usually in response to a question Isabelle had asked, about ice cubes, for example, whether or not they ever felt cold to themselves, or something as simple as a pencil. “Do pencils have dreams?” she’d wondered out loud in first grade, staring somewhat dreamily herself at the No. 2 in her hand, ISABELLE BEENE inscribed in gold on its side (printer’s error; happens all the time). “Where do you get such strange thoughts?” her mom asked in response. Isabelle didn’t mind so much, her mom calling her strange, but she did wish she’d answer her questions.
Teachers whispered it in the hallway as Isabelle walked past, girls giggled it in the cafeteria as they watched Isabelle open her lunch box to reveal sandwiches made of hot dog buns and lavender jelly. Boys yelled it on the playground, along with “weirdo,” “retard,” and “doofus.” Complete strangers called Isabelle strange.
But Isabelle never felt strange. She felt like herself.She felt like an Isabelle Bean. What was so strange about that?
“No,” Isabelle replied. “I don’t think she’s strange at all.”
For dinner they ate a soup made out of ingredients neither of the girls quite recognized—twigs, it looked like, and some sort of tiny flowers in a broth that sighed a little sigh of woodland mushrooms—but it was good. They ate more salt bread and drank tea, though this tea was made from honeysuckle flowers and didn’t make Isabelle sleepy.
It was a warm evening, and after dinner Isabelle, Hen, and Grete sat in the rockers on the front porch. Grete read to them from one of the books on her shelves, a story about a girl and boy who find a bird with a broken wing and bring it home. The story was filled with details about how one heals a bird (mashed marigolds, it turns out, and drops of clear springwater), and Isabelle didn’t think she would get drawn in—she liked stories about magic and fairies more than ones about everyday children—but it wasn’t long before shebegan cheering for the little bird’s recovery (and wished the girl had been more on the ball—who would try to feed a bird moth wings to help it fly? Please!).
When the story was over, and Isabelle began to see what was around her again instead of the pictures the story had put in her mind, she found the porch was filled with birds—birds perched along the railing and the steps, birds sitting quietly at Grete’s feet. Mourning doves, bluebirds, cardinals, sparrows, and three dozen brown wrens, all listening with the greatest attention.
Isabelle hugged her knees and pulled them to her chest. It had been more than an hour since they’d eaten, but she still felt surprisingly full.
And then she realized it wasn’t so much that she felt full . . .
It was that she didn’t feel lonely.
18
“Up with ya, you layabouts! There’s work to be done!”
Isabelle struggled to sit up. She wasn’t sure where she was, only that her bed—bed? No, not a bed, but a cloud of blankets and quilts spread across the floor—was warm and entirely too comfortable to leave. Beside her, Hen sighed and rolled over. Isabelle nudged her.
“Five more minutes, Mam,” Hen mumbled. “Jacob can milk the cow.”
Isabelle giggled. “I’m not your mam,” she said, poking Hen in the side with her finger.
Hen sat up on her elbows and squinted at Isabelle. “Oh, good morning, miss. Forgot where I was, I reckon.”
Isabelle reached out and punched Hen lightly on the shoulder. She had no idea why she was feeling so punchy and poky this morning; usually when she felt this way she was irritated about something, but this morning it was the opposite—as if she found everything so pleasing she just needed to give it a squeeze. Here she was in her bed of clouds, the light piling up against the windows, in a cottage in the middle of the forest—or was it the middle of the woods? What was the difference? she wondered.
(The difference, she decided, had to do with what sort of story you were
Teachers whispered it in the hallway as Isabelle walked past, girls giggled it in the cafeteria as they watched Isabelle open her lunch box to reveal sandwiches made of hot dog buns and lavender jelly. Boys yelled it on the playground, along with “weirdo,” “retard,” and “doofus.” Complete strangers called Isabelle strange.
But Isabelle never felt strange. She felt like herself.She felt like an Isabelle Bean. What was so strange about that?
“No,” Isabelle replied. “I don’t think she’s strange at all.”
For dinner they ate a soup made out of ingredients neither of the girls quite recognized—twigs, it looked like, and some sort of tiny flowers in a broth that sighed a little sigh of woodland mushrooms—but it was good. They ate more salt bread and drank tea, though this tea was made from honeysuckle flowers and didn’t make Isabelle sleepy.
It was a warm evening, and after dinner Isabelle, Hen, and Grete sat in the rockers on the front porch. Grete read to them from one of the books on her shelves, a story about a girl and boy who find a bird with a broken wing and bring it home. The story was filled with details about how one heals a bird (mashed marigolds, it turns out, and drops of clear springwater), and Isabelle didn’t think she would get drawn in—she liked stories about magic and fairies more than ones about everyday children—but it wasn’t long before shebegan cheering for the little bird’s recovery (and wished the girl had been more on the ball—who would try to feed a bird moth wings to help it fly? Please!).
When the story was over, and Isabelle began to see what was around her again instead of the pictures the story had put in her mind, she found the porch was filled with birds—birds perched along the railing and the steps, birds sitting quietly at Grete’s feet. Mourning doves, bluebirds, cardinals, sparrows, and three dozen brown wrens, all listening with the greatest attention.
Isabelle hugged her knees and pulled them to her chest. It had been more than an hour since they’d eaten, but she still felt surprisingly full.
And then she realized it wasn’t so much that she felt full . . .
It was that she didn’t feel lonely.
18
“Up with ya, you layabouts! There’s work to be done!”
Isabelle struggled to sit up. She wasn’t sure where she was, only that her bed—bed? No, not a bed, but a cloud of blankets and quilts spread across the floor—was warm and entirely too comfortable to leave. Beside her, Hen sighed and rolled over. Isabelle nudged her.
“Five more minutes, Mam,” Hen mumbled. “Jacob can milk the cow.”
Isabelle giggled. “I’m not your mam,” she said, poking Hen in the side with her finger.
Hen sat up on her elbows and squinted at Isabelle. “Oh, good morning, miss. Forgot where I was, I reckon.”
Isabelle reached out and punched Hen lightly on the shoulder. She had no idea why she was feeling so punchy and poky this morning; usually when she felt this way she was irritated about something, but this morning it was the opposite—as if she found everything so pleasing she just needed to give it a squeeze. Here she was in her bed of clouds, the light piling up against the windows, in a cottage in the middle of the forest—or was it the middle of the woods? What was the difference? she wondered.
(The difference, she decided, had to do with what sort of story you were
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