The Nature of Small Birds

by Susie Finkbeiner

“Aunt Dana?” I said, looking behind me.

  “I’ll come back tomorrow,” she said, getting up and slinging her purse over her shoulder. “Tell your mom I love her, okay?”

  I nodded, swallowing past the rock in my throat.

  The hallway from the waiting room to where Mom was took forever to walk, and I wanted to break away from under Dad’s arm to run and skid around the corner to see them. To see my baby sister.

  My legs felt like jelly, though, and I thought I’d probably biff if I tried going fast anyway.

  Mom was propped up in her bed, a little bundle in her arms. She glanced at us as we walked in, but only for a second before setting her eyes on the baby again.

  “Is she okay?” I asked, stopping a few feet from the bed, suddenly nervous for the baby. “She’s so early.”

  Mom nodded. “She came out screaming her head off, so her lungs are just fine.”

  “Check this out.” Dad sat next to Mom and pulled the knit hat off the baby’s tiny head, where a bunch of crinkly red hair stood on end. The baby had her fingers curled, hands held against her cheeks.

  “Does she have a name yet?” I asked.

  “Holly Anne,” Mom said.

  It was the most perfect name in the world.

  I rushed to the side of the bed opposite Dad and looked into Holly’s face. I’d never seen a newborn that was so beautiful, so dainty.

  “Mindy?” Dad said, patting a space on the bed. “Come meet your sister.”

  She hesitated just a second before rushing to the rest of us.

  We hovered, feeling the baby’s soft skin, peach-fuzzed cheeks, counting fingers and toes even though Mom promised they were all there.

  CHAPTER

  Forty

  Bruce, 2013

  The old orange cat from down the street usually makes his way to our yard about eleven o’clock every morning. He slinks up to the property line, crouching as he goes and stopping under the cover of a shrub I planted a couple of years ago next to the patio. His focus is sharp and trained on the bird feeder where the goldfinches congregate.

  They seem completely unaware of his presence. They go about feasting on the little black nyjer seeds. If I happen to be watching from inside the house, like I am today, the cat sits in wait for a bird to fly close to the ground. When one does, he pounces.

  Good thing those finches are savvier than he.

  I rap my knuckles against the glass of the patio door, and Buttons—that’s what Linda and I call him, at least—freezes, ears swiveling. When I knock again, he turns his head.

  “Scat,” I say, feeling foolish because there’s no way he can hear me.

  When he sees that it’s just me, he eases up the tension in his body and plops right down on the ground, rolling a little bit in the grass as if in deference to the master of the house.

  I can’t help but think he’s being a little sarcastic.

  Cats are weird critters.

  “Go on,” I say.

  “Who are you talking to?” Linda asks from the kitchen. She’s got a wooden spoon in her hand, using it to reach something on the top shelf of the cupboard.

  “Buttons,” I answer. “What are you trying to get?”

  “The foil.” A box of sandwich bags falls to the floor. “Darn it. Who put these up there?”

  “I did.” I tilt my head. “That’s where they go, right?”

  She turns toward me with a look of exasperation that makes me cringe.

  “They go in the drawer by the sink,” she says. “Where I can reach them.”

  “Need help?”

  “No, I can do it.”

  Any bit of determination my girls have they got from their mama. I’ve always been equally impressed and annoyed by how resolved she is.

  “Just let me . . .” I start.

  But that’s when the long box of foil slides to the edge of the cupboard and she grabs it.

  “Told ya,” she says.

  “Yup. And you only knocked down one thing in the process.”

  “Oh, shush.” She pulls out a near-perfect square of foil, tearing it off and forming it around the top of the pumpkin pie she made late last night. “You almost ready to go? We should leave in the next ten minutes or so.”

  “Okey-doke,” I say.

  Her sigh is about as deep as they come, and she stills her hands, palms down, on the counter. When she closes her eyes, a tear slides down her cheek.

  “Are you crying?” I ask.

  It’s a stupid question, I know it as soon as it comes out of my mouth. Of course she’s crying. I take a step toward her and put two fingers under her chin, lifting as gently as I can.

  When she lets her eyes focus right into mine, my heart skips a beat.

  I don’t think I’ll ever get used to how beautiful she is.

  “It’s a different kind of Thanksgiving, isn’t it?” I ask.

  She pinches her eyes closed again and sniffles. “Yes.”

  As far back as I can remember, Mom hosted dinner at her house, insisting on the whole crew being in attendance regardless of any other plans they might want to make. Even with all the leaves in her dining room table, we still had to set up a couple of card tables to make sure we had a seat for everybody.

  She’d put the ladies to work, directing all the jobs from basting the turkey to opening the cans of olives for the relish tray. With all those women buzzing around the kitchen, slicing the canned cranberry sauce and standing on the step stool to find the gravy boat, my mother was in her element.

  All the men would do their part to stay out of the way by watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade and performing feats of strength like cracking a macadamia nut.

  We, of course, would switch over to the Lions game, hoping that Mom would let us get in the first half before calling us to the table.

  Matthews Thanksgiving was the most chaotic, stressful, exhausting day of the year. For the ladies, at least. Especially Linda. Boy, my mother never let her off easy on those days. She worked her hard, wore her out. And, no matter what, nothing Linda did was ever quite good enough.

  I sort of thought it would be a relief for the day to not be the same old thing.

  “I’m going to miss it,” she whispers. “Isn’t that crazy?”

  “Nah.” I lean forward and kiss her forehead.

  I get it.

  This year Sonny and Mike surprised the girls with a trip to Florida to see their other set of grandparents. Zach and Holly decided to drive across state to spend the day with his brother in LaFontaine.

  Linda offered to host the rest of us here, but Dad said it would be too hard to get Mom in the car. She’s staying put within the walls of the retirement home these days for better or for worse. So the plan was for us—including Chris and Dana—to go to them and be their guests in the dining room there.

  We were able to reserve a table for the seven of us.

  This morning, though, Mindy called to beg off, claiming that she’s just not up to it.

  It’s our first Thanksgiving in over forty years without our kids.

  It’s the first of my whole life to not be celebrated in my childhood home.

  I’m a man given to occasional fits of nostalgia. Today it’s hitting pretty hard.

  I’ve had better meals in my life, but the kitchen staff at the retirement home did the best they could with the compressed turkey breast and powdered mashed potatoes. Well, and I was glad Dad snuck a contraband saltshaker in his jacket pocket.

  It’s the simple gifts we sometimes find ourselves most thankful for.

  We’re back in Mom and Dad’s apartment, where Linda and Dana pass out little plates of pie with Cool Whip dolloped on top. Boy, does it taste good. There’s nothing like pumpkin pie.

  Mom’s pulled up to the small drop-leaf table, trying to work the fork with her left hand, her right sitting limp in her lap.

  We know of at least two separate strokes that have hit her over the past month. Her doctor wonders if maybe she’s had a few m
ore that we don’t know about.

  There are some hard decisions coming our way.

  I always knew there would be a time when I’d have to face losing my folks. Still, it aches to think about not having them. How fortunate I am that I’ve still got them even at my age.

  Dad’s got the Lions game on, and we’re hoping against hope that they can pull it off against the Packers. So far, so good.

  When they score a touchdown, Dad claps his hands and hollers and I expect Mom to scold him for being too loud. She doesn’t, though, and I turn to see what she’s up to.

  “It’s all right, Mom,” Linda says. “These things happen.”

  I’ve never heard her use that name for my mother before, and it surprises me.

  She kneels and I see the piece of pie, whipped cream side down, on the floor.

  “I’ll get you another piece,” Dana says. “It’s no trouble.”

  Mom just shakes her head, her lips held in a tight line.

  One of the only places open on Thanksgiving Day is the little movie theater in downtown Bear Run. It’s the sort of place that only has room to show one film at a time, and this week it’s Frozen.

  It’s usually the kind of movie I save to watch with my granddaughters, but today’s been hard for both Linda and me. So, I buy us a couple of tickets and even spring for popcorn and pop. We’ve got the entire theater all to ourselves and sit in the smack-dab middle.

  And since it’s just the two of us, I don’t get embarrassed when I tear up.

  Boy, when that Olaf tells Anna that she’s worth melting for, I lose it.

  Good thing I’ve got that old hanky in my pocket. It always comes in handy.

  “I think that’s the best princess movie I’ve ever seen,” Linda says when I open the passenger side door for her.

  “You think so, huh?” I ask.

  “I’m going to have that song stuck in my head for the rest of the year, and I’m not upset about it at all.” Her eyebrows furrow. “Is that your phone?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “It was going off through the whole movie.”

  “Well, what if it was an emergency?”

  “I figured they’d call you too.” I reach into my pocket for my phone, and the screen is lit up with a message from Mindy.

  It’s just two sentences.

  Call me. I’ve found something.

  CHAPTER

  Forty-One

  Linda, 1975

  All summer long, the radio deejays seemed to have favored Captain and Tennille, playing “Love Will Keep Us Together” every opportunity they could. I, for one, had had more than enough of that song and cringed every time I heard the bouncy bass line at the beginning.

  Sonny, however, didn’t get sick of it, proclaiming that it was her favorite song in the world and singing every single word at the top of her lungs. Minh bobbed her head and watched Sonny’s dramatic dancing.

  So, when the song came on in the car on the way home from Kmart, I didn’t switch stations, as much as I wanted to. And I told Sonny to be careful not to move too wildly in the back seat. We’d just spent far too much on school supplies and I was feeling a little on edge. The last thing I needed was to be distracted by her arms flailing in the rearview mirror.

  All I kept thinking about was how I’d need to stretch the groceries a little tighter that week and drive a little less to save on gas. So preoccupied was I that I didn’t notice the black car in the driveway until I pulled in behind it.

  I turned down the radio and shushed Sonny when she complained about missing the end of the song.

  “It’ll be on again in half an hour,” I said.

  “Who’s that?” Sonny asked, leaning forward against the front seat and pointing toward our porch.

  “I don’t know, but don’t point, please,” I said, putting the car into park. “He’s probably just selling something. Stay here, all right?”

  A man stood on the porch in a very official black suit and tie, a clipboard in hand.

  Getting out of the car, I bemoaned that I was wearing a well-loved John Lennon T-shirt and scrubby bellbottoms and that my hair was all a tangle from driving with the windows down. I ran my hands over it, hoping to tame the wildness out of it but not sure I did much good.

  “Can I help you?” I asked.

  “Mrs. Matthews?” he said from where he stood, consulting the clipboard.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m from Immigration Services. You might remember getting a letter from us.” He looked up, cocking an eyebrow in quite a severe and unwelcoming way.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know which letter that is,” I said. “It was from Immigration?”

  “You should have received it last month,” he said. “Informing you that I’d be coming to talk about the immigration status of one Pham Quyen Minh.”

  I glanced over my shoulder to see the girls watching me from the car. When I lifted my hand to wave at them, I noticed that I was shaking. I shoved my hands into my back pockets so the man in the suit wouldn’t see me trembling.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t recall a letter like that,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt.

  He jotted something down on the paper clipped to his board and made a humming sound that told me he didn’t believe me.

  “At any rate,” he said, still writing, “the legality of Operation Babylift is in question and we’re attempting to reunite the children with their parents.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “We learned in May that some of the children were not surrendered to the orphanages willingly by their parents and therefore were displaced unlawfully,” he said, glancing up at the last word. “And so they need to be returned.”

  I tried to swallow but my throat had gone completely dry.

  “I think I need to call my husband.” I pressed the palm of my hand into the middle of my chest, feeling my heartbeat speed up.

  “I’m not here to take the child. Not today.” His eyebrow lowered and his face softened, even if just a little. “Ma’am, you need to understand. If any of these kids were taken from parents who wanted them, we’ve got a real problem on our hands. Nobody wants to support state-sanctioned kidnapping. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Right.” It felt as if my heart dropped all the way to my toes. “What do you need me to do?”

  “It’s more of what I need to do today.” He lowered the clipboard and slipped the pen into his shirt pocket. “I’ll need to get her fingerprints and take a few photos of her. That’s all for now.”

  “Then what?”

  “We’ll review her paperwork . . .”

  “Good luck,” I interrupted. “We were given hardly anything for her.”

  “And if there’s a question about her status, we’ll do some digging,” he said. “If there’s any hint of doubt, we’ll ask you to pause any and all filings for adoption.”

  “If there isn’t?”

  “Then you may proceed.”

  “And we have no say in the matter?”

  “None whatsoever,” he said. Then he lowered his voice. “I know this is scary, Mrs. Matthews, but we must do what’s right.”

  I nodded.

  “Now, if we can go inside, I’ll get my things from the car. I can be out of your hair real fast. Okay?”

  “All right.”

  I got the girls out of the car and sent Sonny to the backyard. Miraculously, she didn’t argue or ask any questions.

  The man sat beside Minh at the table, and she didn’t take her eyes off his face while he rolled her fingertips on the ink pad and then pressed them onto a sheet of paper. He took half a dozen pictures of her at different angles and she didn’t smile, even when he tried to make her laugh.

  He was out of our hair fast, as promised.

  I, however, held my teeth clenched for the rest of the day.

  It stormed that night. Buckets of rain fell, gathering into a pond at the low spot in our backyard, and I was for once glad we didn’t have a basement that would surely g
et flooded by such a downpour. Lightning sliced the sky, followed by cracks of thunder that boomed so that I felt each one all the way through my body.

  Sonny sat as close to the living room window as we’d allow, cheering with each lightning bolt that lit up the sky as if it was a Fourth of July fireworks show.

  My fearless girl. I wondered what plans God had for her. Whatever it was, there was no doubt in my mind that Sonny would charge in, taking on the world.

  On the other hand, there was Minh, curled up on Bruce’s lap, eyes shut tight and hands—fingers still stained from the ink earlier in the day—covering her ears.

  My timid girl. The plans God had for her were no less spectacular. Whatever they were, I was confident that she would rise to them.

  Another big boomer thundered and the electricity cut out, leaving us in pitch dark.

  “I’ll get the candles,” I said, feeling my way to the kitchen.

  Pulling open the junk drawer, I ran my hands over odds and ends—cookie cutter, twist ties, a couple of ketchup packets—until I felt the rough-sided box of matches.

  “Daddy?” Minh said. “No light?”

  “No light,” Bruce echoed her. “But it’s still okay.”

  I fumbled to get the box open and pick out just one match without spilling them all over the floor. Dragging the match head across the striker, sparks flashing from the friction, I breathed in the sulfur smell.

  The little flame lit up the whole kitchen, and I touched the fire to the wick of a candle I kept on the counter.

  From the living room I heard Sonny start to sing, doing her very best Toni Tennille impression. Bruce joined in and I heard the tiniest giggle that could only have belonged to Minh.

  Oh, this little family of mine.

  I carried the candle to the coffee table just in time for another chorus. When Sonny told me to sing along, I did if only to make Minh happy.

  There wasn’t a way of knowing what would happen the next day or the next month. I couldn’t guess what would happen with Immigration.

  All I could do was hold on to that moment, the sound of Sonny’s voice and the way Minh’s eyes crinkled in the corners when she smiled.