Sparrow

by Sarah Moon

  “Do you want to watch TV?” I ask.

  “I should really work,” she says. I look down. I say nothing. I’m not trying to guilt-trip her, I’m just trying to figure out how we’re ever going to stop being such strangers to each other.

  “Maybe just for a little while,” she says.

  “You pick,” I say, putting our dishes in the sink and heading through the swing door. She picks some show about doctors who love each other and work too much, and I don’t know what’s happening or care too much, but I’m pretty happy to be sitting on the couch with Mom like she’s Mom and not just some lady I live with.

  On the show, one doctor is trying to save this woman’s life but the woman keeps insisting that she has nothing left to live for. I fall asleep, but I’m pretty sure that in the last five minutes her long-lost kids all come in and she finds her will to live. I don’t know what I dream about, but when I wake up gasping, I hear the sound of crushed bones in my ears—is it the TV? My mouth tastes like dirt, and my throat feels scratched and dry, like there’s something stuck in it—a feather? That’d be so predictable. I hate that this is the closest I’ll get to flying again. I hate that Mom is rushing to get me a glass of water and then she’ll ask me what I dreamt about and I’ll say I don’t know and she’ll ask if I’m okay and I’ll say yeah, and then we’ll go back to watching this show, and when I go to bed later, I’ll have trouble falling asleep and I’ll hate waking up because my mouth will taste like dirt and feathers and I won’t even remember the fall.

  My iPod is going so loud I barely hear Dr. Katz when she opens the door. I’ve been listening to “Pissing in a River” on repeat. I’ve used up almost all of Curtis’s gift cards by now. He’s been giving me iTunes gift cards for the last maybe five Christmases, birthdays, whatevers. It’s like he’s begging me, Please, cousin, get cool, try a little bit. I give him Amazon gift cards: Please, cousin, read something, try a little bit. I don’t think he’s ever used one of mine, but I’m using his now. I doubt Patti Smith and Alabama Shakes and the Pixies on repeat were what he had in mind, but I don’t care. Cool isn’t what I’m looking for. I’m looking for the ache they all have. The map in their voices that leads to the place where I live, the place I didn’t know anyone else knew how to get to.

  Gold Pumas, today, I notice, as she sits down. A little lightning-bolt earring in one ear and a small gold hoop in the other. She means business. Silence. From both of us. Expectant eyebrows over her silver glasses, the middle part of her hair, go up to the ceiling. I consider the window. Still no birds. They must have gotten the message: I got my wings clipped.

  “You know where to start,” she says.

  “Last week?”

  She nods. “Last week. We need to talk about some things—that’s for sure. But for now, let’s start with the big question.”

  “Which one?”

  “Why were you on the rooftop?”

  “I wasn’t trying to kill myself.”

  “That much is clear.”

  “This is going to sound crazy.”

  “Sparrow, I’m a therapist. You think you might let me be the judge of crazy?”

  “You can’t tell Mom.”

  “Did it involve hurting yourself or others?”

  “No. Not really. I mean, I know people thought I was trying to hurt myself, but I wasn’t.”

  “Then there’s no reason I’d have to share any of this with your mother.”

  I want to time this right. It’s 3:35. We stop at 3:50. I don’t want to have too much time at the end for her to call the nuthouse or ask me how telling her makes me feel. I can say it and bolt. Perfect.

  “Killing time over there?” she asks, a smile in her voice.

  Ugh. I hate it when she knows. I don’t even pretend. “Yeah.”

  “You know, this is the hard part. The part before you say it. The part after is just a little easier, mostly because you’re not waiting to do the hardest thing you’ve ever done.”

  Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Like Patti Smith would say, What about it. What about it. What about it. What about it.

  “I was going to fly, okay?”

  “Okay.” She’s right there. She’s saying Okay like Do you want some tea? Like this isn’t surprising, like she knew all along, like she’s heard crazier things, like this isn’t crazy to her at all, like it’s just true.

  “Do you fly a lot?”

  “Um. Yeah. I guess. I used to.”

  “But the birds aren’t around anymore?”

  “Not for a few weeks. How did you know?”

  “You said something about them last week.” True. I forgot that. The whole session is kind of gray and blurry, like an old whiteboard, the notes from last class erased but still showing through.

  “Do you think I’m crazy? Am I crazy?”

  “No.”

  “No but, is what you mean.”

  “Is it?”

  “Who thinks they can fly?”

  “You do.”

  “Yeah, me and crazy people.”

  “I think that’s the easy answer. Here’s what I know, Sparrow—you’re not crazy. You might feel crazy at times; I think all human beings who are paying any kind of attention think that they must be crazy. Sometimes we have to find ways to deal with the crazy things around us, and those can make us feel crazier, or they can make us feel safe. Wanting to feel safe doesn’t make you crazy; it makes you a human being, even when you’d rather be a bird.”

  “Okay.” I can’t look at her, but I want to. I want her to see that if she’s not telling me the truth, my world is going to fall apart at the seams. I want her to see that no one has even come close to this secret. I want her to know that she better not be lying. I want her to know that even though I feel like I might throw up right here on her rug, I also feel just a little better. I stare at the gold Pumas instead.

  Somewhere deep, deep inside of me, something begins to warm up. Something I never knew was cold to begin with.

  That weekend, we don’t go to the park, but we do ride bikes down to the pier at Red Hook. Mom wants to do some grocery shopping at the Fairway, and I’m happy to sit on the bench outside and watch the water. All I can see are seagulls, of course, and they can’t see me anymore, but there’s something nice about sitting on the bench with sun on my face and the breeze from the water rising up to greet me. It’s not flying, but it’s nice. Mom comes out and sits beside me, her bag full of groceries.

  “Hi there,” she says.

  “Hi. I was just thinking about this bike ride we had to take when you made me go to that weird Y camp. Do you remember that? We rode all the way down here.”

  “I’m surprised you remember it. That was years ago.”

  “Who could forget a death ride to Red Hook with thirty other eight-year-olds in the middle of summer?”

  “So dramatic, my daughter.”

  “It was awful!”

  “Was it as awful as the overnight?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t know, would I?” I grinned at her, just a little. The Y camp was awful—lots of team sports and swimming and walks through different parks in the city. Did I mention the team sports? Lots of them. But the worst part was the overnight. They took all us city kids upstate to “get some fresh air” and “practice wilderness skills.” I lasted exactly the length of the bus ride. We got there and they showed us the tarps on the ground that we were supposed to magically turn into tents. I was with a bunch of girls who had been separated from their other friends, who were in another tent. One of them came over to express her condolences that they’d be stuck with the weird, quiet girl, and said she hoped they’d have fun reading books all day. Then a mosquito bit me. Then I called Mom to come get me.

  I sat on a bench by the entrance to the campsite and read a book until it was dark. While I was waiting, Jacob came and sat down next to me. I didn’t really know Jacob—he wasn’t much of a talker either. I knew he was from Queens, and
wasn’t very good at sports, and that was about it. He had dreads that fell in his face, mostly because he was always looking down, and he had high cheekbones and big eyes. He looked delicate, like he could break if you touched him, and kind of beautiful, which I didn’t know boys could be. He was short for eight and his basketball jersey sat uncomfortably on his shoulders, like he hadn’t chosen it. He climbed onto the rock next to the bench I was sitting on.

  “Hi,” he said. He had never spoken a single word to me before. Now he was sitting here like we were old friends.

  “Hey, Jacob.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  “Definitely.”

  He looked down for a second, his hair covering his entire face, and then straight up to the sky. “I want to leave.”

  “You should.”

  “My dad won’t let me.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s the one who sends me to this stupid camp in the first place. ‘It’s about time you learned to play something other than video games, son,’ ” he said, shoulders back, trying to lower his voice to imitate his dad, who I could tell was a tall man.

  “Yeah, my cousin plays a lot of video games. My aunt is always trying to get him outside.”

  “I don’t like video games; that’s just what he thinks. I’m sitting in my room reading and drawing.”

  “Why don’t you tell him that?”

  “Yeah, right. My dad would think that was even worse, spending all that time on sissy stuff.” He looked embarrassed.

  “I don’t think it’s sissy. I like drawing too.”

  “You’re a girl!”

  “So?”

  “So, girls are supposed to draw and like books.”

  “Right, and you’re supposed to like dirt and sports because you’re a boy. That’s dumb.”

  “Maybe I’m not a boy. I don’t want to be a basketball star.”

  “What do you want to be?”

  He got quiet quiet and looked like he might cry. “It’s dumb.”

  “Tell me.”

  “A poet.”

  “I think you’d be a good poet.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re not what you seem.”

  His smile took up nearly his entire face. “You read a lot, huh?”

  “Yeah. Who are your favorite poets?”

  “I like Nikki Giovanni and Countee Cullen. Shel Silverstein too, but that’s kid stuff.”

  “I haven’t heard of them.”

  “You should read them. What do you like to read?”

  “I’m reading The Watsons Go to Birmingham right now. My favorite book is Harriet the Spy.”

  “I like those.”

  “Cool.”

  We both got quiet, like we just realized that we were having a conversation with a total stranger who maybe didn’t feel so much like a stranger anymore.

  “I should go back, I guess. They might notice I’m gone,” Jacob said.

  “They might?”

  “It’s not like I take up a lot of space.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “I really wish I could leave like you.”

  “It’s only one night. You’ll be okay.”

  “Did that work when they said it to you?”

  I smiled. “Not even a little.” He jumped off his rock and started to head back toward camp.

  “Hey, Sparrow,” he called over his shoulder.

  “Yeah?”

  “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

  Why not try the truth? “A bird.”

  “Cool. You’ll be good at that. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  I sat there and watched as the owls and the nightjars took their positions. The only thing better than the owl’s hooting was the roar of my mother’s engine as she pulled into the campsite. She gave me a big hug, no questions asked, and drove me to the nearest diner. I got macaroni and cheese and she got a root beer float, and we drove back home to the superior wilds of Brooklyn. I never went back to the camp.

  I spent the rest of the summer at Aunt Joan’s with Curtis. They basically let me read all summer. It was great, but I never got to see Jacob again. I hope he’s okay. I hope the world hasn’t knocked the poet out of him yet. Thinking about that summer, about Mom driving three hours to come and bring me home because she wouldn’t leave me in a tent with evil girls and mosquitoes, about our diner dinner and our long ride home, makes my heart lift just a little.

  We’re about to get back on our bikes when I decide to go for it. I give her a big hug. It’s been so long that I’m taller in our hug than I used to be. My head is at her shoulder.

  “Thanks for coming to get me,” I say.

  “It was a long time ago, honey. But you’re welcome. Anytime.”

  We ride home, my legs burning as we go up the hill to our house, Mom going strong despite the heavy load strapped to her back.

  The tally: Eleven weeks since the rooftop. Three weeks since my last flight. One week since I told Dr. Katz about flying. Eleven weeks since I’ve touched any homework, and three since Mr. Phillips said he would call my mom. I hope he forgot. Eleven weeks of weird weird weird with me and Mom. I hate that this sad, I-give-up silence between us is normal, that our hug on Saturday is the strange thing. Still, though, that hug was nice. Maybe it’s just because winter is over and gray March has marched on, but things feel a little lighter. Like there’s more room inside me.

  “Hi, Sparrow, come on in.”

  I settle in across from Dr. K and let out a deep breath. “So, things are still messed up—I know it’s not normal to want to fly, even if you’re not lying and I’m not crazy, and things are still weird at home and I still hate school, but I slept better this past week.”

  “How ’bout that,” she says, pleased.

  “Maybe I feel better because I finally told someone?”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “And because you didn’t say I was a freak, even though I’m pretty sure that I am.”

  “So, tell me about it.”

  “About being a freak?”

  “You’re not a freak. Tell me about flying.”

  “Well, you see, when birds stretch their wings, they go up to the sky and—”

  “Yes, thank you. I know what the word means. When did you start flying?”

  “I already told you about that.”

  She thinks for a moment. “On the swings with Chocolate?”

  “Yeah, I think so. I mean, that’s the first time I had the feeling. But it’s different because I was actually in the air, I was actually flying. And I didn’t turn into a bird that time, I was just me.”

  “When was the first time you turned into a bird?”

  “The day after Chocolate left.”

  “What happened?”

  “My mom was late. She’s always late. I told her what happened, and she said, ‘Well, you’ll just have to make a new friend.’ Like it was easy, like it was nothing. I know that it should be, but it’s not for me. It never has been. Anyway, I went to my room, and I cried and cried. I got into bed and pulled the sheets over my head, and I lay as still as I could. I wanted to disappear.”

  “And then it happened?”

  “Yeah. I remembered flying off the swings with Chocolate the day before. I closed my eyes, and I could feel my heart swoop up and then back down like it did when I let go of the chains of the swing. I could feel my legs ungrounded. But instead of landing, like I did the day before, I kept going. My arms got wide and smooth alongside my body. My legs went up under me, ready for a landing but curled for flight. Wind to my face. I went up into blue and didn’t look back. I didn’t open my eyes until the next morning. I stopped crying about Chocolate after that, mostly. I just flew. I’ve been flying since. Until three weeks ago.”

  “What happened three weeks ago?”

  “The birds stopped coming for me.”

  “So, a bird would come by and get you and you would leave with it?”

  “Yeah, nor
mally. And then I betrayed them, and they stopped.”

  “How so?”

  “It was the day you basically told me I could be screwed up forever or I could talk. I decided to talk. I haven’t flown since. There haven’t even been any birds. It’s like they haven’t just left me; they left the entire city.”

  “Is it lonely?”

  I can’t believe this is what she’s asking. She doesn’t seem freaked out by the fact that I look for birds to pick me up and take me away. That I’ve seen my own body covered in feathers and soaring through clouds.

  “It’s not like I have a lot of other people to spend time with.”

  “So you said that everything would be okay if you could just fly, but you can’t even do that anymore because the birds are gone?”

  “I said that?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “When we listened to ‘Pissing in a River.’ ”

  “What, do you have a tape recorder?”

  “You don’t remember, do you?”

  “No.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “Why don’t I remember?”

  “It happens sometimes. Our brains will short out so that we can do whatever we’re doing even though we’re terrified.”

  “Oh.” Well, that just about explains my whole life.

  “So, have you ever told anyone about flying?”

  “Would you have? If you thought you were crazy, would you just go around chatting about it? Hey, I’m Sparrow, also, I turn into a bird, cool, huh?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Right. So, no, I never told anyone.”

  “Not your mom?”

  “No.”

  “So, how’s life on the ground?”

  “I don’t like it. The worst part was when the birds just stopped coming. I felt dead. I bet you think I’m exaggerating or being a drama queen or something but that’s how I felt.”

  She lets out a laugh. Awesome, she must think I’m ridiculous.

  “Sparrow, you don’t speak nearly enough to be a drama queen. And the only thing that ever made you feel alive was gone, so it makes sense that you didn’t feel very alive.”