The Short Life of Sparrows (7 page)

“Careful,” I say. “You’ll want to keep to the right on the porch. It’s a splintered mess on this side.”

She grips her basket to her middle, but doesn’t approach the stairs. “I thought—” Frozen in front of me in a very formfitting dress, her pale hand falls to the back of her neck. “I thought I’d bring you some muffins. I have this tendency to make too many, and my mother and I will never finish them all.”

I’m waving the two by four in my palm like a clueless idiot, and so I place it in the dirt. Swiping my hands on the sides of my pants, I attempt a look that I hope says, “
Thank you but my interest ends with the muffins.”

“How is the job going so far?” Her eyebrows curve with too much genuine excitement, as if I was the winning contender for some envious position that pays in gold.

Terrible. I can’t wait for it to be over
.
I’m trying to count my time here in days, instead of ruthless hours and minutes
. “Not bad. It keeps me busy.” 

She glances around her, probably checking to see if anyone is watching the two of us speaking in the middle of Lil’s yard. My gaze darts to the window behind me, and I relax a little since nobody is staring back from the window. It isn’t ideal, at all. All of Lil’s rules echo in my head, and namely the one about how I’m not to get too comfortable with any Seers. 

“They’re fresh. Blackberry.”

“I’m uh,” I scratch my chin, feeling embarrassment for the both of us before I say it. “They look wonderful. But I can’t. Blackberries. I’m allergic.”

Her hands tighten around the basket’s handle. When I look at her flushed skin and soft brown eyes, I wonder if I should have just kept that to myself and risked the hives. She slaps a hand to her forehead, bunching her face into a mortified puzzle of lines. “Oh, did I say blackberries? Forgive me. I meant peach. The blackberry ones are in the other basket I made up for afternoon tea with a few friends.”

“Oh?” I take the basket when she offers it, but I’m sure the muffins were small and bursting with a dark filling from the quick glimpse I had of them. Unfolding the red cloth further, I find large ones with a different glaze. I think this girl just pulled a mental switch on me while her eyelids fluttered absently the other direction. I stare into the basket, tempering my surprise that they’re undeniably filled with specks of peach. She wears half a smile as she waits for me to try one.

“Thank you.” The warm dessert crumbles as I taste a large bite of it, and my nod of approval is all I can give because it’s the perfect mix of sugary butter and ripe fruit.

“Yeah?”

“They’re really, really good.” I’m ready to eat three more, but I also don’t want to spill crumbs down the front of me while she’s standing there in her ironed pink dress. Suddenly I’m worried about how much sawdust is probably on my pants and whether I should take my tattered hat off my clumsy head.

A small cluster of Seers leans over the fence that borders Mildred’s. “Hey Daphne,” a freckled girl screeches, snickering. “Don’t let that tall glass of water keep you from showing for tea on time.” The other three gasp for air, their heads falling on their arms in a heap of giggles. The freckled girl startles, feeling at the back of her head. “Ouch. I think a bee stung me.”

Daphne has one of her hands clenched, but as she gives me an apologetic shrug of her shoulders, I can’t tell if the other Seer was bitten by a hornet or if Daphne found a way to hush their snorting. Her heart-shaped lips break into a beautiful arc, and I know I’ve just royally botched an otherwise detached and harmless situation.

A gorgeous girl with wavy hair, and a slender frame that would make any man act senseless, is baking me food—amazing food that is almost too pretty to eat. And I think she spelled it into something equally delicious that wouldn’t make me sick. It’s a recipe for choking on my own stupid tongue. I’m forcing my line of sight to the basket and my shoes as she excuses herself. If I look up at all, I know I’d be staring.
83 days
. Any task that tires my mind and my betraying male body are exactly what I need. It’s a really bad idea, to recall anything in the last few minutes—or to anticipate it happening again. I don’t need any free time to ponder her intentions. My arm goes to my forehead to wipe the building sweat from it, and I turn back to my work.

9

CALLI

I
t has been four days since my Awakening, and I have successfully avoided the dreams. I presumed that skipping the horrors by staying awake until midmorning was a rumor—a silly rumor that wouldn’t actually work. It did. You can only dodge sleep for so long though. I couldn’t fight it indefinitely, and I’m sure that I’m in a dream right now. I know because I’ve never seen crooked, hardy shrubs like these.

They grow out of the parched ground, looking gnarled and hardly green. It’s a steep incline—the mountainside plunges in front of me, in a most unforgiving way. The river below is the width of a string, and the treetops at the base of the ridge are vague blue dots. My hands shake, because I am not fond of heights or being so close to an edge that drops straight downward.

I’m not by myself though. There are two others on this thin, beaten pathway. A woman I do not know is screaming and waving her arms to the right of me. She’s insane—she has to be, to throw her arms about when there’s not much to keep from slipping. I concentrate, so I won’t lose my own balance. The man with her is unrecognizable to me too, but I feel as if we’re both receiving the wrath of the lady who yells. I’m experiencing the man’s internal torment, the guilt that makes his stomach flip and spiral. It’s as if the two of us are connected by an invisible thread. Whatever he did, he’s receiving her anger like it’s a cleansing penance. This confrontation sends a peculiar relief through my limbs, as if I’ve wanted it—prepared for it even.

The wind rips through our clothes, and I take a step backward. My fingers curl into the rock behind me, hoping to find a secure hold. Frantic, I’m so frantic because I’m battling my fear of high places as I absorb all of the emotions of this stranger.

Her shouting is in my ears, even as she’s really yelling at the crouching man. He falls to his knees, and so do I. He thinks something, and then I feel it. He moves. I move. I’m merely a living extension of him. A headache pulses in my right eye. As the woman rages and cries, I notice the soft dirt and pebbles rolling. This path isn’t sturdy enough, or safe enough to stay here. One wrong step and someone could lose their footing. Her breath is muggy. I can smell it as her lips curl near his eyes. She grabs his chin, and I feel unseen skinny fingers on my own jaw.

She bumps him intentionally, shoving him with the flats of her hands. I’m no longer taking in the scene around me, because I don’t have time to steady myself. I fall. There’s nothing to catch me.

The air isn’t my friend either. It roars as I’m racing toward the ground. There’s nothing to slow me as I hurtle—down, down, down. My arms flap wildly, my legs kicking at nothing. The ferocious speed of my body through the void fills my ears with a high whistling sound. I hit bottom with a slap. Blackness.

My eyelids shoot apart
.
Clawing my blanket, I lurch forward, panting. I rub away the visible layer of sweat on my prickled arms. My arms retreat around me. I didn’t fall off that mountain. Nobody pushed me. It isn’t real. At least it isn’t a real thing that will happen to me.

“You were screaming,” Lil whispers, and I turn to see her knitting in the chair beside my washbasin. The sun hasn’t risen yet, and I barely make her out in the wavering candlelight. “I made you some tea. My own recipe. It’ll help you go right back to sleep.”

My eyes burn with tears, but I will them not to spill. “How long does the screaming last?”

I’m beyond embarrassed to know that anyone heard me.

“A few weeks? Usually.” Laying her bundle of white yarn on the floor, she tips the kettle into the cup. With the steaming saucer hooked in her fingers, she comes to my bed. Her grayish, blond hair is unwound, a straight sheet of muted gold down the back of her brown shawl. She has never allowed me to see her that way, with her hair down around her narrow face. Molding my shaking palms around the hot teacup, she pauses before sitting on my quilt. “Don’t worry. Your body will adjust. It’s meant to adapt. In time, nothing will raise your adrenaline or breathing anymore. Not even walking barefoot through someone’s blood. A year from now, you probably won’t need the tea to fall back asleep. Drink, please.” Her hand rubs my back in hurried motions, and she combs through my hair with her fingers.

I smell chamomile, licorice, and the abrupt tang of rosemary. “It’s strong,” I remark, taking a second sip.

“I’ll make sure to put more honey in it next time. The sooner you drink it, the sooner you’ll feel better.”

Once I’ve drained the cup, she quickly takes it from me.
She isn’t exaggerating
. I put my hands on the bed to slow the spinning of my head. My tongue starts to swell and thicken. I feel as if I’m floating toward my pillow. Her shape is a soft, hazy outline over me. I feel the quilt being situated under my chin, and I tumble into unconsciousness.

I pull my knees into my chest, but the gnashing cold sneaks through my thin nightgown. I’m sitting on an iced over lake, and there are no trees or scenery. The entire area is void of anything living or moving, except for me. White fog curls over everything, and my hair does little to protect my ears from the icy bite of the wind. There’s nothing other than the deserted crust of frozen water to look upon—a rigid surface that I wish made for a softer seat. The lake continues on into the horizon without end.

A set of boots tromp toward me, and I peer over my huddled arms toward the sound. Rowe walks to me with a coy smile, like he wants me to guess some secret that amuses him. His black coat and gold chains are missing. Instead he wears a modest blue shirt the color of his eyes. “Where are your shoes?” He blows out an exasperated breath, as he bends down to unlace his boots. “Here at least put these on.”

I pull the hem of my nightgown up a bit from my ankles to find that my toes are purple and bloated from the chill. He braces my heel in the bend of his palm, pushing the shoes over my feet. The peeling boots are too big, but he tugs the laces until he’s managed to secure the tops of them just below my knees. “This is where you chose to go?” he presses, tugging my nightclothes back over the shoes—as if I’m a child that needs chided.

I look away, but he cranes his head so I have to look at him. “Of all the places? He waits for me to reply, balancing his elbows on his knees as he crouches.

“I needed to hide,” I whisper, folding my arms tighter to my legs. “I guess I forgot to pick something warm to wear—just wanted to be far away. I watched someone be pushed to their death. I fell the same way he did. I’m not dead, but for a moment I thought I was dying too. I don’t want to see anything or anyone right now.”

“Well, then why am I here?” Situating himself beside me, he rubs his hands together before pulling his knees into his arms. I try not to be annoyed that the way he sits mirrors me. His hand touches my bare shoulder, leaving radiating warmth on my tender skin. “Look at you. You’re miserable—and shivering. And for no good reason.”

“It’s not as if I have any choice,” I sputter, my lips trembling.

He narrows his eyes, looking ahead. “Why not? What if you can choose? If you could pick a different place to hide from it all—where would it be?”

I think on it, noting I can’t keep my nose from burning with the sting of winter. “A field with pink,” I say, decided. “And the sun would glow and turn the flowers to a coral orange. The grass would be as soft as feathers. Everything would be sleepy from soaking up the idle sunshine. I could nap there, without any nightmares.”

He touches his top lip with one finger, tapping his mouth and tucking his chin as he looks at me. “I think I’d much rather sit with you there. Even rats wouldn’t live here.”

The ice melts and thins around us. I grab his arm, expecting to drop into rushing water. But he just laughs as the grass and flowers get taller. As he lies down on his side, he props an arm under his head. “See,” he says, “You did it.”

I pick a blade of grass, and the smell of a freshly cut field is crisp in my nose. The blushing pink flowers hold a note of vanilla bean and wild raspberry as I lean forward to breathe them in. I stretch my arms, letting the sun’s heat settle on my grateful skin. “Do you think I’ll remember this dream when I wake up?” I ask, fearful that I’ll open my eyes with no memory of it.

My hand brushes by his as I sweep my fingers over the pink petals budding from the dirt. He squints at me. “Do you want to remember it?” he asks, closing his eyes as he rolls onto his back. He tips his head back into his locked hands, and the glow of the sun covers his tanned neck.

I pull my hand back. “Yes.” Running my fingers over the thick grass again, I angle my face to catch the toasty warmth of daylight. “It’s a perfect summer afternoon—even if you’re here too.”

He chuckles. “Yes. It's perfect. Even if I’m here too.”

My arm is kinked behind my head when my eyes open to the morning. Lying on my pillow, I stare at the ceiling. 
What an opportunistic, slimy little snake
, I think. 
I’d never associate him with anything so nice
. I’d rather dream about glue than the likes of Rowe. I throw my blanket around me, muttering.

My feet pad their way down the hall. Walking into the kitchen, I wait for Lil and Mildred to look up from their needlework. “How was the tea? Did it help you to feel a little more rested?” Lil asks.