The Seventh Wish (18 page)

“Oh . . . nothing. That's good, isn't it?”

“Very good.” Mom pulls a bag of grated cheese from the fridge and holds it up. “Want some mozzarella?”

I nod. She sprinkles it over my soup and says, “Dr. Porter says two weeks isn't long enough to break old habits. Four weeks isn't always either, but that's about the most insurance will cover.” She sighs. “I'm so sorry you even have to think about this, Charlie.”

“It's okay. I'm happy she's getting better.” I'm even happier that this turned out to be one of the things I could change, after all.

The next Sunday, I tell Catherine I can't work on science fair because my parents are making me go to visit my aunt in Vermont. I do have an aunt there, but we don't visit her. We visit Abby at Forest Hills. It's the second weekend of March, but spring still seems a million miles away as we drive through the snow and skate our way across the icy parking lot to the building.

Leah and her aunt aren't around, so I just sit with Mom and Dad and Abby at brunch. When Mom and Dad go with one of the counselors to fill out insurance paperwork, I show Abby Drew's lake monster dancing video, which has gone viral. It has forty thousand views and like two hundred comments, mostly from people saying nice things but a few making fun of his tights. At first, Drew refused to look at the video, but now he loves the attention. He's like a rock star at school. Even the eighth-grade basketball guys cheer when they see him in the hall.

Abby laughs at the video. “That kid has some serious moves,” she says. “What about you? How's dance going?”

I show her my new steps on the dining room's hardwood floor. It's not the same without hard shoes, but she claps anyway. “When's your next competition?”

“April second.” I hesitate. “You'll be home then, right? Maybe you can come.”

“I wouldn't miss it for anything,” she says. “Charlie, I owe you an apology.”

I stop dancing and look up. Her eyes are teary.

“I know that I did some things that hurt you.”

My heart speeds up, even more than it did when I was dancing. “You lied to me. About your arm and that little waxed paper bag in the car. You let me think it was for
donuts
.”

She nods slowly. “I lied to a lot of people. Including myself. And I'm sorry.” She tugs gently on one of my braids. “I know I can't make it up to you, and I know you probably don't trust me yet. But I'm going to show you that you can. I'm going to be at your feis, I promise.”

I look at her and so want to believe in that promise. But having Abby at my feis wasn't part of the wish. And the wish is more important.

“I just want you to get better,” I say.

She blinks fast, and a tear slips down her cheek. “Me too.”

On the third Sunday in March, Leah and her aunt come to visiting day too. We sit together at the open AA meeting and listen to everyone talk about what happened to them, what scares them now, and what they hope their new lives
will look like. We eat brunch and play board games until it's three o'clock and time to leave.

We make it home just in time for dance class. Dasha and I stay to watch the Novice class that I hope we'll be joining soon.

After dance, we all go to Catherine's house to work on our project. When I asked if we could do it later today instead of before class, everybody said sure. Nobody asked why.

But Catherine's known me forever and can tell when something's wrong. While we're in the kitchen getting chips and salsa, she says, “Hey . . . is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Great. I think the project's going to be fantastic. It's so cool that crickets have more protein per pound than steak, isn't it?”

“It is. But I wasn't talking about the project. You seem . . . I don't know.” She crunches on a tortilla chip. “Worried or something. And maybe sad.”

When she says that, all my secrets clump together in my throat. They burn my eyes and try to get out, but I shake my head and turn away before Catherine can see. “Nope. I'm okay. I'm really busy because my aunt's been sick, so my parents want us to spend more time with her.” I pick up the salsa. “I'll bring this downstairs.” And I leave before she can be any nicer.

For the rest of the night, I sit at the computer, trying to find a place to order mealworms for people food, but all we
can find are the ones you feed pet lizards. Drew says it's the same thing, but it just doesn't seem like a good idea to hand out lizard-food samples at a school event.

On the fourth Sunday in March, our car splashes through spring runoff on the roads that lead to Forest Hills. It's been warm this week, and there are mountains all around this place, so the parking lot by the barn is full of giant, cold puddles. Sedgewick is drinking out of one of them when we pull in, but as soon as he sees us, he rushes up to taste Mom's purse.

“I am not going to miss you, goat,” she says, pulling the strap out of his mouth.

We go inside, and Abby meets us for the open AA meeting. Jason reads that serenity prayer at the end of every session. Most people close their eyes to listen, but I keep mine open and see Abby mouthing the words silently along with him. I hope she feels like she can change things now.

When we say good-bye to Abby this time, there's no “See you next weekend.” Instead, Dad says, “See you Wednesday morning. I'll be here at nine to take you home.”

Abby nods and smiles, but her eyes get teary again. Home means our house and not back to school. Abby's not finishing this semester because she missed too much work
and her grades were pretty awful to begin with. The plan is for her to live at home for a few months and enroll in the local community college for the summer to try and catch up. Then maybe she can start at another college in the fall.

She's never going back to her old school. The counselors say she can't have contact with any of the friends she used drugs with, so a fresh start would be best. It makes me sad for Abby. UVM was her dream school, ever since she visited the summer before senior year and saw the biology labs where undergrads get to do real research. But if there's one thing I learned listening to all those hi-my-name-is stories from the AA meetings it's that addiction takes a lot of things away from you. Mom says other schools have that kind of research too. She says Abby's lucky she lost her dream school and not her life.

I still think about the fish sometimes. If there were a sure way to wish things right for Abby so she could go back to her old school, I'd do it. But every time I think of how to say it, I imagine a hundred ways the wish could go wrong. I'm leaving this one alone.

I'm really, truly done with wishing this time. A magic fish isn't something you forget right away. But now, every time I start to think about how it could help things, I realize there are better ways.

Last week, Catherine was crying in science because she lost ten more flour-baby points for leaving Meredith on the
floor by her locker. For a second, I caught myself thinking I'd use the fish to wish Catherine into a better flour-baby mom. But that wish could get messed up too. And there's an easier way to help her, anyway. Instead of wishing, I rummaged through the attic, through my old baby stuff that Mom could never throw away, and found the Snugli carrier-thing she used to keep me with her when she was making dinner.

Now Catherine carries Meredith around strapped to her chest and hasn't lost a point all week. And I'm finally starting to think about the fish a little less often.

On Wednesday, Mom gets ready for work, I pack up my stuff for school, and Dad goes to pick up Abby. It's weird, but having a normal start to the day makes me so happy I treble jig down the slush-muddy driveway as I head to the car. I'm glad we're not all canceling the day like we did when Abby was admitted. It feels like life can get back to normal now, like everything isn't an emergency anymore. I never thought I'd feel so grateful for a regular old Wednesday.

After school, Mom picks me up with the car windows down. It's gorgeous today—spring cold, but sunny—and she has her head halfway out the window breathing in the air.

“You look like Denver.” I stick my neck out to the side and pant a little, and she laughs.

“It's nice to see the sun,” she says, but I know that's not the whole story. I can tell Mom's as thankful for normal as I am today. “Are you fishing this afternoon?”

“Not today. Drew's nana doesn't like the feel of the ice right now. She says we can't go out until it gets cold again, even though there's still a good ten or twelve inches of ice.” Drew's nana worries too much, but I don't care today because I want to get home and see Abby.

There's music blasting from an open kitchen window when Mom and I get out of the car. Katrina and the Waves are belting out “Walking on Sunshine.”

Mom laughs. “Sing it, Katrina!”

Dad and Abby are in the kitchen, chopping tomatoes and chili peppers in time to the music. Abby tosses a handful of tomatoes into a bowl, spins around, and sees us. “You're home!”

“
You're
home!” I say, and run to hug her. She smells like the old Abby, like fabric softener and mint gum and her apple shampoo.

And just like that, our family is back to normal.

Dad hands Mom the cheese grater and a block of mild cheddar. “I thought we'd have taco night, then make sundaes and play a little Scrabble later.”

“You know it's a school night.” Mom looks at me. “Do you have homework?”

“Nope. I did my math in study hall, and we finished an outline for our science fair project at lunch.” I grin at Dad and Abby. “Did you guys already pick up ice cream?”

“Ice cream, sprinkles, whipped cream,
and
M&M'S,” Abby says.

“Perfect,” Mom says. She grates the cheese, and Dad and Abby finish chopping. Dad sautés the meat with taco seasoning, and I put salsa and sour cream in little serving bowls. Denver follows Abby around all night.

“I'm thinking of a word,” Abby says.