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. .” My tongue strains with the effort to form the word, unnatural and stiff, like trying to twist a cherry’s stem into a knot. “I had it made for him. It’s a way to keep a part of you with us.”
Jaw clenched, she turns to Dad. “I told you to keep that album hidden. Didn’t I? She was never supposed to see this. It’s only a matter of time now . . .”
It’s only a matter of time till what? I end up here where she is? Does she think the photographs made her crazy?
Frowning, she tosses the air freshener across the table. Her tongue clucks a steady rhythm. The sound snaps inside me, as if someone is plucking my intestines with a guitar pick. Her most violent outbursts always start with the tongue cluck.
Dad stiffens his fingers around the air freshener, wary.
A fly lights on my neck, tickling me. When I swat it away, it lands beside Alison’s fingers. It rubs its tiny legs together. “He’s here. He’s here.”
Its whispers rise above the wind and the rest of the white noise, above Alison’s clucking tongue and Dad’s cautious breaths.
Alison leans toward the bug. “No, he can’t be here.”
“Who can’t be here, Ali-bear?” Dad asks.
I stare, wondering if it’s possible. Do crazy people share delusions? Because that’s the only explanation for Alison and me hearing the exact same thing.
Unless the fly really did talk.
“He rides the wind,” it whispers once more, then flits off into the courtyard.
Alison locks me in her frantic gaze.
I tense, stunned.
“Hon, what’s wrong?” Dad stands next to her now, his hand on her shoulder.
“What does that mean, ‘He rides the wind’? Who?” I ask Alison, no longer caring about giving my secret away to her.
She glares at me, intense and silent.
Dad watches both of us, looking paler by the second. “Dad?” I lean across my propped up leg and tug at my sock. “Could you get some ice for my foot? It’s throbbing.”
He scowls. “Can’t it wait a second, Alyssa?”
“Please. It hurts.”
“Yes, she’s hurt.” Alison reaches over and touches my ankle. The gesture is shocking—so normal and nurturing, it chills my blood and bones. Alison is touching me, for the first time in eleven years .
The monumental event rattles Dad so much, he leaves without another word. I can tell by the twitch in his left eyelid that he’ll be bringing Poppin’ Fresh back with him.
Alison and I don’t have long.
The minute he vanishes through the door, I jerk my leg off the chair, wincing against a jolt of pain in my ankle. “The fly. We both heard the same thing, right?”
Alison’s cheeks pale. “How long have you heard the voices?” “What difference does it make?”
“All the difference. I could’ve told you things . . . things to keep you from making the wrong choice.”
“Tell me now.”
She shakes her head.
Maybe she’s not convinced I hear the same voices she does. “The carnations. We should honor their last request.” I pick up a plastic spoon and, carnations in hand, hop on one crutch to the edge of the cement courtyard where the landscaping begins. The earth smells damp and fresh. The sprinklers have been on recently. Alison follows close behind.
I don’t see the walrus gardeners anymore. In the distance, the shed door is open. The men must be inside. Good. There’s no one to interrupt us.
Alison takes the flowers and spoon and drops to her knees. She uses the spoon to burrow into the soft earth. When the plastic snaps, she digs with her fingers until there’s a shallow grave.
She lays the blossoms within and rakes dirt back over the top. The expression on her face is like a sky filled with churning clouds, undecided whether to storm or dissipate.
My legs waver. For so many years, the women in our family have been pegged as crazy, but we’re not. We can hear things other people can’t. That’s the only way we could both hear the fly and carnations say the same thing. The trick is not to talk back to the insects and flowers in front of