Birdie's Book - Andrea Burden [9]
At the end of the bed, where I had just taken away the blanket, was a book—a huge book, the size of a really big dictionary. It was clearly handmade, and so yellowed and tattered it could be a thousand years old. How could I not have seen it?
I spun around, expecting Granny Mo to be in the room, even though I’d shut the door. How did she get this book into my room? There was no doubt in my mind that she’d put it there. “Don’t stay up too late reading,” she’d warned.
I picked up the book, which weighed more than Willowby, and snuggled down under the comforter. I stared at the ornate cover: The Book of Dreams. The size of the book made it clear that the author had sure dreamed a lot. I ran my fingers along the silver, shimmering script, and then along the thick binding. I took a deep breath, opened the cover, and began leafing through the pages.
Violets, roses, and four-leaf clovers were pressed onto yellowed pages. There were poetic entries, musical notations, recipes, crocheted bookmarks with girls’ names on them, and what looked like mathematical equations. Some pages were stuck together as if the years had sealed them tight, and still others were indecipherable, as if rain had run the words together.
I took my hands off the book. I didn’t know where to begin. That’s when I made my decision to let the book show me the way. I shut the book, closed my eyes, and opened the book to a random page.
Gong! Buzz! Cuckoo!
I bolted upright in the dark. It sounded like all the clocks in the living room were going off at once! I jumped out of bed, remembering the book when my feet touched the cold floor. I turned back to see if the book was still there or if I had dreamed it. There it was, right on my pillow. Wow.
I pulled a pair of socks from my suitcase, put them on, and tiptoed down the stairs in the dark. The second I walked into the living room, the clocks fell silent.
I squinted to read the time on an old carved clock on the mantel. Three a.m.! I shivered and was just turning to go back upstairs when another clock caught my eye. It read 12:00. It wasn’t noon, and it couldn’t be midnight, because the sun’s rays were just peeking in the window. I looked around. The cuckoo clock said 1:05. The grandfather clock, its brass pendulum still swinging, said 9:27.
Lilium tigrinum obviously didn’t give a hoot about keeping time. Just then, Granny Mo shuffled out from the kitchen, wearing a flowered apron over her sweater and jeans.
“Didn’t you hear the clocks?” I asked.
“Oh! Those crazy old things; I always ignore them,” Mo said, dismissing the problem with a wave of her spatula. “But I should have warned you. They all chime at seven a.m., sharp. Never fail! No matter what time they say. Oh yes, and at two in the afternoon on Leap Day—February twenty-ninth, every fourth year. Never knew why. Still don’t. Well, anyway, come to the kitchen. I’m making breakfast.” With that, she sailed back to the kitchen and turned up the music.
I followed in time to catch her singing: “Oh, you better not pout, I’m telling you why, Santa Claus is comin’ …”
Mo sang along with the radio (and why were they playing Christmas songs after Christmas?), her voice cracking on the high notes. Willowby, sitting on the kitchen table, joined in with an occasional meow.
“I hope you like blueberry pancakes,” Mo said while she ladled big disks of batter onto a skillet, leaving a trail of drips on the stove.
“I sure do,” I said.
“And elderberry tea,” she added. I didn’t answer. Mo chuckled. “I’ll get you to be a real tea drinker sooner or later. But you’re young still. In the meantime, pour yourself some orange juice. Fresh picked and squeezed this morning!” I got a glass of juice but didn’t ask how she could have picked the oranges this morning.
Mo started setting the kitchen table, singing about being good, for goodness’ sake. I liked it. We didn’t sing much around our house, and it felt kind of good to hear her just belting it out. I noticed smoke pouring from the iron