My Name Is River Read online

  HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS

  EUGENE, OREGON

  Scripture verses are taken from

  The New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  The Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright ©1996, 2004, 2007, 2013 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

  The ESV® Bible (The Holy Bible, English Standard Version®), copyright © 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  Cover by Writely Designed, Buckley, Washington

  Cover photo © altanaka / Fotolia

  Published in association with William K. Jensen Literary Agency, 119 Bampton Court, Eugene, Oregon 97404.

  MY NAME IS RIVER

  Copyright © 2015 Wendy Dunham

  Published by Harvest House Publishers

  Eugene, Oregon 97402

  www.harvesthousepublishers.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Dunham, Wendy.

  My name is River / Wendy Dunham.

  pages cm

  Summary: River Starling, adopted under mysterious circumstances, has lived most of her eleven years on her grandparents’ Pennsylvania farm but after Gram suddenly decides they must move to Birdsong, West Virginia, River finds an unlikely new friend, learns about God’s love, and begins to feel at home.

  ISBN 978-0-7369-6461-6 (pbk.)

  ISBN 978-0-7369-6462-3 (eBook)

  [1. Moving, Household—Fiction. 2. Grandmothers—Fiction. 3. Friendship—Fiction. 4. Christian life—Fiction. 5. Adoption—Fiction. 6. Missing persons—Fiction. 7. West Virginia—History—20th century—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.1.D86My 2015

  [Fic]—dc23

  2014040664

  All rights reserved. No part of this electronic publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The authorized purchaser has been granted a nontransferable, nonexclusive, and noncommercial right to access and view this electronic publication, and purchaser agrees to do so only in accordance with the terms of use under which it was purchased or transmitted. Participation in or encouragement of piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of author’s and publisher’s rights is strictly prohibited.

  Dedication

  For Erin and Evan, who are the most loved, adored, and amazing children I could have ever hoped for.

  I am so very grateful for you.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  1. Moving Day

  2. It’s Gonna Be All Right

  3. New Kid

  4. A Birding Place?

  5. Ecotones

  6. Rock Hunters

  7. The Meeting of the Whippoorwills

  8. Another List

  9. The Bucket

  10. Gram Accepts

  11. The Worrying Thing

  12. Suet Cakes

  13. Black Leather Boot

  14. Hummingbird

  15. Pinky Swear

  16. Uncle Jay’s Visit

  17. Saving Gram

  18. A Plan of Our Own

  19. Good Ears

  20. A Father Who Loves Me

  21. Presentation Day

  22. The Color of a Bluebird

  23. Gather at the River

  24. Yellow Roses

  25. Little Bird on My Lip

  26. Evidence

  27. The Letter

  28. Uncle Jay’s Picture

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Heartfelt thanks to Ruth Samsel, my delightful agent, who believed in River right from the start.

  And to Barb Sherrill, Peggy Wright, and everyone else at Harvest House who wrapped their arms around River and me and made us feel like family.

  Before Ruth, Barb, and Peggy, there were others who provided inspiration—various writing friends, members of Rochester Area Children’s Writers & Illustrators (RACWI) and WNY Word Weavers, and most notably my friend Wendy Dunn of Paper Dance Editing.

  A big shout-out to Sam Files, a preteen and lover of books who, after reading an early draft, said, “This is the best story ever. I read it three times!” That was the fuel I needed. Thank you, Sam.

  And to my parents, family, and friends I’ve known over the years, I thank you. For without you, I’d be empty and have no stories to share.

  1

  Moving Day

  Don’t you worry now, Sugar Pie. Everything’s gonna be all right.” Gram must’ve said that a million times over the last few days, and that’s a pretty big promise to make to a grandkid.

  But, truthfully, I don’t think I’ve ever doubted her because Gram doesn’t lie. She says, “Life ain’t worth a hill of beans if you don’t speak the truth.” And in Gram’s book, even a half-truth measures up to a whole lie. But today, the day we’re moving, I’m working hard at believing her.

  Gram’s in the kitchen double-checking our cupboards. She said the only thing she’s leaving behind is mouse poop (not that I’d ever seen any). The cupboard doors bang as she yells up the stairs. “Label them boxes, Sugar Pie, with your name and what you got in ’em.”

  Packing’s a lot harder than I thought. Not the actual packing, that’s easy, but the part about leaving everything behind. This old brick farmhouse is all I’ve ever known or at least all I can remember.

  I push the last box to the middle of my room and write big black letters on the side:

  River’s Box

  pillow

  red flannel blanket

  hockey pucks

  baseball glove

  ballerina jewelry box

  I think about leaving the jewelry box behind but don’t because it’s from Gram. Plus that’s where I keep my heart necklace.

  My real name is River, but Gram calls me “Sugar Pie.” I’ve been alive for four thousand six hundred and twenty days, which means I’ll be thirteen on my next birthday, and in all that time, I still haven’t figured out why anyone would name their kid River. But that’s the name I came with—to my adoptive parents, anyways. I thought babies were supposed to come into the world free of names and everything, but I came fully clothed, wearing a white and yellow checkered dress just the right size for an eighteen-month-old. And I only know that because Gram told me.

  Gram said she was blown clear out of the water on the day my parents brought me home. She had no idea they were going to adopt. It was like I’d fallen straight from the sky, and when I asked why I was such a secret, she shook her head and said, “Sugar Pie, I haven’t a clue. Your mother never did have the sense God gave a goose.”

  Gram keeps a special picture of me on her nightstand. It’s the picture she took that day. My mom (who is Gram’s daughter) is holding me on her hip, and my dad (Gram’s son-in-law) is standing behind with his arms wrapped around the both of us. I was actually cute—real chubby with a crooked little smile. Even then I had a ton of hair. It was curly all over the place and shiny brown like a chestnut. Hanging around my neck was a silver necklace with a dangling heart charm. On the front “River” was engraved, and on the back was 9-23-1970. I didn’t come with a birth certificate, which Gram said was the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. A lot has changed since then. First of all, I’m not chubby anymore. And second of all, my mom and dad are gone.

  As far as my real parents go, I can pretty much guess I came to them the way most any kid does—plopped into the hands of a doctor
, screaming at the top of my lungs, and completely naked. And since they gave me away when I was only one and a half, I can only guess I was unlovable too.

  After I was adopted, Gram said my parents loved me more than all the frogs in the pond. But after six months, when I was two, they decided I was too much trouble. That’s when they packed everything important into the trunk of their Mustang and drove away.

  They didn’t pack me.

  But Gram said I wasn’t any more trouble than Mud Pie, the three-legged pig she had at the time. She said I was just like any other two-year-old who liked getting into things and had to throw a hissy fit every now and then. Gram said my parents never could figure out what they wanted. She spent years trying to find them but then decided it was time to give up.

  I have no idea how one kid could have two sets of parents, and in two short years, have them both decide they don’t want you anymore. Maybe I really was too much trouble, but I’ve never heard Gram tell a lie or anything even close.

  It’s been ten years, and they haven’t come back.

  Sometimes I imagine my parents on the day they left. They’re cruising along in their Mustang, singing along with The Beach Boys without a care in the world. My mom leans her head against my dad’s shoulder (the one tattooed with a heart and her name inside), and she’s dangling her feet out the window, letting the wind tickle her toes. She smiles and turns to check on me. That’s when she realizes I’m not there. She screams, and when my dad realizes what’s going on, he does a crazy U-turn and races back home at one hundred and ten miles per hour. They run into the house all frantic, and Mom’s crying uncontrollably. She picks me up, holds me tight, and says, “River, thank God you’re all right! I thought Daddy put you in the backseat. You’re such a good little girl and never make a peep. I thought you were just sleeping, but when I turned to check on you, I realized you weren’t.”

  Then I realize I’m daydreaming again.

  I tuck my diary deep inside the box, right between my pillow and red flannel blanket. Even though I never write in it, I think it’s a good idea to save just in case. Plus, that’s where I keep one of Paddles’s white feathers (Paddles was the best pet duck anyone could’ve had).

  Gram yells up the stairs again. “Hurry yourself along, Sugar Pie. You gotta be a little quicker than a herd of turtles! The movers are here.”

  I tape the box shut and look out my window. I say goodbye to our backyard, to the pond where I play hockey in the winter, to the creek where I caught pollywogs, and to the path leading to our woods, right where I buried Paddles. I touch the window, taking one last look at my tire swing. I remember the day Gramp hung it. He let me pick the tree. I chose the biggest oak tree right in the middle of our yard. Gramp even let me help tie the knots.

  I have no idea what I’ll see from my new window, but I know it won’t be as beautiful as this.

  2

  It’s Gonna Be All Right

  I sit on the front steps, waiting for the movers to finish their job, and whisper goodbye to the eighteen maple trees standing tall and proud along our driveway. Gramp planted them way before I was born. They got to live longer than he did (which I hardly think is fair). But at least I’ve climbed to the top of every one of them—even with my eyes closed. The people who bought our house have a boy my age, but I can promise he won’t climb as high as me.

  When the movers are done loading Tilly, Gram’s ’62 Chevy pickup, Gram and I hop in and head down our driveway for the last time. Gram loves her Chevy so much she named it. She says anything so shiny and turquoise that shimmers in the sun like it does is truly alive. Gram decided on the name Tilly. And even though Tilly’s been around for more than twenty years, you’d be hard up to find a speck of rust on her. And according to Gram, “Everybody ought to have a pickup cuz you never know what you’ll have to haul.”

  We reach the end of our road when I see a beautiful lady out walking her dog. She’s tall, skinny, and has a ton of curly brown hair, just like me. Maybe she’s my real mom. She could’ve gotten pregnant when she was a teenager and then left me on the front steps of an orphanage. Maybe she never told anyone about me, which would explain why I don’t have a birth certificate. Things like that can happen.

  “Gram,” I say, “are you sure we have to move?”

  She gives me a look that says I’ve asked that question one too many times. “Sugar Pie, that farmhouse is too big for the two of us. It’s time for moving on. Doesn’t mean it’s gonna be better or worse—just different.” Gram takes a deep breath and lets it out real slow. “Everything’s gotta change sometime, and there’s not a soul on this earth that can do a thing about it.”

  “But what about Gramp? What do you think he’d say? And,” I say as a reminder (just in case she forgot), “we won’t be able to have picnics with him in the cemetery anymore.”

  “Don’t you worry about that, Sugar Pie. All that’s left of Gramp in that cemetery is a box of dry, dusty bones. The living part of him, all them memories we’ve got in our hearts, they’re gonna travel with us anywhere we go.”

  We reach the freeway, head south, and pass that familiar big, green sign:

  Thanks for visiting Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, home of Punxsutawney Phil.

  Come back soon!

  I stare out Tilly’s window and can’t look at Gram, or she’ll see my eyes all watery. “But when Mom and Dad come back, they’re not going to know where I am.” I try to swallow the lump in my throat. “Did you even think about that?”

  Gram doesn’t answer right away. Maybe she doesn’t know what to say. Maybe she doesn’t believe they’re coming back.

  “Sugar Pie, I know you’re worried. But you gotta remember that we haven’t seen hide nor hair of your folks in over ten years. That’s a mighty long time. Now, if something changes and they do come back, they’ll check in with the postmaster. He’ll have our new address.” Gram stops talking for a minute, like she’s thinking about what to say. “And when you think about how big the world is, Birdsong, West Virginia’s just a hop-skip-and-a-toad’s-jump away from Punxsutawney.” She turns to look at me (I can tell because I see her reflection in Tilly’s window). Then she pats my leg and says, “Don’t you worry now, Sugar Pie. Everything’s gonna be all right.”

  “But, Gram, couldn’t we have at least waited ’til school’s out? There’s only a few weeks left.”

  Gram looks at me like she wants to say she understands or maybe that she’s sorry. But she doesn’t. “I know, Sugar Pie, but we’ve got to move now cuz I’ve heard the wind. And there ain’t nobody who can fight the wind.”

  It wasn’t long after Gramp died when Gram started up with the whole wind idea. One day she walked to the end of the driveway to get our mail and heard a kitten meowing. Hiding by the side of the road was a small gray kitten. Gram said it was no bigger than a ball of yarn and cuter than a bug’s ear. Then Gram told me she got this funny feeling inside, like she was hearing a tender voice telling her to pick the kitten up and bring it home. Gram told herself it was hogwash and that the kitten surely belonged to someone. She told herself it would find its way home, so she left it there. But when Gram was halfway back to our house, she heard the sound of brakes screeching and a thud that nearly tore her heart in two. That night she didn’t sleep a wink.

  Gram had the same thing happen another time when we were heading out to buy groceries. She was backing Tilly down our driveway when she heard that tender voice again (that’s when she decided to call it “the wind”). It told her to go back and lock the house. But Gram hadn’t locked the house since the day she and Gramp bought it nearly fifty years before. She said there was no use wasting time doing something senseless and never went back to lock up. When we got home, our door was wide open, and anything worth a penny was gone. Gram said she learned an important lesson that day, and I knew it had nothing to do with locking a door.

  I suppose since Gram heard the wind telling us to move, we’re better off moving a few weeks before school’s over
than to stay and find out what would happen if we didn’t.

  Gram cracks her window, and part of her hair falls loose from her bun. As the wind pulls it out the window, it looks like a long, silver streamer waving goodbye to Punxsutawney.

  Next thing I know, Gram reaches in her purse and takes out her pack of Camels. I can’t stand breathing in all that smoke. It makes me feel like someone’s stuffed fifty-seven cotton balls down my throat. I turn and look at Gram. “You need a smoke already?”

  She keeps her eyes on the road and doesn’t blink. A minute later she says, “Humph. You’re right, Sugar Pie.” Then without looking, she hands me her cigarettes. “Toss ’em out the window. I’m going cold turkey. It’s high time for change.”

  “Are you serious, Gram?”

  “Never been more serious in my life. Besides, they’re just a pack of skinny, white rodents. You light ’em up, and their eyes glow red. You suck ’em in, and they head straight for your lungs. Then they gnaw away on them like they was hunks of provolone cheese.” She grabs Tilly’s steering wheel even tighter and keeps right on driving. “I’m plum done.”

  I open my window and toss them out, one by one, real slow—not in case she changes her mind, but in case I need to get back home. I’ll follow our trail.

  We drive a while longer when I decide I really ought to know something about where we’re moving (and this time I’ll listen). “So why’d you pick Birdsong, anyways? Didn’t you say it was a small town?”

  “Sure did. That’s one of the things I like about it. Everyone knows everyone in a small town. Plus, the name Birdsong is so full of life it could make a dead man dance. Soon as I saw it on the map, I knew that’s where we were going.” Gram tucks the gray streamer back in her bun. “And,” she says, “the wind told me.”

  Gram keeps talking, giving me all kinds of information about Birdsong. Some of it I’m sure I could do without. “And it’s smack-dab in the middle of all kinds of mountains, roaring rivers, and nature parks, and it’s high time we had ourselves some adventure. White-water rafting, hiking, and fishing in those ice-cold mountain streams, we’re gonna do it all.”