I thanked Elspeth, and I do not remember the exact words I used, because gratitude that deep rarely comes out in neat sentences. She stayed for lunch, and she and Dolores talked in low voices in the kitchen while Poppy carried the book from room to room, showing it to no one in particular, simply carrying it because it belonged to her. That afternoon, when Elspeth left for Wilmington, Poppy stood at the window and waved until the car was out of sight, the book still held tight in her arms. That night, she placed it on her bedside table, cover facing up, where she could see it first thing in the morning. I stood in her doorway and watched her fall asleep with her hand resting on the cover, and I thought about Meredith, sitting at that kitchen table, drawing a little girl with brave curls, believing in a future she would not live to see. She had been right to believe in it.
Chapter 38
— Reading Aloud
The next evening, after supper, Poppy brought the storybook to me in the living room and set it down on my knee with both hands. She did not say anything at first. She just looked at me, then at the book, then back at me, the way she used to look at me when she wanted me to fix a broken toy and was not quite sure I could do it. I understood at once. It was time to read it aloud.
"Are you ready?" I asked.
She nodded and climbed up beside me on the sofa, tucking her feet underneath her and leaning her head against my arm. Dolores came in from the kitchen with two cups of warm milk and set them on the small table beside us, then sat down in the chair across the room, her hands folded in her lap. The lamps were on, and the room was warm, and outside the windows the garden was dark and still. It felt like the kind of evening that should be remembered.
I opened the book slowly. The first page showed the little girl in the garden, her curls bouncing around her face as she ran. The words underneath were short and clear, written for a child to follow and for a parent to read without stumbling. I read them in my normal voice, not a story voice, because Meredith had written them in her normal voice, and I wanted Poppy to hear them the way her mother would have said them.
The story began simply. Once there was a girl who lived in a house with a big garden and a bigger tree. She had curls that danced when she laughed and bounced when she ran, and she loved them because they were hers. She talked to the birds in the morning and to the tree in the evening, and she believed that every living thing had a voice, even if some voices were very small.
Poppy listened without moving. Her eyes followed my finger as it moved along the words, and when I turned the page, she leaned closer to see the picture. In the story, the girl met a woman who did not like her curls. The woman told her that her hair was messy and that no one would love a girl who looked the way she did. The girl felt small then, and quiet, and she hid behind the tree because she did not know what to say.
I paused there, because I could feel Poppy's hand tighten on my sleeve. I did not rush past the hard part. Meredith had not rushed past it either. She had written it plainly, without hiding it, because she knew that children understand more than adults often think they do, and that pretending a hurt did not happen only makes the hurt heavier.
"Did the girl stay behind the tree?" Poppy asked.
"No," I said. "Listen."
I turned the page. In the next picture, the girl stood up. She looked at the woman and said, in a clear voice, that her curls were not messy, they were hers, and that love did not depend on how her hair looked. She said that she was brave, and kind, and loved, and that no one could take those things away from her by saying unkind words. The bird on the branch sang, and the tree rustled its leaves, as if the whole garden agreed with her.
Poppy smiled then, a small, real smile that reached her eyes. She pointed at the picture of the girl standing tall, her curls full and bright around her face, and she said, "She looks like me."
"She does," I said. "Your mother drew her to look like you. She knew, even before you were born, that you would be brave."
We read on. The girl went back to her garden, and she planted flowers, and she read books under the tree, and she laughed with her father, who told her every night that she was loved exactly as she was. The story ended with the girl standing under the tree at sunset, her curls catching the light, and the last line said that a child's worth is not in how she looks, but in who she is, and that love should never come with a list of things to change first.
When I finished, Poppy was quiet for a long moment. Then she reached out and touched the last picture with one finger, tracing the shape of the girl's curls.
"Read it again tomorrow?" she asked.
"Every night, if you want," I said. "As many times as you want."