The Vanderbeekers Make a Wish

  Contents

  * * *

  Title Page

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraphs

  Monday, August 4

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Tuesday, August 5

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Wednesday, August 6

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Thursday, August 7

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Friday, August 8

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Acknowledgments

  Preview: A Duet for Home

  Read More from The Vanderbeekers Series

  Discover More Books Featuring Asian American and Pacific Islander Voices

  About the Author

  Connect on Social Media

  Text and illustrations copyright © 2021 by Karina Yan Glaser

  Map copyright © 2021 by Jennifer Thermes

  All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to trade.permissions@hmhco.com or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

  hmhbooks.com

  Cover illustration © 2021 by Katya Longhi

  Cover design by Catherine Kung

  The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file.

  ISBN: 978-0-358-25620-5

  eISBN 978-0-358-25526-0

  v2.0921

  To the Glasers and the Dickinsons, who have taught me so much about the meaning of family: Michael, Kathleen, Pat, Larry, Brian, Karen, Josh, Jamie, Dan, Amira, Simon, Eva, Ada, Allie, Caleb, Lucy, Josiah, Kaela, Newell, Selah, Lina, Nora, and Nathan

  It isn’t as if birthdays are common things.

  —L. M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables

  In almost everyone’s life there is one event that changes the whole course of his existence.

  —E. B. White, The Trumpet of the Swan

  Monday, August 4

  Five Days Until Papa’s Birthday

  One

  Wild was a word that could describe the weather on 141st Street on the first Monday of August. A hot wind rushed through the checkered streets of Harlem with such ferocity that trees bent in wide arches and pedestrians had to lean into the gusts at steep angles to keep from being blown off course. Rain pelted the sidewalks and pooled at street corners. At the top of the red brick brownstone in the middle of the street sat a weathervane that spun so fast it looked as if it might propel the building up into the air and disappear into the clouds.

  Down in the basement, Oliver, age twelve and ready to head to the seventh grade next month, was getting ready for a three-day camping trip in the Adirondacks with his dad. Three years ago, when his twin sisters, Isa and Jessie, were in sixth grade, Papa had taken them on a three-day summer getaway trip. His sisters could choose anywhere within driving distance, and they asked to go to Washington, DC. Isa’s favorite violinist was performing at the Kennedy Center, and Jessie wanted to go to the Steven F. Udvar-Hazy Center, where the space shuttle Discovery was displayed. In the years since then, Oliver had been planning for his summer-after-sixth-grade trip with Papa. And what he wanted to do most was go camping.

  Papa and Oliver had researched the best places to camp in the area, and after considering many options, they had decided on the Adirondacks. They had booked a campsite right by a gorgeous lake six months in advance. Oliver had been looking forward to the trip throughout the long, hot, boring summer. And now that the day of departure was finally here, he was in a great mood as he checked the contents of his backpack for the fiftieth time.

  Outside, the clouds were low and dark, and wind caused rain to smack against the walls and windows of the brownstone. Upstairs, Mama was finishing up a batch of granola that Oliver and Papa would take with them, the musical clinking of metal bowls and wooden spoons a comforting sound that the Vanderbeeker kids had all been hearing since birth.

  In the basement, Laney, who had turned seven that past spring, was observing Oliver while sharing a bowl of crisp red-leaf lettuce with her gray lop-eared rabbit, Paganini.

  “This is great lettuce,” Laney said as she watched Paganini consume an enormous leaf. “Do you want to bring some on your camping trip?”

  Oliver shook his head. “Yuck, no. We’re only going to eat junk food. S’mores. Beans right out of the can. Hot dogs.”

  Franz, a basset hound with long ears that he sometimes stepped on when he sniffed for dropped morsels of food, observed the lettuce-eating with a focus he typically reserved for mealtimes.

  “I don’t think you’re going to like lettuce, Franz,” nine-year-old Hyacinth said. She was sewing a plastic cover for Oliver’s backpack. He was going to need it with all that rain.

  Laney held a piece of lettuce out, and Franz, elated that food was being handed to him, snatched it from her hand. Then he galloped up the stairs and out of sight.

  “I hope he’s not hiding that in my bedroom,” Oliver commented, looking up from his backpack. “I don’t want to find slimy lettuce under my desk when I get back.”

  A minute later, Franz reappeared and stood in front of Laney, staring at her until she gave him another piece. He disappeared up the stairs again.

  “What a weirdo,” fifteen-year-old Jessie said.

  “Yeah, what a weirdo,” Laney echoed.

  Isa put down her violin. She’d been practicing a complicated line of music over and over again. “Great,” she said to Jessie. “Now Laney’s going to be saying that for the next year.”

  “Weirdo, weirdo, weirdo,” Laney said. She liked how the word sounded.

  Franz trotted back down the stairs. Laney held out another piece of lettuce to him. He grabbed it, then raced back up the stairs.

  “Stop giving him lettuce,” Jessie told Laney. “He’s going to get sick.”

  “From vegetables?” Laney asked, popping another piece of lettuce into her own mouth and handing a smaller piece to Paganini. “I doubt it.”

  “Wild dogs don’t eat lettuce,” Jessie said. “They’re carnivores.”

  “Franz isn’t wild,” Hyacinth said. “He could never survive in the wild.”

  Franz came bounding back down the stairs, lettuce nowhere to be seen. His tongue hung from the side of his mouth, his tail was going at 100 wpm (or wags per minute), and he looked as if he was having the best day of his whole life.

  “That dog,” Jessie said with a shake of her head. “He’s a perfect case study of what fourteen thousand years of domestication will do to you.”

  The sound of Papa’s phone ringing upstairs interrupted their discussion about Franz’s heritage. The ringtone was the Star Wars theme song, which meant that the caller was Uncle Sylvester, Papa’s best friend. Uncle Sylvester and Papa had grown up next door to each other and had even gone to the same college. They both married their college girlfriends right after they graduated, only Papa returned home to Harlem, while Sylvester moved to his wife’s hometown in Indiana and became a farmer.

  Because Sylvester lived in Elberfeld, a rural part of Indiana, Papa had gone to visit him only twice in the twenty years since college. Sylvester had come to Harlem twice, once to pack up his childhood home a
nd move his parents to Elberfeld (this was before any of the Vanderbeeker kids were born), and once four years ago to visit with his wife, Amelia, and their daughter, Sabine, who was Hyacinth’s age. Laney had been a toddler, Hyacinth five years old, Oliver seven, and the twins in fifth grade. The Vanderbeekers immediately loved the family. Sylvester and Amelia had brought them dozens of fresh eggs and bags of vegetables from their farm. It was during their visit that Laney had discovered she hated carrots (and had declared that all orange foods were disgusting) but loved cucumbers, grape tomatoes, and eggplant.

  “Uncle Sylvester is calling,” Oliver said at hearing Papa’s ringtone. Even though Sylvester wasn’t technically related to them, they called him “Uncle,” since he was like a brother to Papa. “Are you sure you’ll get everything done in time for Papa’s birthday? You know I can’t help for the next few days because of my camping trip.”

  “We know about your camping trip,” Jessie said. “You’ve only mentioned it a million times. We’re watching you pack your bag right now.”

  Papa’s fortieth birthday was the coming Saturday, and over the past two months, the Vanderbeekers had been planning a huge surprise party for him. They had invited his friends, even the ones who lived out of town, and the anticipated attendees currently numbered over one hundred. Twenty people were driving in from out of town, and Uncle Sylvester and his whole family were flying in. The Vanderbeekers had planned a day based on Papa’s favorite activities and foods.

  It had been so hard to plan everything while keeping it a secret from Papa, but the Vanderbeekers had done an excellent job. They could not wait for August ninth.

  Isa rubbed her temples. “We still need a present for him.”

  Oliver sighed.

  “Last year when Mama turned forty, we got her a bakery, ” Laney reminded him.

  Papa’s Birthday List!

  CONFIDENTIAL!

  –Tour of Yankee Stadium

  –Arthur Avenue (pizza and cannolis)

  –New York Botanical Garden

  –Finale! Birthday Party in Community Garden

  –Bounce House

  –Dancing

  –Papa’s Favorite Foods:

  –Spanakopita

  –sushi

  –egg rolls

  –dumplings

  –Greek salad

  –cheese croissants

  –fried chicken

  –cookies

  “That was sort of an accident,” Hyacinth said.

  “An on-purpose accident,” Laney added. “We did the best job with her birthday last year.”

  “He’s turning forty,” Jessie said. “We have to give him a present.”

  “I thought the party was his present!” Oliver said.

  Mama’s voice drifted down from the kitchen. “Kids, can you come up here, please?”

  Oliver, hungry and expecting breakfast, raced up the stairs, and his siblings followed. Their parents were looking at something on Mama’s phone.

  “Hey, kids,” Papa said, then looked at Oliver. “I have some bad news.”

  “What do you mean?” Oliver said, his eyes growing wide in panic.

  “There’s been a bit of an emergency,” Papa said. “Sylvester’s mom passed away this morning. Sylvester needs help with funeral arrangements and asked if I could come out. He’s rarely asked me for anything in our entire lives, and I need to go.”

  “Poor Uncle Sylvester,” Hyacinth said.

  “Sylvester’s mom was like a second mom to Papa when he was growing up,” Mama said.

  “Really?” Laney asked.

  Papa nodded. “After my mom died, it was just me and my dad, and he worked a full-time job. I don’t think I could have survived without Sylvester’s family.”

  The Vanderbeekers had never met Papa’s parents, since his mom died when Papa was two and then his dad died when Papa was in college. Papa had shared some stories about his dad, though, and it always made the Vanderbeekers sad not to have known him.

  “Not to be insensitive,” Oliver said, “but what about our camping trip?”

  “I’m so sorry,” Papa said to Oliver. “Maybe we can book another campsite for next week?”

  “They’re all booked until Thanksgiving,” Oliver said. “I just checked last night because I wanted to see photos of our campsite. Everything is booked.”

  Papa’s face fell. “I’m so sorry, Oliver. I feel terrible.”

  “How long will you be gone?” Isa asked.

  “The funeral is on Wednesday, and I’ll fly back on Thursday,” Papa replied.

  “That stinks!” Oliver said. “You’ll be gone the whole time we were supposed to be camping!”

  Jessie kicked his foot. “Way to be compassionate, Oliver.”

  “What?” Oliver said, looking around. “We’ve been planning this for years!”

  Mama put her arm around Oliver. “I’m sorry. I know you’re disappointed.”

  “I will make it up to you, Oliver,” Papa said. “I’ll look up other campsites. It doesn’t have to be at that exact lake.”

  “We chose that one because it was the best,” Oliver grumbled.

  “You should go pack,” Mama told Papa. “You need to leave in twenty minutes.”

  While Papa ran up the stairs to his and Mama’s bedroom, Mama looked at Oliver in concern. “Are you okay? Maybe we can do something special this week. I wish I didn’t have to cover extra shifts, but a couple of my employees are out of town for summer vacation.”

  “We’ll think of something,” Isa told her mom. “We don’t have plans this week anyway.”

  “I was going to build the hugest fort in my bedroom,” Laney said. “Oliver, you can help.”

  “Yippee,” Oliver said sullenly.

  “Are your friends around?” Mama asked. “Maybe you could hang out with them. Have a sleepover in the treehouse?”

  “Jimmy L is spending the whole month with his grandparents in Florida.” Oliver sighed.

  “And Angie is at summer camp in Massachusetts this month,” Hyacinth said. “We said goodbye to her last Saturday.”

  Before Mama could respond, there was a crash above their heads.

  “I think Papa is trying to get the suitcases,” Mama said. She glanced at the clock again. “Can you help him pack while I finish getting breakfast ready? He really does have to leave soon if he’s going to make his flight.”

  * * *

  The Vanderbeekers made their way up the stairs, down the hallway, and into Mama and Papa’s room. The closet door was open, but Papa was nowhere to be seen.

  “Papa? Are you okay?” Laney asked, dropping to the floor and looking under the bed. Tuxedo, their black-and-white cat, darted through the quilt hanging over the edge of the bed, interrupting their other cat, an orange-and-white tabby named George Washington, who had been napping under the bed.

  “I’m in—achoo!—here!” Papa said from the depths of the dusty closet. “Watch out!”

  There was a rumble before an ancient suitcase tumbled off the top shelf of the closet and crashed to the ground, landing inches away from Laney’s head.

  “Yikes,” Oliver said. “What’s that?”

  Dusty and old, the suitcase was made of brown-and-orange wool in a plaid pattern. The top and handles were made of brown leather. It looked as if it came out of a movie from the Great Depression.

  “This,” Papa said, “contains all the earthly possessions I have left from your grandfather.”

  “How old is that suitcase?” Hyacinth said. “It looks ancient.”

  “Wait, are you using that thing for your trip?” Jessie asked. “What about the rolling suitcases we usually use?”

  Papa picked up the old suitcase and brushed it off, scattering dust all over Laney and Tuxedo. Tuxedo promptly gave an enormous sneeze.

  “I lent them to Mr. Jones,” Papa said. Mr. Jones was their neighborhood postman. Over the forty years he had worked for the United States Postal Service, he had accrued hundreds of vacation days and
was finally using some of them to tour Europe for a month.

  “At least I have this,” Papa said, holding up the suitcase. “Oliver, can you run downstairs and bring me a cardboard box?”

  While Oliver dragged himself downstairs to the basement, where they kept folded-up boxes, Papa unzipped the suitcase, and the Vanderbeekers leaned in to take a look. Scattered inside the frayed silk lining were items of clothing, a few photo albums, and a shoebox.

  “What’s that?” Laney asked.

  “Things that belonged to my dad,” Papa said. “This was his suitcase, and I’ve kept some of his things in here.” Oliver arrived with the box, and Papa transferred all the items into it. The last one was a blazer, plaid again, with thick and thin brown and tan lines interlaced with black lines. The elbows had leather patches thin with wear.

  Papa paused for a moment, holding the coat. “He wore this all the time.”

  “That’s so cool,” Laney said, reaching out to touch it.

  “I wish we had known him,” Isa said, looking up at Papa. “I always love hearing stories about your dad.”

  “He was like the mayor of the neighborhood. Everyone called him Pop-Pop,” Papa said.

  “He sounds like you,” Oliver said, forgetting about his camping disappointment for a moment.

  Papa smiled. “Being compared to my dad is the best compliment.”

  “I’m sorry about Sylvester’s mom,” Hyacinth told him. “We know she meant a lot to you.”

  Papa placed his father’s blazer on the bed and brought his kids in for a hug.

  “She was amazing,” Papa said. “She was like your mom, always baking and cooking for other people. My dad was great in so many ways, but he was a terrible cook! I spent a lot of evenings eating dinner at Sylvester’s house.”

  “What time is your flight?” Jessie asked, looking at her watch. “It’s nine o’clock now.”

  “Shoot,” Papa said. “I’ve got to leave in five minutes.”