The Hummingbird's Cage (23 page)

When I let go, I brushed the tears from my eyes.

“Hello again,
niña
,” Bernadette said to Laurel. She pulled the drawstring bag from her shoulder and handed it to her. “Here—why don't you take this? Go ahead and take a peek—there's something funny inside.”

Laurel set the bag down and pulled excitedly at the drawstring. She drew out a present wrapped in glossy yellow paper topped with a bow. She stared at the gift tag, then up at Bernadette.

“It's got my name on it,” she said.

“See, that's the funny thing—I got these from a guy in a red suit on the way up here. I thought they were for me, but then I peeked inside and saw your name, so I thought I'd bring it by.”

Laurel turned to me. “Can I open it?” she asked.

“Honey,” I said, “Christmas is still a couple weeks away.”

She screwed up her face, girding for battle. A spoiled evening was only a tantrum away.

“All right,” I relented. “But just this one.”

She tore at the wrapping as I made the introductions. Then Bernadette pulled off her jacket and boots and set them by the door. She unzipped her snow pants and stepped out of them to reveal slim black jeans.

“You'll stay for dinner,” Jessie said.

I retrieved the extra plate and napkin Jessie had set out earlier; now I understood why she had. I filled the plate to overflowing and set it before Bernadette.

Laurel's gift was a book:
Charlotte's Web
.

“I liked it when I was a kid,” Bernadette told her. “Of course, all I could tell you about it now is it's about a pig and a spider.”

“It's perfect,” I said. “Laurel will love it.”

“Hey,
niña
,” said Bernadette. “Why don't you go see what else Santa put in there?”

Laurel ran back to the bag, pulling out more gifts. “Mommy! There's a present for Simon, too. And Oma and Opa. And one for you.”

I looked at Bernadette questioningly. She arched her eyebrows at me, then mimed locking her lips and throwing away the key.

I scanned her smiling face, searching for answers—how had she come here? did she know what Morro was?—but afraid of what I might find. Comprehension was trying to settle in, but I was beating it back.

Laurel ran to the table to pass out the rest of the presents, and Bernadette insisted they be opened at once. Simon's was a Leatherman knife. Olin's, a pipe of polished sandalwood. And Jessie's, a pair of fine kid gloves, dyed a deep scarlet.

I wasn't sure Jessie would approve of such a brassy color, but her eyes sparkled as she tugged one on, stroking the soft leather.

Bernadette shot me a look that seemed to say,
Every lady needs a little red in her life.

Finally, I turned to mine—a box wrapped in silver with a silver bow. But as I began to unwrap it, Bernadette placed her hand over the box to stop me.

I looked at her in surprise. Her face was solemn. When she spoke, her voice was pitched low, for me alone.

“Not now. Open it before you go to sleep tonight.”

How odd. I couldn't fathom why. But without a word I set the box on the floor by my chair.

Olin held up his pipe, admiring the slim black stem and the wooden bowl shaped like an old-fashioned corncob. “I'll break this in after supper,” he said. “I thank you, Bernadette.”

“Use it well,” she told him. “And you can call me Bern—suits me better.” She licked the tip of her finger with a hiss:
“Tsssss.”

Olin laughed.

“Where you from, honey?” Jessie asked, still wearing her scarlet glove. “Your people from around here?”

“Nope. Cuba. Not the island—the town north of here.” She took a bite of cherry stuffing and moaned. “
This
is delicious. Did you make this, Jessie? Good God. For this, you deserve a little red hat to match those gloves. Think I'm kidding? Just wait—next time I come through.”

Color sprang to Jessie's cheeks. “Have some more—there's plenty.”

“My family has a sheep ranch outside Cuba,” Bernadette continued, her nose wrinkling in distaste. “I grew up on boiled mutton, mutton stew, lamb stew. I lived with sheep, played with sheep, wore sheepskin and slept under it. Hell, till I was five, I thought I had a fleecy tail.”

Laurel giggled.

“I got outta there when I was fourteen,” Bernadette said. “A wild child—not that you can tell.” She winked at Olin. “As for my people, they go back to the conquistadors, the Towering House Clan and the Irish Potato Famine. A real pedigree, huh?”

“Towering House?” Simon asked. “Our friends the Begays are part of that clan. One of them is getting married day after tomorrow.”

“Mazel tov,” said Bernadette.

“I mean, I'm sure they'd like to have you. Unless you have somewhere to be.”

Bernadette set her fork down, frowning in thought. “Well, I was planning on a bike trip . . .
Whoa
there!” She leaned back in her chair, lifting the tablecloth and peering underneath.
“Hello,”
she said.

I'd forgotten Tinkerbell and Pal were still under the table, eager for scraps.

Bernadette looked at Olin. “You have dogs?”

“A couple.”

“Good. No cause for alarm, then.” She took two pieces of turkey from her plate and tossed them under the table. “Here ya go.”

Simon rose from his chair and gave a low whistle. Pal darted out, Tinkerbell close behind. He gestured to a blanket by the fireplace, and the two dogs settled onto it, licking their lips.

“Sorry about that,” Simon said as he took his seat again.

“No harm done,” Bernadette said.

“Well, if your trip can wait a bit,” I said, “why not come to the wedding? It's only two days. At the hotel in town.”

“The big red one? I'm staying there tonight.”

“Stay a couple more nights, then.”

“Well,” she said slowly, tapping her lips with a black-lacquered nail. “I guess there could be diversions.” She glanced at Olin. “How's that saloon I saw on my way through? And the pub? Either of them disreputable?”

“No, no,” he said reassuringly.

“Well,” Bernadette drawled, shaking her hair back till her
earrings tinkled like bells. “They will be when I get done with 'em.”

*   *   *

Bernadette didn't stay long after supper—night fell early, and she wanted to make it back to the Wild Rose before then. We made plans to meet at the pub the next evening—there was so much I had to ask her, to tell her.

In the living room by the fire, Laurel settled on the couch between Jessie and Olin to read
Charlotte's Web
to them. Simon and I were in the kitchen washing the dinner dishes, the radio on the counter playing Christmas music. Sometimes we sang along, making up the lyrics we couldn't remember.

Before long, we'd saddle the horses and ride back to the farmhouse. Tomorrow, I'd help Bree finish up the hotel ballroom for the wedding. Simon would open the café early, and Jessie would help out for a few hours. The schoolhouse was on winter break, so Laurel would tag along with Olin at the farm.

In my mind's eye, I could see the day play out. And the day after that, and the weeks, the years after that—stretching like an unbroken winding road toward a chosen horizon.

I swished my hands in the warm water, staring down at the suds. Simon was at my shoulder, drying plates with a dish towel. I could feel his eyes on me.

“What do you see?” he asked.

I turned to him, blinking to clear my head. “Hmm?”

“You're staring so hard, like at a crystal ball.”

“I don't believe in fortune-telling.”

“No?” he said. “What do you believe in?”

I almost smiled, but the magnitude of what I believed at just that moment was too sobering. As were the consequences.

“Choices,” was all I said. I pulled the rubber stopper in the sink and the water began to drain with a sucking sound.

His towel froze for the merest second. “You decided, then.”

The window above the sink looked out on the meadow behind the cabin. In the dark, the trees had disappeared except for the snow coating their limbs, etching them in white.

“I can't tell you how much I love this place,” I said. “But you know that.” I turned to him. “Laurel, too, because here she has people who love her. Protect her. That's something I didn't do.”

He moved toward me. “Sweetheart—”

“No, please. Let me finish.” I took a step back, away from him. “I've been offered a rare thing, right? You said it yourself—not everyone gets a second chance, so there must be a reason. These things can't be random, can they? At the Begays', the birthday party, Trang turning sixteen . . . I think about Laurel, and what I want for her is
real
birthdays. Growing up, growing older. Learning about the world, making her way in it.”

“That can happen here,” said Simon.

“I'm sure. In its way. But it would always be . . . an imitation, wouldn't it? No—an
echo
.” I shook my head. “No, that's not right, either—at least an echo begins with the real thing. She hasn't had that. She never will. And
she
had no choice in this. Any of it. This was . . . forced on her. Because
I
failed to make the right choices back in Wheeler.”

I paused, struggling to untangle a knot of feuding emotions. Simon waited for me to continue.

“And Jim. He won't let us alone—not even here. He's invading this place, our dreams. It's like we're
fused
somehow. Or
maybe we're bringing him with us because we can't let
him
go. I even saw him one night in Laurel's room—or a vision of him—standing over her while she slept. You said there are risks here—even here—remember? I'm her mother. I'm supposed to protect her. Maybe I do that by going back and getting it right. Doing what I should have done, or just doing things differently. Maybe that's what Olin meant. Maybe that's my truth.”

Simon was watching me as if he was dealing with his own feuding emotions. I willed him to move, to speak, but he didn't. Or wouldn't. Above all, I didn't want to leave him. Didn't want to disappoint him. And I didn't want the three feet of empty space between us to turn into a chasm that couldn't be bridged, ever.

I moved to him and wrapped my arms around his waist, burying my face in his shoulder, holding on for dear life. The tears started, dampening his shirt.

After a moment, Simon coaxed my head up and brushed the hair from my face. He kissed the tears on my cheeks.

The truth was, I might not understand Morro—its physics or how we ended up here—but I did understand it was a sanctuary for us. But sanctuaries aren't forever—that's their nature.

“I told you I fit here, and I do,” I told him. “I fit with
you
—I've never been more sure of anything. But not like this. Not . . . yet.”

He kissed my lips, then leaned toward the radio and turned the dial.

“You asked me once about my favorite song,” he said.

“And you said one day you'd tell me.”

He stopped on a ballad, low and slow. A woman's voice. An old song from when crooning was popular.

His arms were around me again, and we began to sway to the music. The song was from the 1940s, but I knew it. Redone . . . how many times? It made me think of Manhattan nightclubs, swing bands and cigarette smoke, tear-filled good-byes at train stations, soldiers shipping off to war half a world away.

I pulled back just enough to look into Simon's face. And at last I saw none of the guardedness he could slip on like armor. No careful neutrality. His eyes shone the deepest grays and blues, and his whole heart and soul were in them.

“This isn't good-bye,” I said. “I'm coming back.”

“I know,” he said. “I'll be here.”

*   *   *

At the farmhouse, Laurel was tucked into bed, Tinkerbell curled beside her. Olin had ducked outside to the kitchen stoop, stealing his last cigarette of the day.

I stood outside on the porch, hugging my coat around me.

There was a slim fingernail of a moon. Not enough to cast shadows or illuminate much. I stared up at the Mountain, lying as quiet and still as a great hibernating beast. It was completely blanketed in fallen snow that filled and tempered its deep ravines and blunted the long, rocky ridge along its crest. It wasn't watchful anymore, or even restless in its sleep. The point of light near the crest was faint now and for the first time it was flickering, like a flame about to go out.

Behind me, Jessie opened the front door and stepped onto the porch. She was already in her thick bathrobe, her bun undone for bed, her gray hair plaited down her back. She stood beside me, silent, her gaze following mine to the mountaintop.

“This was a good day,” I said softly.

She slung her arm around my shoulders and squeezed.

“There'll be more, sweetie.”

*   *   *

In my room, I dressed for bed and turned out all the lights, save for the one on the nightstand. I sat in the rocking chair and held Bernadette's present, with its shiny silver wrapping, in my lap. It had a familiar shape and heft. For a long moment I stared at it, then began pulling at the paper.

Long before the paper was torn away, I recognized it.

It was my old tea tin. The secret one from the house outside Wheeler where I kept my Life Before. The one I hid from Jim under a loose floorboard in the storage space under the stairwell.

And it should still be there—on Insurrection Day, I'd done exactly as Bernadette had told me, and taken nothing from the house. Not even this.

I opened the tin and, one by one, pulled them out: The
first-place certificate from the high school poetry contest. The clinic receipt from the baby I'd miscarried. The letter from my mother. The warning note from Terri.