The Strange and Beautiful Sorrows of Ava Lavender(53)

As I write this, I peer out at the darkening sky, distracted by . . . Is that rain?

Though I usually keep the front porch light off, I flicked it on. In the beam of light spilling across the sidewalk, I saw one, then two dark spots appear on the cement. Maybe I will ask her inside. And if she won’t come . . . No, she’ll come. She’ll have to.





FOR THE FIRST TIME, my mother understood how parents lost control. Through it all — the lonely pregnancy, fifteen years of sleepless nights — she’d managed to keep her bearings. She’d learned to adapt to whatever came along: Henry’s untouchable world, my wings. If she devised a plan and the plan proved impossible, she just created a new one. She’d never understood how other parents just lost it. Now she did; children betrayed their parents by becoming their own people. She’d never thought that could happen to her, whose children were so . . . strange. Could the strange survive on their own? Viviane hadn’t considered it possible until that moment.

The only telephone in our house sat atop on old forgotten bureau in the hallway along the stairs. The phone had been installed sometime in the early forties. It was heavy and awkward and rang so infrequently that when it did, Viviane hardly recognized the noise at all. It was out of sheer wonder at the sound that she stopped to answer it.

She was greeted by an old familiar voice — funny how, after all this time, he still sounded exactly the same — telling her he’d found her son walking along the side of the road.

“He must have walked nearly two miles in this rain. I’ve got him down here at the house. The dog, too. Tried to dry the boy off, but he’d have none of that.”

Viviane nodded at the phone. “Is he okay? Henry, I mean.”

“Ahh, well, you might wanna hurry over here. He’s acting a bit odd.”

“I’ll be right there,” she assured him, and hung up. She hadn’t the courage to tell him right then that his son was probably acting perfectly normally. For Henry at least.

Viviane threw open the hall closet and grabbed the first thing she saw — a red wool jacket from what seemed like a lifetime ago. Viviane fastened it with shaking hands, grateful it was long enough to cover the dress she was still wearing inside out for luck. By the time she reached the truck, the rain had already soaked right through the wool. Who doesn’t have a rain jacket? she thought.

The truck sputtered and began its slow ascent to life. As she waited, Viviane reached into her purse and pulled out her compact and a tube of lipstick. Holding the mirror close to her face, she slowly slid the red gloss across her lips. It was too dark to see about her hair.

Viviane attempted to back the truck down the hill but stopped when she felt the tires slip in the mud. Instead, she shifted the sliding truck into first gear and veered around the back of the house, driving right through the flower bed that once held the most glorious dahlias in the neighborhood.

As the truck slammed onto the road, Viviane pushed the clutch to the floor, threw it into second gear, and soared into the deluge.

When we left the solstice celebration, Cardigan, Rowe, and I noticed a change in the air. All three of us tipped our faces to the sky, puzzled.

“I think it might r-rain,” Rowe said.

By the time we got as far as the bakery, it was pouring and most people had escaped to their warm houses and cars, leaving the streets empty.

We ducked underneath the awning in front of the drugstore. Cardigan reached her hand behind her back and made a face. “I’ve ruined my shirt. It’s all gooey.” Cardigan’s wings had dissolved into a wet, sticky mess of feathers and glue. We all had puddles in our shoes.

The wind picked up considerably. It peeled the bark from the three birches in front of the store. The strips hung from the branches, whipping and twisting in the angry air. Though Rowe’s navy peacoat was wrapped around my shoulders, I shivered at the sight of the naked trees.

“It’s getting worse. You should probably get going.” Rowe squeezed my hand before letting it go. Rowe had to drive his mother home from work that night, and we all agreed it was too risky for me to hide in the back of the delivery truck. The chance of getting caught was too high, although I did find the thought of it a bit thrilling.

“Are you sure you’re okay to make it home by yourself?” Even standing right next to me, Rowe had to yell over the pounding beat of the torrent.

I put my hands on my hips and feigned annoyance. “Listen. I may be a bit strange, but that doesn’t mean I’m afraid of the dark.”

He grinned. “Just trying to be p-polite.”

Cardigan smiled knowingly and ran into the rain. She disappeared into the cascade of falling water. I turned to follow.

“Hey. Where do you think you’re going?” Rowe teased. I smiled as he put his hands on my hips and pulled me to him. He tenderly brushed the hair behind my ears and ran his fingertips over my face, as if trying to memorize every detail. I closed my eyes, and he kissed me again.

Then, with my lips still tingling, I ran into the rain after Cardigan.

Throughout the city, the rain was proving to be a disaster. Large puddles formed at blocked storm drains and took over yards, street corners, parking lots, playgrounds, empty flowerpots, and raised garden beds. Tree limbs broke and fell to the ground with sharp snaps. Cardigan and I raced toward Pinnacle Lane. Water coursed down my arms and legs, fused my newly cut bangs to my forehead. Cardigan’s makeup ran down her face. As we passed below the worn sneakers hanging from the overhead power line, we both watched with open mouths as the shoes twisted free and flew away into the night.