Wishtree(17)

Ama grew up steady and honest and kind, like her mother, and had babies of her own, and then grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Eventually Ama and her husband bought the little brown house, and the one right next to it, and painted them blue and green. Years later, they purchased a house across the street and began to rent the blue and green houses to other families.

The family grew and prospered and argued and failed and loved and laughed.

Always and forever, the laughter kept them going.

And when Ama’s grandson had a little girl, he chose a fine Italian name for her, with a fine Irish middle name: Francesca Maeve.





38


As for me, my reputation grew. Hadn’t Maeve’s wish come true in the heart of a wishtree? Didn’t that mean anything was possible?

Of course, as Squibbles often reminded me, I’d had nothing to do with it.

“This isn’t a fairy tale, Red,” he would say.

But people are full of longings, and decade after decade, the hopes kept coming.

A blessing and a burden it has been, all those wishes, all those years.

But everyone needs to hope.





39


At long last, I stopped talking.

Once the words had spilled out, it was like trying to stop the wind.

In the silence that followed, I felt as if the whole world was holding its breath.

I’d broken the rule.

Stephen and Samar still stared open-mouthed at me. They looked as rooted to the ground as I was. Neither had uttered a sound while I’d told my story.

The front door to Stephen’s house opened. “Stephen?” called his father. “What the heck are you doing, young man?”

Stephen leapt to his feet. “I … Here I come, Dad. Um, night, Samar.”

“Night, Stephen,” she said.

Stephen dashed toward the porch, but stopped halfway. He spun around to look at me.

“Thanks?” he said in a quizzical voice, using the same tone he might have used if Bongo had just made him pancakes.

The door slammed behind him.

Samar stood, holding her blanket to her chest. “I know I must be dreaming,” she said.

She headed to her own porch and eased open the door.

“I just wish,” she added with a smile, “that I didn’t have to wake up.”





40


Almost instantly, I regretted what I’d done.

I’d broken the rule. The biggie.

I’d deliberately spoken to people.

And not just a few words. I’d spoken a river of words.

I wasn’t like that frog in the mailbox. I hadn’t broken the rule accidentally.

I’d broken the rule because I wanted something. I wanted to matter. I wanted to do something meaningful before I died.

I’d done it for myself.

After the shocked babies and their equally shocked parents were safely ensconced in their dens, I admitted my feelings to Bongo.

I waited for her to yell at me.

Bongo is good at yelling.

Extremely good.

You might even say she has a gift.

“Why did I do it, Bongo?” I murmured. “Why?”



She flew to Home Plate. She stroked my rough bark with her sleek head.

“You did it, my Wise Old Tree, because you had a story to tell.”

“It was foolish,” I said. “I’m not supposed to be foolish.”

“Not so foolish,” Bongo said. “Just hopeful. And everyone needs to hope, Red. Even Wise Old Trees.”





41


Morning emerged slowly, heavy with clouds. A light rain had fallen just before dawn, soothing my leaves, if not my mood.

Oddly, the ground felt saturated. Spring was always muddy, of course, but this was unusual. It would make for a messy Wishing Day tomorrow.

An early-rising old gentleman with a bamboo cane approached. He paused to attach a small piece of blue paper to my lowest branch, using a bit of twine. He didn’t say his wish aloud, so I couldn’t tell what it was. But he had a satisfied smile as he stepped carefully through the soggy grass.

No doubt I’d be seeing more wishes today. Many people came early to grab an easy-to-reach spot.

This would probably be my last Wishing Day. How could it be that my first one, that long-ago day with Maeve, still seemed as fresh in my heart as my conversation with Stephen and Samar from the previous night?

A car slowed to a crawl near the curb. I saw an arm, a blur, and then—splat—something hit my trunk.

Splat. Splat. Two more times, and the car roared off with a screech of tires.

Bongo was the first to report on the damage.

“Raw eggs,” she said. “I’m assuming that didn’t hurt?”

“Didn’t feel a thing,” I said.

FreshBakedBread, HairySpiders, and BigYou ventured out to inspect the situation.

BigYou slipped under the police tape and licked one of the yolks sliding down my trunk. “Mmm,” she murmured. “Raw. Just the way I like ’em.”

“Hey, Big, share the wealth,” HairySpiders snapped as she and Fresh joined her.

Agnes watched from her perch. “I’d much prefer a squirming mouse pup,” she said. “It’s all yours, ladies.”