by Lisa Wingate
“I have a slot at eleven a.m. tomorrow, and I think I can get through the low-water crossing, but I don’t have any way of knowing if Len will be home. It’s not like I can ring his cell. I hate to ask, but is it possible for you to let him know I’m coming?”
“Len is usually hunkered down at the house in the heat of the day, but I’ll catch him out on the lake in the morning and let him know your plans. If he has a problem with the time, I’ll call you.” He paused, and I heard a radio call in the background. He turned down the sound before coming back on the phone. “How about lunch after?”
Air bounced like a basketball behind my ribs. “If you’ll set up things with Len for me, I’ll even bring the chow.”
Mart laughed. “Well, that’s an offer I can’t refuse. I was gonna suggest lunch at one of the bakeries in Gnadenfeld or at the artist colony, though.”
Even though I undoubtedly wouldn’t see anyone I knew at either place, the idea of our going out in public together tightened the muscles in my spine and tamped down the fluffy air ball in my stomach. “I’d rather listen to the mockingbird, I think.”
“Sounds perfect.”
We arranged a time, and then the conversation ended abruptly when he saw a spotlight through the trees.
“Be careful,” I told him.
“Always,” he answered, and hung up.
I said a little prayer for his safety, without even realizing it at first. From that thought I drifted, somewhat unconsciously, into a vague contemplation of what it would feel like to be with someone who put himself in harm’s way for a living. Before the thought process could go too far, I cut it short, covered Dustin with a quilt, and went to bed.
I fell asleep thinking about the trip to Len’s house and wondering how the visit would go. I’d never been there alone before, but sooner or later, I had to start. It wasn’t right to ask Mart to hold my hand when I went to Len’s this time. The man did have a job of his own to do, after all.
In the morning, I started the day with a murky sense of trepidation, as if something had happened overnight and I wasn’t aware of it yet. The feeling stayed with me through a staff meeting at the office and my first client session of the day, during which both Daniel and his grandmother gave glowing reports about the first two sessions of water safety class. Now Daniel wanted to be a game warden or work for the Corps of Engineers when he grew up.
After I left the Crandall house, I sat in the car for a few moments, trying to gather my thoughts and analyze the knots in my stomach. Birdie’s case wasn’t so different from others I’d taken on in this job. Why did it seem different? Why, when I imagined her, did I see the image from my dream – the one in which she was balancing on the bridge railing, innocent, vulnerable, unaware that she was in danger?
Perhaps it was the mystery surrounding her that concerned me most, or perhaps it was Birdie herself. What secrets were hiding behind her soft blue eyes, and how could I unearth them? What had happened to silence her voice? What was she afraid of now? Where had she been before she came to Moses Lake?
The questions swirled randomly as I drove the road to Len’s house, fording mudholes and bouncing over furrows cut into the roadbeds by runoff from the weekend storms. The low-water crossing was touch-and-go, but I made it and crawled up the other side with all four tires grinding through the wet caliche, showering the truck with dirt, pebbles, and mud. If my boss saw all the mud, he’d probably make some joke about my abusing his truck, and then he’d pat me on the back and call me cowgirl. If he had any doubt that I could handle Birdie’s case, he hadn’t shown it. Just go with your gut, he’d advised. When you get there, you’ll know what to do.
I hoped he was right, because as the truck idled quietly up the lane to Len’s farm, my gut wasn’t doing anything but churning.
Turning the corner, I peeked through a gap in the wall of scrappy cedar trees and spotted activity in the tomato patch down the hill. Len was slogging through the garden mire, tying up tomato plants that the storm had beaten down. He’d obviously been at it for a while, because his boots and threadbare jeans were caked with mud. Behind him, Birdie was similarly attired – mud-caked jeans and a T-shirt that had probably come from the emergency stash at Lakeshore Community Church. Her oversized red boots had been cinched onto her feet with twine again, but the heavy mud sucked her down with each step, forcing her to hold the boot tops with her hands, so that she duck-walked along after Len. Over one arm she had a plastic bucket that appeared to be for collecting tomatoes knocked from the vine during the storm. Every step or two she stopped, let go of the boots long enough to gather fallen produce off the ground, then hooked her bucket over her arm and resumed the duck walk. Len waited patiently for her to catch up before moving to the next plant.
Near the middle of the row, Len lifted a fallen tomato vine, took something from underneath, held it flat in his hand, and leaned down to show Birdie. Their heads bent close over his palm, and I could tell that they were talking. A moment later he pointed to the trees in the old fence line at the edge of the garden. Setting down her bucket, Birdie stood with her hands braced on her hips, studying the branches with obvious curiosity. Finally, she pointed, jittering excitedly in place. Steadying her hand, Len pulled something from his shirt pocket and laid it in her palm. She asked a question, and he answered. But for the mud and Len’s torn, grease-stained clothing, they could have been the postcard picture of grandfather and grandchild, enjoying a sunny day in the garden.
I watched, feeling like a voyeur as they continued on to the next plant, where Len plucked something from the wire tomato cage and placed it on Birdie’s arm. Cocking her head to one side, she held the arm stiff in front of herself. I leaned out the window, my curiosity piqued. Pointing a stubby finger, Birdie gently touched whatever Len had given her. A caterpillar, I decided, even though I wasn’t close enough to see the details. I knew how it would feel against her skin – a soft, brushy tickle, almost as if it wasn’t really there.
My mind rushed back in time, and I remembered my grandmother doing the same to me when I was small and Megan too young to compete for my space. Back then, I felt like the apple of everyone’s eye – the one who was big enough to point out redbirds and bluebirds, and help my mother and grandmother plant flowers in the garden. Before Meg had learned to talk, walk, run, dance, cheerlead, and be good at everything, I was the one everybody admired. My mother and I actually had a little bit in common before I grew a chip on my shoulder and became determined to resent anything she liked. Why had I let go of the good memories, in favor of recalling all the years Mother and I butted heads and Meg and I had tangled like sumo wrestlers in the ring of sibling rivalry?
Birdie threw her head back, laughing, and I heard the voices of my own childhood – high, light, filled with joy. Joy, I realized, isn’t so much a circumstance you find yourself in but a choice you make.There was Birdie, in what most people would have considered to be bleak circumstances, yet her face was alight with happiness over something as small as a caterpillar and a moment of her grandfather’s undivided attention.
There was a lesson in that for me. Most of my life, I’d been focused on all the things I thought should be different, better, easier, less painful, or all the ways I thought I needed to be different. But when you’re busy worrying about what should be, you miss what is. I’d let moments like Birdie’s with the caterpillar slip by unnoticed, unenjoyed. A moment unappreciated is a moment lost. I’d wasted far too many moments in my life.
Letting off the brake, I rolled past the line of cedars and down the hill, the sloshing and rattling of the vehicle causing Len to notice me and stand up, squinting toward the road. I lowered the side window, so that he would know who I was. Birdie turned and saw me, and her smile faded into a suspicious frown. Slipping behind Len, she brushed the caterpillar into her tomato bucket and added whatever she’d been holding in her hands.
They met me at the edge of the driveway, neither seeming pleased that I was there. I put on a friend
ly face and tried to make things as nonthreatening as possible. Establishing a good rapport was critical to long-term success. I introduced myself and asked if they remembered me from my visit here with Mart, and then I explained why I had come this time.
Len only stood frowning at me, and Birdie slipped farther behind his leg, muddy denim clutched in her fists.
“I guess Mart McClendon told you I’d be coming by to see you?” I said, finally.
Len nodded. “Yyyy-yes’m.” He paused to stomp the mud off his boots. “Y-y-you a ugg-game uww-warden fer uhhh-kids, too?”
“A what?” I killed the engine and opened the door. This was as good a place to park as any. I doubted I’d be blocking traffic in Len’s driveway.
“A ugg-game uww-warden fer uhhh-kids.” Len’s leathery skin reddened, the saggy side of his mouth struggling over the production of each word. I felt guilty for forcing him to repeat himself, but I had no idea what he was talking about. “Y-y-you ugg-gotta see ubb-Birdie’s urr-room, where s-s-she uhhh-sleepin’.”
It occurred to me then that Len was equating my visit with that of the CPS investigator, and that somehow he’d decided that the investigator was similar to a game warden. He turned, as if to lead me to the house, but just from looking at the place, I wasn’t in a hurry to go in. Aside from that, it was a clear summer day, and I had a feeling that both Birdie and Len would be more relaxed outside.
“I don’t need to see Birdie’s room right now. I just come to do counseling sessions… . To talk,” I said quickly. “Your caseworker will probably want to look around the house when he comes, but that might not be for a week or more.”
With the current backlog, there was no telling when Birdie’s CPS caseworker would pay a visit. In general, caseworkers in this county were doing well to check in once a month. Typically, those were short visits. Because my counseling sessions with client families were weekly, and an hour long each time, I was the one with regular contact. “If you like, we can talk more about what your CPS caseworker will be looking for, what things they’ll need you to do for Birdie. If there are issues you’re worried about, we can talk about those, too.”
Len’s shoulders lifted in an uncomfortable shrug, and he slipped his hands into his pockets. He swallowed hard, his lip hanging in a lopsided arc afterward.
“Is there a place we could sit down?” I asked. Here at the edge of the tomato patch, the sun was beating down, so that it felt like a blast furnace. A channel of nervous perspiration had started dripping down my back, wetting my T-shirt. “Over there in the shade, maybe?” I pointed to some hunks of cut-up tree trunk underneath the scrubby elms in the fence line.
Len acquiesced with another shrug, and we walked through the soggy grass to the shade – Len leading the way, with Birdie clinging to his pants, and me following. The logs were wet, the humidity thick even in the shade, but I imagined that this was still a more comfortable location than the house. There was an old portable air-conditioner hanging in one of the side windows, but it didn’t appear to be running at the moment. I could only guess what it felt like and smelled like inside the house after several days of rain.
I selected an upturned tree slab, looked for spiders and other crawly things, then sat down. Len used a muddy boot to roll a three-foot section of trunk and check underneath, then he sat down across from me. Birdie stood a short distance away, silent and suspicious as I did my best to explain things to Len and tell him what would happen next. It was painfully slow going. With Len, there were no reference points for terms like permanency plan, advisory hearing, alternative family placement, and parental rights. “The caseworker probably mentioned that CPS can seek a conservatorship, if Birdie’s mother isn’t able to take care of her properly. Did you understand what he was talking about there? Did the caseworker explain?”
Len pulled a dirty bandana from his pocket, shook his head, and wiped his brow. “Unnn-nope. I udd-don’t think …” He scratched his forehead, seemingly trying to remember. Finally, he folded a fist and tapped it against his forehead. “My umm-mind udd-don’t know things ugg-good.”
I felt a rush of sympathy for him. How frustrating would it be to live with a mind that had been normal but was now struggling along, sluggish and uncooperative? “That means that the caseworker – the game warden for kids – would keep looking after her while she’s staying here with you. They’ll give you lists of the things that have to be done to make sure Birdie is healthy and the house is a safe place for her to be. Those will be things like we just discussed when I talked about the service plan – getting her signed up for school, cleaning the inside of the house, perhaps doing some repairs, making sure the dogs are safely fenced away from her, keeping guns locked up, seeing that she isn’t left by herself in the house, or allowed near the water without someone watching her, and so on. If Birdie is going to stay here, you’ll have to do that whole list of things, and you’ll have to keep doing them as long as she’s here.We could probably find people to help you with some of it. Does that make sense?”
Len’s lips trembled, and he looked at the ground, shaking his head.“I udd-don’t … udd-don’t …” Flustered, he mopped his neck with the bandana again. He was sweating even more than the heat called for. He looked up at me, his eyes red-rimmed and moist. “My umm-mind udd-don’t think ugg-good unn-no more.” His voice hitched on the last word, and Birdie left her bucket and came to stand behind him. Sliding her tiny arms around his shoulders, she rested her chin there, as if she were trying to comfort him. He had the look of a defeated man, and my heart tugged. Clearly, he loved his granddaughter and wanted to take care of her. How much was that love worth? Was it worth living in a ramshackle house in the middle of nowhere, with a caretaker who had cognitive limitations?
Birdie’s wide, blue eyes studied me, her expression soulful, bleak, silently pleading for me to leave things alone. They didn’t teach you how to deal with situations like this in psychology class.
“Listen.” I reached across the space between us and laid my hand on Len’s arm. “I’ll do everything I can to help you. I promise.” My mind spun ahead. I didn’t even know how well, or if, Len could read the list of items on the DFPS Service Plan. If Birdie’s medical checkup showed signs of former abuse or neglect, things would become even more complicated. Either way, there would be court proceedings. Someone would have to help Len understand the schedule of appointments – where to take Birdie and when. I could see about arranging a Court Appointed Special Advocate, CASA, volunteer to assist. Then there was the house. Len wouldn’t know how to get it into some sort of acceptable condition. Habitat for Humanity wouldn’t consider coming all the way out here. Perhaps some volunteers from Moses Lake, or a church, or charity? Len didn’t like visitors. Would he cooperate?
What if Birdie’s mother came waltzing back in the same way she’d left?
Maybe a CPS conservatorship and a foster home would be best. It’s the simplest way, the easiest… .
But I’d made that promise to Len for a reason. There was nothing easy or simple about the look in Birdie’s eyes. She clung to her grandfather the way a flood victim clings to a tree – as if he were the last solid thing in the world. Somehow I had to make sure that in trying to help her, we didn’t do harm.
“I’d like to talk to Birdie for a while now, if that’s all right.” Our appointment time was ticking away, and I hadn’t even attempted to make meaningful contact with Birdie. “Maybe she and I could take a little walk, and she could show me her room, or some things she likes to play with.”
Len’s lips worked back and forth over his teeth, and he shifted uncomfortably, touching the circle of Birdie’s arms.
“We won’t go far.” I tried to appear reassuring, accessible, safe. “Just to the house.” Birdie flicked a glance toward the yard. “So she can show me what things she likes to do.” Typically, kids were more willing to talk about pets and favorite toys than anything else.
Rubbing the stubble on his chin, his lips pleating and smo
othing, Len nodded, finally. “She ugg-got a c-c-coon.” Saliva sprayed over my arm, and I fought the urge to wipe it on my jeans. “A p-play c-c-coon. Ugg-go show ’er, Birrrdie.”
Birdie unlaced her arms and disconnected herself from Len, then stood with her hands balled into fists and her head tucked.
“It’sss all urr-right.” Len patted her on the head as he might a favorite dog. “Ugg-go on.” He rose from his seat as Birdie moved a few steps onto the driveway. Birdie cast an uncertain look at him, digging a toe in the gravel. “Uggg-go on,” Len said again, picking up the buckets.
I walked to the driveway, stood beside Birdie, and extended a hand to see if she’d take it. “Birdie, can you show me some of your favorite things? Things you really, really like?”
Her response was a bemused frown, and rather than taking my hand, she spun around, dashed back to Len, and tried to grab the tomato bucket. Len resisted the pull at first, but then she whispered something, and he lowered the bucket to let her reach inside. She slipped in one hand, pulled something out and held it in her fist, then slipped in the other and repeated the process before clomping through the ditch to stand with me again. Apparently, the first things she wanted to show me were rescued tomatoes.
“What do you have there?” I asked, bending close to her and tapping the back of her hand. “Did you find something interesting in the bucket? Did you bring something for me to see?”
Her eyes brightened, her cupid’s-bow lips quirking sideways, as if she were trying to hide a smile.
“Is it a surprise?”
Tucking her chin and hiking her shoulders, she offered a barely audible snicker.
“Can I see? I love surprises.” I held out my hand, palm up, and she rested one fist inside it, then slowly revealed the contents. In her palm lay a tiny eggshell, soft blue and paper-thin, in jagged halves, like two pieces of a puzzle. “Oh,” I said, touching it with a fingertip. “That’s beautiful. Look how small it is. I guess there must be a nest near your garden.” Turning the shell gently, I studied it, realizing that while they were working in the garden, Len had been taking her on a treasure hunt of sorts – showing her caterpillars and hatchling eggs blown from a nest in the storm. Things most people would walk by without noticing. That kind of attention was rare and valuable for a child like Birdie. For any child. “I wonder what sort of baby bird came out of this egg?”