Birdie's Book - Andrea Burden [3]
“Moose wings?” I said. “What are moose wings?”
Mo slammed on the brakes. Snow and gravel flew. Pulling off her glove, she opened the car door, leaned down, and dug around in the snow. A blast of cold air whipped through the car. I hunched down and breathed warmth onto Belle. I was glad when Mo straightened up and shut the door again.
She grinned and opened her hand to reveal golden brown moosewood seeds. “Moose wings!” she said, like she was sharing a special treasure with me. Mo rolled down the window and, lifting her hand to her mouth, blew lightly. The delicate wings spun in the snowy air and floated down like twirling fairies.
“Fruit of the moosewood tree. Otherwise known as—”
“Acer pennsylvanicum. Striped maple,” I pronounced with a smile.
“Hey, you’re better than good at this!” Mo said, rolling the window up and shifting back into first gear. “Emma called this her moose walk. We used to sing to the trees as we walked. And I thought—” Mo stopped abruptly.
I was still amazed that my mom had talked about flying. I waited to hear more.
“Until your mom was fourteen, she said it was her magical path.” Mo’s voice was quiet.
Until she was fourteen? I thought. That’s only a couple of years older than me! What happened? But I didn’t want to ask. It seemed like an awfully deep subject to get into before we even reached the house.
At the end of the long driveway was an eggplant purple Victorian house with violet trim. We got out of the car, and Mo grabbed my suitcase from the trunk. I held Belle, using my hand to make a little umbrella over her head to protect her from the snow.
I looked up at the crooked house. Each window was a different size and shape, and some of the panes of glass were brilliantly colored. The house had many roofs, all pitched at various angles. Two sugar maples, just like the ones at the beginning of the driveway, grew right through the front porch and porch roof, forming gnarled columns. The porch itself rose and fell above the mounds of their humungous roots.
“Never mind the bumps,” Mo said as we went up the uneven steps. “The trees are slowly taking over my porch. And I say, more power to them!” With that, she flung open the double front doors and announced: “Welcome to the Eggplant House.”
Once inside, I just stood there, looking around, trying to get my bearings, which was not easy! Every wall was plastered with photographs, postcards, paintings, and handwritten pages. Growing things were everywhere, and not just plants in pots! A beautiful white-flowered vine had pushed its way through a floorboard and wound around the staircase.
“Is that really a Passiflora?” I asked Mo.
“Ah, yes, my passion vine,” said Mo, dropping the suitcase at the foot of the stairs.
“But it’s freezing cold!” I protested, picturing those white flowers sprouting into deep purple passion fruit in a Brazilian jungle, or maybe in Califa, but certainly not in New Jersey, even indoors.
“My dear, it’s never winter in the Eggplant House,” Mo said. She hung her coat up on a hook shaped like a snake and dropped her gloves on the hissing radiator painted gold. While she pulled off her snowy boots, I set Belle down on a table whose top had sheet music glued to it. I pulled off my gloves and dropped them on the radiator, too. Then I hung my matching spring green jacket on a snake hook beside Mo’s and kicked my own boots off to join hers.
Mo smiled at me as she tossed her keys into a basket next to a dusty violin bearing the inscription Aventurine. There was something familiar about that word. Was it the name of a long-lost family member my mother mentioned once? Was it a color?
Mo snatched up my suitcase again, carrying it effortlessly up the circular staircase. Her big feet in droopy socks clomped on the steps. I almost giggled at the thought that her plants might tighten up all their roots from the vibration. I picked up Belle and followed, my feet barely making a sound.
I stopped at the crescent-shaped landing halfway up the stairs. It was crammed with old musical instruments