Page 91 of Merging Wright

Playlist: “Shake It Off” – Taylor Swift

[Jane]

Pressure washing and or painting the exterior of each business is a daunting task. I hadn’t anticipated how long it might take to clean up the outsides while we work to renovate the insides. As the weather begins to cool, we need to finish before the cold settles in. We’ve asked each business to find their own volunteers to help them paint while we offer assistance for the difficult work like removing awnings or old signs and repairing bricks.

I’m working on the vacant location next to Trixie’s Trims. Lost in the rhythm of a paint roller bumpily gliding over stucco, I kneel on the cement and nearly come out of my skin when a small hand touches my shoulder.

“Willow?” I lift a hand to my racing heart. “Where did you come from?” Volunteers and workers are scattered here and there, but Willow should be in school. Does she have another stomachache?

“We don’t have school today. The teachers are talking to parents today.”

Ah. Parent-teacher conferences. The explanation seems reasonable enough.

“Did Uncle Theo go?” He should speak with her teachers. Her weekly stomachache is a cry for attention. I don’t want to criticize Theo, but he needs to give a little more to this child. It might take a village, but he’s still responsible for her.

“Where should you be?” Attempting to keep my voice light, I don’t like how she wanders off from people or walks the town on her own.

“I’m with Jenny today.” Willow points in the direction of a woman watching us, and I stand, offering a wave, then redirect my attention to the sweet girl. I crouch down so I’m at her level. “My wandering Willow. Did you tell Jenny you were coming down to see me?”

Willow nods, but I’m not certain I believe her.

“So parent-teacher conferences. What would your teachers say about you and school?”

Willow shrugs. Her lids shutter over her sad, blue eyes. “I don’t like school.”

“Why not?” Reaching for her wrist, I gently jostle her arm.

“The other kids call me Weeping Willow. They say I cry too much.” Her little eyes fill with tears. She pouts. “But I don’t.”

“Why would they call you that?” My voice rises, outraged by the behavior of other children and irritated that Willow is being bullied.

“They say I’m sad.”

She has every right to be sad. Her parents died in the river. An uncle she hardly knows is her guardian. She’s passed from one person to another in this town. She needs stability.

But she’s also a survivor.

I could explain to her that her name means life after death. It’s a name representing immortality and that life goes on after loss. However, I don’t think she’d appreciate the symbolism, nor would other five-year-olds understand the beautiful meaning behind her name.

Willow is a testament to moving forward.

Calling her wandering Willow makes me feel guilty.

“Well, we need a new nickname for you.” I pause, tapping my lower lip. “How about Wonder Willow, like Wonder Woman? Do you know who she is?”

Willow nods.

“She’s strong and brave and smart. And I think you are all those things.” I bop her little nose.

“How would I use that name?”

“When other kids call you Weeping Willow. You tell them you’re Wonder Willow. Mighty and tough.” I puff out my chest, raising an arm in solidarity for girl power.

To my surprise, Willow’s little arms wrap around my neck, and she slams her small body against me. My eyes prickle, and I slowly lower my arm and embrace her. She’s sad and alone, but she isn’t broken. She has a village gluing her together, but she needs something stronger. She needs someone to love her.

“I have an idea.” Gently, I press her away from me. “How do you feel about dancing?”

Her brows lift.