch.”
I note the stillness of the air, and I know the others do too. Especially Aidan.
“Yes,” I say. “It must have been the wind.”
18
I NEVER HAD DOUBTS about my place in the family. Of course, what six-year-old would? Especially one who never lacked for attention. So it was quite natural that I didn’t expect anything to change once the baby came. I even began calling him my baby long before he was born because I assumed Mother and Father were bringing him into this world to please me. And I was pleased. I truly was. I never blamed Gavin for my slip off the radar.
Gavin was a healthy baby. Or at least he seemed to be. His face was round and plump, and his lips were rosy and perfect. But it is his fingernails I remember the most. Beautiful, tiny paper-thin nails that were like slivers of cockle shells. He would wrap his little fist around my finger and squeeze, and I found this small silent act even more joyful than pushing him in the pram.
I even used my last wish on him.
I remember my last birthday. At least the last one I shared with Mother. Gavin cried and cried. Mother hurried along our celebrations so she could be with him. Before we blew out the candles on the cake, we held hands and made our silent wishes together. “We can’t tell our wishes or they won’t come true,” Mother had said. I didn’t tell. I was a good girl. I didn’t tell anyone. But it didn’t come true. Maybe it was because we didn’t celebrate on the real and true day, but a day early because Mother and Father had to leave on the next with Gavin. He was sick. I didn’t understand. My doctor could see me anytime I sniffled, but Gavin had a special doctor who could only see him on this one special day, and they had to fly far away to see him. Gavin didn’t look sick at all to me, but that was the story they gave. Convenient.