The Names They Gave Us(60)

“Oh, cool. Can I come? I’ve never seen it either.”

So much for being alone. But what? I’m going to tell a pregnant fourteen-year-old that she can’t come along and dream with me? “Yeah, sure. Of course.”

She catches up, surprisingly spry with her basketball belly. “It’s insane. Sometimes my back hurts so much that I have to sit. But sometimes my body aches to move.”

“When are you due?” As if that’s going to help me understand her situation. I don’t know anything about a baby’s development except that it takes forty weeks.

“End of August.”

We walk a few paces. “Have you found out if it’s a girl or boy?”

“Boy.” I feel her looking over at me. “I’ll be keeping it, if you’re wondering.”

I wasn’t. Though I admit, I’m wondering what her parents think of this. Was it their idea to send her to Daybreak? Is the baby’s father in the picture? Is he also fourteen? I’ve always heard about teenage pregnancy, but up close—with Tara’s soft, little girl cheeks and knobby knees—I can’t bring myself to judge. What a thing to deal with. I could barely handle starting at a new school at that age.

Still, walking next to her, I feel off-kilter. Tara’s the camper, and she’s three years younger than me—only recently a teenager. Yet she’s had this major life experience. I haven’t even come close to having sex, let alone actually doing it. In this weird way, I feel younger than her.

Behind the lodge, we follow a bend in the path. There’s nothing this way except for a small shed, but the dreaming tree is unmissable.

Silver stars hang like Christmas ornaments from every visible branch. They’re aluminum foil with fish hooks. Years of dreams suspended from the trees. How many have come true?

How many have been forgotten? Or discarded? Or simply lost along the way?

“There’s a Tupperware thing by the shed. It has stars and markers in it.”

“So you have been here before?”

“Nah, Sienna told me.”

I retrieve the plastic container of stars and settle onto the plush grass below the tree. Tara’s right behind me, but bracing on my arm to lower herself down.

As we lie beneath the tree, staring up at crisscrossed branches and thin-tipped stars, I imagine my mother with gray hair. That’s the image that blooms in my mind: her old enough to be a grandmother.

Maybe I should dream of a future where I’ve rediscovered my faith. Where I have solid footing. Maybe my dream should be that I finally realize what I want to do with my life. But really, I just want my mom here for whatever happens. With all of it.

I’m about to cry when Tara heaves out a sigh. “So, what’s this tree supposed to do, anyway?”

“Well, my mom said that if you tell your hopes to the dreaming tree, the tree will pass them on to the clouds. And the clouds will tell the stars.”

“And little kids believe that?” She snorts.

I bristle, since I was one such kid who believed this. I mean, it’s less ridiculous than a prince kissing you awake from a coma.

“Maybe. But it also can’t hurt.”

She considers this, in case I’m tricking her or using reverse psychology. “I guess that’s true.”

“Well, I’m doing it. You don’t have to.”

I turn over on my stomach, opening the plastic bin. I remove one delicate aluminum star and a thick permanent marker. When I hand one to Tara, she takes it without hesitation.

“What are you writing?” she asks. “Or is it like birthday candles, and you can’t tell people what you wish for?”

“Let’s not, just to be safe.”

Mom will live to be old. I can’t even write “Mom will get better.” She did that once before, and look where that got us.

I’ll need both hands to climb the tree, so I place the star in my mouth.

“I would have held that for you,” Tara comments, but I’m already pulling myself up by a sturdy lower branch. The bark etches my hands, transfers its lines to my palms. It takes all my strength to shimmy up, but I manage. I steady myself on the trunk as I stand, then step to an even higher branch.

Just like that, I’m surrounded by a panorama of jewel-green leaves and silver stars, with a dream clenched between my teeth. It’s only a little different than I imagined it when my mom told the story. I imagined gold leaves coated in glitter, or maybe iridescent glass.

But I don’t need a fancy dreaming tree. I don’t have fancy dreams.

I balance carefully as I stretch to hang my star.

“Oh my God, please don’t fall,” Tara says from below. “I can’t run for help. I can only waddle.”

“I’m good, I promise.”

I’m tempted to read the stars around me, but it feels like eavesdropping on a prayer. Has anyone written the exact same plea as mine? I want to believe they have—that my hopes reach back into other generations. That none of us are as alone as we think.

“Here.” Tara hands her star up to me, and I crouch down to reach. “Don’t look at it.”

And I truly don’t, as I place her star near mine. They twist a little, settling in. I scramble down, dusting off my hands before surveying my handiwork.

Tara and I stand side by side, looking upward.