by Beth Hoffman
What had the deer seen in my brother’s eyes, eyes that so rarely looked into those of his family?
But I never grasped how fully my brother’s soul was bound to nature until I drove home during the summer of his seventeenth birthday.
TWELVE
It was a warm afternoon in September of 1976, and the air carried the first dry scents of autumn. I had driven home from Charleston, and when I parked my car and climbed out, Grammy Belle waved from the back porch.
“Honey! I’m so glad you’re here.” She made her way down the steps one at a time, and after I gave her a hug, she pointed toward the barn. “Go up and see your brother. But make sure you walk in real slow, and don’t say anything unless it’s a whisper.”
“Why, what’s going on?”
“It’s a surprise. Go on, now. He’s been waitin’ for you.”
When I reached the barn, the sliding door was open just enough for me to squeeze through. At first I didn’t see anything, but as my eyes adjusted to the dim light, a flash of movement from the open doorway at the back of the barn caught my attention. After maneuvering around a stack of lumber, I saw a sleeping bag spread out on bales of hay. Off to the side sat a lawn chair and an old floor lamp.
Beyond the back door, I could see the outline of my brother. He was standing inside the old cowshed—a weatherworn structure with a rusted tin roof. Across the front of the shed was a newly built half wall, and the opening at the top had been fully enclosed with chicken wire.
“Josh?” I whispered.
He turned, smiling shyly as I stepped forward. Inside the shed were several tree limbs, each one propped into place between the ceiling and the dirt floor. Startled by a flash of white, my lips parted as a large bird came to rest on one of the limbs. A bird the likes of which I’d never seen.
“Isn’t he great? I named him Ghost.”
The bird’s body was solid and compact; his curved beak looked razor sharp. The size of his talons was shocking. Other than the thin stripe of rusty-colored feathers that marked one of his shoulders, the bird was as white as fresh milk. Turning his head, he looked at me with intense, deep amber eyes.
I leaned closer. “What kind of bird is he?”
“Red-tailed hawk. But he’s partial albino. I’ve seen pictures of them in books, but I’d never seen one in real life until Ghost. There’s no way to know for sure, but since females are bigger than males, I’m pretty sure Ghost is a male.”
“How’d he get here?”
“I found him over by Gray’s Arch. Somebody shot him—probably a poacher. The bullet grazed his chest and passed clean through his left wing. I got him into my knapsack and brought him home. I held him while Grammy cleaned his wounds with tea tree oil, and then I made him a wing splint out of cardboard, Popsicle sticks, and thread.”
“You did?”
Josh nodded. “Then we wrapped him in gauze so he couldn’t move his wing. Dad helped me build the wall and put up the wire so we could keep him safe.” Josh turned toward the hawk and smiled. “You’ve healed up real good, haven’t you, Ghost?”
The bird’s beauty was both delicate and powerful. In one graceful swoop, he landed on the limb closest to my brother.
“Menewa,” Josh whispered, not taking his eyes off the bird. “Remember when I was a little kid and you told me the story of how the hawk was my guardian?”
I curled my fingers through the holes in the wire enclosure and smiled. “Yes . . . Menewa. Great Warrior.”
Josh and I stood, he inside the flight cage with his back pressed against the half wall, and me leaning so far forward that my nose touched the wire, wire as necessary as it was symbolic. For I knew it was impossible to enter my brother’s world. The most I could do was observe.
“So now what?” I asked.
“I’m gonna set him free.”
“When?”
“As soon as you go down to the house and tell everyone so they can watch. He’s been ready for over a week, but I waited for you to get here.”
I pushed my finger through a hole in the wire mesh and touched my brother’s arm. “Thanks.”
Backing away, I turned and walked through the darkened barn. When I reached the door, I ran full throttle toward the house and burst through the kitchen door. “Hurry! Josh is getting ready to set Ghost free!”
Daddy set down his weather diary and pushed himself up from the recliner, Mama stopped peeling potatoes, and Grammy closed her recipe box and rose from the table.
When we arrived at the shed, Josh was wearing a pair of heavy suede gloves. He already had hold of the hawk, the fingers of his right hand threaded firmly around the bird’s ankles. Ghost flapped his wings a few times when he saw us, but when Josh whispered something, he quieted.
Daddy opened the metal clip on the flight cage. “You ready, son?”
Josh nodded and pressed his left hand over the hawk’s breast. “Okay, Ghost. This is your big day.”
My father opened the door, and with Ghost held snugly against his chest, Josh stepped out. No one said a word as we followed him down the tractor path and into the center of the field. Stepping to the side, a good six yards away from Josh, we waited.
And waited.
My brother stood as if in prayer, his head tipped forward, his lips nearly touching the top of Ghost’s head. He spoke low, his words rolling into an incantation I couldn’t hear.
The landscape hushed, and even the wind stilled when Josh raised his head toward the sky. Again he said something I couldn’t hear. Slowly, he lowered Ghost to his hip. Then, in a single fluid movement, he swept his arms high and released the hawk.
In a powerful rush and flash of feathers, Ghost lifted into the air, building speed as he flew over the field. He flew cockeyed at first and then straightened out, gaining altitude until he became a perfect silhouette in the sky.
I cheered, Grammy and Mama clapped, and Daddy stood with his hands shading his eyes and a smile on his face. Josh stood with his thumbs tucked in his pockets, a breeze blowing his dark curls away from his face, his eyes fixed on the hawk.
Just before reaching the woods, Ghost took a sudden hard turn to his left. I gasped and covered my mouth with my hands. His injured wing was giving out. I watched, horrified, as he began a heartbreaking descent.
But Ghost wasn’t tumbling. He was turning. Turning back toward the field.
Toward my brother.
He swept higher and higher, and with his wings spread wide and held in perfect stillness, Ghost soared above Josh and then headed toward the woods.
It was then that I knew.
My brother belonged to the forest, its creatures, and all its mysteries. And they belonged to him.
Sometimes I’d think of my brother and be overcome by paralyzing grief, while other times I felt a blistering anger. Anger so raw that if he showed his face, I’d slap him senseless. And then there were days when the emptiness he’d left behind was unbearable.
This was one of those days.
The year after he disappeared, Mama pulled me aside and took firm hold of my shoulders. With tear-filled eyes, she told me to stop going into the woods to look for him. She said it was time that I let him go so his soul could rest in peace—she said that he was dead.
But I had reason to believe otherwise.
After Josh disappeared, I made the long drive home every few weeks to scour the hidden places we’d loved since childhood. I’d hike deep into the woods, cup my hands around my mouth, and call his name. Then I’d listen, hopeful that the mountains would send the echo of his voice back to me. I wrote him letters that I folded inside waterproof plastic containers, leaving them tucked in secret places that we’d often visited. I even left one between two giant boulders we had played on as children.
Three weeks later and in freezing temperatures, I made the long trek again. All the containers were jus
t as I’d left them, and when I reached the boulders, exhausted and numb from the cold, the plastic container was still there but it was in a different position.
And it was empty.
I wept and rejoiced and called out my brother’s name, and then I sat on the boulder with the empty container in my hands and wondered what it meant.
Had Josh really found my letter, or had a hiker discovered my neatly folded pages and taken them? If it really had been Josh, wouldn’t he have placed a message inside—a pebble or a leaf or maybe even a feather? And why was the plastic container resealed and put back where I’d left it?
But then again, that would be just like him.
THIRTEEN
Reliving that day was too painful, and I rose from the porch swing so fast it flew forward and smacked the back of my thighs. I yelped and tried to rub away the sting. With Eddie trotting at my heels, I walked inside the house and turned on the radio. While I was washing my cup at the sink and listening to a local news channel, the phone rang.
Grabbing a dish towel, I trotted around the table toward the wall phone while drying my hands. “Hello.”
“Teddi! Thank goodness you’re there. I called earlier, and when you didn’t answer, I got worried.”
“Hi, Stella. I just got in a little bit ago, and—”
“Honey, stay real calm. Everything will be all right.”
I stretched the cord across the kitchen and turned off the radio. “What happened?”
“Your mother and I went to the beauty parlor, and then she wanted to stop at the dry cleaners. When she got out of the car, she wasn’t moving right, seemed clumsy, and said she felt tingly. I got her back in the car and drove her straight to Clark Regional.”
Slam went my heart into my ribs. “Is that where she is now?”
“Yes. But don’t panic. She seems fine. Even argued with the nurses when they took her to have some tests done.”
“I’ll be right there!”
After gathering my handbag and reassuring Eddie that I’d be back, I set off for the hospital, which was a good forty minutes away. I drove fast, hands clamped on the steering wheel as my mind raced in every direction. I was knotted with worry, and yet the timing of Mama’s sudden ailment seemed suspect. Was this some prank she’d conjured up to get out of coming to Charleston, or had something really happened? While passing a string of cars, I raised my voice and said aloud, “This better not be some stunt you’re pulling, Mama. ’Cause if it is, I swear I’ll never forgive you.”
When I reached the hospital, a woman at the information desk directed me to Mama’s room. As I hurried down the hallway, I glanced into a small waiting area and saw Stella sitting in a chair by the window. Though she smiled when she saw me, she couldn’t mask the worry in her eyes.
“I just went down to her room, but she’s not back from having her tests yet.”
I sat in a chair next to Stella. “What kind of tests?”
“Well, they gave her medicine to lower her blood pressure, and then they hooked her up to some kind of machine that made a graph of her heartbeats. Not long after that, a neurologist came in. He asked her a lot of questions and had her touch her nose with her fingertips. Then he held up a pencil and had her follow it with her eyes while he moved it around her head. He spent quite a bit of time checking her reflexes and asking questions.”
“How high was her blood pressure, did he say?”
Stella wrung her hands. “If he mentioned a number, I didn’t hear it. Nurses and lab people were in and out—there was so much commotion. But he said he was ordering a CT scan. Lord, I feel so stupid. Is that where they take pictures of your brain?”
“Yes. Did she say anything about having a headache or falling?”
“No. And as far as I could tell, she was just fine up until we got to the dry cleaners. But—”
“Excuse me,” a young nurse said from the doorway. “Mrs. Overman’s back in her room.”
We hustled down the hall and into Mama’s room, where she lay propped up by two pillows. Other than her hair going every which way and the annoyed expression on her face, I thought she looked fine.
Before I could speak, she shook her head. “There’s nothing wrong with me, and I don’t want to be here.”
I leaned over the bed rail and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “What did the doctor say?”
“Haven’t seen him since I went for the scan. But all these tests are a waste of time. I think that prickly numbness came from my neck. I slept wrong last night, woke up all stiff and sore. Even my left arm hurt.”
Stella flashed me a look of concern as she pulled up a chair and sat close to the bed.
“Well, Mama, I’m sure you’re right. But it’ll be good to hear what the doctor has to say.”
“I don’t know why they have this IV in my arm,” my mother said with a scowl. “I’m not dehydrated, and there’s nothing wrong with me.”
Stella reached out and patted Mama’s hand. “Try not to get yourself all worked up, Franny. I’ll bet you’ll be out of here in no time.”
Just then a doctor walked into the room, his crepe-soled shoes squeaking on the shiny linoleum floor. He had a no-nonsense, grandfatherly look about him, and I liked the way he made direct contact with everyone in the room when he introduced himself as Dr. Ashford.
I stepped forward. “I’m Teddi, Mrs. Overman’s daughter.”
After we shook hands, he turned his attention to Mama. “Mrs. Overman, from the things you’ve told me and the tests we’ve done, I believe you’ve had a transient ischemic attack. TIA for short.” He peered over the top of his glasses and looked from me to Stella and then to Mama. “I assume you’ve all heard the term ‘mini-stroke.’”
I started chewing the inside of my lip.
“Like many TIAs,” he said, looking at Mama, “yours appears to have resolved itself in relatively short order. But that doesn’t mean you’re out of the woods.”
“What exactly do you mean?” I asked, crossing my arms over my chest.
“The CT scan is a test to rule out bleeding and other factors, but a TIA is often an indication that a stroke can occur. It’s a warning, if you will. Now, let me share what we know thus far . . .”
I listened to him talk about high cholesterol, medications, and tests he’d ordered. When the doctor spoke of Mama’s dangerously high blood pressure, I was stunned. And when Mama reluctantly admitted that she hadn’t been to her doctor in more than nine years, I looked at her in disbelief. I kept my voice level as I said, “Mama, a few months ago I asked if you’d seen your doctor, and you said yes.”
“Well, I did see him. We passed each other in the grocery aisle.”
I stared at her, incredulous.
Though Dr. Ashford didn’t scold or embarrass her, he was firm when he said, “Mrs. Overman, your body’s in a tailspin. It’s going to take concentrated efforts on both our parts to try to get you regulated. Once I have the results of all your tests, we’ll talk about risk factors—those we can change and those we can’t. Some of the medicines I’ve ordered will make you feel quite tired. Take advantage of it and get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
He tucked the clipboard under his arm and left.
Mama tried to put on a face that said none of this was a big deal. “Teddi, I’m so sorry we can’t leave for Charleston tomorrow, but I’ll bet we can go in a few days if you don’t mind waiting.”
“All that matters is that you get healthy. This is serious, Mama.”
“It’s nothing,” she said with a wave of dismissal. “Remember Leroy and Cora Fuller who lived over on Piney Run? Leroy had mini-strokes all the time. Cora said it was like watching a string of Christmas lights flicker on and off. Not one of those strokes did him a bit of harm. He lived to be into his eighties and died from a heart attack when he was shoveling snow.”
I gr
oaned and covered my face with my hand.
Stella pushed herself up from the chair and smoothed her palm over Mama’s head. “Franny, I’m not gonna get after you for not going to the doctor for all these years—what’s done is done. But I want you to promise that you’ll do everything the doctor says from now on.”
Mama nodded and closed her eyes.
A nurse’s aide brought in a dinner tray. “I’m not hungry,” my mother said. “But you two should go on home and have some dinner.”
I moved the tray to the table by the wall. “I’m not hungry either.”
Stella lifted the stainless-steel dome and wrinkled her nose. “Well, I’m starved. I hope the cafeteria has something better than this.”
I put my arm around her shoulders. “You’ve had a long, stressful day. Why don’t you go home?”
Mama agreed. “Go home and rest, Stella.”
“I’m not leavin’, and that’s all there is to it.” Stella gave my mother a big smile and headed for the door. “I’ll go have a bite to eat and be right back. You sure you don’t want anything, Teddi?”
“I’m sure.”
I took the chair and angled it so I could see Mama’s face. I wasn’t about to get her riled up by asking why she’d lied to me about seeing the doctor. I’d save that conversation for another day. She asked me how the drive from Charleston had been, and we talked about the change in plans and how long I could stay in Kentucky.
Mama rested her head against the pillow and said, “Do you have a mirror?”
I reached into my handbag and pulled out a compact. When I pressed it into her palm, the skin on her hand felt papery.
Opening the compact, she studied her reflection for a moment, then dropped her hand to her chest. “I wish you could have seen my hair before it got ruined. And what happened to my skin? I look awful.”
I dug through my handbag and pulled out a pot of tinted lip gloss. “Here, Mama. You need a little color, is all. Nobody looks good under fluorescent lights.” I put down the bed rail, sat close to her hip, and dabbed the gloss onto her lips.