The Thing with Feathers

by McCall Hoyle

  A few minutes later, we pile groceries in the backseat. As Mom’s butt hits the driver’s seat, her phone rings. “Hey, Rog.” She smiles, clicking her seat belt into place.

  Rog? Seriously? Rog? Is that like a nickname or a term of endearment or what?

  While I was occupied with Chatham, their relationship moved to a new level, and I blame myself. I should’ve been home with Hitch and Mom instead of spending all my free time in the media center and going on dates. Maybe then I could have stopped this. Or at least understood why Mom was suddenly ready to move on when I wasn’t.

  Pressing my forehead on the cold window, I grip the door handle and try to block out Mom chuckling at something Rog said. The woman driving the car is a complete stranger. She doesn’t brake as we cruise through a yellow light. She turns in to The Potter’s House without signaling.

  At least the place looks deserted—no black SUVs with bicycle racks or winches anywhere to be seen. I relax until Mom gestures toward the trunk with her free hand.

  Uh-uh. No way. Not going to do it. I shake my head. This was her idea. She should suffer the physical loss of tossing Dad’s stuff, not me. When I don’t move, she pinches her lips together. Her brow furrows. I freeze, making no effort to move.

  “Let me call you back,” she says to Rog, ending the call and turning toward me. “Emilie, we’ve discussed this. Dad will always be with us. Getting rid of his old clothes isn’t going to change that. He didn’t even care about clothes. How about we do it together—”

  Her phone vibrates, interrupting her little pep talk. I recognize the library name and number when it flashes on the screen.

  “Just take your call, Mom.” I gesture for her to pop the trunk and step out of the car. My ribs close in against my lungs and heart as I round the back. Her moral support isn’t going to make this any easier. I may as well do something on my own.

  I peek into the trunk. Staring up at me are the cardboard boxes of Dad’s clothes I found in their closet a few weeks ago. My blood pressure kicks into Mach speed when it hits me. I could be walking on the beach tomorrow and see some kid who’s into the whole vintage thing wearing one of Dad’s R.E.M. or U2 T-shirts.

  I brace myself on the trunk, inhaling through my nose to the count of three like Dr. Wellesley instructed, and contemplate my options: refuse to drop the clothes and risk a scene with Mom right here in the parking lot, or do what she wants and let another little piece of my father slip out to sea.

  Reaching into the trunk, I stack one box on top of the other and lift them toward my chest. Tears prick the backs of my eyes.

  Daddy, I’m so sorry—so very, very sorry.

  Trudging toward the front door, I shift the boxes to my left hip and reach for the metal handle. The door swings open before I make contact. A younger girl with a head full of blonde curls props the door open with her foot. When my eyes adjust to the light, I blink in disbelief. It’s Cindy. I’d recognize that hair anywhere. What I don’t recognize is the glow on her cheeks and the roundness of her face.

  “Oh my gosh. Cindy?” I bend down, place the boxes on the ground, and pull her into my arms.

  She squeezes me back. “Emilie, hi!”

  I hold her at arm’s length to study her face. She looks . . . happy. Younger, somehow.

  I pull her in for a second hug. “I’ve been so worried about you.”

  An older lady with gray hair and deep lines around her mouth steps out from behind the register toward us.

  “Do you know this girl?” she asks Cindy, looking down at us over horn-rimmed glasses.

  “Yes, Ms. White.” Cindy clasps my hand like I might float away. “Before I was a hero, she was my neighbor.”

  The woman whips off her glasses, her eyes narrowing on me. I stand, smiling and holding out a hand to greet her.

  She looks at my hand but makes no effort to shake it. Instead, she folds in the stems of her glasses and hangs them on the long chain around her neck. “Cindy, you know the rule about visitors.” She gestures to a door in back, behind the wall-to-wall clothes organized on racks by color.

  Cindy’s face falls.

  My outstretched hand drops to my side. “What’s going on?” I ask, placing my other hand on Cindy’s shoulder and forcing myself to meet Ms. White’s penetrating stare. “I’m not a visitor. I’m here to donate clothes.”

  “In that case, let me help you.” She steps forward, bending down for the smaller of the two boxes. “Cindy, you know you’re supposed to be helping your mom in the storeroom.”

  “Please . . .” I swallow, trying to cover the squeak in my voice. Now that I’ve found Cindy and her mom, I have to know what’s going on. “I was at the house the night the police came.” I drape an arm over Cindy’s shoulder.

  Ms. White’s tight lips relax. The right corner of her mouth turns up a fraction of an inch like she’s about to smile, but she catches herself. “You have five minutes.” She shakes a gnarled finger back and forth between the two of us. “No contact information, Cindy. I mean it.”

  I pull Cindy toward a sagging hand-me-down couch beside a shelf of gently used shoes. We sit face to face. I tuck a blonde curl behind her ear while Ms. White wrestles the boxes of Dad’s clothes to an already crowded area behind the register.

  “I’m a hero.” Cindy squirms on the worn corduroy upholstery. Her eyes twinkle. She’s lost the wide-eyed, ready-to-flee expression I’d become used to.

  I place my hand on hers and smile, trying not to rush her but freaking out that Ms. White might run me off before I get the details. “Tell me about it.”

  “You know Daddy can be . . .” She lifts her shoulders, pausing for the right word and studying her hands. I don’t speak, careful not to interrupt her train of thought. “. . . mean.” She meets my eyes.

  Nodding, I hold her gaze. I don’t actually know much of anything about her dad except what I’ve seen or overheard from next door, but that’s irrelevant. Right now, I just want to hear what happened before Ms. White checks her watch.

  Cindy squares her shoulders, puffing out her chest. “My teacher said to call the police if someone’s in danger. I never called when Dad spanked me, even when it really hurt, but Mommy was bleeding. Bad. So I called nine-one-one.”

  Her words hit me in the gut, knocking the wind out of me. I blink back tears, berating myself for not doing something to help Cindy and her mom. I saw the bruises, overheard the arguments, and did nothing. That’s what I always do—nothing. Well, that and make excuses for why it’s okay to do nothing. But this time doing nothing caused both Cindy and her mother harm.

  “All the policemen said I’m a hero. Mommy too.” She glances over in Ms. White’s direction and lowers her voice. “Now we live in a big house with other women and lots of kids. But I’m not supposed to tell anyone where it is.”

  I shake my head. Here’s this little girl defending her mother and standing up to an abusive father, and I’m too much of a wuss to stand up to Maddie or even to face my peers.

  Pulling her against my chest, I rest my chin on her head and smooth her hair. “Oh, sweetie, you are a hero.” And she is. If I had just one ounce of her courage, I’d be hanging out with Ayla or Chatham right now and taking my best friend with me to school on Monday. I’d be facing life head on like . . . my mom, instead of hiding from the world.

  A flurry of activity near the register catches my eye. It’s Ms. White waving at someone entering the store from the back. “Yoo-hoo, Chatham, over here.”

  I freeze, every muscle in my body contracting. Cindy squirms in my boa constrictor embrace. I can’t look. I can’t look. His SUV wasn’t parked out front, right? There could be more than one Chatham. At least two, right? Please, please, please, let there be at least two Chathams on the Outer Banks of North Carolina.

  One one thousand. Two one thousand. Three one thousand.

  I can’t not look.

  I open my right eye a crack and lock eyes—well, one eye, anyway—with Chatham. The Chatham. The one and o
nly Chatham who will ever mean anything to me. I want to run, but I’m trapped on the couch as Cindy slips from my arms.

  He pauses halfway up the blue aisle, his jaw firm.

  “Chatham.” Cindy charges him, wrapping his legs in a bear hug. He pats her on the head and smiles, but the dimples I’ve come to adore are nowhere to be found.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Drowning is not so pitiful As the attempt to rise.

  EMILY DICKINSON

  I push myself up off the couch. Every cell in my body wants to run. But I force myself to stand my ground. It’s not Chatham’s fault my life is such a mess.

  He’s a nice guy. But his jaw clenches as he approaches. I know what he’s going to say—that this isn’t working, that I lied to him, that he can’t take care of someone like me. And I get it. I really do. I just don’t want to hear the words.

  Cindy smiles. When he bends down and whispers something in her ear, she skips toward the back of the store. Halfway up the aisle, she turns to me. “Come back and see me. Okay?”

  I smile and wave, not sure whether I’m trying to reassure her or myself.

  Chatham steps forward. “Emilie, we need to—”

  “You don’t have to say anything.” Without my permission, my feet step toward the door. I clutch the handle but force my eyes to his face. He deserves at least that much.

  Ms. White clears her throat. Chatham’s head jerks toward her, eyes widening as he obviously remembers we’re not alone. I bite the inside of my cheek.

  “Please, not here.” I flick my eyes in the older woman’s direction, hoping he understands how difficult this is for me. If I’m going to get dumped, I’d rather do it in private.

  “Then outside.” He places a hand on my upper arm. Citrus shampoo mixed with salty air and a hint of chlorine teases my nose.

  “My mom’s out there.” I shake my head, looking away.

  “Then where? When?” His grip on my bicep tightens. “You disappear. You won’t answer your phone. How are we supposed to talk?”

  I shake free, pushing the door open an inch. “What’s the point in talking?” I peek out at Mom. She’s still on the phone. “Are you really interested in me after what you saw Thursday?”

  His lips part, but he doesn’t speak for several long seconds. “I don’t know.”

  His words cut like broken glass, but at least he’s honest. I’ve known from the beginning I’m too much work. I never would’ve expected him to say yes.

  I push the door forward a few more inches. Cool, moist air brushes my ankles, and I shudder.

  “I might want to be with you if I knew you.” He places a hand on the door, blocking my escape. “But you lied to me.”

  How convenient. Now he can blame the downfall of whatever was happening between us on me. He can kill it with the “You lied to me” line and avoid the guilt of breaking up with the disabled girl.

  I sigh. I’m not being fair. That’s not why he’s doing this. It’s because I don’t deserve him—not after all that I kept from him and all that I put him through.

  “I understand,” I whisper. I press my shoulder against the glass door, pushing it from his hands, and trudge toward the Civic. I drop into the passenger seat, and Mom reverses without ending her conversation. Chatham watches as she executes a perfect three-point turn, his shoulders slumped, his lips compressed into a thin, firm line.

  I stare out the window and fume—at God for dealing me this crappy hand, at Dad for abandoning me, at Mom for . . . well, for being Mom. And at Chatham—most of all at Chatham—for being too good to be true.

  I press my knuckles into my thighs in an effort to refrain from banging my head against the glass.

  Mom finally ends her call. “You okay?” she asks, turning toward me.

  For a second I want to tell her. “No—yes—I’m fine.” I fold my hands together. “I’m just tired.”

  “You’ve been through a lot these past couple days. You should probably take a nap when we get home. I’ve invited Roger to come over for dinner.”

  The nonchalant way she says it irritates me, like it’s assumed I’ll be glad to see him. “I don’t feel like company.”

  She presses the power button on the radio with her red nails. “He’s not company.”

  He’s not family either, I want to say, but I keep my mouth shut. She’s trying really hard—calling a truce on the whole school thing, taking me to breakfast. “Fine. You’re right,” I mumble.

  My insides remain tense, but her hands relax a bit on the steering wheel. And it feels kind of nice to not be adding to her worries for once. I have no idea how I’ll accomplish it, but I’m going to try really hard to be civil when Rog arrives.

  When we get home, I drag myself to my room. Lost in thought, I fail to acknowledge Hitch. He follows me anyway, sitting beside the bed. Tears sting my eyes. I want to hold them back, but the lack of sleep and the side effects of the extra meds are wearing on me. I’m sick of this life. I’m sick of life. Period.

  Hitch whines and paws at the bed when the tears spill down my face.

  “I’m sorry, buddy. You deserve better.” I pat the quilt, inviting him to join me, and dry my face on the bottom of my shirt.

  He grins and leaps onto the bed. When he does, his bushy tail swishes the half-full glass of water I left on the bedside table last night before bed. Water runs into the partially open drawer and trickles to the floor.

  I jump off the bed and grab a hand towel out of the dirty-clothes basket as Hitch drops into a down-stay on top of the covers and watches me with remorseful eyes.

  “It’s okay, love.” I mop the water off the tabletop and floor and contemplate ignoring the water pooling in the drawer. Who cares if the seizure journal’s ruined? I have to start over now anyway. I pluck it from the soggy mess, carry it across the room, and chunk it in the trashcan beside my desk.

  Back at the nightstand, I push the drawer with my hip, but it sticks. Ms. Ringgold would love the symbolism: the drawer that won’t budge is a perfect analogy for my clogged-up life. I dig around for whatever’s causing the jam. Several thick pieces of paper are wedged in the small space between the back of the table and the back of the drawer.

  I draw them out for closer inspection. My breathing catches. Even with the ink smearing around the edges from the spill, I recognize the handwriting. I thought I’d put all the cards and letters from Dad in a shoebox under the bed. But somehow I missed these.

  I open the first one. On the cover, a little girl sits on her father’s lap. The inside says something about a daughter outgrowing her father’s lap but never his heart. My chest hurts like my ribs are pressing in on my lungs. The second—or is it third—round of tears forms in my eyes, and I’m not sure whether I’m crying because I miss Dad so much or because it feels so good to read his scratchy handwriting.

  I carefully tuck the card back into its envelope and move on to the next. There’s no text on the front, only a picture of early-morning pink skies over Nag’s Head Pier. The inside’s also blank except for Dad’s scribbled note.

  He left this one on my pillow one night before bed, shortly after he was diagnosed with cancer. I’d been having nightmares about him dying. He’d tried to encourage me to count my blessings, to be grateful. He’d said his cancer wasn’t all bad, that it was a reminder of how short life is and an opportunity for us to celebrate our love and each other. And that’s what we did until he was too sick to do anything but lay in bed. The three of us read poetry at night and went for long walks on the beach looking for sea glass. We ate dessert for breakfast and splurged on soft-shell crabs and lobster tails for dinner. I smile at a memory of him and Mom shoving Cool Whip-covered blueberry pancakes into each other’s mouths.

  By the time I reach the last line, I’m laughing and crying. I reread the last two sentences. Emilie, when the water gets deep and the current strong, you have to swim. Promise me, you’ll swim.

  And God help me, I’d promised. The epileptic who can barely
doggy paddle promised her dying father she’d swim. It was a metaphor, right? He didn’t actually think I’d swim. Right?

  But what Mom and I are doing isn’t even doggy paddling. We’re treading water in a hurricane, choking on choppy water. Mom’s made a few tentative kicks and strokes, but I’ve been pulling her down. She can’t swim because I’ve tied myself around her ankles like a cement block.

  I drop the cards on the bed and shove my feet into the nearest pair of flip-flops.

  “Come on, Hitch.” He rises, eyes and ears perky, tail wagging.

  We pass Mom deveining shrimp in the kitchen. I don’t speak.

  “Where are you going?” she asks, pinching off a tail and adding it to the massive pile of heads and shells and guts.

  “For a walk.” I hold the door open for Hitch.

  She points at me with her black-plastic deveiner. “Don’t be late for dinner.”

  Tromping down the boardwalk behind Hitch, I avoid Cindy’s house looming over me on the right. Guilt nibbles at my guts. That little girl had a lot of horrible things going on in her life, but when the current got strong, she swam. I’m twice her age. It’s time for me to suck it up, to take control, and quit rolling with the tide.

  By the time I reach cold, hard-packed sand, Hitch is romping in the choppy surf. With the exception of the happy golden retriever, the scenery matches my mood: fifty shades of dreary. Charcoal sand melts into a slate ocean, which blends into a foggy horizon. A brisk breeze lifts my hair off my face, leaving me exposed. I survey the beach. Not a soul in sight.

  Hitch seems to sense my dark mood, gives up on his game of chase with the receding waves, and stays mostly by my side. The wind picks up, spraying my cheeks with needle-like shards of seawater.

  I clench my fists and look up at the sky. “What do you want me to do, Dad?” I shout.

  Hitch’s head swivels back and forth in search of danger.

  “You want me to swim?” I ask, stepping into the icy water. “Is that it? You want me to swim?” I slog forward.