Birdie and Me

by J. M. M. Nuanez

  Patrick pushes his hat up and sighs.

  “At first they were tied up with your mama. I was mad at her. And I was mad at myself because you two reminded me that I’d made a big mistake.” He rubs his jaw. “But I guess now, I just want to get to know you guys.”

  A light comes on in the house.

  “Okay. Well, I’m Jack, and this is Birdie,” I say.

  Duke nudges the back of Patrick’s neck. “And I’m Patrick, Beth’s brother. Your uncle.”

  **Observation #798: Silo Shed

  Birdie was sort of right about the silo shed: It’s a grain bin, not a silo (according to Patrick)

  18-foot diameter

  3 windows (1 still broken)

  1 large door with a padlock

  Made of corrugated metal

  The silo shed looks like a spaceship, especially when it’s lit up at night, its cone roof seeming to hover in the trees & bushes. In a way, it’s like something from outer space, from some other place.

  Wherever Mama is.

  CHAPTER 20

  WHAT HOPE LOOKS LIKE

  In the morning, me, Patrick, and Birdie go out to the shed and begin bringing everything inside the house. Uncle Carl is still asleep upstairs in an extra room that’s always been locked.

  No one talks as we go back and forth between the house and the silo shed, and part of me wishes that Patrick would leave us alone to do this. Because as I carry the boxes and bags, I see a piece of fabric sticking out, or the handle of a mug, or the cover of a book, and I know exactly what it is, and all I want to do is feel the weight of it in my hands and know it’s real.

  But rain is supposed to come soon and Patrick said we should get everything inside if we want to look through it.

  We work for an hour and then take a break before deciding what to do with the shelves, chairs, three dressers, and two small tables.

  Patrick goes into the kitchen and Birdie and me sit in the middle of the bags and boxes looking around. Birdie notices a box of old magazine clippings and rushes over to it. I try to decide what to open first.

  For just a moment, I feel like I’m drowning, which seems so stupid because all I’ve been wishing for is to have a piece of home and now I have it. I have it times a thousand.

  Patrick comes back into the living room with two cups of coffee and looks around at all the stuff with a tired face. He says, “I’ll leave you guys to it,” and then goes upstairs.

  Last night he had asked us if we wanted to look through the silo shed right then, but it was dark and cold and windy, and we were tired. And I couldn’t help thinking of ghosts even though I don’t believe in them, but mostly I didn’t want to go through everything with Patrick standing over us.

  Birdie kneels down beside me, holding a Ziploc bag and a picture of him and Mama and me from when he was a toddler. The bag has a bunch of magnets, along with more pictures and old flyers, and a sketch of a Breakfast at Tiffany’s Audrey Hepburn that Birdie did when he was seven. There’s also an A+ book report I wrote in fifth grade on a book called The One and Only Ivan. My teacher had written: You have a very special eye! Keep looking, keep watching, keep listening. It’s a gift. Mama teared up when she read that and I didn’t understand it at the time, but I think it was because she was proud.

  “This is the stuff from our fridge,” says Birdie. “I can’t believe Patrick kept all of it.”

  I put everything back inside the bag to sort through later, but keep the picture of us three out on the coffee table.

  After picking through three boxes, I find a bunch of my books and there, at the bottom, sits The Complete Poems 1927–1979 by Elizabeth Bishop. The light orange cover is battered, and inside, in pencil, it says $4.75, which is what Mama must have paid at some used bookstore.

  Below that, she wrote on a sticky note: To Jack, Find your favorite! Love, Mama.

  * * *

  • • •

  Birdie and me comb through the stuff for another hour and a half and then Uncle Carl and Patrick come downstairs.

  “Holy smokes, Patty, you weren’t kidding,” Uncle Carl says.

  Patrick brings Uncle Carl a fresh mug of coffee and a cup of water and then says he’ll get started on breakfast. Uncle Carl asks if he needs help, but Patrick just waves his hand and says to hang out with us.

  Uncle Carl’s eyes roam all around, still in shock, until they stop on the couch.

  “Miss Luck Duck!” he shouts.

  “You know Miss Luck Duck?” Birdie asks.

  Uncle Carl walks over to our favorite lamp and picks her up. “Of course. Dad—your grandpa—gave it to our mama as a Valentine’s Day gift. Oh, must have been fifty years ago now.”

  “That is fifty years old?” I ask.

  “At least. She used to sit in this window right here, on a little table.” He points to a small window by the front door.

  And it turns out that isn’t the only thing of Mama’s that used to belong in this house. The painting of the fat cat in a tuxedo and the banana clock and even Mama’s favorite vintage Nestlé mug all came from here. But there were also lots of things that Uncle Carl didn’t recognize, like our cheeseburger pillows and Tokyo Tower hat rack, and we told him how good Mama was at sewing and hunting for treasures at thrift shops and garage sales. I said that she always tried to be smart with her money, and only buy the most special and unique things, but that it was sometimes hard for her to hold back when she was really excited about something.

  “But she always made everything seem magical, even some stained old jacket from the secondhand store.” I hold up a black jacket of Mama’s that has a giant embroidered tiger head on the back.

  “I should have done more to help her, especially since she had the two of you to look after,” says Uncle Carl. He picks up a basket of pinecones, which we’d collected from our old backyard two winters ago. “Patrick used to send her money for you guys. I knew he did that and I never offered to contribute.” He sets the basket down and takes a couple long drinks of water. He sniffs and says, “I’m sorry, guys.”

  “It’s okay, Uncle Carl. At least you visited us on your motorcycle,” I say. “And then you let us live with you.”

  “Yeah, and all those Honey Bunny Buns,” says Birdie.

  Uncle Carl tries to smile and shrugs. Then he goes into the bathroom.

  For breakfast, Patrick makes eggs and cheese, bacon and sausage, apple slices, and grilled buttered bread. There is hot chocolate for us and more coffee for him and Uncle Carl.

  We don’t talk a lot, but as Patrick sets up Mama’s old record player, he tells Uncle Carl that he really needs to plug his phone in or charge his cell because Rosie has been trying to get ahold of him.

  “Other than these kids,” Patrick says, “that woman is the absolute best thing to ever have happened to you. You’re a plain idiot if you let her go.”

  Uncle Carl pushes his eggs around and mumbles that he doesn’t think he deserves Rosie. Patrick just shakes his head and says, “So you really are an idiot.” And then he clicks the speaker on.

  We all go quiet as we listen to the crackling piano music playing from one of Mama’s thrift-store jazz records.

  * * *

  • • •

  Later that day, Patrick drops Birdie and me at the library before bringing Uncle Carl home so he can shower and change and plug his phone in. Birdie has the damaged Alexander McQueen book in his backpack.

  As we walk to the entrance, Birdie stops and asks, “Am I the only one like me?”

  “I don’t know,” I answer truthfully. “Janet doesn’t think so. Don’t you trust her?”

  “With my hair, sure.” He smiles a little, but then furrows his brow. “I think Patrick still doesn’t get it.”

  “Listen. You get to decide who you are. Not me. Not anyone else. And y
ou let me know if someone ever calls you names, okay? I will be here no matter what. And I think Patrick will be too. You are so brave, Birdie.” Then I give him a hug and he’s kind of stiff like a mummy, but I hold on tight until he hugs back. “And if you want to know if there is anyone else like you, then I’ll help you find out. And in turn, you can help me.”

  He pulls back a little. “Help you with what?”

  “Everything. Doing my clothes and hair right. Being unique and amazing, which you’re so good at. I mean, I’m not looking to start wearing dresses or anything, but I think I’m going to need your help once I hit high school. Maybe by then I’ll be ready for something new.”

  “I hope so,” he says, looking me up and down and then cracking up. “I’ll whip you into shape.”

  I wrap my arm around his neck and rub my knuckles into his head. He squeals and twists away and then we walk into the library.

  Ms. Perkins spots us right away and when we show her the book, she is not happy. She’s got her hands on her wide lady hips.

  “This was an expensive book,” she says. “Full-color photographs, et cetera.”

  Birdie and me don’t say a thing.

  “There is a replacement fee and a nonrefundable five-dollar processing fee. The replacement fee is the price of the book. Let me look it up.” She starts typing on the computer and then she says, “Haven’t seen you two at the library for a while.”

  Birdie glances over at me, I guess maybe wondering what to say.

  I clear my throat. “We were dealing with some . . . family stuff.”

  She looks at us with an eyebrow raised and then goes back to the computer screen. “Well, looks like you’re in luck. The fees were paid a couple days ago.”

  Birdie and me look at each other and then back at Ms. Perkins. “Don’t look at me,” she says. “I’m just reading what I see on the screen.”

  “Who paid the fees?”

  She makes a couple of clicks and says, “Patrick Royland.”

  Birdie and me look at each other. “Our uncle?”

  She nods. “Looks like it.” Then she closes the book and slides it back across the counter.

  Patrick paid the fees?

  “But what will happen to the book? Will you fix it?” asks Birdie.

  “Birdie, this book has been irreparably damaged. Have you looked at it with seeing eyes? I can’t have a book with wrinkled, torn, and stained pages on a library shelf. Not here.”

  “So you’re just going to throw it away?” Birdie’s voice is a click higher than normal.

  “Don’t get in a panic inside this library. What you do with the book is your business.” She moves from around the counter to straighten a few books on her display. “The fees have been paid. The book is yours now.”

  Birdie stands there frozen and I take the book from the counter.

  Then he runs up and gives her a big hug. She doesn’t exactly hug him back, but pats him on the shoulder and says, “This library and its books are for all kinds of people who respect knowledge. I think there is knowledge in that book for you. And others too. You take good care of it.”

  Birdie carries the book in his arms the whole walk home and despite the overcast sky that looks like it’s going to rain, his face is bright bright bright like the sun.

  * * *

  • • •

  That afternoon, we continue sorting through boxes and bags while eating lunch, and Patrick comes in through the front door. In his arms is a bag of organic fertilizer and three old pillowcases. “I’ll be out back planting for a while before the rain.” He shuffles the bags in his hands, trying to get a better grip. “So, if you want to help, you can. I’ll also be doing the roses next weekend.”

  By now I know that there are flower bulbs in those old pillowcases. He dug them out of our garden back home, along with a few clippings of Mama’s rosebushes, and brought them here. Mama’s tulip, daffodil, and hyacinth bulbs, to be exact.

  But I wonder if Patrick would rather work alone.

  Planting Mama’s bulbs in the new garden seems like one of those important but maybe private things to do. A grieving kind of thing.

  He looks around at the piles of books and boxes of dishes and bags of clothing and everything else crowding the living room. “Maybe Carl is right,” he says gruffly. “Maybe the house needs a little life again.”

  Patrick heads to the backyard, and a moment later, Birdie suddenly stands up. He holds Mama’s gold-and-blue sequined purse above his head. “Yes! Found it!”

  “Have you been looking for that the entire time?”

  “I’ve been looking for everything,” says Birdie. “But this one makes me really happy.” He hugs the purse and I wonder if Patrick is really ready for all this stuff to be here.

  But then I realize maybe Patrick wasn’t talking about all the things bringing life into the house. Maybe he was talking about the people.

  * * *

  • • •

  That night, I pace around my room, trying to memorize Elizabeth Bishop’s poem “The Fish.” Krysten called me earlier and said that this coming week we should decide which poem to recite so that way we have enough time to practice it. I’d like to surprise her by reciting some of this one at school tomorrow. I know she likes over-the-top gestures like that.

  I’ve got about a third of it down when there’s a knock on my door and Patrick peeks his head into my room.

  “I have a couple things for you,” he says after I open the door wide. “The first is this.” He places a little black book on my bed that says Diary on the front in faded gold script letters. “This was your mama’s. She was your age when she kept it, I think, based on the first date. I found it in one of the drawers and thought you should have it.”

  I look at it, but don’t move.

  “I haven’t read it, and you don’t have to either if you don’t want to, but I think you should decide what happens to it. Especially since you’re so much like her with the writing and all.”

  “Mama used to call me a little spy,” I say.

  “Well, I don’t know if that’s what you are, but I’ve seen you with your notebook. And it always reminds me of your mama.” He takes a breath and continues. “Anyway, I thought you might also like to have this.”

  It’s a photo album. It has a worn, dark green leather cover.

  Outside, it starts to rain.

  “You know, your mama was so happy when you finally came along. I guess you know that things weren’t stable with your and Birdie’s dad, but that didn’t affect how she felt about you. She tried her best. I know that sometimes it wasn’t good enough. But she was alone and I’m sorry for that.” He taps once on the outside of the album. “She was something, that girl. A firecracker, Mama used to call her.” He smiles a little and opens the album up and we look at a few pictures. There are lots with Uncle Carl and Patrick with long hair, like the pictures in Uncle Carl’s junk drawer. There’s even one of Patrick holding Mama when she was a baby. Patrick must have been at least my age.

  “This hasn’t been easy,” he says, “with your mama gone. I don’t know what to feel or think.”

  The ping ping ping of the rain on the silo shed reminds me of Portland with Mama.

  “Your mama and me, we were just too different to get along. Had too many fights. And our oldest brother, George, just spoiled her rotten and gave Carl and me a hard time. Then George died and I hated how your mama talked about the war when it was something he’d just died for. But I said a lot of things I regret.” He lets out a breath. “Anyway. What’s done is done. But you and Birdie, you’re lucky to have what you have. It’s how siblings should be.”

  I turn to the last page and there’s a picture of Mama holding a baby.

  “You don’t remember me, but I was there when that picture was taken of you and your mama. I should have been more suppo
rtive.”

  Patrick already seems to be on the verge of tears or maybe just running away, so I resist the urge to say anything about the money Uncle Carl mentioned. I finally let out my own breath I realize I’ve been holding.

  Patrick knew Mama for a lot longer than I did. It’s strange to think that he has his own memories.

  In the picture, Mama’s face is tired but happy, her cheeks all red like she just ran a marathon.

  “Sometimes I’m so mad at her,” I whisper. “Everything she did was perfect and amazing and magical. Almost always, it was that way. But then sometimes . . . it wasn’t. Sometimes she was sad.”

  “Jack, you’re allowed to be mad at her. It doesn’t mean you don’t love her. And it doesn’t mean she wasn’t a good mother.”

  “But why couldn’t she just do what she was supposed to do? Do the things that made her better?”

  “There’s no answer to that, Jack. Only your mama knows that.”

  In the next room, Birdie laughs and commands Duke to sits so he can measure his neck again. Then he goes quiet as the rain pounds down and for a few moments, we all listen.

  “I’m trying to be okay without any answers,” Patrick says. “That’s what you guys have taught me. That life continues to go on. And I need to be here and not let it pass by. I hope we can help each other be okay. All of us.”

  I nod and then look back down at the photo. Even though she’s tired, Mama looks perfect to me.

  I say, “All three of us. Plus Uncle Carl and Rosie.”

  “Yeah. Them too.”

  He taps the album twice and then heads toward the door. But just before leaving he says, “Jack. You’re not a spy. You’re a protector. So you keep watching. It’s what we need. And I’ll keep watching too.”

  **Observation #799: Someones

  Everyone in the world has lost someone.

  Sometimes that someone is a mother.

  Sometimes they are a sister.