Birdspell Read online

  “That was the time she just disappeared,” I told him, remembering the crawling panic I’d felt looking for her. Wondering. “And I don’t know what made me think of it, but on the second day I checked our storage locker in the basement. We didn’t have anything to store, but I remembered the landlord showing it to us, and giving Mom a key.”

  Sitta strutted back and forth on his cushion. It looked like he was impatient to hear more, which brought a grin to my face.

  “So, anyway, I went to the locker and at first I thought I was at the wrong one because there were all these cardboard boxes in it and, like I said, ours was empty. But it was ours all right. And Mom was in there, hidden by all this cardboard.”

  My throat got tight, reliving the moment when I’d seen her, crouched down, trembling and whimpering like a frightened animal.

  “Nothing I said could convince her to come out. Luckily, that was one of the rare times when my father happened to be around, so I got a hold of him and he came over. As soon as he saw Mom, he called for an ambulance.

  “Then he sent me upstairs to wait for him in the apartment,” I said. I’d been only too happy to obey. Who wants to see their mother hiding like that?

  “I was watching out the window when they took her. They had Mom strapped to a stretcher and it bothered me for a long time, thinking about her being tied down. I didn’t know until a lot later they secure all patients that way, to keep them safe.”

  “Foo! Foo!” said Sitta. He hopped down to the floor and walked around behind the cushion. I tried not to let my imagination go off the rails, but it honestly looked like the story was upsetting him.

  “Sorry, buddy, but I’ve gotta tell you the rest. See, the worst part was, even with the window closed I could hear these awful screams coming from her. Pain and terror and rage.”

  I could almost still hear those sounds, and it’s been making me wonder if maybe I sounded like that last week when I lost it with Mack. Could that be a sign I’m going to follow in my mother’s unsteady footsteps?

  That creeps into my brain a lot. What if I have this too? I’ve seen the pain of it from the outside. How much worse would it be to have those slithering thoughts crawling through my own head?

  “I can’t imagine anything more terrifying,” I whispered. And then, because I didn’t want to imagine it, I forced myself to think about something else.

  “We’re pretty good for food right now,” I told Sitta proudly. Not only had I babysat Molly three afternoons last week, but the guy at the grocery store made me a great deal. For helping with some cleaning for an hour a couple of times a week, he loads me up with produce that’s starting to droop, for Sitta, and he lets me take ten bucks worth of anything else I want. Between that and the babysitting money, things are looking pretty good.

  There’s a brand-new jar of peanut butter, two full loaves of bread (one in the freezer to stay fresh), macaroni, oatmeal, canned beans, and eggs in the fridge and cupboards right this minute. I can fix myself something to eat anytime I want.

  On the other hand, the end of the month is almost here and that means the rent will be due. Mom usually has to pay first and last when we move, but I’m not sure exactly how it all works when you get behind. If she’s back on her feet soon, and gets a job right away, maybe she’ll be able to catch up and we can stay. That’s happened a few times in the past, but a lot depends on the landlord.

  “You know what we could use, Sitta?” I asked him after I’d explained our situation. “A miracle. Got anything like that tucked in those feathers of yours?”

  That’s when Sitta lifted both wings, spreading them out at his sides as if he was about to take off. Except, he didn’t. He flapped them once or twice, dipped his head and lifted it back up looking straight at me.

  “Spell! Spell!” he called.

  “You casting a spell, buddy?” I said. And I laughed.

  Because at that moment it seemed amusing.

  Seventeen

  IT WAS THAT SAME night, just before three in the morning, when something woke me.

  I was instantly alert, although I didn’t move for a minute or two. Instead, I lay there, listening hard. Beside me, Sitta’s cage made a gravestone-shaped silhouette against the light coming through the window.

  I’d almost convinced myself that whatever had disturbed me must have crept in from beyond the walls of the apartment. A single, sudden noise that had faded before I’d fully wakened. My mind began to relax back toward sleep, which is when the silence was broken by a sound I couldn’t quite identify. It was definitely coming from inside the apartment. A cross between a cough and a gurgle. And something else. Something else …

  Shrugging off my blanket, I got up, pulled on my jeans, and tiptoed to the doorway. It came again, the sound that didn’t belong. Only quieter this time, like an echo.

  Like it was muffled.

  A jolt of heat ran through me. I crossed the hall to Mom’s room, turned the doorknob and pushed on the door in one movement. It barely budged.

  “Mom!” I said, somehow managing to keep my voice steady. “Mom?”

  She made a sound — low and wordless. A sinking away sound.

  And I could already smell something through the sliver of space the door had opened.

  Vomit.

  I knew what that meant. And I knew why she’d jammed things under the door to keep it from opening.

  I pushed harder, gaining an inch or two, but not enough to squeeze through. I shoved with all my strength, saying, “Let me in, please. Come on, just let me in for a minute.”

  I could see her face, ghostly pale, turned slightly toward me on the pillow, staring vacantly. I pleaded again and I kept pushing, but the door held firm.

  And then, with a movement that seemed to take every bit of effort she could summon, my mother grasped the blanket and pulled it up and over her face. Like a corpse. I took a step back and threw myself against her door. It didn’t budge.

  I knew I had an emergency on my hands, but oddly what I most wanted to do in that moment was crumple helplessly into a ball on the floor. The urge was so powerful it was all I could do to stay on my feet and force myself to focus on what had to be done. Because my mother needed help immediately and there was no one else who could make sure she got it.

  This was a situation where seconds counted. And so, a few heartbeats later, I found myself pounding on Mr. Zinbendal’s door, yelling, “Help! We need help.”

  I was still saying it when the door opened a few inches and his frightened face appeared.

  “You!” he said. “What is it?”

  “Call 911!” I cried. “My mom needs an ambulance.”

  Zinbendal didn’t hesitate. He crossed the floor to a table and picked up the receiver of some kind of old-fashioned phone. He flicked on a dim lamp and pressed three buttons. As he waited for someone to answer he turned sideways and motioned me into the apartment.

  The place was like a museum of old furniture, all oversized. There were big square tables, enormous chairs, and the bulkiest couch I’ve ever seen. I made my way in and stopped in the middle of the room. By then, Zinbendal was telling the emergency operator the address.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with her,” he said after a pause. “Someone comes to my door looking for help this time of night — I don’t ask a lot of questions.”

  He shot me a questioning look, eyebrows raised and free hand stretched forward.

  “She’s sick and, uh, trapped in her room,” I said. And then, because I was afraid that might not sound urgent enough, I added, “I think she took too much medicine by mistake.”

  Zinbendal let that sink in for a second or two before he spoke into the phone again. “It sounds like an overdose,” he said.

  I edged back to the doorway while he was listening to the operator. As he glanced over at me, I lifted a hand, said, “Thanks a lot. Sorry
for disturbing you,” and slipped back across the hall to my own place.

  I left our apartment door unlocked for the emergency workers, but before they arrived it opened and Mr. Zinbendal stepped in. He spied me down the hall outside Mom’s room and came shuffling toward me. I saw that he’d put on slippers and hauled a housecoat on over his pajamas.

  He paused as he made his way through the living room. I watched him taking in the emptiness of the place, but when he spoke he didn’t mention the lack of furnishings.

  “Is there anything I can help with while we wait?” he asked.

  “Not unless you can talk my mom into opening her door,” I said.

  He looked unsure, but came forward and stood near the narrow opening. “Your son here is very worried about you, ma’am. Can you clear the door to reassure him?”

  Apparently, reassuring me wasn’t one of Mom’s priorities just then. But Mr. Zinbendal gave it a shot.

  “It appears your mother has thrown up,” he said softly. “That seems hopeful, as she may have expelled some of whatever she took.”

  And he patted my arm.

  His response to my middle-of-the-night plea for help and the kindness in his voice and actions seemed strange considering how crabby he’d been since we moved into this place. And he’d probably go right back to his usual self once the crisis was over. That didn’t matter. I was just glad not to be standing there alone, hoping my mother didn’t die before help arrived.

  The EMTs, a man and a woman, came minutes later, moving quickly without running. They managed to get her door open by pushing and pulling it to loosen what was jammed underneath, and then shoving it out of the way. They hurried to Mom’s side, removing the blanket she’d covered herself with a short time earlier.

  Her eyes were closed and she was very still.

  Mr. Zinbendal tried to shield me from seeing what was going on, but I sidestepped him and watched as one of the paramedics knelt, pressing fingers against Mom’s neck.

  I watched, and I heard.

  I heard him say, “There’s no pulse.”

  Eighteen

  EVERYTHING IN ME WANTED to rush to my mother’s side. Three things stopped me.

  One was knowing if I got in the way, I’d end up somewhere that I couldn’t even see what was happening. The second was Mr. Zinbendal’s surprisingly firm hand on my shoulder.

  “You need to stay clear to let them do their work,” he said.

  The third reason, I don’t want to talk about.

  I’ll say this. They definitely knew what they were doing. You never saw two people work so fast or efficiently. It was apparent by their slick movements and the concise way they communicated that they knew exactly what needed to be done and weren’t wasting any time about it. While that went on, I mostly watched my mother’s face. Zinbendal’s hand stayed on my shoulder and that helped keep me calm more than I can explain.

  Someone told me later it was less than three minutes before they pulled her back to the land of the living. Which meant, of course, that she’d actually been dead, and would still be dead if they hadn’t gotten there on time. My mother.

  It had felt a lot longer than a few minutes, watching, waiting, almost not breathing myself until her body jerked for the second time, in response to the defibrillator, and I heard the female paramedic say, “Okay, we’ve got a beat.”

  It took a while after that for them to decide she was stable enough to move to the ambulance. During that time Mr. Zinbendal disappeared. When I saw he was gone I assumed he’d headed back to bed, but just as they were wheeling out the stretcher he reappeared, dressed in street clothes and wearing a jacket and boots.

  “I imagine you’ll want to go along to the hospital and see how she’s doing,” he said. “I’ve called a cab and it will be here in a few minutes, so get ready quick.”

  I slipped on my shoes and jacket and the two of us went downstairs to wait. It didn’t take long before a taxi pulled up and ten minutes later we were getting out at the hospital. The fare was almost sixteen dollars, which made my stomach clench, especially when I remembered there’d be a return trip to pay for too.

  “I’ll make sure my mom pays you back,” I said as we made our way in through the sliding glass doors of the emergency department.

  I’d taken a half dozen steps before I realized Mr. Zinbendal had stopped in his tracks. I turned and went back to find out why.

  “I don’t know your name,” he said as I reached him. “What is it?”

  “Corbin.”

  “Now look here, Corbin,” he said. “I don’t want you or your mom worrying about a few dollars spent on a cab. So let’s settle that right now. This is a favor. Someday, maybe I’ll need a hand with something and you’ll do me a good turn too, but in the meantime, no one owes me anything. Understood?”

  I couldn’t speak, but I nodded. And then something broke loose inside me and the next thing I knew I was holding onto him and bawling like a little kid.

  For a couple of minutes we stood there, Zinbendal awkwardly patting my shoulder while I tried to bury my head in the stale-smelling folds of his long, gray coat. Shame scalded my neck and face, leaving deep red blotches that only subsided when I detached myself and snuck off to the washroom where I patted cold water over them again and again.

  He was waiting in the hall just outside the washroom when I emerged. We walked in silence toward a nurse who was sitting at a desk with high sides. Mr. Zinbendal explained that my mother had just been brought in by ambulance.

  “Your mother’s name?” the nurse asked me.

  “Rhea Hayes,” I said.

  She disappeared for a moment. When she returned, she told us, “Doctor Scaria is with her now. You can go ahead — she’s in the second room on the left down that corridor.”

  Mr. Zinbendal asked if I wanted him to come with me or stay in the waiting area.

  “You can come,” I said, trying to sound like it didn’t matter when even the thought of walking in there alone was terrifying. If I’d had to, I could have — would have. But I didn’t have to go by myself and that felt kind of amazing.

  Mom was hooked up to monitors and an IV. I looked for a sign that she was glad to be alive, maybe even glad to see me, but there was nothing. Not a flicker of anything that would make you think the brain operating her reactions so much as recognized who I was or what was going on.

  Dr. Scaria greeted us with a smile and a handshake. She said Mom was stable, but she’d have to stay in hospital for a while. When she learned that Mr. Zinbendal was just a neighbor, Dr. Scaria asked if there was a relative I could stay with until my mother’s emergency contact could make arrangements for me.

  I almost blurted that my father wasn’t even in the country. Not the kind of mistake I’d ever have made if I wasn’t so stressed. Luckily, I caught myself in time and managed to nod, probably harder than necessary.

  “Oh, sure,” I said.

  “I’ll see to it,” Mr. Zinbendal added. An unexpected ally, I thought, until I realized he meant it.

  The doctor seemed satisfied.

  “Your mom will be sent up to ICU and closely monitored for the next twenty-four hours,” she said. “After that, she’ll be transferred to the Psych Unit.”

  The last time Mom was in Psych, I ended up in a foster home for almost a month. My foster mother, Mrs. Jenkins, was an older woman who thought her job was to watch me like a hawk every minute I wasn’t in school or asleep. She dutifully brought me to see Mom three times a week — on a schedule she’d worked out and stuck to like her senior’s discount might be revoked if she didn’t. Mrs. Jenkins was awfully fond of her senior’s discount. I don’t think she was quite as fond of me, probably because I kept lying to her and she kept catching me at it.

  That had been a long month and I had no intention of going through another one like it. Especially since I was two years ol
der now and perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Besides, I couldn’t risk losing my jobs, just in case we didn’t get kicked out of the apartment. Most importantly, I needed to be home to take care of Sitta.

  On the cab ride home I starting working on a plan to trick Mr. Zinbendal into thinking someone was looking after me. I hated to lie to him when he’d come through in such a big way, but I had no choice.

  That’s what I assumed anyway. Until I got back to the apartment and, after some effort, persuaded Mr. Zinbendal that I’d be fine alone for what was left of the night.

  “I’ll just get some sleep and contact one of my relatives in the morning,” I told him. One of my fictitious relatives.

  “And thank you so much for everything you did tonight,” I added. That seemed to need more than words so, lame as it was, I stuck out my hand.

  He shook it solemnly and told me I was very welcome and he was glad we were friends now. I didn’t answer that, because I couldn’t.

  I was trying to decide whether I’d invent an aunt or an uncle when I stepped into the apartment and nearly jumped out of my skin.

  Seated on one of the living room cushions, a man’s dark gray shadow was slumped against the far wall.

  Nineteen

  “DAD?”

  As the shadow stirred and straightened I realized that of course it wasn’t my father, which made me feel foolish. I should have known better than to hope for his help. He hadn’t even bothered to answer the angry email I’d sent, much less show up in my actual life.

  My hand went to the light switch and flicked it on.

  Mom’s friend Mike blinked, lifted a hand to shield his eyes, squinted, and said, “Corbin.”

  “What are you doing here?” I said. It came out sounding rude, but I hadn’t meant it that way. It was disappointment, because he wasn’t my father, mysteriously arriving to save the day and act like he, as Mom would say, gave a flying Fig Newton about me.