Free Hope and Other Luxuries by Clare B. Dunkle Page A

later, another little crowd would sweep by and bring that daughter back again.
    â€œThis is Birgit,” Valerie announced. “Birgit,
meine Mutter und Vater
,” and our hands were shaken, and German sentences whipped by our ears faster than our brains could decode them. Joe and I did our best to look knowing and thoughtful and not make too big a fool of ourselves before Birgit and Valerie headed off down the hall together and we could sigh in relief and recommence lugging.
    â€œIt’s really impressive,” Joe said. “I mean, I
know
they speak great German now, but here, you really get to see what that
means
.”
    I watched my two girls, happy and animated, chattering away with their friends.
My daughters are popular
, I thought in amazement.
They are actually popular at school
. I realized that even if I told them what schoolhad been like for me—about how it had felt to be the school freak for years—they wouldn’t be able to understand.
    That was a strange feeling for me, both happy and sad.
    Finally, the last bag was up in the room where it belonged, and Joe and I felt the welcome needlessness of our presence. So deep were our girls in catching up with their friends that they had to make an effort to remember we were there.
    First, I went to Valerie’s room and hugged her good-bye.
    â€œLook after yourself, Mom,” she said with her usual wisdom. “And hurry up and send me that new chapter.”
    Then I made my way down to Elena’s room and hugged her.
    â€œI love you, Mom,” she told me. “Write lots!”
    â€œAnd you will, too, won’t you?” Joe said as we walked to the car. “Write lots, now that they’re back at school.”
    I gave a little sigh of happiness.
    â€œI certainly
hope
so.”
    The atmosphere of the house reverted to quiet. The cat moved back down to the living room sofa. The dog caught up on his rest. I missed my girls, but I had a new youngster to worry about now: Paul, a woodcarver who lived in the Middle Ages in the Highlands of Scotland.
    There was a fragile quality to his hands as they turned the wood. They were bone-white, the fingers long and slender. There was a fragile quality, too, to the hunch of his lanky shoulders. Shaggy black hair fell into his face as he bent over his work.
    Like the changeling child of my own early years, Paul was an outcast. He was carrying a terrible secret. His kind—the werewolf kind—kill the people they love . . . if they aren’t killed first, that is.
    When the first free weekend of the school year came along, neither one of my girls came home. Elena wanted to go stay at her friend Mona’s house, and Valerie went home with her roommate.
    â€œYou understand, right, Mom?” Valerie said, sounding a little worried. “Hey, you just had us for a whole summer.”
    â€œNo problem,” I said. “Dad and I are happy that you like to spend time with your friends. That’s what growing up is all about.”
    â€œOkay,” she said. “And by the way—if that woodcarver’s story doesn’t have a happy ending, I’m going to be really upset.”
    Aha! My reader was hooked!
    â€œYou know I can’t tell you how a story ends,” I reminded her.
    â€œI know,” she said. “I’m just saying.”
    When I drove to the train station three weeks after that, I couldn’t wait to see my girls. Even with a tragically afflicted werewolf for company, I had found six whole weeks without their lively chatter a little bit too boring and lonely. It would soon be over, though, and the hour-long ride back to the house would be an excited, colorful, jumbled download of everything that had happened since the very first second of the school year.
    The problem wouldn’t be getting those two girls to talk. It would be getting them to talk in turns.
    I was waiting on the platform when they climbed down from the