Free Some Kind of Happiness by Claire Legrand Page A

Was it because of her?
    â€œThe darkness I carry inside me,” whispered the orphan girl.
    â€œWe all carry secrets,” said the fox. “The more we ignore them, the heavier they become.” The fox fixed his hard, golden gaze upon the orphan girl. “Are you ready to name it yet, this thing you carry?”
    The orphan girl squeezed her eyes shut. “No. I am not.”
    â€œThen they will keep coming for you,” said the fox, “and for all of us.”
    When the orphan girl looked up, the fox had gone, and the trees moaned in the wind, as if they knew she had failed them.

11

    O N S UNDAY MORNING I GO with Grandma and Aunt Bridget to Barclay Park. There is a 10K race there today.
    The group Grandma organizes—A Pack for Every Back—will set up a table in the parking lot so people can learn about the program and give donations.
    In the car, on the way to the park, Aunt Bridget is on the phone with Uncle Reed. He is in London on a business trip. I watch Aunt Bridget’s face while she talks to him about Dex and Ruth, and how they are having such fun playing with me.
    â€œRuth said something about being a squire, whatever that means,” Aunt Bridget says. She sighs and rolls her eyes. “Come on, Reed. You know, like a junior knight? I don’t know if they fight dragons. Probably. Wouldn’t you?” She catches my eye and smiles, like we are sharing a joke.
    Music plays softly on the car stereo. It sounds kind of like the Ray Charles music playing downstairs at Hart House the other night, except it’s faster and makes me want to dance.
    Grandma’s fingers tap on the steering wheel in time with the music. I can only see her eyes in the rearview mirror. Even though they are a different color, something about them reminds me of Dad.
    At the park Grandma and I set out bright green information flyers and a basket of flat, round pins and green pencils with the Pack for Every Back logo on them. Aunt Bridget takes a clipboard and launches into the crowd.
    â€œGood morning,” Aunt Bridget says to a group of three runners stretching under a tree. “My name’s Bridget Hart. Hi, how are you?” She shakes their hands; her eye contact is spectacular. Her hair shines in a tight ponytail. “I’m with A Pack for Every Back. We’re an organization that helps families in need get school supplies for their children . . .”
    Grandma and I sit alone at the table. An oak tree sways overhead. It reminds me of the Everwood trees, only this one is out here all by itself. A scout.
    â€œHello, Candace!” A man in running shorts waves as he passes us. Grandma waves back, straightens the pile of flyers on the table.
    It is always strange to me to realize that parents and grandparents have actual names. I find myself wanting to correct the man: Her name is Grandma , sir.
    A woman with a T-shirt that says RUN JANE RUN comes up and grabs a flyer. “Candace, you look wonderful!” she gushes. “And is this Lewis’s daughter?”
    Grandma places a soft hand on my arm. Her wedding ring is warm with sunlight. “Yes, this is Finley. Finley, this is Roxann Bates. We help at the library together.”
    â€œYour grandma’s the best ,” says Roxann Bates, beaming. “You look like her, you know. Oh! Here. It’s not much, but Ihope it helps!” She drops a ten-dollar bill into our donation bucket.
    Grandma smiles. “Thank you, Roxann, that’s very generous.”
    â€œAnything for you, Candace!” She kisses Grandma’s cheek. “See you on Thursday?”
    â€œOf course.”
    Roxann Bates hurries away, calling out someone else’s name and waving frantically. When the sun hits her, the glitter on her T-shirt shines a silvery pink.
    Every now and then someone passing by the table takes a flyer, donates money, or says hello to Grandma, but mostly it is just me and her. I keep checking to