Time to Fly (6 page)

He shrugs. “I'm not saying it's likely to happen, but it's a possibility that shouldn't be ignored.” He pauses, then adds, “Still, now that they're here, one feels a certain responsibility toward them. Almost as if they're guests at our table.” He smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I can't see just letting them go hungry.”

He stands up and takes the tray, and I wave good-bye as I head across the yard back to Gran's, my head spinning. The more I learn about these parrots, the more complicated and confusing everything becomes.

In the kitchen, Gran has joined Maggie at the breakfast table. “Good news,” Gran says as I walk in the back door. “The lab just called to say that Pickles does not have psittacosis.”

That's a relief, especially after what Mr. Cowan was saying. “So what
does
he have?”

“Probably just an upper-respiratory infection. I'll keep him in quarantine for six more weeks to make sure he's no longer contagious, and I'll continue the antibiotics, too, in case he's got a bacterial infection.”

“What about E.T.?” I ask. “Do you think he could have become infected with whatever Pickles has?”

“It's possible. It certainly won't hurt to keep an eye on him,” Gran says.

How can I keep an eye on him if he won't stick around? What if E.T. gets as sick as Pickles while he's somewhere else, and he dies because nobody is there to help him? “Gran, I think we should try to catch him.”

“Easier said than done, Zoe.” Gran takes a sip of her coffee.

“I know, but if he was someone's pet, then he's used to having someone take care of him.” I think about how E.T. spoke right to me. “In fact, I think he
wants
someone to take care of him.”

Someone like me, perhaps.

Sneakers is pawing his water bowl, so I take it to the sink to fill it. “Gran, could
we
keep him?”

“Keep who?” Maggie asks.

“E.T. He's so smart—you should hear him talk. Maybe we could teach him to answer the phone: ‘Bwaack, Dr. Mac's Place!' Wouldn't that be cute?”

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves,” Gran says as she rises from the table. “Zoe, I appreciate your feelings, and I admire your desire to help E.T. But although I may know a little about treating sick birds, I am not experienced at owning parrots. And neither are you.”

“But Gran, everybody has to start somewhere!” I point out. “How am I supposed to get experienced?”

Gran shakes her head. “Zoe, we already have too many animals as it is. Besides,” she goes on, “how would you feel if he was your pet who was missing? Wouldn't you want him back? Why don't you check the classified ads in the newspaper and see if anyone's looking for a missing parrot.”

Trying to think of an argument, I hoist up the bag of dog food to fill Sneakers's bowl. It's so annoying when Gran's right all the time. Before I can think of a good reply, the front door swings open. When I see who's standing there, I drop the entire bag of dog food on the floor. Sneakers bounds over and starts wolfing up the spilled food, but nobody scolds him. Even Gran and Maggie are speechless.

“Surprise!”

You can say that again.

It's my mother.

Chapter Six

I
don't know whether to laugh or cry. I rush into my mother's arms and do a little of both.

Mom drops her bags and hugs me. “Zoe, sweetheart! Oh my gosh, you're almost as tall as I am.” She steps back and holds me at arm's length, then squeezes me again. “You're growing up so fast!”

With a sharp bark, Sneakers runs over to make sure this intruder isn't hurting me. I guess he can tell I'm OK, more or less, because his tail starts wagging and he jumps up on Mom, getting her white pants muddy. Not a great start to their relationship.

I untangle myself from Mom and scoop Sneakers into my arms. “Chill,” I whisper in his ear. “She's not an animal person.”

“Well, this is a surprise,” Gran says at last.

“What, not happy to see me?” Mom shoots back as she pulls Maggie into an awkward hug.

My usually sassy cousin is still speechless—a first for her. I guess she's never seen a TV actress up close before.

“Oh, Rose, of course I am,” Gran says. “We just weren't expecting you, that's all. How'd you get here?”

“Well, I was so excited when I got off the phone with Zoe yesterday that as soon as our rehearsal was done, I jumped on a red-eye flight straight to Philadelphia,” she says, beaming at me.

She sure looks good for someone who slept in an airplane seat all night. In fact, she looks better than ever—and so much happier than when I saw her at Christmas. I guess life in the fast lane agrees with her.

“You should have called!” Gran says. “We could have met you at the airport.”

Mom waves that notion away as if it hadn't occurred to her. “You know how impulsive I am, Ma.”

“That I do, Rose. Impulsive—and determined.” Gran gives Mom a quick hug.

I watch Mom and Gran carefully. I never thought they looked much alike, but now, seeing them together, I can spot the similarity in the way they hold themselves—with a certain inner poise and confidence, as if they know where they belong in the world.

I wish I did.

Suddenly the bell to the clinic rings. Clients have arrived.

Mom raises a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “On Sunday, Ma?”

Gran shrugs. “The world has changed since you were a girl, Rose,” Gran says. “The clinic is usually open all weekend and several nights a week.”

“Don't you get tired ot it?”

“Do you get tired of acting?”

Mom grins sheepishly. “Touché. Need a hand?”

Gran hooks her arm through my mom's and leads her toward the clinic door. “I can always use another pair of hands.”

I snort. “
You
help in the clinic? No offense, Mom, but you can't even stand the smell of a sour washcloth. This place is filled with disgusting smells, trust me.”

Mom lifts her chin and gazes down her nose at me, looking like a younger version of Gran (except with more makeup and an expensive haircut). “You don't think I know my way around a veterinary clinic?”

“No,” I fight to keep the smirk off my face.

“Hmph! You forgot one thing, Zoe—I grew up here. This was my home.” Mom unbuttons the cuffs of her black shirt and neatly rolls them up above her elbows. She glances down at her white pants, now soiled with doggy paw prints, courtesy of Sneakers. “Well, your dog must have known what was in store for me. No need for me to change at all—I'll just wash everything tonight.” She turns to Gran. “Dr. MacKenzie, I am at your service. Again.”

Gran is the one laughing now—at me—as the three of us head into the clinic.

“Are you coming, Maggie?” I ask her.

“Um, I told David I'd go and shoot baskets with him,” she says, and escapes out the front door.

I shrug and follow Mom into the clinic. This I can't miss.

 

 

 

 

 

Apparently people have been spotting the parrots all over town, and the clinic waiting room is abuzz.

“I saw them in the park behind the bank just yesterday!”

“Aren't they colorful? And there's so many of them. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes!”

“A flock of parrots, right here in Ambler. Imagine!”

Our clients seem almost as excited about the parrots as I am. If I printed up some flyers about what kinds of food the parrots like to eat, I'll bet our clients would be glad to help out in my parrot-protection program.

In the Dolittle Room, I find Mom sitting on a high stool, talking to a teenage girl holding an adorable puppy with huge brown eyes and long, curly reddish fur. “I got Shirley at the Humane Society,” the girl is saying. “We think she's a terrier-spaniel mix.”

Gran strokes the puppy's curly coat. “Could be some poodle in there, too. She's a cute little thing, whatever she is.” Gran checks her clipboard. “Looks like she had her shots before she left the Humane Society. What can we do for her today?”

“Could you just check her over, and then show me how to clip her nails?” the girl asks. “My dad says I can't keep her unless she's healthy and I can groom her myself.”

Gran smiles and nods. “Rose, why don't you show Lauren how to clip Shirley's nails. I'll be back to do the physical in ten minutes,” Gran says.

I come to Mom's rescue. “It's all right, Gran. I'll show her how to—”

Mom holds up her hand. “I'll be glad to give your pup a pedicure, Lauren.” Mom takes the clippers from the drawer of the exam table and reaches for a paw. I bite my lip, hoping Mom knows what the heck she's doing. She seems awfully confident—but then she's a skilled actress, trained to play whatever part she finds herself in as if born to the role.

“Zoe, why don't you hold Shirley while I show Lauren the technique,” Mom suggests.

The puppy gives my cheek a quick lick—sweet puppy breath!—as I settle her in the crook of my left arm. I rest my other hand on her fat, fuzzy tummy to hold her steady. Shirley looks up at me with her trusting brown eyes, and I can't help but smile down at her. I think I'm in love. Lucky Lauren.

Mom selects a paw and brings the clippers to the nail. “Just be careful not to clip off too much,” she instructs Lauren, who watches closely. “This pink part down here is called the
quick
. You don't want to clip it, or it will bleed and hurt her. Right now her nails aren't very long, so it's a little tricky. But each time you clip them, the quick will recede and be easier to avoid. Here, you try it.”

To my knowledge, they don't teach you how to trim a dog's toenails in acting school. It's obvious my mother knows what she's doing.

Lauren carefully follows Mom's example. Then Mom takes a steel file from the drawer and shows her how to file the pup's nails smooth. “Great job, Lauren. Just don't put any polish on those nails!” Mom says with a wink when they're done.

Gran returns, and I set Shirley on the table for her examination. “Your puppy's in great shape,” Gran pronounces. “And she's obviously got a superb temperament. Just give her good care, consistent training, and lots of love.”

“Oh, I will,” Lauren says as she snuggles Shirley into her arms, clearly thrilled and relieved. Shirley licks her cheek.

As we wash our hands in preparation for the next patient, I prepare to eat crow. “OK, I guess you do know a bit about animals,” I murmur to Mom. “I had no idea.” I'm impressed and oddly pleased, but I also can't help feeling a bit annoyed. It's as if there's a whole side of Mom, an animal side, that she's held back from me all these years.

“Why do you think I was so good at playing a nurse on the soap opera?” she says lightly, handing me a towel. “My mother is a doctor!”

Gran chuckles. She's more relaxed around Mom than I expected. Although she's never criticized Mom to me, I sense that she didn't exactly approve of Mom leaving me to go off to Lala-land. All their phone calls over the past year started out friendly, but then Gran would begin to look serious and turn away, and finally she'd carry the phone into another room. Before I moved in with Gran, I don't think she and Mom ever talked on the phone, at least not that I saw. I've never quite known what came between them, but the way Gran's always so tight-lipped about Mom's career, I get the feeling that Gran didn't want her daughter to become an actress.

Gran steps out to fetch her next client and returns with a tall woman carrying an Abyssinian cat. As Mom steadies the slender brownish gold cat on the table and scratches its neck soothingly, Gran peers into its large ears with a light scope.

“Looks like Abby has ear mites,” Gran says to the woman. “Zoe, would you please get the ear mite medication from the cabinet?”

As Gran puts drops in the cat's ear, the conversation turns to parrots. “My daughter lives on Telegraph Hill, in San Francisco,” the woman is saying. “She told me there's an entire population of parrots living there wild. That surprised me alright—I thought parrots could only live wild in the tropics.”

Gran hands the ear ointment back to me. “Apparently they're very adaptable,” she replies.

Adaptable
—that's the perfect word for Mom. Look how well she's adapted to life in California. And now she walks into this clinic, where she hasn't set foot in twenty years, and makes herself right at home.

I guess maybe the word could apply to me, too. When I first arrived at Gran's, I thought I'd never get used to it, but I did.