Sparrow Migrations (5 page)

“I want to know what
you
would say.”

He set his cup down and reached across the gap between the beds for her hand.

“It’s a peace offering. But I don’t know what to say after that. It’s not like this is something we can compromise on. We’re in two different places.”

“Are we? You said yesterday that you wish it had worked out differently. We could be in the same place.”

He sighed. “I don’t know if I can go there again. If it didn’t—”

“If it didn’t, then we would be done. Right now, we still have the last three embryos.”

He looked wary. “So what are you suggesting, exactly?”

“One more try. All three embryos. Just like the specialist said. If it doesn’t work, then we’ll be done. I promise.” She squeezed his hand, as if she could imprint the pledge.

Christopher exhaled deeply, removing his glasses to massage his temples. Deborah held her breath, recognizing the habit from when he did his most serious thinking.

“All right,” he said at last. “I’m not promising anything right now. But I’ll think about it.”

Deborah called Helen from Christopher’s phone after they checked out, while he went to the airline’s command center in the hotel ballroom to fill out paperwork. As her call traveled west, skipping across the Great Lakes, the Great Plains, and the Rockies to the Pacific coast, it comforted Deborah to picture a phone ringing crisply on Helen’s nightstand or kitchen counter, somewhere in the scenery of her sister’s blissfully normal, mundane life.

“Hello?” The voice was a bit breathless. At this hour on the West Coast, Helen was probably on her treadmill for her usual morning workout.

“Hi, Helen. It’s me.”

“Deborah! I keep seeing coverage of the crash. I still can’t believe you were on that plane. Have you talked to anyone else? Are you and Christopher really OK?”

“We are. Really, we’re fine.” Physically, anyway. Her bruised psyche was something else again. “But, Helen, we’ll have to figure out another time for a visit. We’re going home to Ithaca. I don’t even have my purse. No ID, no money, no clothes.” She recited Christopher’s arguments into her sister’s ear. “I wish I could convince him to still come, but he says it’s a bad time. And it’s not a good time for us to be apart, either.” She lowered her voice, not wanting to say it aloud herself.

“He’s talking about wanting to stop the IVF.” Her sister had been a confidante during the past two years, buoying her with optimism at the ebbs. “You’ll be such great parents,” she said during every conversation, her use of the future tense a gift.

Not today, though. “Oh, Deborah, I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks.” Deborah blinked against the tears.

“He was probably pretty shaken up by the crash, right?”

“I hope that’s all it is.” She sighed. “Now tell me what’s going on with you. What did you need to talk to me about so badly yesterday?” The phone’s low battery signal beeped. “Damn it. Helen, I’m about to lose you. I’ll call you again from home.”

“OK.”

“I’m sorry. I really wanted to see you and the girls.”

“Don’t worry. It’ll be fine. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Deborah said bleakly, and the phone went dead.

FIVE

T
hey climbed the stairs from the West 81st Street station, Robby two steps ahead. At sidewalk level he wheeled around, searching for a street sign. Spotting one, he took off at a near-sprint, scattering a flock of pigeons foraging by a wastebasket. Linda panted, trying to keep up. “Is this the right way, Sam?”

“I’m going to trust he knows what he’s looking for. Take your time. I’ll stay with him.”

Sam trailed behind his son up the museum’s stone steps. The doors were locked. “Museum hours: ten a.m. to five forty-five p.m.,” Sam read. He glanced at his watch. “Rob, it’ll be open in another half hour. Let’s go get some breakfast first.”

“Wanna wait here.” Robby plunked down on the steps. Linda caught up, breathless.

“We’ve got a half hour before they open, and I’m pretty hungry,” Sam said. Linda nodded. They scanned the block, spotting a diner on the corner. “Come on, Robby, let’s go get something to eat. We’ll get you a doughnut,” Linda coaxed.

Robby shook his head. “Gonna wait.”

“Robby, don’t be difficult. It’s cold here. You’re not going to get in any sooner, and the birds will still be here if we go have some breakfast first.” Sam bent down and put his hand under Robby’s armpit, trying to lift him up. He was heavy, heavier than Sam expected.

Robby jerked back his arm, shaking off his father and dropping his notebook. Off balance, Sam staggered back, stumbling down several steps. Ignoring him, Robby scooped up the notebook and tore up the remaining steps to the vestibule doors, yelling as he ran.

“No, no, no, no! No breakfast. Staying here. Staying here!” At the locked doors he wedged himself into a corner, clamped his headphones on, jammed his hands into his pockets, and glared down at them.

A dozen steps below, Sam punched the air. He swore, then looked guiltily at Linda. She shook her head and shrugged.

“I’ll stay with him,” she said, resignation saddling each word. “You go eat. Bring me back a bagel or something.”

Sam started to protest, then cut himself off. A half hour without Robby sounded pretty appealing right now. “OK. I’ll be back at ten.”

Before he crossed the street to the diner, Sam glanced back at his wife and son. Linda had walked up to the step where Robby was bunkered but kept a good five-foot perimeter. She looked like a sentinel up there, a watchdog ready to chase away whatever might dare to disturb or unsettle the mind and body shrouded beneath the hooded sweatshirt and headphones. Not unlike any other mother, really. The problem was that simple routines of daily life were a constant bombardment to Robby’s hypersensitive sensory systems. His communication and social deficits further isolated him. Thus the mission never ended.

And Sam was the only one who could relieve her.

Robby watched his father’s back retreat. Down the steps. Down the sidewalk, to the corner. The dark-green diamonds of his quilted coat blended into the newsstand. The light changed. He crossed three lanes of yellow taxis and disappeared into the diner.
Finally
.

Robby exhaled and wedged his body more firmly into his corner. He liked feeling the cool, solid stone wall behind him. Here, nothing could come up and surprise him. It felt safe. The safest place he’d found in New York. Better than the hotel with the stiff, scratchy sheets and bedspreads. Better than the subways, with the swooshing trains and chiming doors and chattering riders and the surprise invisible announcer voice. Way better than Uncle Tom and Aunt Robin’s house, where they went for dinner last night, before his cousin Tyler’s hockey game.

Dinner wasn’t ready. Why were they invited at five if dinner wouldn’t be ready for another hour? “How’s it going, buddy?” his uncle had said.

“I’m not your buddy. We don’t ever see each other.”

“Robby!” His mother laughed, her gasp-laugh. Then she told him to go upstairs with Tyler. “I’m sorry, Tom. He’s just so literal,” he heard her say as he followed Tyler, sighing.

Upstairs in his room, Tyler kept asking him questions. What sports did he like? Had he ever been to a hockey game? Did he want to watch Tyler’s hockey highlight DVD and learn everything?

Robby didn’t answer. He asked if Tyler had any video games.

“Video games are a waste of time,” Tyler said. “Turn you into a slug. Let’s play hoops in the backyard?”

When Robby still didn’t answer, Tyler waited, then shrugged. “Fine. I’ll go ask Uncle Sam.”

Tyler’s room overlooked the driveway. Five minutes later, Robby heard the thump-thump-thump-thud of the basketball dribbled onto the concrete, then lofted at the rim. Thump-thump-thump-thud. A shout. A laugh—his dad’s. Then the smack of a high five. More laughter. Robby had drawn the strings of his Detroit Lions hoodie tighter, until the taut gray fabric almost covered his eyes. His own cocoon there in northern New Jersey, miles and miles from home.

On the museum steps he drew the strings again, but not quite so tightly, peering through the fringe of his bangs. He wanted to be able to see his dad come back, because that would mean it was time for them to unlock the doors. Unlock the doors to this place. Let him in so he could learn about the geese from Canada. Find them and figure out just what had brought them to the Hudson River, these birds in the bird strike.

Robby chewed the hard end of the drawstring. Just minding their own business, those geese were. Like he did. But that wasn’t enough for everyone else. They had to prod and intrude. And look what happened.

He tried to imagine how it would feel to hit the plane. Geese usually flew in Vs. He saw them in the fall at home, soaring above the gray suburban roofs, their long dotted lines somehow appearing simultaneously fluid and regimented.

They must have been flying like that yesterday. What happened to the geese farther back? he wondered. Did they see what happened to their leader? To the next two or three or four? Did they understand? From the docks he saw the geese swimming by the plane. Were they from the stricken flock, circling back upriver to look for their lost companions? Or did they just continue on their instinctive path southward? Who would know?

“Here comes Dad, Robby.”

His mom’s voice broke his concentration. Robby blinked. He had forgotten to keep watch. His dad was passing the green newsstand again, carrying a white bag. Robby felt his stomach tighten.

Finally
.

“Amanda. Amanda. Amanda!”

Walking to her locker, Amanda felt someone at her elbow just before her earbud was lifted. Abby.

“Today’s the day! Audition day! How do I look?” She twirled in front of Amanda, showing off her bouncing high ponytail. She did look like Sandra Dee, at least as Olivia Newton-John portrayed her. “Can’t hurt to drop a little hint, right? I’m so nervous. I’m so glad you’re coming with me.”

“Oh, Ab, I don’t think I can today, after all. I’m really sorry, but I’ve got some, uh, other stuff to do.” She couldn’t explain why, but Amanda didn’t want to tell her Kelsey had been right about her mom being on the news.

“No way. You’re not serious.” Abby’s face became bereft.

Amanda tried to placate her. “There’s two days of auditions, right? I’ll be there tomorrow. Promise.”

“That’s what you said about today. You know how, like, huge this is for me, right?” Abby’s voice quavered. She looked mad and scared and hurt, all at once. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Look, I can’t really talk about it now. I’m sorry. Really, Ab, I am. I know you’ll be great. But I can’t tonight. I just can’t.”

Amanda was mad, too. Mad at her mom for being gone, and doing something strange like lying about a boat trip. Mad at Kelsey for happening to see her on TV and telling Amanda about it. Mad at CNN for not showing that clip just thirty seconds later, when she’d have been out of the house. Mad at herself for not keeping her promise to Abby, who was her best friend, after all. Maybe she could tell her a little bit.

“Look, there’s something weird going on with my mom. She’s been out of town the last few days. And I’ve just got to see her as soon as she gets home this afternoon. I’ll call you tonight, OK?”

To Amanda’s relief, some of the anger disappeared from Abby’s face, though her tone was skeptical.

“Your mom? That can’t wait till dinnertime?”

Amanda shook her head. “I’ve got to talk to her before my dad gets home.”

Abby’s eyebrows lifted as she contemplated Amanda’s answer. “Huh. Can’t you tell me more now?”

The bell rang, saving Amanda from answering. Abby sighed. “OK. Well, I guess I’ll see you third hour, then?” They had biology together.

“Yeah.” Amanda nodded, and with a little wave, turned toward her first-hour classroom.

Unpacking in her bedroom, Brett tried to settle her jangled nerves. She had hoped the miles would distance her from the trip, her near-delirious joy at being free with Jackie, free from the mask and script that she followed every day of her life in Scranton. Instead, her anxiety ratcheted up with each mile. They had not spoken about the future, whether there would be another visit, or even another phone call.

But sitting on the bed she had shared with Richard for eighteen years, Brett knew there would be. Thinking of sleeping with him in the meantime made her despondent. That night, tomorrow night, the rest of the week, the rest of their lives. She couldn’t do it anymore.

She didn’t fear making love. Their marriage had long ago lapsed into the platonic status where it had begun, at Penn State second semester. He was a sophomore on the other wing of her floor in her new dorm, and they wound up sitting together in the cafeteria. When he first kissed her—a chaste peck after a movie two months later—Brett was so relieved for a reason to bury the feelings Donna had stirred that she kissed back.

Now, with the memories of true passion so raw, it was the dishonesty of their mutual charade that made her shut her eyes against her reflection in the bathroom mirror, as she replaced her toothbrush and dental floss and makeup in their rightful places.

But
was
this the rightful place after all—this small-but-adequate master bathroom in a three-bedroom house in a middle-class family neighborhood in Scranton, Pennsylvania? It had been Richard’s choosing, as had everything since her sophomore year, when she transferred with him to a small Bible college south of Pittsburgh, near the border with West Virginia. He felt called to study ministry, he said, and he was certain she would hear it, too, if she just gave it a chance.

Whether it was a calling or not, Brett was far more comfortable on the small campus, with its unwritten but proscribed rules of behavior, than she’d been in the anything-goes atmosphere at Penn State. And after a spring-break mission trip across the state line into West Virginia, where they spent a week toiling to build a community center for a rural church, she began to believe Richard was right. The accomplishment she felt looking at the simple wooden structure, on top of the naked gratitude from the community, was deeper and more satisfying than any academic achievement. She felt proud, too, to be with Richard, the group’s unquestioned leader, whose marriage proposal she would accept six months later.

Brett stared out the window, through the bare tree limbs, down to the snow-dusted lawns. So when did that all change? When did Richard become more preoccupied with being pastor than being pastoral? When did evangelical issues edge out social justice as his priority? When did Donna resurface in her memory? How many other Donnas had she closed her eyes to, until Jackie?
Don’t
, she counseled herself, as she reached into her pocket for her cell phone. Not yet. It hasn’t been four hours since we said good-bye.
Amanda will be home any minute
, her conscience hollered in futility as her fingers dialed Jackie’s number.

It rang several times. Jackie was still in the air en route back to Charlotte, Brett realized as her voice mail recording kicked on. The sound of her voice—its warm, Southern lilt, even reciting the innocuous greeting—electrified Brett’s body.

“Jack, it’s Brett. I’m home. I miss you already. Call me—no, text me—when you get in. I’ll try to call back when I can. I . . . I . . . I hope you had a good trip home,” she said hastily, hearing the door open downstairs and Amanda’s voice calling to her, dragging her back to her suffocating real life.

“You made me feel alive,” she whispered with her last breath.

Amanda watched her mom smile as she came downstairs.

“Hi, sweetheart! I’m so glad to see you!” She pulled Amanda into a hug.

“Hi.” Relief surged through Amanda. Her mom looked just the same, sounded just the same. Was that really her on that news clip? Amanda decided not to bring it up right away, after all.

“How was school? You look like you held up just fine without me. How about I make us some popcorn for a snack?”

As they walked together to the kitchen, Amanda spotted the sack of bird feed she’d dropped in the middle of the floor before school. So did her mom.

Curiously, she picked it up. “Why is this sitting out here?”

Amanda stared at the burlap sack, scrambling for an explanation. Her mom filled in.