Sparrow Migrations (24 page)

Brett ignored the sarcasm. “I understand you’re angry. Your father, too. And since it was me who brought all this on, we decided”—she paused, swallowing hard—“we decided it would be best if I moved out.”

She peered at her daughter’s face. This was the crucial part to get right. She could live with the guilt if she got it right. Amanda’s well-being was best served by staying in Scranton, believing it was Brett who chose to move, rather than Richard who forced her. Angry as she was at Richard, Brett couldn’t make Amanda choose sides and uproot her from friends and school. Secretly, she hoped some space would allow Amanda to accept her more quickly. But drained of her defensive sarcasm, Amanda’s face made her doubtful already.

“Move out? You’re moving out?”

“Yes.” Brett paused. “I’ve got a new job. I start next month.”

“Next month?” Amanda whispered.

“Yes.”

Amanda looked as pale as the vanilla ice cream she’d soon be serving. And Brett hadn’t yet revealed the most explosive part.

“Wha—what kind of job? Where are you going to work?”

Here goes the rest of my life.

“I’ve been accepted as the director of a food pantry in a city in upstate New York. Ithaca, New York.”

“Oh, my God.” Amanda’s voice cracked the gulf of her guilt wider. “New York. You’re moving out—
next month
—to take a job in New York?”

Brett nodded mutely.

“What about me?”

“You’ll stay here, with Dad. We talked about it. We think that’s the best thing. Not to uproot you from school, especially from the drama program. Or your friends. And now your job . . .” Brett’s voice trailed off, realizing how ridiculous that part sounded.

“I’ll come visit, of course. And I hope you’ll come visit me. Ithaca’s only about a hundred miles from Scranton. And you’ll be getting your license soon.”

“Come visit you,” Amanda repeated.

“Yes.” Brett nodded eagerly. “I thought maybe we could go apartment-hunting together next week. I won’t be able to afford much, but I’m hoping for at least a two-bedroom. One for you.”

“My own bedroom. Like that’s going to make everything OK?” Amanda exclaimed, jumping up from the table. “You couldn’t get a job here in Scranton?”

“Well, I didn’t really think about that, Amanda.”
Don’t mention Richard’s ultimatum. Don’t mention it. Don’t mention it. Don’tmentionit.
“This opportunity came up, and it’s a great match for my skills, and—”

“Not such a great match for your family. But no big deal, Amanda will be fine. She’s always fine.” Amanda snatched her duffel bag. “All right. You’ve told me your news. Congratulations. Congratulations, Mom, on your new job. I hope you’ll be very happy in Ithaca.” She stalked into the house, the screen door slamming behind her.

Left alone at the picnic table, Brett barely felt the heat of the June day as a chill as raw as the January wind on the Hudson River whipped at her heart.

TWENTY-FIVE

B
oom.

In his bed in the dark hotel room, Robby stirred, rubbing his eyes. In his dreams, rain cascaded from the clouds like waterfalls. Waves pounded the beach. The plovers scattered, losing each other in the dark. The babies cheeped, seeking their parents.
Cheep, cheep, cheep.

Boom.

His eyes fluttered open. Thunder. The storm the man on the hike predicted. For real.

Pushing off the blankets, he swung his feet to the floor and stood. Thud. That was his
Sibley’s Guide to Birds
that he’d taken into bed, sliding to the floor. He’d been writing a postcard to Paula on top of it, telling her about the eggs. Robby winced and glanced over at the other bed. His mom and dad were indistinct lumps, shrouded under the blankets, both turned away from his bed and the window. He waited a moment, but they didn’t move. The digital clock on the nightstand between the beds read 2:18 a.m.

He parted the heavy draperies. A crack of lightning flashed a zigzag line, and the sky vibrated. One, two, three, four, five. One mile. Six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Two miles. Eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen—

Boom.

Less than three miles away, according to the rule he learned in Mrs. Kowalski’s science class. Storms usually moved west to east. So it would have already passed the park. Robby pressed his forehead to the glass. Were they safe? On the morning hike Lake Michigan was calm, but they had pictures in the Visitors Center of waves five feet high, crashing on the beach where they nested. What about the eggs? Ruth said washouts were—

Behind him, he heard a cough. His mom rolled over. Quickly, Robby slid back into bed, his back to her. He didn’t want questions.

The drapes stayed parted an inch. Through the rain-spattered window he watched the sky pulse with lightning, worrying and waiting for dawn and answers.

Outside the SUV’s window, orchards and fields of corn made a blur of green along the highway between Traverse City and the Sleeping Bear Dunes. “Knee high by the Fourth of July,” his mom had remarked yesterday. Robby repeated the line to himself, liking the rhyme even though it was ridiculously meaningless. Whose knee?

The monochromatic view was soothing. He was still worried about the storm last night.

“They’re OK, right?” he asked. The road was still wet, even though the sun had been up for hours. The storm must have been really bad out here.

“We’ll see, Robby,” his mom said.

It was her maddening
nonanswer
voice. Robby sighed, yanking his sweatshirt strings to tighten his hood, and pushed his feet down on the floor, willing the car to go faster. He had to find Ruth. She would know.

At the Visitors Center he sprinted across the parking lot to the building. Ruth wasn’t at the admissions desk, and she wasn’t in the big room with the maps and topographic models, and she wasn’t in the little auditorium where a video about the park played on a continuous loop. Robby was out the door again, almost colliding with his parents. Behind them he spotted one of the white park service trucks pulling in. Through the open window he saw Ruth at the wheel.

“Ruth!” He pounded down the parking lot, behind the building, to the area reserved for park vehicles. “The plovers are OK, right? They made it through the storm.”

From behind her sunglasses, Ruth stared down at him. She opened the door, climbing down to crouch beside him, at eye level. She pushed her sunglasses on top of her head. Her eyes looked shiny.

“They’re OK, right?” He jerked the sweatshirt strings, drawing his hood so tight his eyelashes brushed the cinched edge.

Slowly, Ruth shook her head. “I’m sorry. The storm washed out two nests.”

Robby counted up quickly as his parents joined them. “Eight eggs?”

“Six. Two were already gone.”

“Well, there’re still eight nests left then, right?” his mom now spoke in her brisk,
let’s move on now
, voice.

“Counting the deserted one from yesterday, only seven,” corrected Ruth. “It’s absolutely devastating. Plus, we’ve not confirmed the whereabouts of the breeding adults from those nests.”

“Oh,” his mother said in a small voice.

“I’m so sorry, Robby,” Ruth said. Still crouched down, she put her hand on his shoulder. “I wish there was something we could’ve done.”

He twisted away from her hand, balling his fists. The throbbing was starting, his limbs turning rigid. “Any we saw yesterday?”

Ruth nodded. “The last one.”

The throbbing accelerated, moving up his body, from his churning stomach to his shoulders to his ears, where it roared and pounded, drowning out the adults’ voices. The last one. The four pristine eggs he had been so relieved to see, after the disappointment of the smashed one and the fear for the orphaned pair. He recalled the wave from his dream, a cold, noisy invader, thrashing the beach, sucking the eggs and their pebble nest into its swirling turbulence. It was all a waste. The exclosures and the plover patrols and coming up here. All of it. The plovers’ song was silenced. The plovers were dead.

“UnnnhhhhHHH!” The throbbing poured out his mouth in a guttural roar. His arms and legs vibrated. He pounded the truck door and kicked the tires on Ruth’s truck. He felt his father grab him under his armpits, trying to pull him away. Lunging for the truck’s side-view mirror he held on, still kicking at the tires.

Unprotected by his summer sandals, his toe smashed against the hard rubber. Pain ascended over the throbbing, and he became deadweight, knocking his dad over backward. They both sprawled onto the damp dirt of the parking lot, Robby’s keening fading to a whimper. Then silence.

Robby stared up into the blue sky. He didn’t know how much time had passed. His mother’s face hovered at the edges. And another woman, sunglasses on her head. She had her hands on her hips. The ranger. Ruth. He turned his head. His dad, brushing dirt off his legs, reached down to pull him up.

“That was a meltdown,” he heard his mom tell Ruth. “This happens a lot when Robby gets overwhelmed. It’s part of his having autism.”

Ruth just stared at him. In a fluid motion she stooped to pluck a weed from the parking lot. She twirled it between her thumb and forefinger a few times. Clockwise. Counterclockwise. Clockwise. After she was sure Robby was watching her, she extended it to him.

His fingers closed over the thin stalk. The rain had nourished it, too. The stem felt stronger and looked greener than the dry, browning one he had picked yesterday. Rolling it as Ruth had, between his thumb and forefinger, he concentrated on how the movement felt, rather than the twirling, fuzzy head. With his index finger he rolled it along the pad of his thumb, one, two, three, four, five until his finger couldn’t bend anymore. Then slowly he straightened it, one, two, three, four, five until the two fingers were parallel. And back, keeping the pressure even. And forward. Ruth waited.

“I understand feeling angry and sad. I am, too. But you can’t let it get the better of you. There’s still so much we can do to help them. Believe me.” She cleared her throat. “Remember the eggs you spotted yesterday?”

Robby nodded.

“We collected those early yesterday afternoon, after our patrol volunteers monitored for four hours with no sign of the parents or the fourth egg. They’re up at our captive-rearing facility now.”

“What happens there?” Robby said.

“I’ve got a Skype call update in ten minutes. You can come to my office and see for yourself if you’d like. As long as your foot’s OK.”

“Yes,” Robby answered instantly. Before his parents could say anything.

“Let’s go,” Ruth said, leading the way.

Ruth sat down in the lone desk chair that constituted the seating in her cramped office. Robby craned his neck, trying to see her laptop screen. As soon as she logged in, a man’s face filled the screen.

“Morning, Ruth.” He wore a T-shirt and glasses and didn’t look nearly as official as Ruth.

“Hi, Josh. I’ve got some folks with me today. They were on the hike when we found the eggs yesterday. Robby here actually spotted them.” Ruth turned the laptop slightly.

Robby saw his own face, encircled with his hood, appear next to Ruth’s in a little square in the bottom corner of the screen. Right next to hers. He looked down. He hadn’t realized they were practically rubbing shoulders. He took a step away. His face moved out of the square on the screen. He hesitated, then shuffled back a half step. His face reappeared.

“Hey, Robby.” Josh smiled. “Good work. You gonna be a biologist someday?”

Robby shrugged, turning to Ruth. “Where are the eggs?”

“Let’s ask. Fill us in, Josh?”

“Everything’s great. Starting with, there’s just one egg now.”

Beside him, Robby felt Ruth’s body tense before he heard it in her voice. “Just one? What—”

On the screen, Josh’s face receded as he backed away. Now Robby could see what looked like a big plastic box with a bright light over it. Hands grabbed the laptop and carried it closer to the box. Inside, Robby could see one egg.

And one chick.

Beside him Ruth’s body relaxed. He felt her hand grip his shoulder. Her voice was relieved, light.

“It’s hatched. Look, Robby, it’s hatched!”

“Got here a few hours ago and found this one,” Josh’s disembodied voice said.

“Is it male or female?” Robby asked.

“We won’t know till adulthood. Unless we do DNA testing,” Josh said.

“Either way, it’s fantastic.” Ruth leaned back against her chair, smiling.

“Wow.” His mom’s voice, faintly.

“Way to go, Robby.” His dad’s? Or Ruth’s? Robby didn’t know. He was riveted to the screen. He could see now why plovers belonged on beaches, where they blended with the sand and pebbles. In the stark, sterile box, the tiny chick looked so alone. It was a female, he decided. Her parents had deserted her. One sibling was smashed on the beach. One was missing. One was still in its shell.

“Will the other one hatch soon?” he asked.

“I think so,” Josh’s voice answered. “Eggs in a clutch usually hatch within a day or so of each other.”

“What happens now?”

“They’ll stay at the biological station for about thirty days,” Ruth said. “They’ll be able to fly then, and we’ll bring them back here and release them.”

“Release them?” Robby turned from the screen to look at Ruth.

“For their winter migration. They’ll need to head south. Look.”

From a pile of papers she grabbed a US map. The Great Lakes were dotted with Xs. So was the Atlantic coastline from North Carolina to Florida.

“We’ll band these before releasing them, so we can keep track of them. Eventually they’ll show up on the map.”

“Back here?”

“Probably not. Nesting where they were born would lead to inbreeding. They need to find their own territory.”

“Oh.” Robby looked at his feet. Ruth sounded excited, and so did the man in the computer. But the odds against the tiny bird, all alone in the world, seemed huge. And his toe hurt.

“Robby, I won’t lie to you. There are no guarantees. Mortality’s high on the plover’s first migration. We lose more than half. But we don’t have a choice about whether they go. It’s biology.

“But we do have a choice about what we do here. This—” Ruth swept her arm, taking in her office and the laptop, “all this doesn’t happen by accident. It happens when people do the right thing. Like setting aside this park to begin with. Like watching and observing them in their habitat—just like you did yesterday. Keeping records and providing assistance when we can, like with the exclosures and the banding and the captive rearing.” She paused. “Even being sad when they’re harmed. Because if you weren’t sad, it would mean you didn’t care.”

Silence filled the room. Robby could see dust floating where the sun streamed in the window. On the computer screen the little chick seemed to be pecking the bottom of the box. Then he heard something. A faint cheep. He stepped closer to the computer.

Again. Cheep, cheep.

Robby pushed back his hood and tilted his head down to hear better, closing his eyes to block any distractions.

Cheep, cheep. Louder now. And maybe stronger?

Opening his eyes, Robby’s gaze fell on the map. There were lots of Xs. Lots of places for this little one to go. Lots of places where people would be on the lookout next summer. And even though they were going home later today, now he could Skype with Ruth and Josh and check in on her. Until it was time to release her.

He touched the chick on the screen so it looked like it was pecking his finger. He exhaled deeply, blowing his bangs out of his eyes. Behind him, he heard his mom sniff. Suddenly, Ruth’s radio crackled.

“Platte Point patrol one to ranger. Platte Point patrol one to ranger. Over.”

Ruth lifted the radio off her hip. “Ruth here. Go ahead, Platte Point. Over.”

“Reporting four new chicks at Platte Point. Nest ten. We’ll need to schedule the banding crew out here. Over.”

“Copy that, Platte Point.” Ruth pushed back her chair and looked at Robby. She had a question on her face.

Robby looked back and nodded. “Let’s go.”