She wants to crouch down and take a closer look, maybe reach out with an index finger to lightly touch one of the exposed bones. Will it feel as empty as it looks? But she remains standing. Not because she’d afraid to get close to the dead bird. It’s the other bird that makes her reluctant to move closer. It’s the same kind as the first one, it’s alive, and it’s sitting right next to the other’s crushed little body. It’s not exactly the same, though. Its head is covered by some kind of dark smudge, as if someone has taken a black crayon and scribbled over the bird’s face, blotting it out. Because of this, she can’t tell what the second bird is looking at—not for certain—but she can feel it looking at her, and while she’s not sure why, this frightens her. The no-face bird seems more curious than anything, almost as if it’s trying to make sense of her presence, as if it’s trying to figure out what she means.
Despite being frightened, or perhaps because of it, Brooke speaks to the no-face bird.
“What’s wrong? Are you sad your friend is gone?”
No reaction from the no-face bird. It just keeps looking at her, eyes hidden, black-crayon squiggles. Maybe it doesn’t have eyes, she thinks. Maybe there’s nothing behind the black squiggle except more darkness. Darkness that goes on and on and on without stopping.
She decides she’d had enough of this scary bird, and so she turns to head back into her yard. But then the no-face bird lets out a whistle, drawing her attention back to it. The sound is unlike anything Brooke has ever heard, certainly unlike any noise she’s heard a bird make. In fact, she’s not sure it’s really a sound at all, or at least not only a sound. It’s a single high-pitched note that sounds more like it should come from a musical instrument—or maybe a machine—than from any living creature. But at the same time, there’s a feeling with it, a pulling, tugging sensation, as if the bird is trying to tell her Don’t go. Stay.
The bird keeps whistling this strange tone, not once pausing for breath, and Brooke stands there looking down at its shadow-hidden face, terrified, unable to move. It’s then that she notices that the no-face bird, like the dead one, is missing a toe on its left foot.
She hears another sound then, one that seems muffled, as if she’s hearing it while pressing a pair of thick pillows against her ears. It sounds like .. a car horn. A second sound joins it then: a scream, one she recognizes as belonging to Mommy. She feels something hard strike her from behind, and the screaming and horn-honking sounds cut off, but the no-face bird’s weird whistle is still there with her in the darkness that follows, and it’s a long time before it finally begins to fade.
*
Teresa takes a step toward the crib so she can get a better look inside. So far, she hasn’t seen Ana move, and she has the terrible feeling that she’s arrived too late, that Brooke has already smothered her child. But Ana shifts on the mattress then, a restless wiggle as if she’s unable to get comfortable in this heat. Until this moment, Teresa’s held her breath without realizing it, and now she lets it out in a shaky sigh, grateful she didn’t arrive too late.
“Brooke? Honey? Why don’t you give me the pillow?” she says, taking another step closer.
Brooke doesn’t look at her, but her grip on the pillow tightens.
“Do you remember the time when I was hit by that car?” Brooke asks this without taking her gaze from her daughter.
The question takes Teresa by surprise, but she says, “Of course I do. You were four, and you were in the hospital for almost a month afterward. Your father and I were so afraid that you weren’t going to make it.”
“Do you remember why I was standing in the street?”
Teresa answers this question carefully. “You were fascinated by some dead animal you found. A bird, I think.”
Brooke nods. “Do you remember me telling you about the other bird?”
Teresa says nothing.
Brooke continues. “I had a lot of time to think in the hospital, and I came to understand that the bird with the crayon-scribble face was really the spirit of the dead one. But it took me years to realize what seeing it meant.”
“You were seriously hurt in the accident,” Teresa says. “You hit your head on the asphalt so hard you needed brain surgery. You can’t trust your memories from back then. The trauma...”
“Have you ever stopped to think about what the final product of life is?” Brooke says. “The reason why we’re born, why we live?”
“Of course I have, honey. Everyone thinks about such things from time to time. It’s normal.”
Teresa takes another step closer to her daughter. She’s within five feet now, and if Brooke makes a sudden lunge toward Ana, she thinks she’s close enough to stop her. At least, she hopes she is.
“A corpse,” Brooke says. “That’s what we all become in the end. The purpose of life is to create death.”
“I suppose that’s one way to look at it,” Teresa says. She starts to take another step, but Brooke turns toward her then, and Teresa stays where she is.
“I didn’t want to have a baby at first. Why bring a life into the world only for it to mark time until the day it dies? But Matt wanted children so badly, and he kept after me to change my mind until I finally did. I thought that going through pregnancy—having a life grow inside me—might convince me that living, even if it’s only temporary, was still worth it, was maybe even beautiful because it’s so short, you know?”
Teresa nods. “Yes.”
Brooke looks back at Ana.
“But it didn’t work. I tried, Mom, I really did, but having Ana didn’t change my mind. If anything, it’s only made me more sure than ever that life is an illusion, and that death is the only reality.”
Brooke begins tightening and loosening her grip on the pillow, kneading it.
“Why should I make Ana endure years of a life that’s not real, that’s only a lie? Wouldn’t it be kinder to end the lie now? I think so.”
Brooke raises the pillow and steps toward the crib.
*
Brooke is sixteen. She’s lying in bed, covers drawn up to her chin. She’s shaking, tears rolling down her cheeks. She doesn’t know what time it is. Late. The curtains on her bedroom window are open—she always leaves them open, day or night, sees no point in hiding from whatever is outside—and although there’s only a half moon out tonight, there’s still plenty of light coming through the frost-streaked glass. Her mother gave her a Valium an hour ago to calm her down, but it hasn’t started working yet. Brooke feels just as upset as she did before, maybe more so.
Earlier tonight her boyfriend Jamie came over. Her parents were out at a movie, and Jamie hoped they would have sex. Brooke hoped the same, but as soon as Jamie arrived, he showed her a bottle of whiskey he’d taken from his folks’ place. Jamie’s dad was a major-league alcoholic, and his mom wasn’t much better, and he seemed determined to follow in their booze-soaked footsteps. Drinking was something Brooke and Jamie fought about a lot, and when he displayed the whiskey with the excitement and pride of a hunter who has brought down some particularly elusive and spectacular prey, she was angry. He’d promised her that he wouldn’t drink, at least not when they spent time together, and he’d promised her that he wouldn’t try to make her drink. But tonight he decided it was time to renegotiate a new agreement between them, and Brooke wasn’t happy about it. “C’mon, babe,” he said, giving her a naughty-boy smile. “It’s January. We need a little something to take the chill off, y’know?” They fought then. He called her a tight-ass bitch who was afraid to have fun, and she said he was a selfish jerk who cared more about getting drunk than he did about her. He left, royally pissed, and as angry as she was, she was happy to see him go. Her parents got home a couple hours later, but Brooke said nothing about her fight with Jamie. Neither of her folks liked him, and she wasn’t supposed to have boys over when they weren’t home—especially Jamie.
She got the call thirty minutes later. It was Jamie’s sister Kate, and through sobs she told Brooke that Jamie had been dri
ving out in the country, too fast, without his seatbelt on, windows down despite the cold. He’d swerved off the icy road into a ditch, flipped his car into the air, and as it came down, he fell halfway out the window. When the car hit the ground, it crushed the upper half of his body, killing him instantly. Kate didn’t mention that Jamie had been drinking, but Brooke was certain that somewhere in the car’s wreckage was the shattered glass from an empty whiskey bottle.
Brooke started wailing with guilt and grief then, causing her parents to come rushing to find out what was wrong. She could barely get the words out to explain, but when she did, she followed them up with “It’s my fault! It’s all my fault!” and fell into her mother’s arms, sobbing. She’d wanted to go to Jamie’s house, to see his parents and yell at them for raising their son to be an alcoholic like them. She wanted to go the scene of the accident in case Jamie’s body hadn’t been removed yet, so she could say goodbye to him. But her parents wouldn’t let her leave the house, and eventually her mother fetched the valium and made Brooke take it. Her mother wanted to remain by her bedside, just as she had when Brooke had been sick as a child, but Brooke had told her the Valium was already making her sleepy and that she would be okay, she just wanted to sleep. Her parents had been doubtful at first, but they finally agreed. Her mother gave her a kiss on the cheek, and her father gave her a sad smile and squeezed her hand, and then—after making her promise to come get them if she needed anything—they left.
She heard them talking in hushed tones in their bedroom across the hall for a while, but it’s quiet now, and she figures they’re asleep. Despite the valium, Brooke doesn’t feel sleepy at all, and she wonders if she’ll ever sleep again.
As she’s lying there, eyes wide open, staring up at the ceiling as she cries, she hears a tap-tap-tap at her frost-rimed window. She turns her head and sees Jamie standing on the other side of the frigid glass. She knows it’s him even though his face is obscured by a smear of shadow. But she recognizes the coat he was wearing tonight, and more than that, she feels it’s him. His presence is unmistakable, as if he has a distinctive psychic scent. She sits up and wipes the tears from her eyes so she can see him more clearly.
She hasn’t thought about the no-face bird in a long time, but there it is, perched on the shoulder of her no-face boyfriend. She should be scared, and she supposes she is on one level, but Jamie’s reappearance also seems absolutely normal to her in a way, almost as if she was expecting it. She considers getting out of bed, stepping to the window and opening it, but what if Jamie is still angry with her about their fight? What might he be capable of doing to her now that he’s… different?
She stays in the bed.
Jamie stands in the moonlight, bird on his shoulder, both of them seeming somehow more real than the window in front of them, more real than her room, more real than her, even, the details of their faceless bodies sharper, more delineated, more there. Jamie stops tapping then, and even though Brooke can’t see his eyes, isn’t sure he has any behind his shadow-mask, she feels the weight of his attention on her. She expects to sense fury in him for what she drove him to do by rejecting him earlier, but she feels no negative emotion coming off him. To the contrary, she feels love.
He makes a sound then, the same unearthly whistling noise that the no-face bird made when she was four. The tone is steady, never varying in pitch or volume, and it has an almost electronic quality to it, like the emergency broadcast signal you sometimes hear on the radio or TV. But beneath the whistle is a message, one that doesn’t come in words, but which is crystal clear all the same. She listens for several moments, and then finally she nods and gets out of bed. She doesn’t head for the window, though. Instead, she goes to the bedroom door and opens it quietly so her parents won’t hear.
She walks down the hallway to the kitchen—which is lit by a small nightlight in the outlet next to the sink—steps to the counter, and removes a large knife from the butcher block. There’s a window over the sink, and she takes hold of the cord and raises the blinds. She then removes the nightlight, places it on the counter, and holds the knife in the moonlight coming through the window, watching the way the light slides across the metal like blue-white water.
Jamie wants her to join him. He told her that he’s finally free from the lie, that he’s finally real. Tonight he was born, and he wants to give her the same gift, wants to help her become real.
“It’s my birthday,” he said, and although she couldn’t see him smile, she felt it. “It can be yours, too.”
She gazes at the blade a bit longer before lowering the edge to her left wrist. She holds it there for a moment, feeling the cool sharp metal against her skin. This must be what moonlight feels like, she thinks.
All she had to do is press harder and make a single fast slash. Then, for good measure, she’ll switch hands and do the same thing to her right wrist. Then she’ll put the knife in the sink, sit down on the floor, and let the lie of life drain out of her until she’s born into darkness and can take her place beside Jamie and the no-face bird. She presses the knife edge harder against her wrist until it starts to hurt.
The kitchen light comes on then, startling her.
“Are you all right, Brooke?”
It’s Mother. Brooke is facing the sink, so her back is to her, but she’s sure Mother can see what she’s doing. She stands there, unmoving, and Mother comes forward, gently takes the knife from her hand and returns it to the butcher block. She then puts her arms around Brooke and, after a moment, Brooke embraces her, and the two of them begin to cry.
Several days later, at Jamie’s funeral service, Brooke will see Jamie standing next to his casket, the no-face bird still on his shoulder, and he will whistle so loud through the shadow enshrouding his face that she won’t be able to hear a word the preacher says.
*
“It’s your father, isn’t it?” Teresa says.
Brooke stops. She doesn’t look at Teresa, but she doesn’t shove the pillow onto Ana’s face, either. Encouraged, Teresa goes on.
“He’s only been dead three weeks, sweetie. It’s natural that you’re still grieving. Especially after the… experiences you’ve had. And things haven’t been easy for you here, what with Matt being gone so often, and you having to care of Ana, mostly by yourself. It’s a lot for anyone to deal with.”
Teresa doesn’t think her daughter is going to respond, but then Brooke says, “Yes, it is.”
Teresa steps forward then, and just as she did with the knife years ago, she reaches for the pillow in her daughter’s hands. Brooke doesn’t release it at first, but then her grip relaxes, and Teresa takes the pillow and tosses it away, out of Brooke’s reach. Teresa enfolds her daughter in her arms, and Brooke goes limp. Teresa thinks that if she lets Brooke go, she will fall to the floor.
“It’s okay, sweetie. You’re depressed, that’s all. We’ll get you the help you need. You’re going to be all right.”
Brooke starts to cry then, and Teresa pats her back, just as she did when Brooke was a little child.
*
The first light of dawn pinks the sky outside the closed window as Teresa stands next to Ana’s crib, looking down at her granddaughter. The girl has been fed, is wearing a clean diaper and a pair of soft pajamas, and is covered by a thin blanket. The central air is going, and the place is cool now. It still stinks to high heaven, but Teresa will start cleaning soon.
She called Matt at work and told him what was going on. He rushed home and took Brooke to the hospital. A few days there, some strong antidepressants and follow-up therapy, and hopefully she will be fine. Meanwhile, Teresa will stay with Ana and work to restore Brooke’s home to a livable condition. She looks at Ana then and begins speaking softly.
“Some people see too much of the world, and what they see, they can’t forget. Your mommy is one of those people. I hope you aren’t, little one. I hope you never learn the truth. At least, not before it’s time. We’re just dreams, really. All of us. Nothing but illu
sions. Death dreams life, and only when the dream ends can we truly begin to exist.
Teresa reaches down and gently touches Ana’s head. The child stirs but does not wake. On the other side of the crib, Jamie and the no-face bird gaze upon the girl, faces concealed in darkness.
“But dreams can be pleasant enough in their own right,” Teresa continues, “and there’s no need to rush things.” She turns to look at her husband and smiles. “Right, Edmund?’
The shadow-faced thing standing next to her clasps her hand in its cold stiff fingers—fingers that feel so much more solid than hers, so much more real—and whistles.
20
the sun
crystal perkins
Upright: Material happiness, fortunate marriage, contentment
Reversed: The same to lesser degrees
Wedding Day
I’m happy. So very, very happy. Today is my wedding day, and I’m going to make my husband so very happy, too. His name is Dave. My name is 101, but Dave calls me Sue. I was created for him, and only him. To make him happy.
“Hi Dave,” I tell him as I meet him at the courthouse.
Never Fear - The Tarot: Do You Really Want To Know? Page 39