Bird

by Crystal Chan

  I guess I took too long to respond, because Mom’s eyebrows narrowed, and she stepped into my room. “I asked you a question, Jewel.” She cocked her head. “What is going on? Where is John staying?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. Even I could hear the guilt in my voice.

  Mom crossed her arms. “What has gotten into you?”

  A tear slid down my cheek. I shrugged.

  “Mr. McLaren said that he was coming right over.”

  My head jerked up, sending another tear down my face. I looked at her with wide, wet eyes.

  “Jewel Campbell, you’re going to talk with Mr. McLaren, and then after that you’re grounded to your room for lying.”

  Grounded. I sat there, stunned. I’d never been grounded before. But much worse than being grounded was the look on Mom’s face before she closed my door.

  It seemed like a part of her love had just flicked away.

  I started sobbing. I couldn’t help it. I was still sobbing when the doorbell rang.

  “Jewel!” Mom called.

  I gulped in air and blew my nose on some toilet paper. Then I trudged to the front door, where Mom was waiting.

  With Mr. McLaren.

  And John.

  Mom looked just as stunned as I was to see John there. John stood next to his uncle, his hands so deep in his pockets he could have punched a hole in his shorts. When he saw my puffy, red eyes, his face dropped.

  “Hi, Mr. McLaren,” I said through my stuffed-up nose.

  “Rose.” His voice was stern. “I’m so sorry.”

  I jerked my head up at him, surprised. He was sorry?

  “Eugene told me that he had cleared things up with you.”

  Mom’s eyebrows knit together. “Eugene?”

  “But from the looks of things, I guess he didn’t.” Mr. McLaren frowned, shooting a killer look at John. John shrank away.

  “So he does live with you?” Mom asked.

  “Yes. But his name is Eugene, not John.” Mr. McLaren put a hand on John’s shoulder. “Right?”

  “Right,” John mumbled.

  “Oh, I’m so relieved,” Mom said, her hands fluttering up to her face. “For a moment there I was afraid he was a runaway or—”

  “It was a cruel joke, what Eugene did,” Mr. McLaren said flatly.

  “A joke?” I asked, my voice thin.

  “Tell them,” Mr. McLaren said.

  John was silent. He glanced at me, then away. “Uncle Tim told me about you guys when I got here.”

  “Go on,” Mr. McLaren said, exhaling with anger.

  “He told me about, you know. Your brother. John.”

  My heart dropped and fell to the floor. He knew. He’d known about Bird and my family all along.

  “And at first I thought it would be funny to pretend my name was John, as a joke.”

  My breath froze in my lungs. It was all a lie. The cliff, his questions—he was pretending he didn’t know anything. And the way he was upsetting Grandpa, the way Dad thought that John coming to our family was a sign, the happy way Mom kept looking at the two of us, Jewel and John . . . all of this was a joke.

  Grandpa had been right.

  John was tricking me.

  “How could you do this to us?” I said quietly. Fresh tears streamed down my cheeks.

  Mom put her hand up to her forehead. “I think you better go now,” she said, her voice cracking.

  “How could you do this to us?” I repeated, louder. John cringed. A surge of anger quaked through me. “I hate you!” I exploded. “You’re not John! You will never be John! You have a dumb, ugly name, and you’re a dumb, ugly person, and you’re not my friend!”

  “Jewel!” Mom cried.

  But I wasn’t done. “No wonder your mother gave you away.”

  His face was crumbling right in front of me, but I didn’t care. I turned, ran to my room, and slammed my door on them all.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  AFTER Eugene and Mr. McLaren left, there was a soft knock on my door.

  “Yes?” I asked, wiping my nose on the back of my arm.

  Mom poked her head inside. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine,” I said. I pushed my face back into my pillow.

  Mom came in and sat next to me, putting an awkward hand on my shoulder. She’s not great at giving hugs or even half hugs; it’s almost as if there’s an invisible plastic glove over her hand and the touch doesn’t fully go through. Sometimes she surprises me, like the day we were sledding or when she was so happy and smiling with John. When she does things like that, though, it hurts—a place in my chest actually hurts—because those moments never, ever last long enough.

  “I’m so sorry, Jewel,” Mom said. “I was fooled too.”

  I didn’t know what to say about that. I was fooled at first, but then I was lying to Mom. Eugene was lying to us all.

  “Here.” Mom pressed something soft into my hand.

  I looked down. It was a bunch of tissues. The soft kind. I pulled myself up, and we sat on my bed in silence. A pressure headache settled between my eyes.

  Finally Mom cleared her throat. “You broke his heart, Jewel.”

  The world was caving in on itself. Like Eugene hadn’t broken our hearts? Everything was so confusing, so awful. I ached to have Mom throw her arms around me and rock me to sleep like a little kid. But she stared at some unknown speck on the wall. “You’ll have to work hard to repair the friendship,” she said.

  “I don’t want to be his friend anymore,” I said bitterly, and this time, I was mad at Mom. Why didn’t she get that Eugene was a fat, cruel liar since the moment we met?

  “I understand, Jewel. I really do. But I raised you better than to talk to people so disrespectfully.” She brushed back some tendrils of hair from my face.

  “He lied to us. He said he was John as a joke,” I burst out.

  “It was wonderful with the two of you playing together; he had been so nice. For a moment, I—” Her voice wavered.

  The muscles in my back stiffened. “I don’t want to be his friend anymore,” I repeated. I suddenly didn’t want to talk about this. Not any of it. Not about Eugene or John or adoptions. I didn’t want to think about how I thought I understood him or how I thought he understood me. My throat thickened. I wanted to smash his binoculars.

  After a while, Mom got up and left. When she closed the door I hugged my stuffed rabbit and rolled onto my side. This was just a big, elaborate joke on my family. But then why did he look so . . . ashamed? Like he wanted to shrink into an atom. If this was all a joke, wouldn’t he be happy that he’d tricked us so bad? For so long?

  I grabbed the porcelain Xolo dog on my nightstand and turned it in my hands. I liked the expression on the dog’s face—not happy, really, but a strong face, one that didn’t seem to be afraid of anything, human or spirit. Maybe it had even known that Eugene was an intruder, in a way, and was protecting me by kicking him out. I don’t know how long I lay there holding it, but when I stopped thinking so loudly I heard a strange noise. Raspy. I walked to my door and opened it a crack. There it was again, coming from Mom and Dad’s door. I went over and stood in front of their room, my ears pricked up and open.

  Mom was crying.

  I swallowed. I hated seeing Mom cry. Or hearing her. And I didn’t want to know how sad she was because now she’s stuck only with me. I retreated to my room. There, I dug under my pillow and put Grandpa’s headphones over my ears. “Mento music,” it read on the cassette, written in a careful, curved penmanship. Grandpa’s.

  The sound was coarser, older; different, not really reggae. The drums and the guitars and electronics of reggae were gone, and in its place were sounds of wood and wire and the ends of saws. At first it was strange, a little boring compared to the other music he’d given me. But something happened by the time I flipped the cassette over to listen to the other side: The rhythms had settled into my bones, and I could feel the dark, humid winds blowing over Jamaica. It was a subtle thing, thi
s mento sound, but it clung to my brain like moss to a tree.

  I listened to the cassette over and over, and the edges of my sadness slowly washed away. I imagined Grandpa, maybe my age, dancing. Being happy. Palm trees standing proud like kings. Ripe smells of unseen fruit wafting in the air.

  My legs hung over the sides of my bed, my toes twitched to the beats of the songs. But my feet wanted more. So I stood up, carrying the cassette player in one hand, and found the rhythms on the floor. Another song started. I could see the black, forested hills, the dirt paths crisscrossing the earth, the flicking lights, the stars above. I think my arms were flailing, trying to touch the sky.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I opened my eyes. Grandpa was standing in my doorway, a soft look on his face.

  My mouth dropped into an O. I didn’t know if I was in trouble or not. I clicked the stop button and pushed back the earphones. “I-It’s your music,” I stammered, as if he didn’t know.

  His cheeks lifted, like how people’s do when they’re going to smile. I felt shy all of a sudden. “I like it. Mento,” I said.

  He nodded. His shoulders were squared to mine, open. I don’t think he’d ever done that before.

  “Thank you for sharing it with me,” I said. I held out the headset and player. “Do you want it back?”

  No, he was saying with his hand, waving it slightly. He pointed at me, then his ear. Listen to it some more.

  “Okay,” I said. I struggled to find something to say. I didn’t want him to leave. “What’s your favorite song?” I asked.

  Grandpa thought for a moment. Then he took the cassette player and pushed the forward button, then the play button, then the forward button, over and over until he found the starting place for his song. Finally he pushed play and turned the volume all the way up so we could both hear the music slipping through the earphones.

  It was a fun one with a wailing, roughened sound to it. I smiled when I caught his head nodding to the beat; his eyes told me he knew every note, like he was seeing an old friend again. His hand tapped against his leg.

  I couldn’t believe it. Grandpa was in my room, being nice and sharing things with me. We were having a conversation. Honest to god, it was as if the sun were exploding. You think it’s never going to happen, but then one day it does.

  I wanted to give him something in return, and at that moment there was one thing I knew would make him happy. Truly happy.

  “John is gone,” I said. I was surprised at how much my voice twisted up.

  Grandpa sucked in his breath. Not really big, but I saw it. The song ended, the music stopped. The cassette was at the end of its side.

  “John was lying to me,” I continued. “His real name is Eugene, and I’m never going to be friends with him again.” But even as I was saying it, I felt all hollow and weepy, because that was only the beginning of the lies he told.

  Grandpa’s lips pulled together, proud. He put his hand on my shoulder, and I was surprised at how warm it was. Then Grandpa nodded.

  The rosemary did the trick.

  I was still on my bed playing with my necklace when our old Buick churned over the gravel driveway; the engine cut off close to the house. Dad was home from work. From my bedroom window, I could hear him gently click his door closed—he never slams the doors, and he doesn’t let us slam them either. We have to always gently close those doors like we’re piecing back together an eggshell.

  I could hear Dad’s footsteps in the kitchen. He has a soft way of walking, like he’s not sure if the next patch of ground will hold him. “Rose?” he called. “Jewel?”

  For the first time in my life, I didn’t respond. My eyes were still puffy from crying so hard, and Dad would take one look at me and start asking questions. I didn’t want to talk about Eugene. I didn’t want to think about what he was doing at his uncle’s right now, if maybe he was being yelled at, or if he was laughing his head off at how bad he fooled us.

  Mom answered back, though, her voice muffled through their door. Maybe she was still crying, her face even worse than mine even though Eugene was my friend, not hers. A tinge of anger sprouted in my chest. I pushed it down, but just barely.

  I lay in bed, on my back, listening to Mom’s and Dad’s voices. Not to their words—that was hard through two closed doors—but certainly to the strain, the shock. I felt like Grandpa all of a sudden, silent and forgotten, listening to everyone around me, knowing that they didn’t know how they’re sounding. For instance, did Mom realize how heavy she sounded? How annoyed? Did Dad hear the coldness in his voice?

  The tones in their voices grew louder, harsher, until their door opened, and the words tumbled out.

  “Get that look off your face,” Mom said. She was standing in the hallway, right in front of my closed door.

  “I didn’t say anything, Rose.”

  “Yes, you did. I can tell just by looking at you. And for your information, Eugene has nothing to do with it.”

  I could hear them breathing.

  “You know it does.”

  “I can’t stand you.” That was Mom. She was walking away, to the kitchen.

  “If only you had—”

  Something slammed. Maybe a cupboard. “Stop it!” she cried. “Stop talking about your stupid, idiotic things that have nothing to do with reality.”

  “Will you listen to me?” Dad was mad now. “I’ve taken this long enough. This is your fault. You refuse to accept the obvious.”

  “The only obvious thing is I married an idiot.”

  A long silence.

  I wanted to cry, but I was too afraid.

  “I see,” Dad said quietly.

  “Duppies. Spirits. Good luck. Bad luck. Nigel, do you really think that any sane person in this country would call you anything but an idiot?”

  “Rose, her picture just fell off the wall.”

  Another slam, the rattling of silverware. “So what?” Her voice inched higher now, a taut wire. “Things like that happen all the time.”

  “No, they don’t. You bring curses upon us when you talk like this, and I won’t stand for it any longer. I won’t.” A thumping, like he was hitting the counter.

  “You’re an expert on curses, Nigel.” Her sarcasm made me shiver. “Get over yourself.”

  “Then how do you explain Grandpa sensing a duppy?” Dad said, his own voice rising. “Eugene pretending he’s John? Pictures falling? How do you explain Bird?”

  “Don’t you dare talk about my son like that!” Mom shrieked, and I heard a hard slap. I dashed out of my room and into the dining room. Dad’s face was still turned, chiseled with anger. Neither of them saw me.

  “Grandpa killed my son,” Mom said, seething. “Don’t try to put the blame on me.”

  I cleared my throat. They turned and stared. The kitchen clock ticked loudly. Dad’s shoulders dropped, like his hope had ebbed away.

  “Jewel. We didn’t think you were home.” Mom’s voice wavered.

  “I’m going out,” I said flatly, and as I slammed the screen door behind me, my heart started shrinking. I could feel it.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I WENT straight to the cliff. It was the first time I went at night. Nighttime can be an uncertain time: It’s when shadows turn into solid things, when trees you know change their shape and meaning, when spirits freely roam the earth. Dad always says that you need to be careful around dusk, and then really careful when it’s completely night. If dogs bark for no reason or if a rooster crows in the middle of the night, it’s because they see something you don’t—most likely a duppy—and they’re trying to warn you. Nighttime is when the spirit world gains power and we humans lose it.

  When I was young, I was terrified of the dark for this very reason, so scared that I slept in my parents’ bed until Mom made Dad tell me that duppies aren’t everywhere at night—they only stay in cemeteries—even though Dad told me later he was saying this only to make me go back to bed and make Mom happy. Duppies are everywhere, but they
don’t necessarily bother you as long as you don’t bother them. That’s what he said, at least. By then I’d mostly gotten over my fear of the dark, except for at the cliff.

  It took a while for my eyes to adjust to the light. The moon was a waxing crescent, a cool smile, pointed and bright, but the shadows were much longer and deeper and darker than I was used to. I left in such a hurry that I didn’t take my flashlight, and the world was half hidden in the darkness, angled and cold and strange.

  A breeze blew across the earth when I reached the footpath, and the grasses bent in a blanketed rush. I shivered. Usually I love the sound of the grasses brushing against one another. Right then, though, the sound made goose bumps rise on my skin. I grimaced, thinking of the ceramic Xolo dog, which I had forgotten to bring with me. Maybe I should go back, I thought. Dad was right. This is not a good place at night.

  My jaw tightened. No. I had come all the way out here. And anyway, home was no better a place.

  I stopped short when I saw my stones. They looked so different in the moonlight, a silver and glowing ring, aloof, not at all concerned with me. Like they didn’t even want me in the center of their circle. I bit my lip and walked along the outside of the stones, pulled toward the cliff edge as if by a magnetic force.

  The space beyond the cliff was invisible in the darkness, and the darkness was deep and dense, like maybe I could step out onto it, maybe it would hold me. I held myself back. This is the edge, I told myself, looking down where my shoes stopped. Nothing good would come by stepping out into the darkness, even though it looked solid enough. The only clue that there was a gaping hollowness in front of me was the wind, swirling and howling in the space beyond my shoes. Even the air was different this late at night, thin and untamed.

  I shivered. If duppies existed, they’d surely be here, right now, all around me, waiting to trick me off this cliff. And if Bird were here, he’d be trying to help me.

  “Bird,” I said out loud.

  The wind howled.