Sparrow

by Mary Cecilia Jackson

  Someone is calling.

  “Savannah.”

  Before I can think, before I can run away, I find myself on the creek bank. The cold seeps through the thin soles of my shoes. Everything has gone silent.

  “Come to me, Savannah.”

  Wrapped in darkness, my mother waits for me.

  16

  Mama

  Her jet-black hair drifts slowly around her face in a breeze I cannot feel. The wide white streak at her temple shimmers. She’s dressed in the outfit she wore the last time I saw her, white capri pants and a sleeveless flowered blouse. We were baking cookies together. The smell of butter and chocolate, sugar and vanilla wafts over me. I close my eyes and let the memory wrap around me. She laughed that morning, and I laughed with her. She let me lick the batter from the mixing bowl.

  I step toward her, and when she smiles, I take another step, then another, until I’m standing in front of her.

  “Savannah,” she whispers, reaching out her arms. “My girl.” I step into her embrace, and her smile grows wider and wider until it stretches across her face, a rictus of mirth.

  I try to back away, but it is too late. My feet are rooted to the ground. My mother smiles and smiles. The capri pants and flowered blouse are gone, replaced with a trailing gown, black as a moonless night, glittering with rubies scattered like constellations across the bodice and hem. Sleek black feathers begin to cover her throat, her bare shoulders and arms, growing to points over her hands. They are so dark they look blue in the dusky light. I hear them, whispering over her skin.

  The white streak at her temple is no longer hair, but feathers that lift and tremble, as though they have a life of their own. A tiara appears on her head, a high arch of needle-sharp points, sparkling with dark jewels. Milky, opalescent pearls twine around her feathered throat and weave themselves into her hair. As I watch, unable to tear my eyes away, unable to move, enormous black wings unfurl behind her, raising themselves high over her head with a sound like a thousand birds taking off at once.

  Black stones rain from her eyes.

  “Go away, Mama. Go away. I don’t want you here.”

  She smiles, deep red lips parting to reveal perfect white teeth, sharpened to points. Near her feet, green shoots are pushing their way out of the damp earth, growing taller and taller, limbs and branches forming before my eyes.

  A lemon tree blooms beside her.

  I close my eyes, praying that this is only another nightmare, that I’ll wake up back on my sun-warmed rock, surrounded by flowers and sunlight and the smell of honeysuckle. That she will not be my eternity.

  “Go away, Mama,” I whisper again. “Go away. I hate you.”

  She doesn’t answer, just stands there, the feathers on those terrible wings moving, shivering, the stones falling from her eyes. They make an icy sound, like sleet, when they hit the ground.

  “I have a message for you, Savannah.”

  The smell of lemons is overpowering, and I press my hands to my face, trying to keep it away. Her dark eyes glitter like a bird’s.

  “I don’t care. I don’t want to listen to you. I don’t want to look at you. Whatever you have to tell me, it’s too late. You’re too late.”

  “It will never be too late, Savannah.”

  I try to clap my hands over my ears, but I’m paralyzed. My arms hang uselessly at my sides.

  “You’re dead, Mama. I won’t listen to you.”

  “What have I always told you, Savannah? What are you never, ever supposed to forget?”

  My heart aches, heavy in my chest. “Oh, Mama,” I whisper, wishing with everything that’s left of me that I’d had a mother who would wrap her arms around me when I was frightened. Who would comfort me now and tell me that I’m only dreaming. That I am not broken and dying, but whole and alive. A mother who would smile gently, tell me that she loves me more than the moon and the stars, that yes, yes, of course I will dance again.

  “You want my arms around you, Savannah?”

  She steps toward me and enfolds me in her dark wings, pressing me so close I feel them trembling, growing tighter and tighter until everything goes dark in my eyes. An agonizing pain flares deep in my chest.

  Trapped in my mother’s embrace, I am once again hiding in the suffocating darkness of the closet under the stairs. I feel the spiders crawling on my legs, their webs in my hair and on my face. I smell the stinging pine scent of the floor mop, see the shadowy bucket, the big bottle of Lysol. Curled into a ball, in the farthest corner away from the tiny door, I hear her outside. Raging. Laughing. Screaming my name over and over. When she comes for me, I will tell her. When she pulls my hair and shouts at me, I will tell her I haven’t forgotten. I know little girls should be quiet. Wicked little girls must never say a word.

  “I remember, Mama,” I say, voice gone lisping and high, like it was when I was four. “Never tell anyone, not even Daddy. Especially not Daddy. That’s what I need to remember. I’ll never tell, I promise. Please go away. Please let me go.”

  “I can’t let you go. Not when I’ve been without you for so long.”

  She pulls away from me. Her wings rise. She smiles and smiles and smiles. The lemons gleam with yellow light.

  As I watch, all her sharp edges, the wings, the shimmering tiara, her teeth, begin to blur, until only her eyes are left, still weeping stones. I hear her voice, as from a great distance. “What is your haunted name, the secret name of your deepest self?”

  And I answer, “Sorrow.”

  * * *

  The air around me is charged with my mother’s presence, the way it feels before a thunderstorm. Threatening. Dangerous. I can’t see her, but I know she is still here, somewhere. Watching me, waiting for me with her black wings. I can still feel them folded tight around me, moving against my skin, suffocating and close. I close my eyes, but she is with me. She will always be with me.

  The sharp pain flares in my chest again, like someone is squeezing my heart inside an iron fist. I lie down carefully on the damp earth, my arms and legs outstretched, like a starfish. The fallen leaves and flowers are fragrant and cool beneath me. From far, far away, I hear the sound of a machine beeping, and then one long, endless note, discordant and piercing, the period at the end of a long sentence. Gradually it grows silent.

  I try hard to breathe, and then I remember. Dead girls can’t breathe.

  I stare up through the trees at the starlit sky. The pain grows smaller and smaller until it is gone. I feel nothing but emptiness and relief.

  I find myself lying on the sun-warmed rock again. The clear blue water swirls and eddies all around me, holding me safe. My hair smells like honeysuckle, and my pointe shoes bear no trace of the mud and the dirt and the dark; the pink satin shines. I laugh out loud, because I taste pound cake. And coffee with cinnamon and sugar.

  But as I sit up and lift my face to the warmth and the light, another voice, a soft voice, calls to me. Gentle and familiar, like warm honey poured from a sparkling crystal jar, the voice pulls at me, an invisible thread anchored at my core. It is everywhere all at once, floating out to me from inside the waterfall, from the water beside me rushing over the smooth gray stones, from the sweetly scented air. A whisper at first, it quickly becomes a lilting song that refuses to let me go. I cover my ears, but I can still hear it.

  Sophie.

  I close my eyes, remembering all the nights I woke up screaming, my head and my heart full of nightmares. I remember Sophie’s soft arms around me, her jasmine perfume floating on the air, telling me even before I opened my terrified eyes that I was safe, because she was with me. Because she loved me.

  Sophie.

  “Oh, no, no, no, please. Don’t leave us, honey. Please don’t go, Sparrow. Come back, my love. Wake up, sweetheart. Wake up. Remember the lullaby I used to sing to you? I am here, little bird. Don’t be afraid. We are right here.”

  Sleep my child and peace attend thee, all through the night.

  Guardian angels God will send thee,
all through the night.

  I remember.

  My father coming home from work on soft spring evenings, tossing his polished wing tips and dark socks onto the front porch steps, the sound of his joyful sigh as his bare feet touched the cool grass.

  The lush green heat of the countless summer nights Delaney slept over at my house, how we’d crawl out my bay window and lie on the warm roof, talking about everything and nothing.

  Lucas rehearsing by himself in the small studio, brow furrowed in concentration, jumping over and over and over again until his hair dripped with sweat. The smile in his eyes when he caught me spying on him.

  Levkova in the big studio, sunlight pooled at her feet.

  Abby playing the enormous piano.

  Sophie baking brownies, stirring soup, sneaking into my room to leave little presents on my pillow. A book of poems. A sparkling stone. A gardenia blossom. All will be well.

  “Oh God, please come back, Sparrow. Please, sweetheart, please. We are all waiting for you with our arms open wide. We love you so much. Come home, baby girl. Come back to us. We love you, Sparrow. We love you.”

  I hear her anguish, feel all the voices rising inside me, a chorus of fear and grief and longing.

  Come back, come back, come back.

  I open my eyes.

  Lucas

  Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood!

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Julius Caesar

  17

  Last Sunday in August

  “Lucas, honey, wake up. Wake up, love.”

  It’s five thirty on Sunday morning, and my mother is shaking me.

  I groan and burrow deeper into the covers, pulling them over my head. “Mom, geez! Stop!”

  I hear her walk across the room and pull up the blinds. She turns on the lamps beside my bed, along with the overhead lights and the wonky ceiling fan.

  “It’s the only day I get to sleep in! Go away.”

  “I can’t, sweetie. I need you to wake up now.” She perches on the side of my bed. “Come on, Lucas.”

  I sit up slowly and run my hands through my hair, wincing at the light pouring into my eyes. I am not a morning person. Unless I’m dancing. Which I am not.

  “Mom, you are freaking relentless.”

  When I stop squinting, it’s hard to believe what I’m seeing. I actually blink, in case I’m seeing a mirage. My mother is dressed in a flowered skirt and a clean white T-shirt. Her hair is washed and tied back with a green scarf. She’s wearing gold hoop earrings and clear lip gloss. She smells like she used to, Dove soap and Olay lotion and vanilla. Her eyes are clear and focused. She looks like the mom I was trying to make myself forget, in case I never saw her again.

  “Mom? Am I dreaming? You’re dressed?”

  She looks so sad when she answers. “Yes, honey. I’m dressed and my hair is clean and I have even brushed my teeth. I’m sorry I woke you up, but I have something hard to tell you. Are you awake enough to listen?”

  “Is Anna okay? You aren’t sick, are you? Mom? Are you sick?”

  Her face softens, and she takes my hand.

  “No, honey, I’m not sick. Anna’s fine, snoring away.”

  I don’t want to hear whatever she has to tell me. So I stall.

  “Is she upside down?”

  “No, I turned her around before I went to bed.”

  Outside, the sky has turned a pale and smoky gray, the mountains still dark silhouettes all around us. I stare out the window, wishing I were high above Hollins Creek, hiking to the top of Mount Aberdeen, where it’s fresh and cool, even in the hottest part of the summer. I’d stay up there forever.

  I’m still looking at the hills, wishing myself away, when my mother says, “Honey, something’s happened to Sparrow.”

  My heart pounds so hard I feel dizzy. I want to tell her to take it back.

  “She’s at Saint Germaine’s. Someone—someone attacked her last night. They found her at Aubrey’s Cove. Sophie just called me.”

  “How bad?” My voice sounds foreign. Strangled.

  My mother’s eyes fill. “Sweetie, it’s bad.”

  “Mom! How bad?”

  “She’s unconscious and they had to put a tube down her throat to help her breathe. She has broken ribs and some deep cuts and her foot is hurt. She’s lost a lot of blood. They think she was out there most of the night. The doctors aren’t sure—” She coughs a little, like the words are hurting her throat. “They’ll know more later, but right now it’s touch and go, honey. They’re working hard to help her, but Sophie said that there’s a possibility—”

  “What, Mom? What? Are you telling me she could die?”

  My mother’s eyes fill. She takes my hands in hers. I pull them away.

  “Yes. It’s possible. Oh, Lucas, sweetheart, I’m so sorry to have to tell you this.”

  I throw the covers back and grab a pair of sweatpants off the floor. Pulling them on over my boxers, I run into the hall and tear down the stairs to the front door.

  “Lucas, no! Wait!”

  I fumble for my car keys in the bowl on the foyer table, sending it crashing to the tile floor, and run out the door. My mom catches up with me before I get to my Jeep, grabbing my T-shirt and jerking me backward. I whirl around to face her. The grass is cool and damp on my bare feet.

  “Damn it, Mom! Let go of me.” I tear my shirt out of her grasp. I yank open the door and slide into the driver’s seat, but my mother steps between the door and me. She grabs both of my shoulders and turns me to face her.

  “Lucas, I need you to listen to me.”

  “Mom, I’m backing this car out of the driveway. I’m going to the hospital. You can come with me if you want, but I’m going. With or without you.”

  Her eyes are sad and fierce and scared all at the same time.

  “Sweetheart, no. You can’t.”

  “Hell yes, I can, Mom. You can’t stop me.”

  “No, I can’t, but listen to me for a second.” I start prying her hands off, but she’s got a death grip on me. “One second, Lucas, that’s all I’m asking.”

  I put the car into reverse, but keep my foot on the brake.

  “Honey, the ambulance just brought her in a little while ago; she’s still in the emergency room. Mr. Rose and Sophie are there. The police are there, too. If you go running into all that, you’ll distract everyone from doing what they need to do. You won’t mean to, but you will. Give them some time to figure out where things stand. Sophie will let us know when we can come, and then I promise, we’ll go together. Okay?”

  I turn the car off and my mother moves away. I push past her and walk quickly down the driveway, stopping when my legs give out. It’s like they’ve turned to water, refusing to hold me up anymore. I sink to my knees, pressing my forehead to the ground. Bits of gravel and dirt dig into my skin. I want it to hurt. I hope it makes me bleed.

  My mother comes up behind me and gathers me into her arms, rocking me like she used to when I fell off my bike or caught a soccer ball with my face.

  “Oh my God, Mom, no, no, no. Not Sparrow, please. I can’t stand it.” I pound my fists on the ground. My mother rubs my shoulders, smooths my hair back from my forehead. “Hush, sweetheart. Hush now. I know I haven’t been here for you since your father died, and I’m sorrier than you’ll ever know. I’m so sorry, Lucas. I let you down, and I let Anna down. But I’m here now, honey, and I promise we will face this together. Everything is going to be all right.”

  “Mom, are you nuts? How can you even say that? Nothing is all right. Nothing’s ever going to be all right.”

  By now, lights are beginning to come on in the houses around us. Across the street, nosy Mrs. Peterson pulls aside her living room curtains and peers out at my mom and me kneeling in the driveway. Everyone will hear about this before they’ve finished their first cup of coffee.

  My mother takes my face in her hands. “I know, sweetheart. But I say it anyway, because maybe someday it will be true. Because I want to believe it. I’
m saying it because Sparrow is a fighter and a survivor. I say it, love, to get you up off this driveway and into the house so we can figure out how to help Sparrow and Avery and Sophie. And so you can tell me how I can help you.”

  She stands up and holds out her hand. “Come on. I’ll fix breakfast.”

  “I can’t eat.”

  “Me neither, but let’s try, okay? I’ll make pancakes.”

  I wipe my nose and eyes on the hem of my shirt. “Pancakes,” I say dully. “You think they fix everything.”

  “No, honey. I think it’s the only thing I know to do.”

  We walk slowly across the lawn and up the steps to the front door, my mother’s arm around my waist.

  Where are you now, Birdy Bird? If you can hear me, please don’t die. Please don’t leave me.

  “Mom, wait.” She pauses, holding open the screen door. “Tristan did it.”

  “Oh, Lucas. No one is thinking about that right now, except maybe the police.”

  “I know he did.”

  “How do you know this, Lucas?”

  “They had a huge fight in the parking lot at the conservatory. Like, he was screaming at her. And he shoved her or something at Delaney’s Fourth of July party.”

  “You saw him?”

  “I came in right after. She was on the floor, crying. And when I saw her at rehearsal, she had bruises.”

  “You think he was getting violent with her?”

  “I don’t think. I know.”

  We walk into the kitchen, where my mother busies herself with wire whisks and buttermilk and flour, chocolate chips and strawberries for me, blueberries and bananas for Anna, who’s beginning to stir upstairs. I can hear her singing.

  “Lucas, I want you to be really careful about saying anything against Tristan. If you saw him hurting her, then we need to tell the police. But if it’s just a suspicion, you shouldn’t jump to any conclusions. Certainly you should tell them what you saw, but it’s up to them to figure this out. It is not up to you.”