The Language of Sparrows (23 page)

“Why did he do it?”

Joe sighed as he sat in the rocking chair next to her. “You ever met your grandparents?”

“Not my dad’s parents. I think they died when I was little.”

“Crazy as loons. I went home with him one summer to meet them up in Kansas when we were roommates in college. My sophomore year, it was. They were threatened by your dad’s genius and didn’t much take to me either.”

“Threatened?”

“Gary’s mind was like a sieve. He read every book in the town library before he finished junior high. He heard a fact, and it was burned into his mind forever. He picked up languages the way other boys picked up baseball stats. But were his folks proud? No, they called
him
proud and too good for the likes of them. He wanted to please them. But there was no way with a mind like that he could be content with anything but learning and lots and lots of it.”

Joe leaned his head back. “I thought he’d be okay. He’d make peace with who he was. But they were always in his head, accusing him, telling him he was prideful, odd, wrong. The more he pretended they didn’t exist, the harder it was for him. The more he was driven to work. Hours and hours, days and days, without sleep or food, until he collapsed. He had his first breakdown when you were a little tyke.

“I thought,
Well now, that’s a good thing. He’ll get help finally.
But the more time he spent with the doctors and on the medicine, the worse he seemed to get. A group of us men fasted and prayed and laid our hands on him, but he kept getting worse and worse. I thought—and I’m no psychiatrist—but I thought,
Why doesn’t he go home?
Tell that crazy family that God made him brilliant for a reason, and if they were any kind of sane, they ought to be supporting him. Maybe if he’d tell them what’s what, he’d get rid of the manic studying and guilt. But he just bottled it up inside.”

He paused. “But then maybe that’s just my thinking. The doctors said it was a matter of brain chemistry. So likely it was more complicated than the problem with his folks.”

“You were my dad’s friend.”

“I was. We were pals from our freshman year at Rice.”

“Did he … Was he ever okay?”

“Sure. He was always serious, but he was a normal guy. He went out for pizza, made jokes, was fun to hang out with. You could always see them in his eyes though, those ghosts.”

Sierra looked up at the towering pines by the fence. “I try to see him—in my memories, I mean. But there’s nothing.”

“Maybe it will be easier now that you know.”

“Maybe.”

Joe leaned forward and turned her face with his hand so that she had to look straight at him. “Gary had his failings, but he loved you.”

He dropped his hand. “I remember lots of times seeing him with you cuddled up on his lap like a kitten. That’s what he called you. Kitten. Had pictures galore of you on his wall. I swear, according to Gary, you were the smartest, most beautiful, and sweetest-tempered child on earth.” Joe winked at her. “But looking at you now, I guess he was right. He loved your mama, too.”

“But it wasn’t enough.” She dug her fingernails into her palms.

“No, I guess not. Sometimes, there isn’t enough to make something right, not the kind of right we think God ought to give us. But I happen to think you and April are the reason he hung on as long as he did.”

She closed her eyes. She’d worried when Mom hadn’t wanted to talk about Dad. And when the professor had grown cool at Dad’s name, and when Carlos had suggested there might have been something wrong with him, the worry had turned into a hard lump of panic. But he hadn’t been anything horrible. Just sad.

She thought of the closed door to her parents’ bedroom, one of the few images she could remember. She remembered now. The light in the study would be on all night. She’d find him in there sometimes, working feverishly over something, when she woke in the middle of the night. And then during the day, the door to the bedroom would be closed, and Mom told her to whisper so they wouldn’t disturb him. Her mother treated Dad’s sleep like gold. Was there anything that would have made him join the waking?

Joe touched her arm. “Why don’t we go back inside and look at some old photos.”

Sierra stood. “I feel as if I should remember you.”

Joe smiled. “Understandable why you wouldn’t. I was around a lot when you were a baby. But after grad school, your folks moved to Virginia, and I only saw you once in a blue moon.”

They walked back into the house, and Joe began digging among stacks of books until he found a photo album. He showed her pictures of Dad hanging out with his friends. Joe had been the best man at her parents’ wedding. Dad looked happy enough. But then Joe pulled out some photos of the time he visited them in Virginia. Mom must have taken one of them—the two men stood side by side, leaning against a wood rail fence. Dad’s eyes looked puffy, and while Joe had filled out, Dad had put on a serious amount of weight.

“It was the medicine,” Joe said. “Made him gain thirty pounds in a month. When that round didn’t work, they tried another. Some medicines worked for a little bit. Some made him worse than ever. But it was my feeling no medicine could undo what his folks did to him.”

There was something eerie about the photos. In one photo, she could look at it and think,
Here’s a man who’s got his life ahead of him.
And in the next, she could see,
This is a man who might not make it.

He patted her knee. “It’s about time for you to head home, isn’t it?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Sierra looked away, but from the corner of her eye, she could see him looking at her, weighing his words.

“I guess she doesn’t know you’re here.”

Sierra inspected her feet.

“There ain’t such a thing as running away, little girl. Your daddy tried that one, and it didn’t do him one bit of good. If you want some kind of life, you’re going to have to go home first. Face your mama. Face the memories of your daddy. Once you face the things you don’t like, you can decide what to do.”

Sierra looked out at the lawn, the horses, the country road, all so far away from the cobbled paths of a university. She jutted out her chin. “But you ran away. You have a doctorate, and you’re out in the country with no one but horses to teach.”

He chuckled. “Maybe I did run away and maybe I didn’t. After your dad … And then my wife left me. It seemed time to come home to where it all started. I don’t call going home running away myself. I call it a sabbatical. But I’m sure there’s some who disagree.”

“I’m sorry, Joe,” she whispered.

He put his giant hand on her cheek. “Hit me with your best. I can take it. I’d rather see you duking it out over trying to be brave any day. You feel what you feel. And pretending you don’t will only take you to a darker place.”

“I can’t go back.” She balled her hands into fists, as if she could make it true. “My mom lied to me, Joe.” She ducked her head. She’d have to go home. Where else would she go?

“Your mama can’t take any more loss. Go home and tell her what’s on your mind.”

Sierra didn’t answer.

“You’re not going home alone. I want you to know that.” She looked up to see him studying her. “The more sin-scarred the world is around you, the deeper God’s compassion. He never leaves the side of the brokenhearted. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

He didn’t let go of her gaze until she gave him a brief nod.

Sierra didn’t take the bus back. Joe wouldn’t hear of it. He set her in his Jeep Cherokee and drove her to Houston himself. Dusk was settling by the time the freeway widened to ten lanes.

Rain must have fallen during the day. Car lights shone and tires swooshed and hissed against the slick pavement. By the time she directed him to their exit, night was pressing in.

He gave her an uncertain look when he pulled onto their street, and Sierra pulled into her own corner of the seat. What must he think of their choice of apartments? He parked inside the gates under a yellow streetlight and sat behind the wheel, staring at the complex.

A couple of teenage boys dressed in low-riding jeans and oversize jackets meandered by at a measured pace, bumping into the Jeep on purpose. Joe’s eyes flashed murder. “April,” he muttered under his breath, “why didn’t you tell me?”

He started to get out, but Sierra put her hand out to stop him. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather talk to my mom alone.”

He took out a pen and wrote a phone number on her hand. “You tell her to call me. There’s no reason for you all to be living in a place like this.”

“I’ll tell her.”

“God bless, kitten.”

Joe didn’t drive away until she waved at him from inside the apartment. She breathed a sigh of relief the place was empty. The answering machine flashed. Mom wouldn’t get home until nine. Carlos wanted her to call. She deleted both messages.

Standing in front of the wall of art she’d made with Mom and that crazy picture of the woman and child in the center, she remembered Joe’s question: Why didn’t Mom tell him they were living like this? Mom was good at keeping secrets, wasn’t she? With her smiles and cheery voice, she never once let on that Dad’s accident wasn’t so accidental.

Sierra felt light-headed looking at the painting. Where was Dad in the center tile? Where was the truth?

She put her head into her hands. Where was anything at all?

She took a hot shower, and by the time Mom got home, Sierra had pulled on her sweats and burrowed under her covers with the lights turned out. Mom looked in, and Sierra closed her eyes, playing the role of sleeping daughter.

Chapter Thirty-One

Sierra woke, sensing something was wrong. Sunlight dappled her bed, and Mom moved in the kitchen. She could smell biscuits and sausages. The alarm clock said 9:03 a.m. She should be getting ready for church.

Then it came to her. The day in Tonkawa Creek.

She lay in bed for a long time, not moving, not able to think about doing anything. All she could think of was Dad planning his own death. Thoughts of his last day, of what he must have been feeling, trapped her beneath a lead blanket of exhaustion.

She raised her fingers and began counting as she whispered, “One foot and the next / he steps into speeding cars / and embraces death.”

Seventeen syllables, Mr. Prodan. How’s that for a haiku?
Not very poetic, but it was true. With his last breath, her father hadn’t chosen her or Mom. How could he have said he was doing it for them?

Eventually, the idea of lying in bed, letting the misery win, pricked at her. That’s what Mom was so afraid of—that she was like Dad. It’s why Mom grimaced when she found her teaching herself Romanian or reading a book late into the night. And Sierra
had
been like him.

But not anymore.

She slid out of bed and dressed in a yellow sundress Mom had bought for her, a dress she’d never worn. She brushed her hair till it shone and came into the living room.

Mom sat in a chair by the window, working on a sketch.

Sierra gripped the doorknob. “I’m not like him.”

Mom looked at her, perplexed.

“I’m not going to hurt myself. You can stop worrying about me. You can stop protecting me from the truth.”

Mom blanched. “Sierra …”

She stood and edged toward her, but Sierra backed away. She wasn’t going to let Mom finish. It would be too painful to listen to her apologize, to explain, to tell her it would all work out.

“It’s all right. You were worried I was like Dad, but I’m not.”

Sierra could see Mom trying to work it out, what Sierra knew, what she could say.

Sierra patted her mom’s arm and quickly drew it back. “It’s okay, Mom. Really.”

She could still feel her mom groping for something to say as she slipped out the front door and began walking nowhere in particular. What was the point in going to church today? What was the point in staying behind to talk? Words were useless now. Mom had been right about that all along. The only useful thing was to be strong, be happy, and leave the darkness behind.

Monday afternoon, after Mom had gone to work, Sierra stood in the bathroom looking in the mirror.
Comb your hair out of your eyes, Sierra. Stop hiding your lovely face behind your hair, Sierra.
She didn’t like the girl she saw in the mirror. She was timid. Insipid. The grieving girl Dad left behind. It was time for a change.

With her left hand, she pulled her hair back, letting her whole face show. The scissors lay on the counter. Mom often trimmed a bit of her own hair, making sure her short strands of hair stayed feathered just right. Sierra let go of her hair and picked up the scissors, holding them up in the light, considering. Then, with one snip, she sent a long chunk of hair to the bath mat below. And then another.

Her neck shone white and free in the mirror, and then her whole face. Until there was nothing but a cap of dark hair from her hairline to the nape of her neck. She clipped at the top and teased bits of hair, rubbing gel in until her scalp burned. But she’d got the look she’d wanted, more or less.

She felt naked, looking in the mirror, with her face for anyone to see. But she wasn’t hiding anymore. She would look people straight in the eye.

After sweeping the hair up, she stood in front of the mirror and practiced looking herself in the eye. But she wasn’t suddenly stylish and interesting. She only looked shorn.

In her room, Sierra pulled out a few copy-paper boxes. She piled the books and photos from her bottom drawer into one. Dad’s Bible. The paper he’d been working on when he died. His Greek dictionary and Latin grammar book. Pictures of him.

She laid her hand on them, a final good-bye. On top, she laid clothes that wouldn’t do anymore. Her oversize jackets and darker clothes. Those belonged to the Sierra who had been hiding from the world. They belonged in the back of her closet.

When Mom saw her at the kitchen bar the next morning, she made a little moan. She put her hand up to her mouth, her eyes big, but she didn’t say anything.

Sierra patted her hair. “It’s okay, isn’t it? It’s even?”

Mom didn’t answer.

Sierra had seen it in the mirror. It was short, but it wasn’t lopsided or patchy. She looked her mom in the eye. “I wasn’t trying to hurt myself. I just wanted a change.”

That’s what Mom needed to hear. She gave Sierra a weak smile. “It’s nice, really. Makes you look like a pixie.” She headed into the bathroom. “Let me even up the back for you.” Her voice wobbled, and Sierra began to worry she’d made a mess of it. She peeked in the glass on the hutch in the dining area for her reflection before she followed Mom into the bathroom.

Mom edged the scissors against the nape of Sierra’s neck. “I had a call from Joe Wheeler today.”

The scissors scraped metallically as Mom began to cut.

“I had to know, Mom.”

“Sierra, I’m so sorry. I never intended not to tell you. At first, I thought you’d be strong enough to hear it in an hour, then a few days, a few weeks, and then it had been so long—”

Sierra put up a hand to the mirror. “I guess I gave you reason to worry about telling me the truth. But you don’t need to worry about me anymore.”

Mom put the scissors down and leaned back against the sink. It was the posture of a long conversation. But Sierra couldn’t do it. She had to get to school. She needed to be able to smile and look people in the eye. “I don’t want to be late.”

She walked out of the bathroom, picked up her backpack, and raced for the door.

At school, people she didn’t even know complimented her. They thought the new look suited her. Carlos caught up with her at lunch. He slid onto the bench next to her, the smell of hot grease rising off the pizza on his tray.

He rubbed her hair with his knuckles. “Hey, Brown Eyes. Nice cut.”

She smiled brightly. “Think so?”

“I miss the long hair. But it’s nice. Modern, you know.”

Sierra felt better. People liked her look. Maybe the new Sierra had a future.

“I got the afternoon off.” He leaned close to be heard over the roar of students in the cafeteria. “What are you doing with yourself?”

“Homework.”

“Maybe I can help.”

Brief images flickered across her mind—Mom helping Dad with the work he’d been too tired to complete, arranging his doctor’s appointments. There were days she had even had to help him get dressed. It had been an unspoken arrangement. He’d be the weak one; Mom the strong one. Carlos was perfectly willing to step into Mom’s role.

Poor Sierra, who couldn’t get her act straight. Poor Sierra, who needed to be found when she didn’t come home at night, who needed to be protected from Emilio, who needed to be reminded of her homework, who needed and needed and needed.

“Thanks, Carlos.” She stood with her lunch tray. “But I think I can handle homework on my own. See you ’round.”

She refused to look back, to see the flash of confusion on his face as she walked away. She smiled. Oh, she smiled until she thought her face would crack.

Carlos met her as she left the school steps the next day. “Hey, Brown Eyes.”

“Hey.”

“You weren’t planning on walking home alone, were you?” he asked.

“It’s not far.”

He put his hand on her arm. “I’ll walk you home.”

“If you want.”

It was a tense ten minutes. The red hand was up at the crosswalk. Cars sped by, oblivious to the school zone. How fast were they going? Forty-five, fifty-five miles per hour? Just inches from her feet. She couldn’t catch her breath all of a sudden, and she could feel Carlos looking at her.

The light changed, and they crossed the street. Carlos said nothing. She said nothing. As they turned the corner, the sound of a bus dieseling nearby sounded the only refrain above the noise of the traffic.

Carlos punched in the security code at the apartment gate and opened it for her, following her inside.

At the foot of her stairs, he stopped. His face was drawn tight, and she knew that was her fault.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asked.

She smiled. “Of course not.”

He leaned on the iron banister. “Then what, Sierra? What’s with all the smiles-but-don’t-get-too-close stuff?”

She met his gaze, trying to look sure of herself. “You’re not too close, Carlos. I’m just changing. I don’t need help at every turn.”

“I never thought you needed help walking home, Sierra.”

Smile,
she told herself.
Look sure of yourself.
“No, of course not.”

His face was hard when he looked at her, but she could see the hurt in his eyes. “You know, the one thing I thought I could always count on with you is that you were for real. What’s with the empty words that don’t mean what they say and the smiles that aren’t really smiles? You’ve turned all plastic.”

Her smile faltered. “I don’t have to listen to that, Carlos. If you’re going to be rude, I’ll go inside.”

“No, you don’t have to listen to me.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’ve been by your side almost since school started last fall. I took you places when you needed to go. I helped you find your dad’s friends. I listened when you wanted to talk and kept quiet when you didn’t. But you don’t have to listen to me.”

“That’s just it. Don’t you see?”

“See what, Sierra?”

“You don’t have to rescue me. I’m not weak.”

His mouth dropped. “I get that. But could you maybe talk to me instead of cutting me out?”

“I thought it was time for a new start, you know?”

“A new start?” He looked at her so hard she had to turn away. “A new start without me? Is that what you’re saying?”

She took a deep breath, trying to keep herself calm. Even in the courtyard, she could still hear the cars rushing by on the road. They were going so fast. And they sounded so close.

“You’re so special to me, Carlos. I won’t ever forget you.”

He gripped the banister, and his whole body tensed. He shook his head. “Don’t.”

She swallowed.

“Don’t, Sierra.” The words that came out of his mouth sounded hoarse. “You want to be strong, I get that. But what you’re doing, that’s not strong.”

She sat down heavily on the steps. “I think you should go now.”

His eyes were liquid. He didn’t go at first. He stood there, staring down at her, as if he could make her change her mind if he looked at her long enough.

“Sierra.” That’s all he said. Just her name.

Finally, he turned and walked back toward the gate. With each of his steps, it got harder for her to breathe. When he reached the gate, she stood, as if her legs had a mind of their own.

He turned back, not moving toward her, waiting, looking. She tried to mouth words that would make sense, words that would change things. But she couldn’t find them, and he swung through the gate.