Birdspell Page 9

  “You should have told me the truth,” she said after the silence in the room had stretched itself tight.

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “You should be,” she said, nodding. “I mean, I get why you lied, but —”

  “Look, if you want Sitta back —” I said. That was as far as I got.

  Izelle’s eyes flashed with anger.

  “What?” she said. “That’s not what I meant! Besides, I’m glad Sitta’s with you; I can see how good that must be — for both of you. But I could have been a better friend if I’d known. I wouldn’t have been mad, or given you a hard time when you kept me away. And I might have been able to help more with food for Sitta.”

  That conversation kept sinking in over the next few days. It left a lingering good feeling in me that lasted right up until the first visit with Mom.

  The hallway to the Psych Unit was painted a pale green, which someone once told me is a calming color. It doesn’t seem to be having much of an impact on the patients there, judging by the laments and protests we heard.

  Mom wasn’t contributing to the noise. She was in her room, sitting in the visitor chair in the corner, staring out the window. Mike nudged me forward at the doorway. I stepped inside and took a few tentative steps toward her.

  “Hi, Mom,” I said.

  Her head turned slowly and her eyes rested on me without any sign of enthusiasm. But at least she answered.

  “Hi, Corbin.”

  “How are you feeling?” I asked. I took another, very small step toward her.

  “Well, they’ve got me trapped like an animal, in here with a bunch of crazies,” she said. “So how do you think I am?”

  “Rhea,” Mike said, stepping into the room, “sorry we haven’t been in before. We came as soon as the doctor said you were up for visitors.”

  Mom’s gaze drifted to Mike and hovered on him in a kind of puzzled way, like she either wasn’t sure who he was or couldn’t figure out why he was there.

  “Mike’s been staying at our place while you’re … away,” I said.

  “Okay,” she said. And that was the last word she uttered while we were there. Her face swiveled back to the window and although Mike and I made a few more attempts to talk, she either couldn’t or wouldn’t say anything else.

  “Okay then,” Mike said at last. “We just wanted to drop by and say hello and see how you were doing. We’ll be back in a couple of days — is there anything you’d like us to bring you?”

  Silence.

  Mike waited for a couple of minutes and when it was obvious he wouldn’t be getting an answer, he gave me a nod.

  “Bye, Mom,” I said, trying not to sound glad to be leaving.

  We stopped at the nurses’ station before heading out into the night, but there wasn’t much new they could tell us. Dr. Scaria was seeing Mom every day and they were trying her on some new meds. Hopefully, they told us, there’d be some improvement soon.

  None of that is new, or unusual. What is new is this time I suddenly believe improvement is possible. Because things have been changing.

  They definitely have.

  Twenty-two

  I USED TO HATE the sound of a knock at the door. Until we moved here, a knock generally meant someone angry was going to be in the hallway outside our apartment.

  It still makes me a bit jumpy, but only for a second. Only as long as it takes to remind myself that we’re not getting kicked out of here and no one’s coming to confront Mom about something she said or did.

  Today’s knock found me a bit jittery, though, but that was only because this is the first time I’ve ever invited a guest for dinner. I’d asked Mike if it was okay and he was all for it.

  “Heck, yeah. I could definitely stand having someone to look at besides you,” he said. But he laughed to show me he wasn’t serious.

  I’d given the place a quick inspection to make sure it looked okay a few minutes ago, although that hasn’t been much of an issue since Mike’s been staying here. With Mom, the place was either spotless or at the mercy of whatever I happened to do. That wasn’t usually too much aside from washing the dishes when the pile got too high.

  Mike’s approach is organized, but surprisingly easy. The plan he put in place started when he’d been here a couple of days and happened to walk into my room to ask me something.

  “Dude, your room stinks,” he said. “Is that the bird cage or what?”

  That wasn’t it. I’d been careful about cleaning the cage because one of the articles I’d read said that was important for keeping your parakeet healthy.

  Mike started sniffing around — literally — and discovered the smell was coming from the clothes in my closet.

  “Okay, so this stuff is rank,” he said. “When’s the last time you did laundry?”

  I couldn’t remember, but it had been a while. I’d washed a few things out in the bathroom sink, but for the most part I’d kept rotating the rest. Clean clothes hadn’t been a priority when the bit of money I made was needed for food.

  The next thing I knew, Mike had made a quick trip to the store for laundry soap and change, and the washers downstairs were full of my stuff.

  After that he made a schedule for doing laundry and other things like sweeping and mopping the floors, doing dishes, and cleaning the bathroom. We take turns at everything and none of it ever takes long. What I like about it is the place never feels embarrassing.

  Even so, I did a quick check today, and also made sure the table was set right, with the fork on the left like Mom taught me during one of her good periods.

  “Just remember,” she’d told me, “‘fork’ and ‘left’ both have four letters, while ‘knife,’ ‘spoon,’ and ‘right’ all have five. Just keep them matched and you’ll never get the silverware wrong.”

  That memory made me feel sad. Why couldn’t she have leveled out and stayed that way? Sometimes it felt as if the bad days — so many bad days — had wiped out all the good ones.

  “You getting the door?” Mike asked from the kitchen, where he was stirring sauce.

  I jerked my brain back to the present and hurried to the door, pulling it open and smiling at our guest.

  “Come on in,” I said.

  Mr. Zinbendal had dressed up! I couldn’t help smiling as he made his way into the living room wearing dark gray pants, a light blue shirt, and red suspenders. Mike came around the corner just as our neighbor reached the futon. I introduced them and they shook hands.

  “This is quite a treat,” Mr. Zinbendal told me, beaming. “I sure appreciate the invitation.”

  “Well, we hope you like spaghetti,” I said.

  “One of my favorites!” he answered. “And it smells scrumptious.”

  “We’re nearly ready to start,” Mike said. “The pasta just needs another minute or two. We might as well get ourselves situated at the table.”

  Half an hour later we were all stuffed full. Mike had made garlic bread to go with the spaghetti, which was delicious too. It was my night for dishes, but Mike offered to switch.

  “You go on ahead and visit with your guest in the other room while I make coffee and put out some cookies.”

  Sitting there, talking with “my guest” felt good. Mr. Zinbendal told me about some of the jobs he’d had when he was young.

  “I started out as a gas station attendant,” he said. “Nobody pumped their own gas back then. We cleaned the windshields and checked the oil too; those were free services. Lots of folks would ask for five dollars, or sometimes even two dollars worth of gas, and that would get them around for days.

  “Later, I got work cleaning and operating printing presses. That was a night job, but I didn’t mind it. My eyes were a good deal better back then, which was important because the machinery had a lot of delicate parts that had to be handled carefully.”

  He
shifted to the side a little, getting more comfortable, and noticed Mike’s latest whittling project, perched on a stack of books. It was too soon to say what it was supposed to be. Mr. Zinbendal reached over and picked it up, examining all sides of it.

  “Lost art, whittling,” he said after a moment. “I don’t suppose this is yours?”

  “No, Mike does them,” I said quickly. “He told me his grandfather used to whittle all kinds of things.”

  Mike had told me he’d taken it up to make his grandfather proud. I didn’t see much to be proud of in the crude figures he produced, but I kept that opinion to myself.

  Mike appeared just then with Mr. Zinbendal’s coffee and a plate of Oreos. He had a mug for me too, but it was full of milk. Not that I minded, since milk is perfect with cookies.

  “You know,” Mr. Zinbendal said, halfway through his second cookie, “I owe you an apology.”

  “What for?” I asked, surprised.

  “When you first moved in, I must have seemed downright unneighborly,” he said. “But the thing was, I hadn’t seen my daughter in a long while, and just around that time I’d written to her, asking her to come and pick out whatever she wanted from her mother’s china collection. Every time I heard footsteps getting to the end of the hall, I couldn’t help checking to see if it was her.”

  I thought about how he’d seemed cranky and nosy back then. What I’d actually been seeing was sadness and disappointment.

  “Did she ever come over?” I asked.

  He shook his head. His face was sad. “We had a falling out, almost four years ago. But that was no reason for me to be unfriendly toward my new neighbors.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “And anyway, we’re friends now.”

  After he’d gone across the hall, back to his own apartment, and I’d finished my homework, I had a talk with Sitta.

  “See, Sitta. You never know what someone else is going through. It’s really easy to forget that other people have problems too.”

  “Paw! Paw!” Sitta said. “Cool paw!”

  “I wish I could help the poor old guy,” I said as I slipped Sitta into his cage and fastened the door shut. “Any ideas?”

  But Sitta was busy at his water dish and had nothing else to say.

  Twenty-three

  “DO YOU WANT SOME time to talk with your mom alone today?”

  Mike’s question didn’t surprise me. He’s asked it almost every time we’ve visited the hospital for the last few weeks. I’d always said I didn’t want to. But now, I felt like it was time.

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “I’ll be in the patient lounge then. Just come get me whenever you want.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  My feet didn’t seem to be in any kind of rush to get to her room, even though she’d been slowly improving. I saw more signs of that with each visit and whether it was a new drug or a new combination of drugs, she’d evened out a lot.

  She wasn’t there when I first went in, but I doubted I’d find her in the lounge. For someone who’s directed traffic at a busy intersection, dragged her kid up and down the city streets in the middle of the night, and done all kinds of other bizarre things, Mom sees herself as “normal” compared to the other patients. She doesn’t like to associate with them.

  “Well, hello there.”

  I turned to find her in the doorway, holding a cup of water in one hand and a plastic jug in the other. Both were full of water and crushed ice — like flavorless slushies.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “The air in here is so dry — it’s a challenge to stay hydrated,” she said before lifting the cup to her lips and taking a long drink. She refilled it from the jug before plunking herself on the side of the bed and setting the jug on her tray. “You just get here?”

  “Yes,” I said. Then, remembering the routine, I asked, “How are you feeling these days, Mom?”

  “Bored,” she answered. “There’s not much to do in here. I know you guys brought me some stuff to read, but it’s hard to concentrate. I need to get out of this place.”

  “Do you know when?” I asked. “You’re getting out, I mean?”

  “Who knows. They play with people’s lives like we’re just here for their amusement,” she said with a shrug.

  “You’re better, though, right? So it probably won’t be too long.”

  “I hope not kiddo. I can’t wait for things to get back to normal.”

  Every moment of my life before now, I would have said nothing to that. I would have let it slide past or — more likely, actually — even agreed with her. This moment was different.

  “You can’t really call the way we live normal, though, can you?” I said.

  Mom’s head lifted slowly. Her mouth twitched and her eyes narrowed. I braced myself, fighting the urge to pretend my words had been some kind of joke.

  “Meaning what?” she said.

  “Meaning things are okay for a while, but then it gets crazy —”

  The second the word “crazy” left my mouth I wished I could haul it back in, swallow it, erase it from the air.

  “What did you say?” Mom asked. A faint blush of pink was creeping over her face.

  “I just meant that things get … weird sometimes. I wasn’t talking about you.”

  “Oh, no?” Even with the dulling effect of her meds, Mom’s words were dipped in frost and fury. “So, if it’s not me, what causes all this craziness? And weirdness?”

  “Forget it,” I said. Once again, I’d lost my nerve. I told myself at least I’d made a start at telling her how I felt. Honestly, I don’t know why I even tried. You can’t win an argument with my mother. Not that I’d been aiming for an argument.

  “I will not forget it,” she told me. “How dare you come in here and start accusing me of things? Why do you think I’m even in here? Because I’m exhausted, that’s why! Because everything falls on my shoulders. And instead of letting me rest, and recover, you attack me!”

  “You are not here because you’re exhausted,” I said, trying to stay calm. “You’re here because you tried to kill yourself.”

  In a flash, Mom’s arm drew back and the cup she’d been holding came flying at me. I ducked, but still got hit by the ice and water cascading out as it whipped past me.

  “I hate you,” I hissed. I know I meant it, for those few seconds. But the guilt and shame of the words stabbed through the hardness my heart needed for them to be true. And then they were a lie.

  Mom’s face crumbled and, oddly enough, she reached toward me for comfort, her hands fluttering and beckoning. I grabbed onto her and told her I was sorry and I hadn’t meant it and I loved her and everything was going to be okay. I said it all, over and over while she sobbed like she might never stop.

  On the way home with Mike later I wondered why I’d even tried to talk to Mom about how things are. I know she can’t help what her illness does to her. What she could help — like staying on her meds even if they make her feel like a stranger in her own body, as she’s told me more than once when she’s “adjusting” the dosage against doctor’s orders — she decides she can’t.

  Having Mike around has been great. I’d even tell him so, except I bet he’d be embarrassed.

  Besides, I keep reminding myself, this is temporary, just like I overheard him telling someone on the phone the other day.

  I’d come back from babysitting Molly while he was in the kitchen, and he didn’t realize I was there.

  “I don’t know. Maybe another week or two,” he’d been saying. “I really can’t make plans until Rhea gets home.”

  My heart sank. Not because I ever thought Mike was going to be here long term, but it made Mom’s return seem so close.

  Just when I was getting used to normal.

  Twenty-four

  I CAN COOK SOME pretty cool meals now, as l
ong as I have the stuff that goes into them.

  Some are way easier than you’d think. Butter chicken and rice, for example, which is awesome even with sauce from a jar. Or stew, which I used to find boring. Mike showed me how to season it so there’s lots of flavor. The secret is making sure it’s got the right herbs and stuff, depending on what kind you’re making. Tacos are super simple too, and there are probably half a dozen other meals I can make.

  I’ve been discovering a lot, with Mike here. Like how good it feels to always have a clean place and clean clothes, how much better I do in school when I eat right and get enough rest, and how much I seriously hate living with the chaos my mother’s illness can cause.

  It was all upbeat until that last part, right? What am I supposed to say? After a month of not having to worry about, well, anything really, the thought of going back to that roller-coaster way of life again makes my stomach queasy.

  Not that it matters. Mike broke it to me a while ago that she’s coming home tomorrow morning.

  “I’d like to be here to help her get settled back in,” he said, “but I couldn’t get the day off.”

  “Should I stay home from school?” I asked.

  “Definitely not. You don’t want to be missing school unless you have to,” he said.

  That was fine with me.

  “I’ll be over after work,” he reassured me. “I left Rhea a note that I’m going to pick up takeout and have supper here. Then I’ll be out of your hair.”

  “It hasn’t been that bad,” I told him.

  He laughed. “I agree,” he said.

  Then he got serious.

  “Anything you want to talk about?” he asked. A familiar question.

  I knew what he was asking, but I really had nothing to say. How could I, when I never know what I need to be ready for next?

  On my walk home from school the next day I found myself getting angry.

  If you’ve never felt your stomach twisting in knots, wondering what you’d find at home after a day at school, you probably can’t imagine the incredible relief there’d been in not having that worry for the past four weeks.