All the Way Home
Authors: Patricia Reilly Giff
For more than forty years,
Yearling has been the leading name
in classic and award-winning literature
for young readers.
Yearling books feature children’s
favorite authors and characters,
providing dynamic stories of adventure,
humor, history, mystery, and fantasy.
Trust Yearling paperbacks to entertain,
inspire, and promote the love of reading
in all children.
ALL THE WAY HOME,
Patricia Reilly Giff
LILY’S CROSSING,
Patricia Reilly Giff
HALFWAY TO THE SKY,
Kimberly Brubaker Bradley
THE VICTORY GARDEN,
Lee Kochenderfer
A NECKLACE OF RAINDROPS,
Joan Aiken
MELANIE MARTIN GOES DUTCH,
Carol Weston
UP ON CLOUD NINE,
Anne Fine
DOUBLE ACT,
Jacqueline Wilson
THE LOTTIE PROJECT,
Jacqueline Wilson
TYLER ON PRIME TIME,
Steve Atinksy
Published by Yearling, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books
a division of Random House, Inc., New York
Copyright © 2001 by Patricia Reilly Giff
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. For information address Delacorte Press.
Yearling and the jumping horse design are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Visit us on the Web!
www.randomhouse.com/kids
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at
www.randomhouse.com/teachers
eISBN: 978-0-307-80983-4
Reprinted by arrangement with Delacorte Press
v3.1
For Vincent Ambrose
with gratitude and love
.
Dear Vinnie
,
there when I needed him
.
And always for
Jimmy, Christine, Billy,
Conor, Caitlin, and Patti
.
B
ROOKLYN
, 1941
O
utside, the milk truck rattled along Midwood Street, the horse clopping, the bottles vibrating in their cases. Mariel heard it in her dream, just on the edge of waking.
The dream began again:
green lace curtains with the sun shining through, a fine morning; a soft voice reciting a nursery rhyme: When the wind blows, the cradle will rock. The voice stops. The rippling in Mariel’s legs starts, her toes jerk
.
It was only a dream, Mariel told herself, only a curtain and a nursery rhyme. It would hang over her all day, though, make her wish for her mother, wonder where her mother was, what had happened to her.
A quick picture flashed in Mariel’s mind: a red
sweater thrown over her mother’s shoulders, her charm bracelet clinking, her cool hand on Mariel’s forehead.
If only she could see her mother’s face.
“Mariel?” a voice called from outside.
Squinting, she opened her eyes and looked out at the yard. The apple tree spread itself halfway to the bare board fence, almost hiding the row of houses in back. She loved that apple tree. Loretta, her almost mother, had put a small white fence around it so they’d stay out of its way when the two of them played baseball.
And Loretta was out there now, her hair tied up in a red kerchief. “Hey,” she called. “Are you ever going to get up? Want to go to a game today? The Dodgers might just win the pennant this year.”
Mariel thought of Geraldine Ginty, her enemy who lived across the street. Geraldine would say Loretta was
razy cray
, that the Dodgers hadn’t won the pennant during her whole life. Bums, she called them.
Mariel could almost see the green diamond in Ebbets Field where someone would be mowing for today’s Dodgers game. How lucky they were to live only a few blocks away. She slid her legs out from under the soft summer blanket and sat up, still remembering the dream.
Somehow it reminded her of Windy Hill and Good Samaritan Hospital, far away upstate, with the fountain outside and the rows of iron lungs inside.
She closed her eyes.
Sirens screaming, sick to her stomach, legs rippling, jerking. Chest heavy. Someone saying:
“Hold on, kiddo, another minute, almost there now. Breathe for me, will you? In and out, that’s the way. Here we are. Never so glad to see those doors.”
And someone else reaching out to pick up her doll for her
.
“Don’t touch it,” the first voice said. “All her things will have to be burned, full of germs. Shame, such a little thing, can’t be more than four years old. Polio.”
Mariel stood up, her fingers fluttering.
When the wind blows …
What did that nursery rhyme have to do with her mother?
Someday she was going back to Windy Hill.
Someday she was going to find out.
She leaned out the window. “Hold your horses,” she called down to Loretta. “I’m on my way.”
2
B
rick Tiernan was on his way home, the egg money in his pocket, swinging his baseball bat. Only one road led from Windy Hill to their farm and it was long, coming up the hill and winding around Claude’s apple orchard.
Ordinarily he didn’t mind. It was summertime, a time he loved: no school, no homework, no studying. Everything seemed easy, even though he was up early weeding, milking Essa, checking out the apple trees, trying to get enough water to them, sweating in the fields, hair plastered to his head. And there were late afternoons to play catch with Pop in the field, or to lie under a tree whistling through a blade of grass.
