The Language of Sparrows (24 page)

Chapter Thirty-Two

Nick did a double take when he saw Sierra in the hallway. At first lost in the press of students heading for class, she stopped to pick up some loose change she’d dropped. When she stood, she met his eyes and then gave him a confident smile that didn’t belong to the girl he knew. The Caribbean-blue T-shirt with a wide belt that hung at an angle was out of character too. It was all very fashionable, and Sierra was a pretty enough kid to carry off the look. But as she walked away, the moment of hope he’d had seeing Sierra fashionable and confident just as quickly died.

Without the sheath of hair, those eyes were large and luminous. But the soul he’d seen there before was missing. And the smile she’d given him? He knew that smile—it was April’s, and it masked a world of grief.

Later he asked Cindy Velasco if she’d seen any change in Sierra’s schoolwork.

Cindy beamed at him. “She’s turned in all her missing assignments. Complete. All A’s.”

He asked if she minded his taking a look at an assignment or two. Cindy gave him an annoyed glance but led him into her classroom. As Nick looked at the work under the fluorescent lights, he wanted to throw the papers in the trash. She’d turned in review questions for
Twelve Angry Men
. Complete and accurate, true enough, but something any sophomore could have written.

Her persuasive essay argued for expanding cafeteria choices. When he thought of the kind of creativity she put into her haikus or of the picture she’d sketched of his old man, it was as if a different kid had written these.

Nick grimaced. “Was this topic assigned?”

Cindy shook her head. “They could write on any topic they wanted as long as they argued for one side or the other. We used the example of cafeteria choices in class, so I had a lot of those.”

Nick set the paper carefully back on Cindy’s desk.
Oh, Sierra, why this bland imitation of yourself?

He stopped Sierra in the hallway before classes began the next day. She pulled out of the current of surging students and gave him a bright smile.

“Sierra, talk to me.”

“Talk to you about what, Mr. Foster?”

He didn’t return the smile. “The haircut, the new style, it’s very nice. And I’m glad you’re turning in your homework. But there’s something wrong, isn’t there, Sierra?”

She looked him in the eye. “You don’t have to worry about me, Mr. Foster. I’m okay. No one needs to prop me up.”

“Who’s propping you up, Sierra?”

“No one. No one’s propping me up now.”

She shrugged him off and headed for first period. Nick watched her disappear down the hall. Her usual slow step, as if each footfall needed to be negotiated, had been replaced by a quick, purposeful stride.

On the last day before spring break, she appeared in the doorway of his classroom at the end of the day. Everyone had cleared out as soon as the bell rang, and the hallways were deserted.

He spoke first. “You can’t fool me with a smile, Sierra.”

She kept to the doorway, holding the joyless smile steady. “You did a lot for me. You and your dad. I just wanted to come by and say thank-you.”

He leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms. “That sounds too much like a good-bye for my ears.”

She looked at her feet. “I’m sure we’ll see each other, but I’ll be able to take care of things on my own now.”

Nick stood. She looked up. Her eyes held uncertainty in them as he joined her at the door, but she didn’t look away. Those big brown eyes staring out of that small white face. The sheared hair made him think of a war survivor. A survivor, but not a victor.

“Sierra,” he said softly, “you’re scaring me. I want to see the real Sierra, even if she comes with a little sadness.”

“I’m fine, Mr. Foster. I’ll see you around after spring break, okay?” She ducked out the door, and that was it. She was gone, leaving Nick looking down the empty hallway after her.

Nick’s agenda required a couple of stops before going home. How could he encourage Sierra to be vulnerable with anyone when he kept his defenses up with his old man? Not that he hadn’t tried to make peace with Dad before. He first made an effort to reconcile with Dad after he’d gotten out of the army. Back then he’d been hesitant to face Dad on his own and hoped a woman’s presence would act as a buffer, so he’d brought Caroline with him.

Ten minutes into the visit, Dad said, with Caroline still in the room, “I hope you do not intend to marry her. She will always be taking from you and never giving.”

Dad was right of course, but the memory of Caroline, shocked and hurt in Dad’s living room, still stung. Every attempt at reconciliation with Dad had been rebuffed since, with only an occasional thaw.

But if nothing else, maybe Dad would have some insight about what was going on with Sierra. Dad had softened since last fall. Sierra and April were good for him.

Nick closed the door to his classroom. April. What was it about April? In the years after Caroline died, he’d carried out a frenzy of dating that left him exhausted and emptier than ever. When he finally got his act together, he dedicated himself to his career and kept to casual dating. He’d told himself that if a woman got to him, really got to him—a strong, stable woman, of course—he would consider settling down again.

But a woman never
had
gotten under his skin. Not until now. Okay, April was a long way from strong and stable right now. Maybe she was grieving for her husband or lost in some ache he didn’t understand. She was worried about Sierra. But even underneath that, she had some inner joy, some light that shone through her. Not to mention, she was one of the few women Dad had allowed into his house since Mom died.

He’d get some groceries for Dad first and then head over there.

Nick didn’t bother knocking at his old man’s house. He never did. Praying for a good day, he carried in the groceries he’d brought. Dad stood in the kitchen, mixing something. He peered into the bowl, stirring with a slow hand. Nick knew that look. Dad was in pain. It would not be a good day.

But Dad said agreeably enough, “Nicu, I did not expect you today.”

Nick set the groceries down on the table, stacked a few cans in the pantry, and set a jug of milk in the fridge before taking a seat in the living room. He took more pleasure in the room now, what with the red wall and the pictures.

Dad came in from the kitchen with the bowl in his hands and narrowed his eyes. “You wanted something in particular?”

“Of course not. I just came to bring a few groceries and see how you were doing. As always.”

“As always, I do not need anything. You think I do not know how to buy my own groceries?”It was going to be one of those days. Nick humored him. “Of course you can. I’m just helping out.”

Sweat broke out above Dad’s lip.

“Have you taken your meds?”

Dad started whipping the contents of the bowl with his spoon. “Yes, I have taken my medication. I have taken care of myself all my life. Do you think I do not know how?”

“Of course you do.” All the same, Nick poured a cup of water and brought him a couple of Tylenol.

His old man glared at the pills and shoved them over the kitchen counter into the trash. “I spent five years in prison. Seven years in Bucharest after, and not once did you bring me my groceries. You did not tell me to take my medicines. And I survived.”

Nick spread his hands. “Of course, Dad. You’re the king of independence.”

It was useless to point out the times Nick had been called to pick him up at the grocery store because something—a security guard, a wailing baby, or malfunctioning theft alarm—left him distraught and helpless.

“Look. Just sit down. Relax.”

Dad gripped his sides, which he did when his oxygen levels were low.

Nick thought he knew all the snide things Dad could say when he was in one of his states, but he was unprepared for what came out of Dad’s mouth next. “You were dead, Nicu. And I survived even then.”

“I was dead?” A slow heat worked its way down Nick’s arms.

His first thought was dementia. But the one thing his old man had was his mind. “I’m not dead, Dad. I’m right here, speaking to you.”

“Of course you are not dead,” Dad said in raspy voice. “I was speaking of the years I was in prison. You were dead then.”

Nick looked at him, as if the words would form into some kind of logical coherence, but Dad only repeated himself. “You were dead. Dead, do you hear?”

Dad’s breathing came in shallow bursts. His old man was allowed to say he was dead, and Nick had to take whatever meaning he could from that. He wasn’t allowed to probe, because it would send Dad into a downward spiral.

Nick pushed the mixing bowl to the side. “Sit down.”

Dad complied, and Nick brought the cup of water to the table. But once Nick sat down across from him, he couldn’t just let the words stand. It rankled to hear Dad say he was dead.

“You know, I gave up a long time ago trying to make peace between us. But tonight I had the idea I might try again. Do you know why?”

Dad’s only response was stiff attention.

Nick moved his chair around the table and close to his old man. “Because there’s a girl who’s alone. She’s aloof from her mother. And she’s trying to figure out her wretched life on her own. I know too well what that’s like. I know what it’s like for your life to spin out of your control at sixteen, seventeen, and not have a parent you can turn to.”

Dad blinked, and his mouth formed a hard line.

“Sierra won’t talk to me, but I thought to myself, hey, if I make peace with my old man after all these years, maybe she’ll pay attention. So I come over here. I even think I might get you talking. You’ve been talking with April. But before I even start speaking, you push me away and tell me I’m dead to you.”

Nick stood and paced, but it reminded him too much of Dad pacing, especially those first years when he’d arrived from Romania. He leaned back against the wall, forcing himself to be still.

“No. That is not it, Nicu.” Dad opened his mouth to speak again, sighed, and gave up.

Nick came close again, but his old man only retreated, closing his eyes, his shoulders falling.

“No? It’s not what?”

Dad just shook his head.

Nick dropped his hands. “For Sierra’s sake, just once, can’t you come up with something that doesn’t make me wish I were anyone else’s son?”

Nick went still again, willing his anger back down.
Help me to forgive.

If Nick was still, Dad was a statue. “I did not come home to you, Nicu. Twenty years of anger we have between us. Thirty.” He paused for breath. “What can I say now? What would make you wish to be my son?”

Did his old man not remember being a son himself? Did he not remember what the words of a father could mean?

“Really, Dad? Don’t you honestly know? I’m too old to hold a grudge. All it would take is a few simple sentences to make a fresh start. Right now I’d settle for ‘I’m glad you’re not dead.’”

His father didn’t move, and his voice was a monotone. “I am glad you are not dead.”

“That’s it? That’s the best you can do?”

Dad groaned. “What I say will never be enough.”