Birdspell Page 12

  You’re a really nice man and I liked it a lot when you came over here or we went over there. It kind of felt for a while almost like I had a grandfather.

  I hope you don’t mind if I thought of you that way. I still do, really, but my mom’s illness makes it just about impossible to keep any kind of friendship going. Even if she comes around, I’ll understand if you’d rather not risk putting yourself through that again. I know it had to be awful for you.

  I’m sorry, too, about the cupcakes. No way I could even think about eating one after what happened, but I hope you can still enjoy them.

  I sure hope things work out with your daughter real soon.

  Your friend, Corbin Hayes

  I got ready for school then, and when I left the apartment I put the cupcakes and letter in a bag outside Mr. Zinbendal’s door, knocked, and then ran down the hall so I’d be out of sight when he opened it. I knew I couldn’t handle seeing his sad face. That was not the image I wanted to have in my brain all day.

  I hate my mother.

  I guess that will pass. It’s not the first time I’ve been so mad at her that I felt that way, and it always fades eventually. (Because, of course, I don’t really hate her, no matter how mad I get sometimes.) Besides, since I know what to expect from Mom, it’s kind of my own fault. It’s time I stopped thinking things are ever going to be different. Especially not better.

  That evening was tense. Mom was in a dirty mood right from the minute she got home from work. (It’s probably weird how thankful I am every day she hasn’t quit her job. I doubt many kids my age even think about something like that.)

  “Don’t get on your high horse with me, Corbin,” she warned. “I’ve got enough to deal with without your attitude.”

  “I didn’t say anything,” I answered.

  I was getting our plates ready for supper; I’d mixed the leftover chicken and rice together with a bit of soy sauce and some corn.

  “Exactly,” she said. “You think you’re getting away with ignoring me, think again.”

  “I’m not trying to ignore you,” I said. I turned to face her and forced a smile. “I hope you’re hungry because supper’s ready.”

  She seemed to calm down, but while we ate she started talking about her job and that got her riled up again.

  “They’re all useless, I’m not kidding,” she said angrily. “You wonder how they manage to get themselves dressed in the mornings. Maybe someone helps them.”

  “Probably,” I agreed.

  “I’m telling you, I’m the only one there who knows diddly-squat. It’s like the rest of them are sharing a brain between them.”

  I did my best to laugh, which is not easy when you want to yell, “Just stop!” in someone’s face.

  “That bird is getting on my nerves,” she said a few minutes later.

  That seemed like a pretty random comment, since Sitta hadn’t come into the kitchen once while we were eating. He seems to know when to stay away from Mom.

  “Really?” I said, hoping I sounded surprised. “Because I can tell he likes you a lot.”

  This seemed to interest her. She wanted details, which I supplied as fast as I could make them up.

  “He looks at you like this,” I said, giving my head a jaunty shake, “which is bird body language for expressing affection. And I notice him nodding a lot when you’re around. That shows approval.”

  “Huh!” Mom said. She seemed pleased.

  For some reason, the smug look on her face made me angrier than anything she’d done earlier. I stared at her as she basked in the crazy notion that Sitta adored her. It was pathetic and self-centered and I couldn’t take it for one more second.

  “It never crosses your mind to put anyone else first, does it?” I said. It was surprising, how quiet my voice was when blood was roaring in my ears.

  “What?” Mom looked startled as she lifted her face to meet my eyes. I don’t know what she saw there, but it seemed to stop her in her tracks.

  “You heard me. That scene last night? There was no need for that. None. We had guests, people I happen to like, but we couldn’t have a nice, friendly meal, could we?”

  Mom’s mouth started to open.

  “Don’t!” I said. My voice was rising, but still reasonably calm. Even so, I knew she heard the current in it, the controlled fury.

  “You never stop for one second to think about how your choices affect me, do you?” I asked, not wanting or waiting for her to answer. “All you care about is how you feel. So you mess with your meds every time, and I have to live with the chaos that comes from that. Also every time.”

  Mom’s eyes had filled with tears by then and, even though her hand was covering her mouth, I could tell her lips were trembling.

  “Corbin, I swear —” she said.

  I waited for her to finish. There wouldn’t be anything new, anything believable in whatever denials or promises or excuses she might offer, but it didn’t matter. Whatever she’d intended to say never made it into words. Her face crumpled as tears spilled over and ran down her cheeks.

  There was more — a lot more — I could have said. More I wanted to say. But I was afraid if I really let loose I’d never get stopped, and if I did that I’d bury the point I’d made. So I ignored the tears, turned, and walked out of the room.

  I had a chat with Sitta about the situation later.

  “Tomorrow she’ll act like none of this ever happened,” I told him.

  Sitta didn’t answer, but he leaned forward and sideways so I knew he was listening. I went on.

  “Things are sliding downhill, buddy. Any chance you’ve got another magic spell in you?”

  Nothing.

  “Come on, Sitta. Spell! Spell!” I chanted.

  And then he said it.

  “Spell! Spell!”

  Thirty

  OF COURSE, I KNEW a bird repeating a word wasn’t going to do anything. So I wasn’t expecting anything to happen. Not seriously, anyway.

  Which made it strange how disappointed I felt when nothing did happen. No unexpected shift in circumstances. No miraculous change in Mom. No sign that she’d decided to start taking her meds again.

  I wondered, over the next few days, if maybe I was coming unhinged. How could I feel let down because my life didn’t improve after a parakeet recited a random word?

  But eventually I decided I probably wasn’t teetering on the edge of sanity. I was desperate. Sick of the way things were and ready to grab onto any sliver of hope, no matter how small or silly.

  Unfortunately, hope was in short supply. Since I’ve been on this ride forever, I knew what was ahead. The roller coaster of life with Mom was going to keep right on rising up, plunging down, and whipping around sharp corners. All I can ever do is hang on and wait for a chance to catch my breath.

  I did what I always do when Mom starts to tilt and slide. I convinced myself I was ready. Except, this time I had more reason to think that than I usually do.

  I was still working at the store a few hours a week, so produce for Sitta was taken care of, plus I’d started stockpiling the ten dollars worth of groceries I also earned there every week. I’d been stashing canned and dry foods in my closet, shoving them out of sight on the shelf and in the corners.

  Besides that, I’d saved almost all of the babysitting money I’d made since back when Mom went into the hospital and Mike came to stay here. It wasn’t a fortune, but I figured, with the food I had tucked away, I could stretch it for quite a while. With any luck it would be long enough to get us through the worst of things this time around.

  None of that was going to keep us from getting kicked out of our apartment if Mom messed up on the rent, though. It didn’t help knowing the chance she would do that was much greater than the chance she wouldn’t.

  I decided I’d try to talk with her about that as soon as I c
aught her in a calm, even pleasant frame of mind, which happened a few days later. The reason for her good mood was a bit of a shock.

  She arrived home from work all smiles, as happy as I can remember seeing her in a long time. I watched curiously as she slung her purse on the futon and did a little dance around the living room. When she noticed me at the edge of the room she held a hand out.

  “Care to dance with the new assistant manager of So Fresh Cleaners?” she asked with a joyous laugh.

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes, seriously!” She twirled and giggled. “Someone finally realized how much I have to offer.”

  “Well, that’s great, Mom!” I smiled and tried to feel happy for her in spite of my instant apprehension.

  Obviously Mom had convinced the store’s owner she had some ideas that would be good for business. I doubted it would take long for that to fall apart.

  Even so, when she grabbed my hand and drew me into the dance she was doing, I did my best to go along. I can usually let go of misgivings and just enjoy the happy moments. Not this time. The weight of dread was too heavy to throw off.

  “I know this isn’t a huge deal in itself,” Mom said later over an oven pizza. “But it’s a start — right? I’ve been waiting my whole life for someone to give me a chance to prove I can do things.”

  “I’m really glad for you, Mom,” I said. “You definitely deserve this.”

  She reached over, squeezed my hand, and said, “Thanks, honey. And you know what — we can get a car soon because I’ll be making more money.”

  “A car would be great,” I said carefully. “And the best thing is, we definitely won’t have to worry about moving.”

  “True,” Mom said. “I remember you said something about how you like this place.”

  “I really do,” I said. “That’s why I want to stay here until I finish school.”

  “Right —” Mom pushed her plate away, although she’d eaten less than a third of her slice. She glanced around distractedly, and then stood up.

  “You didn’t eat much,” I said.

  “I’ve got things to do to get ready for my new responsibilities,” Mom said. “I’ll heat this up later if I’m hungry.”

  “Okay,” I said, disappointed at how quickly she’d moved past my words. I’d hoped to reinforce the promise she’d made about staying here, to get her to feel a genuine commitment to doing that. Just in case it made any difference.

  “Things are finally looking up for us, Corbin,” Mom said. “Life hasn’t exactly gone our way a lot of the time, but that’s all going to change. Because once I prove what I can do at this place, I’ll be in the ideal position to approach some bigger corporations with my ideas. There will be offers, of course, but I won’t hire on with just one company.”

  Mom snapped her fingers. Her eyes shone with excitement.

  “What I’m going to do is become a consultant, lending my expertise to Fortune 500 companies, sharing my methods with them, for a price of course.”

  Mom let out a small squeal just before she leaned down and whispered near my ear, “Son, we are going to be rich!”

  I watched her dance down the hall to her room. Then I pushed my own plate away, appetite completely gone.

  It was strange, even though things weren’t anywhere near as bad as they’ve been other times, how it felt like that was the lowest moment of my life.

  Thirty-one

  TWO WEEKS LATER MOM was unemployed and spending most of her time in bed or on the futon.

  I could have predicted that. First there’d been the high, with all the manic thoughts and behaviors. It was a lot like watching a video in fast-forward, the way she launched into this whirl of activity, drawing up bizarre marketing plans, assembling training ideas and rules for the So Fresh Cleaners staff.

  I was enlisted, as usual, as her test audience. She paced and raved, practicing presentations for meetings she planned to hold.

  “Is that great or what!” she’d exult at the end.

  “It sure is,” I’d say. Meaning, of course, it was 100% “or what,” though I was never foolish enough to say anything like that to her. She drew her own, happy conclusions.

  I don’t know how much of the babble and nonsense she tried to put in place at her dry cleaner’s job. I only know her career as the assistant manager lasted one week and two days. When they finally figured out the golden girl’s business plan was actually nothing but thinly disguised gibberish, they let her go. I honestly don’t know what took them that long. They didn’t even offer to put her back to her old job working the counter. Not that you could blame them.

  I don’t know if the end of her job had an effect on Mom or not, but the plunge that always follows her manic periods came almost at the same time as she was fired. She withdrew, barely spoke, and spent hours and hours lying around with a blanket over her. She watched television whenever she was in the living room — if you can call it “watching.” She stared toward the TV, and it was turned on, but there was no reaction to anything that flickered across the screen.

  At first I left her completely undisturbed, but after a few days I took a chance and changed the channel to something I wanted to see. A bit later she got up and wandered off to her room. After that, I put on whatever shows I liked. Sometimes she left, sometimes she stayed, but she never said a word about it.

  It was the same old story in many ways. But not in every way.

  In the past, worry was my normal response to Mom’s quiet, depressed days. Worry about her and worry about people finding out what was going on — partly to protect Mom, but also out of my own shame and embarrassment. Because I didn’t want to be the kid with a mother who does strange things. I was sure I’d be labeled some kind of freak by association.

  This time, that changed.

  It started at school, when my teacher asked to speak to me after class. He came around the front of his desk and half sat on it, looking casual and approachable.

  “I’ve noticed you seem to be having trouble focusing in class the past week or so,” he said.

  “Sorry,” I told him.

  “No, no — I’m not lecturing you,” he said. “I was simply concerned.”

  “Okay,” I said. My eyes shifted to the floor and then to the doorway.

  Mr. Cameron didn’t take the hint.

  “I’m in a better position to help if I know what difficulties a student might happen to be facing,” he said.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “These aren’t just words, Corbin,” he said.

  That’s all they were to me, but I didn’t say so. I didn’t say anything.

  “Okay, I can see you don’t feel like talking today,” he said, “but the door is open if you ever do.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”

  There was a silent pause. Maybe he thought I’d suddenly start blabbing. As if.

  “So, can I go?” I said when it started to get uncomfortable.

  “Yes, of course.”

  Mr. Cameron stood up and walked me to the door, which told me he was probably going to try one more pitch before I got away. I wasn’t wrong.

  “Sometimes life is so confusing a person doesn’t know who to trust. But those people are out there. You just need to figure out who they are.”

  I didn’t answer. But as I walked home I kept hearing those words. At one point I stopped and stood still, and played back the whole conversation, right from the moment he came around his desk. The first thought that had crossed my mind was that he was positioning himself to look casual and approachable. As if it was part of a plan to trick me.

  Why had I thought that?

  I had no reason to think that. From what I’ve seen of him, Mr. Cameron is a pretty stand-up guy: fair, patient, and decent to his class. So, why had my immediate, instinctive reaction been to distrust him?

>   I was almost home when I got it. No, that’s not true. I think I already knew — maybe I’d always known, but had never been able to admit it before.

  I’d been trained not to trust anyone. Trained by my mother’s frequent struggles with paranoia, by my own embarrassment, and by the idea that the best strategy was always to keep our business hidden.

  And that had made me see everyone on the “outside” as a kind of enemy.

  “I’m trapped,” I heard myself say. “I trapped myself!”

  What a hopeless situation. For a couple of minutes I felt as if I couldn’t get enough air into my lungs. My mother wasn’t the only one to blame for the way things were — I was in there right alongside her, shoving people away, doing everything possible to keep our problems secret from the world. A partner in her illness.

  Mr. Cameron’s words circled back through my head and suddenly, like oxygen rushing back into my body, I realized something.

  I had already trusted someone with the truth. Two people in fact. Izelle and Mr. Zinbendal.

  I’d told Izelle enough about Mom’s illness so that she could understand how it affected things with Sitta.

  And I’d told Mr. Zinbendal in the note I’d written to him — I hadn’t even hesitated, because I’d wanted him to understand, and maybe feel less sad about what had happened.

  I’d told two people and nothing terrible had happened. No agency had come along to take me to live with strangers. No snickers or whispers had followed me through the hallways at school. The sky hadn’t fallen in.

  Nothing bad — but also nothing good. I was in pretty much the same boat I’d been in when no one knew a thing. Still, it felt as though there’d been a change of some sort. I just couldn’t figure out what it was.

  Thirty-two

  AN ILLUSTION, I DECIDED. That’s what the change I’d imagined had been. Things were exactly as they’d always been.

  All it took for me to reach that conclusion was to walk into the apartment and see my mother, draped across the futon, reaching listlessly into a box of oatmeal cookies. She glanced in my direction.