Birdie (2 page)

Birdie

Mom pulls off on
the Shenoah exit some time later and takes us down the main drag through the center of town. She’s scanning for a diner she used to frequent when she lived here even though I respond with a “I’m not hungry” to each of her factoids.

“It was the hang out place after school when I went to Shenoah High.” She bounces a little when she says this, soaking in the nostalgia.

“Cool. I’m not really hungry.”

“There was this jukebox in the corner that played The Beach Boys songs for free. It had a glitch or something.”

“Mmm hmm. But I’m not that hungry.”

“And they have the
best
peach cobbler. Or had. It’s been a while since I last ate there.”

“Mmm hmm.” I drop my non-hunger protests. We are going, that much is clear.

Raleigh’s. That is the name plastered above a wall of windows creating a picturesque view of orange booths and tables framing the space around a large, chrome soda shop looking bar. The place takes up half the block and neighbors a taller, brown brick building that reads Shenoah Public Library. 

Inside, I’m surprised that I don’t feel as on display as I thought I would. We settle into a booth. While Mom reads the menu, I entertain myself by watching people walk, speed, or shuffle down the sidewalk in front of me on cell phones, or heads bent, or corralling kids. It’s like a flipping through television channels, these glimpses of moments I’m seeing.

Mom tsks. “I don’t see cobbler. You’ll have to pick something else.”

I refrain from rolling my eyes. “I wasn’t going to pick anything.”

She whips her menu down on the table, wooshing a used straw wrapper into my lap. Her face reeks of exasperated patience. “Don’t be a stick in the mud, Birdie. I’m trying to show you what my life was like at your age.”

My mind flashes to the yearbook picture I saw. Mom had been beautiful at my age. Blonde like Darla with a small punctuated nose and straight teeth. Her face was heart shaped and pretty and carried her smiles easily – there was nothing forced in that grainy black and white photo. I always thought she was pretty and sometimes I would ache to be her real daughter like Darla was so I could lay claim to some of it.

A sob suddenly chokes me as I realize the thought I just had. I
am
her real daughter. Even though I found out a couple weeks ago, even though I’ve tossed the thought around in my head since then, even though I look at her now sometimes with new eyes. Even though, even though, even though…

Despite all these even though, I feel the first crack in my shell of disbelief since Howard spoke the words that changed my life.

“Who is my father?” I ask.

Her eyes widen in response, probably wondering what about peach cobbler triggered this question. Then they narrow into slits, scrunching wrinkles around them and aging her in the space of a moment. She glances back down at the menu.

“The Denver omelet looks good, huh? I like my eggs loaded.”

The waiter approaches, pulling a pencil from behind his ear and flips open a small pad. His mouth opens to greet us, but I beat him before he can speak.

I lean forward in the booth and slap an angry hand down on Mom’s menu, pinning it to the table.

“Who is my God damned father?” I demand.

The waiter closes his mouth.

“This isn’t the place.” Mom’s voice is a hiss. “Order your breakfast.”

I shift my eyes to the waiting server. He’s looking back and forth between us with an easy expression, poised with pencil above pad as if waiting to capture a reference to food in our discussion. He’s tall. If my eyes fall level I’d be staring most uncomfortably in the area of his junk. I keep them raised to his face and shrug.

“What’s good?”

“Biscuits and gravy,” he answers without missing a beat. “They bake jalapeños into the biscuits.”

Mom smiles over-brightly. “That sounds good, I’ll have that.”

“Me too,” I agree. “ And a double shot of whiskey.”

“She’s joking,” Mom says hurriedly in a disapproving voice while he collects the menus.

He shoots her an incredulous look. “From this sound of this conversation, I’d say it’s a reasonable request.” To me, “Sorry, the best I can do is some crazy strong coffee.”

"Just water," I mumble. I glare at Mom. Since my shell has cracked, the snippets of my origins are starting to eat at me and I feel the last two weeks of stunned suppression making way for the anger underneath that is starting to break and bubble through.

The waiter turns and heads back to the kitchen.

"Well, that was inappropriate," Mom says to his retreating form. "He can't be much older than you. Suggesting whiskey is a reasonable request." She shakes her head and crinkles her nose at me as if we're in on the waiter-bashing together. She always does this when she gets uncomfortable. She pokes, and noodles, and tickles you. Sticks out her tongue or giggles secretively, makes you feel included as she glides the talk into calmer territory. As a child I loved her for it. Now I'm sickened.

"You're my mother," I say, changing the words in my mouth from the way they were always spoken before. The smile drops from her face and her eyes water again. She rubs them tiredly.

"Birdie, I've always been your mother."

"You're my
mother
."

Tightness grips my chest as I speak the truth aloud for this first time. I don't have my routine to hide in. I don't have my classes at Cypress Falls High School or my homework in the school library in the afternoons, or my friend Kelsey's bedroom lined with movie posters starring guys on her hot list and cans of cold root beer her mom keeps in the fridge for me even though the rest of the family doesn't drink root beer. I don't have my normal life to sink into while I ignore this bombshell. I have this sudden departure, this random diner, this confusion.

She sighs, looking defeated. "I didn't want to tell you this. Ever. But you're eighteen now and I guess this secret is too big to keep contained." She takes a long drag of water before continuing. "When Darla was young, not even two years old, I started taking her to a day care. I really liked that daycare. There was this one Asian woman, this older lady, who I knew liked Darla the best. She always smiled bigger when we walked in than when the other kids came.  I was taking art classes downtown. I was going to paint. Your father...Howard," she changes at my look, "suggested I take some time for myself. Darla was a handful and I was always stressed by the time he got home from work. The studio wasn't far from the daycare and parking in the city was such a hassle that one afternoon I decided to walk it. I didn't know it wasn't safe. It was broad daylight. I cut behind a dry cleaners because I was running late..."

She closes her eyes and shudders. The shudder is familiar as if she's lived this memory a thousand times and I wonder how I never noticed it before.

"He came out of nowhere. This man." She looks me directly in the eye. "I was raped. And from that horrible act, I became pregnant. With you."

I can't breathe. Or move. I'm completely still. Her admission is blunt. The words that are hard for her to speak are given in as few as possible, wrapped in the nonsense details of daycares and painting. Trying to soften the horrible truth. I feel the padding she uses in those words keep me from splintering right there in the middle of the diner as I too picture the details on the fringes.

Her nervous fingers find something to do. They twist a straw wrapper around her pointer finger, corsetting the middle and ballooning the tip. I absently begin to do the same with the one in my lap.

"We thought adoption would be easier to explain to people. To explain to you. I didn't want you to know the ugliness. I still don't want you to know but I don't know how to shield you from it anymore."

Her words come out bravely but tears are streaming down her face. I don't have any of my own. My shock holds onto them for me.

It’s several moments before I speak. She’s not looking at me anymore. She’s studying her glass of water and tapping the condensation to make the droplets fall faster. She can never sit still under duress. I finally say something. “I’m really glad you finally told me.” She looks up quickly, unsure.

The waiter returns with our plates and sets them down in front of us with a cup of black coffee.

"Thank you," I say quietly to which my mom and the waiter reply simultaneously, "You're welcome."

Wes

"
I did those yesterday
," Nadine says, coming over to where I'm refilling ketchup bottles that are already three-fourths full.

"I'm a perfectionist." I shoot her my toothiest smile which earns me a swat with her dish towel.

"Right, and I'm Queen Elizabeth. The ketchup has the perfect view of table nine. You must have overheard something juicy at that table."

"Not as juicy as that hot hunk of a truck driver at the counter," I joke, tipping my head towards the man who Nadine has been batting eyelashes at since he walked in.

"His name's Ned. I'm still deciding on that one." Nadine laughs her deep smoker laugh and swats at me again before going to the register to ring her tickets. My eyes dart over to the two women again who I've surmised are mother and daughter. The mom looks nervous. She keeps rearranging the table settings. Her daughter meanwhile glares at her over her water. I can't hear what's being said. The mom is using low tones and her face has a hesitant expression. Whatever it is, it makes the daughter's face slowly melt from anger to astonishment.

Whoever her father is must be the last person she expected.

I glance furtively over at Nadine to see she's flirting with Ned again. He's on his second hour and fourth cup of coffee at the counter. I take this unchaperoned moment to study the daughter more fully. She looks nothing like her mother. Her skin is dark caramel and her hair is a bundle of dark curls escaping from a bun on her head. She has full lips, a wide nose, and large round eyes that betray her feelings. I don't even know her and I can read her like a book from behind these ketchup bottles.

Right now she's in shock and it's a sorrowful one. She looks like she wants to cry but her mouth is set in a firm line. Ah, she's one of those. Hates feeling vulnerable so she tries not to wear it on her face. No wonder her eyes tell all. Emotions have to get out somehow. Plugging one hole only lets another one flow.

I glance towards the pass to see if their plates are up. My nosy self wants to stop by their table for more chunks to piece together. The morning was slow before those two plopped in my section.

"What do you think they're talking about so serious over there?" Nadine says suddenly over my shoulder. I jump a little, squirting a small shot of ketchup.

"Money stuff," I lie. The lie comes easily. Had Nadine asked five minutes ago, I would have given her the meaty bit I gleaned just from taking their order. But the girl's face looks so crestfallen and painful that what little I do know of her life now feels extremely personal and in need of some guarding.

The bell rings with Jose's cheerful, "Table nine!" through the pass and I quickly pour a cup of coffee and grab the two plates of biscuits and gravy.

By the time I deliver them, both women are thickly quiet. I set the food down in front of them, following suit and not saying anything. I sweep the table with my eyes for refills, napkins, or anything else they may need but they look set and in fact, don’t even glance my way.

The girl finally offers a quiet, "Thank you."

I respond in kind and turn and leave, briefly wondering why her mother did as well. I wipe down a few of the empty tables in my section, pocketing the tips in my apron. When I turn to steal one more glance I find table nine empty of customers and full plates of food sitting in their spots, still steaming fresh and untouched.

Birdie

I don't know what
I thought the plan was. A small apartment, just me and Mom. I would scrape together the energy to hustle through to fill any gaps that moving high schools so late in the year creates and earn my diploma. We would take turns learning how to cook dinner. I would get a part time job to help with the bills since Mom hasn't worked steadily that I can ever remember.

I packed my suitcases and rode in that truck through shanty side towns thinking that was the plan we'd piece together or something like it when we arrived.

A dusty trailer in the middle of a trailer park with a cop car parked outside and green curtains blocking what awaits inside was nowhere near the scope of what I thought the plan would be.

Mom puts the vehicle in park and turns to face me. "This is where your Uncle Tim lives," she says as if I'm supposed to know I even have an Uncle Tim. I give her my
what the hell
face. She mentioned her parents passing before I was born but never another relative.

"I have an uncle? What are we doing here?" I ask.

She opens her door and steps out. "He doesn't know we're coming. Come on."

I glance around as I follow her to the door which sits at the top of metal steps. The yard is mostly rocks but neat. A lawn chair sits out front, one of the cloth ones that fold up into a square prism and the empty beer can in its cup holder is the only thing out of place. The home is paneled with white wood and a brown roof. The screen door glares at us at the top of the stairs. There's no covering or embellishments to soften its stark gray edges.

Mom props it open on her back and raps on the door. It doesn't open right away and she impatiently knocks again, too soon I think for surprising someone who wasn't expecting guests. Finally, before Mom pounds a third time, the door swings open and a man with blue jeans and a pale blue shirt covering thick biceps opens the door. He squints for a moment before his eyes bug in surprise.

"Holy hell, Shiela!" is his greeting.

They stand there for a moment regarding each other before Mom asks, "You gonna let us in or what?"

The inside is as neat as the outside and simple with a long green sectional that winds around the living room and is slightly too large for the space. A television is on across from it with Saturday morning sports news. A half-eaten a bagel sits on the coffee table next to a mug of coffee.

Mom looks nervous. Without something for her hands to play with, she is content on wringing her fingers one by one.

"Is this Birdie?" Tim asks. So he knows about me. I feel betrayed for some reason.

"Yes," I answer since Mom is remaining silent. "And I learned two minutes ago that you're my uncle."

Tim shoots Mom an exasperated look and in that moment they resemble each other greatly. Their mannerisms are strikingly similar. He turns back to me and holds out his hand for a handshake. "Pleased to meet you, Birdie." It's so formal and not at all how I think long lost relatives would meet but it feels right.

He clears some newspapers off the couch and gestures to it. "Please. Sit," he tells us.

We do and that ends the list of normal things we can do. Tim doesn’t ask us about our trip or offer us refreshments or do any of the typical visitor customs. He sits in stunned surprise as I suppose he should seeing how his hour of Sportscenter is suddenly a family reunion.

Sitting at least three feet apart from each other on the sectional, we create an awkward triangle. Tim and I watch my mother and she watches the television and everything feels so surreal that it’s almost tangible, cloaking us in its thickness.

“Sheila?” Tim prompts since Mom hasn’t begun to explain our arrival. Her eyes flick to him and she lifts one shoulder in a shrug.

“Howard and I broke up.”

Tim watches her expectantly clearly waiting for more, but Mom goes back to watching television. He finally sighs and turns to me. “How’s Darla?”

“You know Darla?”

“I met her when she was a little girl. Right before you were born I guess. What is she now, nineteen?”

“Twenty-one.”

“Mmmmm.” He pauses, searching for something else to say. He looks lost in this attempt at small talk. Like he’s drowning in the effort, so uncomfortable. I can tell he’s alone a lot. I could help him but I’m sitting here drowning myself.  With punch after punch of unexpected news, I’m in no position to function like a normal person.

“So how old are you now?” he finally asks.

“Eighteen. I’m a senior.”

Mom suddenly stands up. “Ok. Tim, I need your help.”

We both turn our attention to her and our eyes follow her movements as she paces in front of his half-eaten breakfast.

“I have no money of my own. Howard and I are through. It should’ve been over a long time ago. I’m seeing someone new. He’s nice. But he’s never had any kids. He doesn’t know this first thing…”

Her voice trails off and my skin prickles cold as I see where this is heading. This trip to Shenoah. This sudden relative. Tim must realize it too because his expression hardens and he stands up.

“Sheila. No.”

“I have nowhere else,” Mom hisses.

Tim starts to respond but thinks better of it as he glances quickly back at me. Instead, he takes Mom by the shoulder and the two of them have it out right in front of the trailer door. Their voices are muffled but I can hear every word they shout through the thin barrier.

“You can’t just drop her off here!”

“But we have nowhere to go. Robert said no kids.”

“She ain’t a kid.”

“She’s still in school. She has half a year before she graduates.”

“Jesus almighty, you ripped her out of school when she was almost done? Are you insane?”

“What else was I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know, get a fucking job maybe? You haven’t changed a bit. Running after the first man who winks at you so long as he comes with a bed and food. I just never thought you’d sacrifice your own kids in the process.”

“Fuck you, Tim.”

The argument stales for a moment. I picture Mom digging out a cigarette, lighting it, and shaking off the guilt while flicking off the ashes after a long drag. Howard hated smoking and Mom always did it in secret when she was stressed. She always had a couple emergency sticks tucked out of sight somewhere.

Tim sighs. “You can both stay here. Get on your feet. There’s a spare bedroom and I know of two places not far from here looking for staff.”

Mom is quiet for a moment. I resist the urge to go to the small rectangle window next to the door and peek out. I’m terrified of the expression I’ll see on her face. I’m terrified I’ll know what it looks like to be abandoned.

“Ok,” Mom says finally and a tortured sigh escapes from me suddenly. A breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

Tim sets us up in a bedroom filled with boxes of vinyl records, a queen sized bed with a simple brown quilt, and a stale, unused smell hanging in the air. I don’t have much to unpack and Mom doesn’t have anything at all so it takes all of fifteen minutes to settle in. It’s as I’m unloading my belongings into a closet that I realize what an idiot I’d been. Even now, she sits quietly on the bed, looking out the window and drawing circles on her palm. She doesn’t know I heard her through that trailer door and I don’t want her to. Right now I want to pretend none of it happened, that none of it was said. That even though I was too stupid to read the logic of my packed bags versus her non-existent ones, that maybe the talk with Tim made her see that she was all I had left tethering me to normalcy as every other facet of my life crumbled around me.

Finally, after a long day of poking through Tim’s book collection and Mom watching mindless daytime television and Tim calling off work to pick up some necessities and figure out dinner, we settle into bed. I am exhausted from the day. Mom rubs me on the arm.

“Tomorrow will be better,” she whispers as if reading my thoughts.

I nod off to her massaging my shoulder lightly like she used to do when I was little and had a rough day at school.