Cheyanne pressed. “There has to be something more than that.”
I knew the answer but wondered if it would have the same impact on Cheyanne as it had on me.
“Okay, but you can’t laugh.”
Cheyanne crossed her heart.
“My mom’s mother, GeeMa, loved birds. When I was little, I remember sitting on her sofa with a big illustrated bird book, watching the feeders she kept on the patio through the slider door. We would search the pages and I would match up the birds to their illustration. I loved learning all about them. I loved that special time with her. When I was eleven, she got lung cancer and died.” Vivi paused. “I was pretty devastated because my other grandparents were in France, but a miraculous thing happened. When my mom and I went to clean out the things from GeeMa’s town house, I went to get the bird book. On the patio, even though the feeders were low, there were more species than I’d ever seen at one time. And then the hummingbird appeared.”
“The hummingbird?” Cheyanne asked, hanging on Vivi’s words.
“Yes, it was late fall, way past time for a hummingbird to still be hanging around, but there she was, right outside the door, her wings beating for all her worth, and I swear, she was looking directly at me. She darted up and down and back, never leaving the door. It wasn’t till my mom walked in the room that she darted off, but even then, she looked at my mom for a good thirty seconds.”
“You think it was your grandmother’s spirit?” Cheyanne asked.
Vivi nodded. “I did. I do. And I think it was her way of telling me the answer to everything is in the things and the people we love. So . . . birds.”
Cheyanne smiled. “Excellent answer.” Then she laughed. “Better than monster trucks or crossword puzzles.”
Vivi frowned. “What’s wrong with crossword puzzles?”
“Nothing, nothing.” Then, to my amazement, Cheyanne linked her arm through Vivi’s and leaned on her. “When are we going thrift shopping together?”
Vivi looked at me and winked.
Could it be that finally, after almost an entire fall semester, we had achieved a GF-BFF solidarity coup? All because of a tutorial video and a heartfelt story?
But I didn’t want them forgetting the most important person in this trio. “Hey, what about me?”
Cheyanne and Vivi grinned. “You?”
It was the best answer I could have gotten.
15
Now: One Week, Five Days After
“You have one new message.” Our answering machine has an Australian woman’s voice that’s way more pleasant than the messages that get left. My mom has never succeeded at getting on the “no-call” list for solicitors and the like.
This time though, the caller’s voice is hesitant as it fills the room. “Hello. Ellie. Jess. This is Abigail.”
I freeze. It’s Vivi’s mom.
“I know this is last minute, but we got Vivi back yesterday. Well, her ashes. We were hoping the two of you can come to the lake tomorrow. For a private moment. The two of you, us, our priest, a couple of close family friends. We’ll have lunch and say some things and let part of her go to the lake. Her father and I have decided we want to take some of them to France and booked spur-of-the-moment tickets. If this is a problem, let us know. Otherwise we’ll see you at eleven? Okay. Thank you.” Vivi’s mom’s voice breaks as the machine beeps the end of the recording. My mom stands frozen with me. Something in a grocery bag settles and the crinkle of the bag sounds like the air is ripping.
I split in two. This is it. The final goodbye.
“Oh, hon.” Mom reaches for me and pulls me tight as my sobs ripple across my back and down my sides and into the very marrow of my bones.
“I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.”
Mom strokes my hair. “You can, sweetheart. We can.”
“It’s too much.” There’s no need to dam the river. Mom understands.
“I know it is. It is too much. But we’ll go, and we will love each other. And you will share that love with Vivi’s parents and you’ll remember getting to be a part of letting her go to the bigger universe. And as cliché and unhelpful as it is for you right now, what you will remember in the years ahead is not this pain, but the beautiful moment of getting to be part of an intimate goodbye.”
I’m being selfish with my incessant need for comforting. Mom didn’t get this intimate goodbye. She got a military coffin and a folded flag and a slender tombstone for a veteran. There was no soft lake breeze or luncheon, or the love I know the Bouchards will shower over me and the others, even in their grief. I wipe my tears and nod. “Okay.”
“That’s my good girl. Why don’t you go bathe and when you come out I’ll have a little supper fixed for us?” She cups my cheek with her hand and holds it there.
The next morning the sky is overcast and gloomy. Nina makes a stink saying she wants to come, but I fight her and replay the message that clearly says the two of us, me and Mom. Nina wasn’t invited.
“Jess,” Mom says, but I stop her with a “No, this is my time. Not Nina’s.”
The issue is solved when Nina storms off to meet Benny for pancakes, which is fine by me. She’ll get over it.
It takes about an hour to get to the lake house. Mom turns onto the long gravel drive. My stomach clenches thinking—this is probably the last time I will ever come here.
The car crunches over fallen twigs and leaves and I can’t imagine opening the door or being able to use my feet to get to the house, the path, the dock, the boat. Because I know, without a doubt, that is how the Bouchards will do it. They will drive to an isolated cove and find a spot filled with birds and let Vivi soar.
“We’re here.” Mom turns off the engine.
“Yep.” I stare up into the trees and push back the lick of tears and the stone of grief, and hope I can hold it together.
Mom hesitates a second, then takes out the keys and opens her door. The moment will never, ever, be right for me, but I might as well move the feet and take the walk and say the goodbyes. Breath catches in my chest and punches me. Mom walks down the path to the now open front door.
“Jess.” Vivi’s father says my name with a hint of his French accent and holds his arms open for me. He is handsome and still young and it does not seem right that he and Abigail should have lost their only child.
“Henri.” I walk into his open hug and let him envelop me. It had taken a year before I’d felt comfortable calling Vivi’s parents by their first names, even though they’d insisted from the start. But now it feels natural. He pushes me back and kisses both of my cheeks, then hugs me again. He reaches out a grasping hand for Mom.
“Ellie. So good to see you again.”
Then Abigail is behind him. “Henri, bring them inside.”
Inside we are introduced to Father Reinaud, the Bouchards’ priest. There are also some neighbors, the Clarks who are older than my mom or Vivi’s parents and acted as surrogate North Carolina grandparents. Henri leads us all to the boat. Abigail carries a book of poetry by Mary Oliver, Vivi’s favorite poet. The Clarks and my mom are each given a single white rose. Father Reinaud carries a flute. And me, I’m given a small, lidded porcelain dish decorated with plumed-tailed birds. Vivi in my hands.
The outboard motor sounds subdued as we move slowly across the water. Luckily, the gray skies and chill turn to the temperature have kept other boaters off the lake. As if the world knows the gravity of the situation about to unfold on these waters.
When Vivi’s father reaches the cove, he cuts the engine and throws out the anchor line. We sit in silence for a while, letting the symphony of the slight wind and the branches, and the birds, yes, the birds, be all our thoughts and conversation. Finally, Father Reinaud brings the flute to his lips and the melody he plays is both lyrical and haunting. A light, beautiful piece that fits the essence of who Vivi was. I let my guard drop and one tear after another rolls down my cheeks. Mom holds one of my hands. The other cradles Vivi.
When the flu
te dwindles away, Abigail stands to read, but then at the last minute shifts the book to Mrs. Clark, her tears streaming too intensely for speech to follow. In a musical, Southern voice Mrs. Clark reads a poem titled “Love Sorrow.”
Love sorrow. She is yours now, and you must
take care of what has been
given. Brush her hair, help her
into her little coat, hold her hand,
especially when crossing a street. For, think,
what if you should lose her? Then you would be
sorrow yourself; her drawn face, her sleeplessness
would be yours. Take care, touch
her forehead that she feel herself not so
utterly alone. And smile, that she does not
altogether forget the world before the lesson.
Have patience in abundance. And do not
ever lie or ever leave her even for a moment
by herself, which is to say, possibly, again,
abandoned. She is strange, mute, difficult,
sometimes unmanageable but, remember, she is a child.
And amazing things can happen. And you may see,
as the two of you go
walking together in the morning light, how
little by little she relaxes; she looks about her;
she begins to grow.
Tears course my face as I listen. My relationship with God is questioning, but if he is a true and real thing, then I’d like to think that he is helping Vivi. By her side. Making sure she understands the new path she flies. When Mrs. Clark finishes reading we’re silent again until Mom, after the trill of a wood thrush along the shore, stands and bends to the water, cradling her single rose in her hand and releases it as one might release a swan onto the surface. The Clarks follow in turn. Henri and Abigail hold each other, sobbing silent tears, the boat rocking us all in the rhythm of sorrow. Then it’s my turn. I stand, my heart catching, a leaf twirling, a peek of sun between the clouds and I take the lid off the bird-covered dish. The breeze ruffles the surface of Vivi’s ash. Grayer than I expected. Not as fine as I expected. I hold the dish to the sky, to the birds, and tilt it forward so that the wind pulls Vivi away from me and in the moment that ash touches the current, the thrush swoops out across the lake’s surface toward the boat, then just as quickly swoops away.
I drop the dish and it disappears under the water.
“Oh.” I turn, horror working its way up my face.
“It’s okay.” Father Reinaud takes the lid gently from my other hand and releases it into the lake with the sinking bowl. “It’s okay,” he repeats.
Now the boat is without ceremony. Just a sad boat on the sad lake, a collection of people only connected by the one released. Henri starts the motor and takes us home. We eat a quiet lunch. We drink our quiet tea. And then it is time for goodbyes. A hug. Another hug. A “please dear, keep in touch, we’ll be in France for a month or so.” And then I’m back in Mom’s car, speeding away from the lake, away from life as I’ve known it for the past two and a half years, into . . . what?
16
Now: Two Weeks After
Sunday, I wake up too early. It’s six a.m. and the world is still dark outside. I pick up my phone and go to my voice mail messages. I’ve been avoiding them. Scared what the sound of Vivi’s voice will do to my heart, but I need her this morning. I need her to tell me something good. I start with the last.
“Jess, cough cough. Don’t forget to bring those drawings in for Mrs. Thompson. You asked me to remind you. I love you so much. I’m so excited we’ll be together next year at State.”
If I’d known what that cough meant, I would have asked to talk to her mom, had them rush her to the hospital. Maybe she’d be alive if I’d been more in tune to the subtle changes of her breathing. I listen again and none of it seems relevant anymore. Applying to State is stupid. Art is stupid. All I can hear is that tiny cough and the thickness in her voice from a virus setting in.
I go to an earlier message. “Hey, lover. I’m just lying here on the dock watching the stars, wondering what my girl’s doing.” This had been a few weekends before. My dad’s father had come to visit us from Texas and I’d stayed home to see him. If I’d known my weekends were numbered with Vivi, I would have fought my mother to be at the lake. Hindsight sucks.
The rest of the messages are part functional scheduling, part sharing silly stories, and part love songs. I transfer them to the cloud so they’ll never get lost, then I grab my iPad for a bigger screen. I go to our Instagram feeds and save every silly video Vivi was ever in. I pop over to her Facebook page but the messages from so many kids who didn’t even really know her start to piss me off.
Seriously.
Who are these people?
It’s like the equivalent of a shrine but on the computer. There are teddy bear memes (she would gag) and flickering digital candles and wall posts with stupid notes like “Only the good die young, you were among the goodest—LOL, awesome thing I’m going to college” and “Rest in peace, you’re in a better place now.”
She’s not in a better place. She’s fucking dead.
I start to type that, but stop. Her parents might check this page and as much as I want to spew all over these imbeciles, I don’t want to hurt Henri and Abigail. I want to remember the hope I had at the lake. But my hands flex instinctively. This crap makes me so angry. They didn’t know her. They don’t get to say whether she’s in a better place or not. The more I look at the stupid screen the more I want to stick my fist through it. Instead, I stand up and pace my room, my hands pulling my hair toward the ceiling before I fling them out sideways like I can shoot fireballs from my scalp. I look around for something to destroy. In front of me is the canvas print of my first really good digital owl painting. Mom had it made for me last Christmas. But I can’t stand to look at it. Birds are fucking stupid. Fucking. I said it. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I grab the canvas off my desk and stab the printed surface with my pocketknife until it’s tattered.
I’m looking for what to wreck next when the doorbell rings.
There’s Nina’s voice, followed by another. Crap. It’s Cheyanne. I told her she could come over but the last thing in the world I want right now is to hang out with her. She’s going to be on me about the portfolio, bugging me, asking questions, telling me my grief shouldn’t have power over me like it does. But she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know this hollowness.
There are footsteps and then a cooing as Emma Watson greets Chey. She enters my room with the cat draped over her neck like a blue fox stole. “Did you forget I was coming over?” Then when she sees my screen. “Ugh, that is so gross. Can you believe all those people? They didn’t even know her. What is it about teenagers dying that gives randos some kind of weird death fetishization rights?” She turns my iPad upside down and flings a tote bag full of folders onto my desk. “You look like hell. What’s up with your hair?”
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My hair on top is sticking out in a zillion directions. My eyes are puffy and swollen from crying off and on all night. Then there’s my choice of comfort clothing—the Minion Snuggie Nina gave me as a joke for Christmas last year and fuzzy striped socks in metallic silver and lime green, both of which are oversized and make me look like an underfed orphan child. “I had to do something to keep from busting my device.”
“So you tried to pull your hair out by the roots? Did you at least brush your teeth at some point this weekend?”
I breathe into my hand and sniff. “Roses.”
From her other bag, Cheyanne pulls out two Starbucks energy drinks in the big cans. “Vanilla or caramel?”
“Caramel.”
“Where’s mine?” Nina walks in from the hallway. She is fresh looking, in a soft pink T-shirt and gray jogger sweats. Cheyanne thrusts her own drink forward.
“Here, you can have this one.”
“You’ve always been the sweetest thing.” Nina takes it, even though I’m sure she realizes it’s th
e one Chey got for herself. “What are you girls up to?” She pops the opening on the can and guzzles down a big gulp. I can’t believe she just took Chey’s drink. I honestly can’t believe Chey gave it to her.
“I’m going to help Jess apply to schools.”
“Oh, that’s great.” She leans over Chey’s shoulder and flips through the catalogs. “Lenoir-Rhyne, Mars Hill, Elon. Aren’t these all private schools?” Nina glances at me, her face saying what we both know. We are not private school girls.
“Yes. But they’re all pretty easy for non-honors-track students to get into. Especially when they’ve chosen NOT to use their God-given talents in art for entry.”
“What?” Nina looks at me. “I thought you were applying to some prestigious graphic design program at State.”
I could kill Cheyanne.
My mom walks in from the hall. She’s dressed in her Sunday study clothes, jeans and a Harvard Law sweatshirt, even though her diploma’s going to come from Concord Law, an online degree program. “Hi, girls, I’m about to head out. Everything good?”
Nina turns. “Cheyanne and I are talking to Jess about school. And apparently she’s not applying to State after all.”
Mom eyes me and gives me a questioning look.
“Just stop.” I scrunch my hair in my hands like I’m trying to pull words out of my skull. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I have a month still to apply for the program, but I can’t think about it right now. It hurts too bad and y’all aren’t helping.”
None of them say anything.
Mom sips the coffee from her travel mug and blinks like she’s thinking of the next right words. “Okay, Jess. We can table this conversation. But I don’t want you to make a decision you’ll regret in the fall. You don’t want to limit yourself based on how you’re feeling today. I’m the queen of bad decisions made due to grief.” She waves her hand around to indicate our house, a move she’s said over and over was her biggest mistake. But I don’t see it that way. Moving is what brought me to Vivi.
The Meaning of Birds Page 7