Sparrow Migrations (11 page)

In Sam’s car, the radio was tuned to the news.

“. . . an update on the cause of the ‘Miracle on the Hudson,’ that plane that was ditched in the Hudson River last month, resulting in the safe evacuation of all one hundred fifty-five passengers and crew. Kimberly Jones is standing by at the National Transportation Safety Board. Kimberly?”

“Thanks, Bob. I’m here at . . .”
Sam snapped off the radio. The crash was a month ago. Wasn’t it time for the media to move on?

The Central United Christian Church was fully lit, as if it were Sunday morning instead of Wednesday night.
Approaching the vestibule, Sam could see Robby with a group of adults. The self-appointed chaperones, sticking around till Dad showed up. He quickened his stride.

But no one turned as he entered. No smiles of identification and relief, no eagerness to remand custody of his son. Instead, the group continued their conversation which, Sam discovered, included Robby. Sam hung back at the door, suddenly and oddly awkward himself, hesitant to interrupt.

A tall man with glasses was holding court, talking about his trip to the Everglades. The park was a major bird migration hub, Sam learned, drawing bird lovers and photographers from around the world.

“Added the roseate spoonbill, anhinga, and purple gallinule to my list and shot ’em all with my SLR,” he said. “I’m working on a presentation for the regional meeting, but you can all see the shots on my site now.”

“When are regionals this year, Ed?” asked another man.

“April. Week after Easter, I think. And it’s in Lansing this year, remember. I really hope we can have a good turnout.”

Murmurs went around the group. “Robby, are you gonna make it to the regional Audubon meeting?” the lone woman in the cluster asked. She was much younger than the men, twenty, twenty-one, Sam judged.

“Don’t know.” Robby shrugged.

“Oh, you’ve got to come. It’s the meeting for the Audubon clubs in the whole state of Michigan. Plus Indiana, Ohio, and Ontario. There’s a guy from one of the Ontario clubs who’s the expert on Canada geese. Ed, do you remember that guy’s name? Anyway, he could tell you everything you want to know about those geese that flew into that plane in New York.”

“You think?” Robby looked interested.

“Definitely.”

He shrugged again. “Parents probably won’t let me.”

“Why not? It’s educational,” the woman said. “You’ll learn lots more there than you would sitting in school for a couple days.”

Ed nodded, turning his head to sneeze and catching sight of Sam. “Help you with something?”

All heads swiveled his way, including Robby’s. To Sam’s dismay, his son ducked his head and shrank into the group, as if to remain invisible to him.

“Hey, Rob,” he said, using the short version deliberately. “Can you introduce me?”

Still looking at the floor, Robby jammed his hands in his pockets and shrugged yet again.

“Mr. Palmer.” Ed stretched out his hand. “Pleased to meet you. Ed Anderson. Club vice president.”

“Call me Sam. Likewise.”

“It’s nice to meet Robby’s dad,” Ed said, continuing to speak for the group. “We’ve only seen your wife so far. I’ve told her this before, but I’m gonna tell you now—your son is a remarkable kid.”

“So we keep hearing,” Sam said, watching Robby’s face open and shoulders lift. It was like watching the sun dodge behind clouds—brilliant in the light of Ed’s praise, then dimming when Sam spoke. Dejection swelled.

“It’s true. We were just talking about the upcoming regional meeting, in Lansing. It’d be a great experience for Robby. Of course he’d need your permission to attend. I really hope you’ll consider it, Sam. If it’s not convenient for you to come, too, the club can take responsibility for chaperoning. We just want him to have this opportunity.”

“And why’s that? What’s going to happen at this meeting in Lansing?”

“He’ll have a chance to meet some of the most knowledgeable birders in the Midwest and Ontario,” cut in the woman. “Say Robby was into some sport. Basketball. Football. Hockey. This is like the all-star game.”

Hockey
. An image of his nephew Tyler on skates flashed through Sam’s mind. Linda would want Robby to go. So according to the roles they’d played since New York, he should at least be skeptical. Being the bad guy was getting old. Still, he didn’t like feeling cornered. Robby started going to these meetings less than a month ago. Already they wanted him to go on an overnight trip a hundred miles away?

“I can see how it would be exciting,” he finally said. “And I’m sure you can appreciate that my wife and I will have to talk about it first.”

Linda. He remembered the Chinese food at home. Probably already cold. “Robby, we need to get going. Where’s Paul?” Sam glanced at the other faces, expecting a nod.

“Not Paul,” Robby said, pointing at the woman. “Paula.”

Sam looked at her blankly.

“Yes, I’m the one who picked Robby up. But when we went out to my car after the meeting, I had a flat tire. Must have picked up a nail or something. I’m right on the way to your house, so if you wouldn’t mind . . .”

“Of course. No trouble,” Sam said automatically, trying to wrap his mind around it. Paula looked like someone they’d hire to babysit Robby, not someone who would become a friend. Did Linda know it was a young woman who had picked him up?

The two of them walked out ahead of Sam, chatting about this hotshot from Ontario.

“I heard him speak at a conference a couple years ago,” Paula said. “You’ll really like him, Robby. He’s not just a birder, he’s a conservationist. He lives on a couple hundred acres up in northern Ontario that he’s worked to restore as a mating reservation. He tracks each one that’s born, banding it, and logging it into his database of migration dates and mileage and all kinds of other stuff. He’s been doing it for years and years.”

“
‘Banding’ them?”

Paula nodded. “Yes, he’s able to band the birds’ legs with an electronic chip. So he can track exactly where they are.”

“What if they disappear? Like in the plane crash.”

They were at the car. Paula and Robby got into the backseat. Now Sam was a chauffeur.

“Well, I guess if he loses the signal, he knows something’s happened to the bird. I’m sure he can get geographic data off the chip and figure out where the bird was when the problem happened.”

“So he would know if any of his geese got hit by the plane,” Robby said.

Sam glanced into the backseat. “That’s absurd, Robby. What are the chances—”

But Paula interrupted. “I guess he could look into his database, see if any went missing on that date, and then check the latitude and longitude coordinates on the chip.”

Robby leaned forward into the front seat. “Need to go to Lansing.”

Sam flicked his eyes at his son in the rearview mirror. As usual, Robby’s voice was flat, devoid of inflection and urgency. But he wore his no-compromises face, his jaw set in determination.

“Your mom and I will talk about it, Robby, just like I said back at the church.”

“Need to go to Lansing,” Robby repeated. “Learn about the geese in the plane crash.”

“We’ll talk about it at home,” Sam repeated. “I know you want to go. I know you want to meet this—this goose guru. But the chance that any of the geese he’s tracking were involved in that plane crash are minuscule.”

“I’m not so sure,” Paula chimed in. “He’s been banding and maintaining his database for at least twenty years. He must have thousands and thousands of birds in there now.”

Sam clenched his teeth and ground out a reply. “Thank you for the information. You can see Robby’s very interested in going. His mother and I will discuss it. Now where should I drop you off?”

“Turn right at the second light. Go three blocks, turn left on Springside—”

Robby interrupted, his pitch finally building. “Need to go to Lansing. Need to meet him!” His agitation was rising, too, and he bounced and twisted in his seat, straining against the seat belt.

“Middle of the block on the left. White house with a big porch, but it’s hard to see. Haven’t gotten around to fixing the porch light,” Paula finished. As she finally registered Robby’s anxiety, her voice turned soothing.

“Your dad says you’ll talk about it. Don’t worry. I’m sure Ed’s got his e-mail, too. Even if you can’t go, we’ll get you in touch with him.”

“Need to go!” Robby was visibly shaking in the backseat now. Sam passed the first light and glimpsed the second, still several blocks away.
Shit.

Alarmed now, Paula squeezed herself toward the door, as far away as she could from Robby, who was now rocking back and forth, banging his head into the back of the front seat. “Need to go. Need to go,” he chanted, in time to the rhythm of his rocking.

He wasn’t banging that hard, Sam could tell, and the seat cushion muffled the sound to a low thump. Still, Paula’s eyes were as wide as any of the gawking strangers Sam had endured over years of these meltdowns.

“Robby. Stop. Get ahold of yourself.” He was watching the rearview mirror more than the road. Sam swung onto a side street and pulled over. Putting the car into park, he twisted around.

“Paula, I need to get back there with Robby.”

Paula needed no urging. She darted out the back door and into the front passenger seat, burrowing into it like a frightened animal. Robby banged against the back again, jolting her forward. She stiffened, sliding herself to the edge of the seat, hunching her shoulders toward the dash. Sam felt a flash of pity. But she could take care of herself.

He slid into the backseat and pulled Robby into his arms tightly, grounding him with the pressure of the embrace, simultaneously mimicking the rocking motion that his son used to self-soothe. “You’re OK. You’re OK. You’re OK, Robby. You’re safe. You’re safe. You’re safe.” he whispered in Robby’s ear, over and over.

“Need to go to Lansing! Need to go to Lansing! Don’t talk to mom. Go to Lansing!” Robby flailed against him.

“You’re OK. You’re safe. You’re OK. You’re safe.” Gradually, the pressure of the hug, the rhythm of the rocking, and Sam’s mantra-like words subdued Robby. Drained of resistance, his body went slack. Sam waited a full three minutes before he released his grip, allowing Robby’s body to slump back on the seat. All three of them were quiet until Sam’s cell phone rang. It had to be Linda.

“Hi.” Sam sat up, one hand still on Robby’s leg, careful to maintain a physical touchstone for him.

“Where are you? Did something happen? It’s been an hour.”

“Yeah, sorry. We just had to pull over. Robby—um, Robby got a little worked up about something that came up at the meeting.”

Linda caught her breath. “Is he OK?”

Sam looked Robby up and down. His son stared out the black window, dazed. “Yeah, I think it’s over. We’re dropping off someone from the club, though, and I think she’s pretty spooked.” He leaned forward to look at Paula, who hunched her shoulders further. “We’re not far from her house. I’ll drop her off and be home in fifteen minutes.”

“OK.” There was a long pause. “I love you,” Linda said.

“Love you, too.”

Back in the driver’s seat, Sam looked over at Paula, speaking quietly. “I know you and the rest of the club mean well. But Robby, he’s got real issues. Real problems that whoever’s responsible for him has to be able to handle.”

He was silent for a few blocks, letting it sink in.

“How many of that bunch that offered to chaperone Robby would still be willing if they’d been in this car tonight?” Sam asked as he turned down Springside Street. “It’s not about wanting to deny him something, especially something that’s important to him. It’s about fear for his safety.”

Paula didn’t answer. They were in front of the darkened house with a big porch. She opened the car door. A dog was barking. She paused for a moment, then seemed to change her mind. “Good night,” she said, slamming the door.

In the rearview mirror, Robby sat stiffly, staring at his reflection in the black window glass, lips moving slightly, seeing something visible only to him.

The magpie ringtone Christopher had set for Deborah burst into the quiet of his office. Calling about the empty kitchen with vegetables strewn over the counter, no doubt. He let it go to voice mail, not trusting himself to talk. Two hours researching Huntington’s disease online and replaying the conversation with Matt had tilted the axis of his personal world.

“Didn’t Deborah tell you? Didn’t Deborah tell you?”
The disbelief in Matt’s voice resounded in his own head. He couldn’t fathom that she would deliberately withhold that kind of information from him. Not the woman he married ten years ago, when they had plotted their perfect life. Tenure. Professional respect. Financial security. And, yes, at the right time, a family. Perfect.

Had plotted.
As a scientist, he was first an observer. One with a blind spot, apparently.

Parenthood was supposed to be one more plot point on their parallel life trajectories. Like everything else, they expected to achieve it with proper planning and execution. Then a year went by, punctuated every month by an increasingly despondent Deborah. Her fortieth birthday was spent researching in vitro fertilization. Renewed optimism and a mutual trust in the experts now guiding them fortified her briefly, but the two failed IVF cycles had taken her the lowest Christopher had ever seen.