Sparrow Migrations

by Cari Noga

  ALSO BY CARI NOGA

  Plover Pilgrimage

  Road Biking Michigan

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2013 Cari Noga

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477830888

  ISBN-10: 147783088X

  Cover design by David Drummond

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015900294

  For me and you and a boy named Boo.

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ONE

  January 15, 2009

  Robby Palmer was so tired of the talking.

  He wedged himself farther into the point of the ferry’s bow, resting his chin on the rail, absorbing the steady vibration of the engine and the soothing silence. The deck on the sightseeing cruise was almost empty, the first quiet place since he and his parents arrived in New York City two days ago.

  The wind off the Hudson River gusted up, threatening to push the hood of his favorite Detroit Lions sweatshirt off his head. Robby yanked on the strings, pulling the gray fabric taut over the giant, noise-muffling headphones he wore underneath, all the while keeping his eyes on a V formation of geese he’d spotted. Their staggered black lines swooped against the blue sky like an untethered kite tail. Once, he got a kite stuck in a tree. His dad pulled it out of the branches, but the tail stayed stuck for months, flapping just like these geese. Robby turned his head to follow as they plunged lower along the river. They were fast. He wished he could be that fast. On their trip here from Detroit, the pilot had said the plane traveled more than five hundred miles per hour. How fast could geese fly?

  His mom might know, but she and his dad were in the cabin. The twenty-degree weather was too cold, his dad said. They’d watch the city’s sights through the cabin windows. His mom said they’d come back out for the Statue of Liberty. She was the one who had wanted to go on the boat ride in the first place. “We’re on vacation. Let’s try to do something fun together,” he had heard her tell his dad back at the hotel.

  Cold didn’t bother Robby. He’d rather freeze than go back in that overheated cabin filled with jostling, oblivious people, talking loudly on their phones, talking to each other, talking, talking, always talking. Like on the subway, like the cab drivers in their different languages, like his dad’s family that they came to New York to visit.

  The geese swooped lower, lower, and lower, until they splashed into the Hudson, their black bodies now blending into the river’s gray waves. Robby lifted his binoculars and leaned farther out over the bow’s guardrail, seeking their bobbing bodies. Ahh. There they were. How many? One, two, three, four, five. He counted twelve. The same as his age. He felt pleased at the coincidence and counted again, just to be sure. Yes, twelve. It was easy to count them. They swam a lot more slowly than they flew. So why did they stop flying? He liked to swim, but if he had a choice, he would always pick flying, as high as he could, as fast as he could, the silent sky all to himself.

  Hanging over the steel guardrail, Robby felt the engine’s vibrations change. They were going faster. Not gradually faster. Suddenly, urgently faster. Like a chase. Were they chasing the geese? But the wind changed, too. Instead of pushing back his hood, it was now blowing against his cheek, blowing his dark bangs sideways, out of his eyes for once. The ferry was turning, turning away from the geese, the view changing from the soothing sameness of the waves to the jagged profile of the shoreline, hemmed with buildings.

  Trying to keep the geese in sight, Robby turned back into the wind, pivoting toward the cabin. But instead of the geese, he saw the crowd. The jostling, oblivious passengers from the cabin. Now they held their cell phones outstretched as they erupted onto the deck. They advanced on him, a mob of adults in down coats and fleece vests cornering him in the bow, their breath puffs of white, their faces a blur of expressions. Excitement, surprise, fear, one after the other, like those face flash cards they used to make him do in school.

  A woman clipped his arm, and the binoculars slipped out of his hands, flopping hard against his chest. On the other side a man jostled against him. They just kept coming. He’d read about stampedes at soccer games and day-after-Thanksgiving sales. This must be what it felt like. In the back of the throng he saw his mother, her wide eyes pinned on him, her mouth open, gesturing at her own head, pulling at her ears.

  Robby couldn’t hear her. The noise of the crowd seeped into his hood, under his headphones, invading his quiet. He tried to go toward her, tugging at his hood, but the surging crowd pushed him back. Another passenger, a big man, jounced against him, knocking his headphones askew, spinning him around to face back out, over the rail.

  And then he saw it.

  The airplane’s white nose poked out of the water. Poked right at the ferry, which was churning straight toward it. With its band of black cockpit windows, the plane looked back at him like a Star Wars Storm Trooper mask. A submerged Storm Trooper, rising out of the river. But planes didn’t belong in a real river. In a video game or a movie it could happen, probably because an enemy shot it down. He looked up, scanning the sky warily. Nothing. Robby felt a tug of anxiety over the unanswered question: How did the plane get in the river? He remembered his binoculars and lifted them to his eyes. People were lined up on the wings! The passengers! How did they get out there on the wings? He remembered the flight attendant’s safety demonstration in the aisle when they left from Detroit two days ago, how she pointed out the doors to be used in the event of an emergency. He couldn’t see any doors in the Storm Trooper. The passengers stood in uneven rows, only some wearing life jackets. Their life jackets were under the seat cushions. They hadn’t listened and forgot them. Now, backlit by the late afternoon sun, their line of silhouettes staggered by height, they looked helpless. Helpless and doomed, held captive by the Storm Trooper airplane.

  Robby leaned over the railing, willing the ferry forward faster, and shrieked his first word since lunchtime. “Go!”

  Petrified, Deborah DeWitt-Goldman stared at her stylish black pumps submerged beneath four inches of icy water. The pumps were her favorite pair, her lucky pair. She had been wearing them las
t year when she landed the biggest gift by a living donor couple in the history of Cornell University—any school, even medicine—a ten-million-dollar challenge gift to build a new law school. Only sixty-five million to go.

  But they weren’t so lucky today. Neither she nor her husband Christopher could swim—a suddenly glaring imperfection in their otherwise flawlessly planned and executed lives—and the wing felt like an ice rink. An older woman had already slipped but was hauled back up by other passengers. She was shaking now, and crying, saying she had to call her son. Her son. The possessive words gave Deborah a pang, as always.

  It was unreal. A bad dream. It must be. How could a routine takeoff go so wrong in less than five minutes? She had had the window seat. Christopher sat beside her on the aisle, engrossed in an ornithology journal even before they were taxied to the runway. The “Fasten Seat Belts” sign glowed red. Several rows ahead, a baby cried, innocently flipping on Deborah’s internal longing.

  Then a muffled thud. Then another, then a third, then another and she lost count. “Did you hear that?” “What was that?” “What’s happening out there?” Questions, laced more with wonder than fear, floated around her.

  Christopher lifted his head attentively. “Uh-oh,” he said, leaning across her to look out the window at the ribbon of river below them.

  “What is it?” she asked, the first finger of fright squeezing her stomach as she leaned beside him, her hair swinging forward to brush his cheek. “What do you see?”

  “Is that smoke?” Behind them, a woman’s louder, more alarmed voice rose above the murmurs.

  Smoke? The fright tightened its grip. Christopher’s gaze swiveled from the window back into the plane. Deborah followed his eyes. Thin smoke wafted over the seats next to the wing. Simultaneously, she realized the normal takeoff force that pressed her back into the seat was gone. They weren’t climbing anymore.

  They weren’t climbing anymore. For a paralyzed moment her eyes held Christopher’s before he turned to rummage in the seat pocket.

  “We’re in trouble.”

  “What do you mean? What happened? What’s going on?” Her voice rose as the plane fell, the fear now a full fist clenching her stomach.

  “They lost the engines. Read this.” He shoved the plastic emergency procedures card at her. “We’re going to need it.”

  “We’re crashing? Are we going to die?” Deborah’s voice caught as her hand searched for his. The specialist had said one more try was reasonable. They had to make it home!

  Christopher shook his head. “All I know is it’s going to be a rough, wet landing.”

  As he concentrated on the card, she clutched his hand. Dimly she heard the baby cry and a hushed “I love you” behind her. But their fellow passengers were mostly shocked into near-silence, watching the glittering water rising up to meet them so terrifyingly fast, until they heard the captain’s incongruously monotone voice: “Brace for impact.”

  Now, menacing waves lapped at her ankles. Overhead, she heard the approaching chop-chop-chop of helicopters. Passengers pushed cell phone buttons, trying to reach loved ones for reassurance or good-byes, she still wasn’t sure. Half of them didn’t have life jackets on. Could they have survived the crash, only to drown awaiting rescue? A flight attendant hollered directions. Remain calm. Huddle close together for warmth. Help is coming. Deborah could still hear the baby crying. She couldn’t stop thinking about their three remaining embryos, back at the clinic in Ithaca.

  She tried to concentrate on the flight attendant’s instructions. This was what she did, after all. She executed. The ten-million-dollar gift. The perfect marriage. Remain calm. Help is coming. A phalanx of vessels motored toward them. Circle Line Ferries. US Coast Guard. FDNY. Her own life jacket was securely fastened. She hadn’t been able to read a word on the emergency card, so Christopher had lifted the seat cushion and found the vest, buckling it tightly about her before putting on his own. She had not brought any of her carry-on baggage with her. Others had, and already one suitcase had splashed into the river.

  Her feet were freezing. She hopped from one to the other, allowing each a momentary respite from the icy river, grabbing Christopher’s tweed-covered shoulder for balance, burying the other hand in her pocket. What did the flight attendant say first? Remain calm. The helicopters whirred louder, coming into view. Her heart sank as she saw the logos. They were news media! Where were the rescue choppers? The ferries had moved closer but were now idling.

  “They’re throwing up too much wake. They’ve got to take it slow or we’ll go down after all,” Christopher said, adjusting his glasses to peer more intently.

  “Where are the rescue helicopters? Does the media own every chopper in New York City?” Deborah wailed, as her phone rang beneath her hand in her coat pocket.

  Her sister’s Seattle number was illuminated on the screen. “Helen! Oh, my God.”

  “Call her later.” Christopher’s voice was sharp. “We have to pay attention. The ferries will be moving in again.”

  She ignored Christopher, putting the phone to her ear. “Helen? Helen, is that you?”

  “Deborah, thank God. That wasn’t your plane that went down, then?” Her sister’s voice was faint and broken.

  “It was. It is. It is our plane, but we’re OK, Helen.” Tears rose in her eyes, and static buzzed in her ear. She steadied her voice so Helen would believe her. “Can you hear me? We’re OK. We’re waiting for help now.”

  “I heard you.” Helen was crying. “Are you still going to come out? I need to talk to you. Here, in person.”

  “I don’t know, Helen. What’s the matter?” Tears rose up again.

  “Folks, we need your attention. Phones down. Listen up.” The flight attendant was hollering again.

  Christopher put his hand over hers, pulling the phone from her ear. “Deborah! Pay attention! The ferries are almost here. They’re going to move us any minute.”

  “Helen’s crying. My sister’s crying.” So was she. As they both grappled for the phone, it tumbled from her stiff fingers, vanishing into the gray waves.

  “Helen!” Deborah stooped, flailing into the water for it. A wave licked icy tentacles past her elbow.

  “Deborah, never mind the phone! Look, people on the other wing are getting on the ferry.”

  Deborah looked across the white metal shell, glinting in the sun. Indeed, passengers were climbing up the ladder.

  “Keep it together, sweetheart. Just a few more minutes to hang on!” Christopher pulled her tightly against him. She tried to return the embrace, but her stiff arms wouldn’t move.

  “Oh, my God.”

  Aboard the ferry, Brett Stevens’s eyes opened. From the moment the captain turned the ferry, revealing the astonishing scene, silent prayers had begun automatically. Our Father, who art in heaven. Please let everyone be unharmed. Hallowed be thy name. Please save their souls.

  Reverie and recitation now both broken by Jackie’s voice, Brett stared in disbelief at the plane’s white nose, starting to list sideways now.

  “Oh, my God,” Jackie repeated. “Can you read the name?”

  “What name?” Brett looked out at the waves.

  “Of the airline. On the plane!” Jackie was clutching at her fur coat.

  Brett squinted. US something. US Airways.

  “US Airways, I think.”

  “Oh, dear Lord. Dear Lord.” Jackie began rifling through her purse.

  “What? What is it?”

  “I’ve got to find my plane ticket!”

  “The old one? Why? What for?”

  Jackie didn’t answer, still pawing through her purse, searching for the ticket they had changed that morning when the thought of returning to their humdrum lives in Charlotte and Pennsylvania was too awful.

  Finally she located the envelope and read aloud the printed e-ticket. “US Airways, Flight
1549. Departing LaGuardia, 3:24 p.m.”

  Brett’s watch read 3:33 p.m. The realization sank in for both of them as their eyes met.

  “That might be my plane,” Jackie said, her bejeweled left hand plucking nervously at her fur collar. Brett swallowed hard and closed her eyes again, twisting her own plain wedding band hidden inside her glove. Inside, she felt her heart lightening, her soul rising. Was there ever a clearer sign? Jackie was safely there beside her instead of on that plane. They were meant to be together.

  Another prayer, one of gratitude, rose to her lips as Brett laid her blond head on her lover’s soft shoulder and again closed her eyes.

  Propped up by Christopher, her feet numb in the black pumps, Deborah stared at the waves where the phone had disappeared. I need to talk to you. In person. She felt an intense longing to see her only, older sister, and her two nieces. Regret that she’d put off this visit to Seattle for so long rose up along with the river, nearing her knees now. All her reasons were so foolish. Superstition about flying during an in vitro fertilization cycle. Her projects at work. Christopher’s projects at work. What good was all that now? She still wasn’t pregnant. A new law school, a paper published in the Journal of Field Ornithology. Trivial. People were what was important. Relationships. Family.

  The realization swept over her as coldly as the river. Would she get another chance now? She thought of the embryos, E, F, and G, the clinic had labeled them, siblings to the unsuccessfully implanted A, B, C, and D. They were so far away. What was she doing here, with these strangers? Most looked like business travelers, but there was one woman cradling an infant. The one she heard crying before, now quiet. She had apparently wrapped the baby in her own coat. As Deborah stared past the passengers in between them, the coatless mother clutched the baby close, kissing its forehead, tucking in a stray sleeve tighter, her gaze never swerving from her child.

  Watching the mother, Deborah felt the internal longing yield to yearning. Yearning that had survived two years of shots and struggle and, more recently, the sense that she and Christopher no longer shared a solidarity about parenthood. This yearning was in prime form, puffing out its chest, filling every cell with certainty. Deborah still wanted to have a baby. She was tired of executing their predictable, perfect lives in Ithaca. She wanted to live them. Seize the day.