"How are you?" he asked. "Everything go okay?"

"No! Everything did not go okay. I'm on their porch-" The phone chirped, signaling that it was about to die.

"What?" Dad said. "You're fading-"

And then the stupid Solar Fone beeped twice, and the miles between me and home became insurmountable. I threw the useless piece of c.r.a.p onto the cement porch and heard it crack open.

I had slept on a train last night, and tonight I wanted a bed. I pounded on the front door again and when no one came, I decided to try to get in another way. Every house had at least one back door. I walked out onto the dry, overgrown lawn, and it crunched under my feet. The front yard just had the low stone wall, but the back was enclosed in a high cedar fence, and the only gate was padlocked shut. I gave it a kick just because I was mad and was instantly sorry because all I had on were the slippers. I collapsed onto the gra.s.s, ma.s.saging my big toe, tears leaking down my cheeks.

The last of the sunset deepened into blue twilight as I sat there, crying into my hands. What could I do? How could I prove to them that I was their granddaughter so that they'd open the door and listen to what I had to say?

I limped back to the porch and saw Jewels sitting there, her case looking like a black lump in the fading light. Music. That's what I needed. I would block out my problems by playing Jewels. I sat on a step and took her out of her case. Once I was in tune, I did a few scales to loosen my hands. The sun was gone now, but I could play Jewels in the dark even better than Jane could knit. It was starting to get cold, though, and I knew it wouldn't be long before my fingers would be clumsy on the strings.

I shook out my left hand to get the blood flowing and then launched into "Stony Point," hoping something fast would keep me warm. The bow dashed over the strings, dancing in my hand. I tapped my sore feet in spite of the pain. It only took a minute for me to get lost in the music.

I was plowing my way through a really difficult French-Canadian tune, taking my frustration out on the strings, when I thought I heard the creak of the door behind me. Swaying my body with the music, I turned slightly and saw out of the corner of my eye that I was right.

Someone was there, listening. Was it my grandma? Did my grandfather know she was there? I pretended not to notice and kept going, wishing I was playing something I knew better. I rushed through to the end and dove into the "Peekaboo Waltz." That one I could play both in the dark and in my sleep. Maybe the comforting notes of a waltz would draw Grandma out on the porch.

I pushed myself painfully to my feet, still playing, and turned towards the open door, smiling. My grandmother stood there, holding a candle, wax dripping dangerously close to her fingers. Her mouth hung slightly ajar, and her eyes glittered in the flickering light. I noticed her foot was tapping ever so slightly as I started the tune again. I was on my third time through it when my grandpa stepped out of the shadows and into the doorway.

"Who are you? What do you want?" he asked.

"I'm Molly," I said, still playing, but softer. "Molly McClure."

"Bri's daughter?" he asked.

I nodded in time to the music. "Yes."

"Breee," said Grandma.

Grandpa noticed the dripping wax and took the candle from her. "Where is she?" he asked. He held the candle up and peered out into the yard like maybe I'd hidden Mom in the bushes.

"She's in Canada," I explained. "I came by myself."

I finished the tune and put Jewels under my arm. It was hard to believe this was my grandfather because he was the only person in my family that didn't look anything like us. His face was pinched, his body slight; gold-framed gla.s.ses perched on his thin nose. In the dim light I could see a halo of gray hair circling his mostly bald head.

"You are Jack Buckley, aren't you?" I asked, just to be sure.

"Yes . . . yes . . . of course I am," he said.

"Come," Grandma said. She reached out and started pulling me inside.

"Wait a minute," Grandpa said. "How do we know she's actually Molly?"

I really needed to sit down, so I set Jewels in her case and started picking up all the things I'd thrown out of my backpack.

"Why would I lie?" I asked.

"Why, indeed? Who wouldn't want to live in this big house?" he asked. "Practically everyone in the whole neighborhood is a filthy squatter these days." He glared at me over his gla.s.ses.

"What's a squatter?" I asked, stuffing the remains of the Solar Fone into the pack.

"Homeless people who move into abandoned houses," he explained.

"Oh. Well, I'm definitely not homeless."

"Hmmm . . . Well, I think you should prove that you're Molly."

"How?" I asked. I swatted at the mosquitoes that were swarming around me, biting my bare legs.

"Do you know 'Brianna's Reel'?" Grandpa asked.

I smiled. "Like the back of my hand!" I tucked Jewels under my chin and began the tune Grandpa had written for my mother on the piano when she was a little girl. Mom played the piano too, and she'd taught me the melody when I was about six years old.

When I was done, Grandma said, "Breeee. Come now." She took my arm again in her thin, bony hand. Grandpa stared at me hard, considering. Then he shrugged and picked up my pack. I stuck Jewels in her case, snapped it closed, and followed them inside.

The single candle didn't allow me to see much more than shadows.

"This way," Grandpa said, leading me to a staircase. "Katharine, you stay down here. I don't want you on the stairs."

"Okay," she said.

"We don't have electricity," Grandpa told me, "and I can't spare the candle, so you might as well get some sleep and we'll talk in the morning."

I wanted to tell him everything right then, talk him into leaving as soon as possible so we could get home to Mom, but I was also completely exhausted, and the relief of getting here overrode any desire except sleep.

He deposited me into a room at the top of the stairs, showed me the bed and where the washroom was, and then said good night. I collapsed onto a mattress big enough for both me and Katie to sleep in without ever touching each other, so unlike our tiny double bed at home. Part One of my mission was complete, but I had a feeling the hard part was still ahead.

10.

July 12th-Pray you now, forget and forgive.

-William Shakespeare

I SLEPT WELL PAST DAWN FOR THE FIRST TIME IN years. I found a dusty bunch of purple grapes in a bowl by the sink that was some sort of fancy soap, but once I was in the shower, I kept dropping it. The bunch broke apart into individual grapes, and I rubbed one purple ball awkwardly all over my head to wash my matted hair. The frigid water stung the open cuts on my feet, and I gulped in pain as I dug the soap into my wounds to get them clean.

I got out, shivering, and inspected the damage to my feet. Eleven blisters, one puncture wound on the ball of my right foot that looked red and inflamed, and a raw spot on each heel. I found a comb in my pack and pulled it through my hair. Then I quickly made one lumpy braid down my back.

Grandpa must've heard me coming because he was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. "Follow me," he said.

I hobbled after him through a wide archway. He led me into a giant room that opened onto a black and white kitchen, towering ceilings, a huge dining area with an empty s.p.a.ce where the table and chairs should've been, and a sitting area with a bunch of once-elegant furniture. Grandma sat on a worn settee staring off into s.p.a.ce.

"Sit," Grandpa ordered.

I chose one of the swivel chairs.

"What happened to your feet? Don't they have shoes in Canada?"

"I lost them."

"How do you lose shoes?"

"Long story."

"Well, we can't have you bleeding all over the hardwood floors," he said. "Wait here."

He returned a minute later carrying a bowl of water, a clean cloth, and a small bag. He also had a pair of old-lady sandals. "Probably too small for your big boats," he said, tossing them at me.

"Ummm . . . thanks." I wasn't sure what to make of his gruff manners. Was he mad at me for something? I started to put them on, but he waved his hands at me.

"I better have a look first," he said.

"I already washed them really well."

He ignored me and dragged a chair over. He lifted one foot in his thin hands, and I saw the long piano fingers that my mother had told me about. His nails were rough, but his hands were smooth and soft. He examined my foot thoroughly and then set it gently back on the floor, picking up my right one and looking at it.

He wet the cloth and began to dab at the puncture wound. "What brings you to the U.S.?"

"It's my mom. She's pregnant and-"

"Again? How many kids is she planning to have?"

"Well . . . I don't think this one was exactly planned. . . ."

"They have ways to control pregnancy these days," he said. "But she probably wouldn't know about that, since she dropped out of premed."

I swallowed hard as he poked at my sore foot. Dad had warned me that the fact that Mom could've been a doctor was probably going to come up.

"Anyway," I said, wincing from his examination, "she's really stressed, mostly because we thought Grandma was dead, and she's worried about you-"

"Why would she think Katharine was dead?"

I looked over at Grandma to see if she was listening, but she seemed to have dozed off on the couch. "That's what the hospital said. Or at least what we thought they said."

"Well, she's clearly fine, so your mom can stop worrying."

Grandma was not fine. She had spoken to me, and she seemed to know who I was, but there was that staring off into s.p.a.ce and falling asleep right now when Grandpa and I were discussing important things. The stroke had obviously messed her up a little, if not a lot.

"Mom wants you two to come back up to live with us," I explained. I hoped he couldn't hear the nervousness in my voice.

"That's just another one of your mother's lamebrained ideas. Like marrying a Canadian in the first place."

I knew my grandparents blamed my dad for Mom switching to agriculture, which was just stupid because they didn't even meet until grad school. For some reason, Grandpa thought that if my dad was any kind of man at all, he would've convinced her to go back to medical school.

"My parents are very happy," I said. "We all are."

Grandpa shook his head at me, unconvinced. "Raising chickens and kids? Is that what I educated Brianna for? She was premed, for G.o.d's sake!"

"Breee!" Grandma said, suddenly, startling us both.

I looked over at the couch where she was sitting wide awake and alert now. Grandpa was wiping my foot with the cloth, and the more we talked about my mother, the harder he rubbed. I gritted my teeth so he wouldn't know it hurt so much.

"She uses her education," I told him.

"Farming? Huh. She could've been a doctor," he said. "Your mother was smarter than anyone in her cla.s.s. Who knows what medical discoveries she might've made if she'd followed through?"

"Look," I said in the voice I use when I'm trying to get Little Jackie to be reasonable about something, "I know you wish she was a doctor, but she's not, and she needs your help. Her blood pressure is out of control. And the island doctor was killed last week."

"Killed?"

I didn't want to explain. I didn't want Grandpa to know that it was my fault for not separating the calf from its mother. "There was an accident," I said. "And he died."

"So what? I thought your mom preferred a midwife midwife." You could hear the contempt in his voice for midwives everywhere.

"She does, and Mrs. Rosetree is looking after her as best as she can, but this time Mom's health is really bad. She needs a real doctor."

He didn't say anything.

"And Mom misses you both," I continued. "When she thought Grandma had died and you hadn't made up . . . well, she almost went crazy with grief. She really needs you."

He studied my punctured foot, not meeting my eye.

"They need my help on the farm," I said. "And I want to go back right away. Will you both please come?"

He shook his head. "Nope. Your mom made her own bed, she has to lie in it."

"But she won't," I said. "Dr. Robinson ordered her to nap two hours a day, but she's being stubborn. My dad thinks you're the only one she'll listen to."

He laughed then, a big, rolling, bitter version of my mother's usually joyful one. And then his face softened. "Molly, I'm sorry that circ.u.mstances have made it so we haven't gotten to know our grandkids, and you're welcome to stay for a short visit, but I think you should head back pretty soon so you can help your mom."

"I can't help her," I said. "Only you can. Besides, I can't just go home anyway."

He pressed the bottom of my foot and I flinched. "Why not? What's stopping you?"

"I don't have any money," I admitted. "At least not enough for train fare."

He looked up at me, his eyes wide behind his gla.s.ses. "You came all the way down here to take us back and you don't have any money?"

"Mom said-"