Tracy's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

Tracy did not sleep. She had sent two gifts ahead, but she still had to walk into the clearing herself. Words were the part she could not send by another hand. By first light she was dressed and pacing the kitchen, rehearsing sentences that sounded wrong out loud. She tried, Good morning. She tried, You got my note. Every version curdled in her mouth. She could see it clearly: John standing tall among the hives, butterflies on his sleeves, kind to her the way he was kind to everyone. She would open her mouth and nothing would come. The locket and the pressed flower would become a joke about a girl who could not speak. She opened her mother's drawer again. Under the folded scarves she found a square of white cloth, edged in lace, stitched with pink and blue flowers. Her mother used to press it into her palm before school and say, When you cannot think of what to say, hand someone something. Tracy folded the handkerchief into her pocket. It was not a plan. It was a thing to hold. She walked the path to the hives slower than she needed to. At the flat stone the locket was gone. So were the empty jars. Someone had already been through. John was at the second hive, lifting a frame. Bees moved over his hands without landing. A butterfly sat on his shoulder. He looked up and smiled like he had been waiting for her, not watching for her. "You came," he said. "I got your note. And the flower. The old goat man made a whole speech." Tracy opened her mouth. Nothing. Her throat closed the way it always closed. She felt the heat climb her neck. His smile did not change, but she saw him wait, and she knew waiting could only last so long. She put her hand in her pocket. She pulled out the handkerchief and held it out to him. "Your hands," she said. "They have pollen on them." It was not clever. It was true. He looked down at his palms, then at the cloth, then at her. He laughed once, quietly, and took it. "They do," he said. He wiped his fingers on the lace edge with a care that surprised her. "This is nice. Are you sure?" "Keep it," she said. Her voice was small but it was there. He folded the handkerchief and tucked it into his shirt pocket, over his chest. "Then come help me. I saved the frames." She stepped into the clearing. She had spoken. She had given him a fourth thing, and this one from her own hand. The butterfly lifted from his shoulder and settled on hers. She did not know yet that the girl with the bracelets had watched her turn off the road, and was still standing at the bend, counting.