If Birds Fly Back

by Carlie Sorosiak

  “One last alphabet game for the road?” he asks, tapping the wheel.

  “Sure.”

  “J,” he says.

  “Jennifer Lawrence,” I say. We came up with this game in middle school: listing all the girls who’ll never sleep with either of us.

  “Julie,” he counters, “the redhead from the video store.”

  “Jessica O’Conner.”

  “Cheerleader Jessica?”

  “Yep,” I say.

  “I don’t know, man. She might sleep with you.”

  Micah is always quick to point out that I dated a cheerleader. Savannah. One and a half disastrous months that I’ll never get back. During that time, Micah came up with no less than a hundred euphemisms for Savannah’s “pom-poms.”

  “That was a fluke,” I say. “I was a project or something.”

  “Don’t minimize that victory. She was capital H hot. Just slightly less hot than your mom.”

  “Find. Another. Comparative.”

  “All I’m saying is, if I had your mom, I wouldn’t be leaving her at home for the summer.”

  “And all I’m saying is, if you don’t stop talking about my mom, I will have to suffocate you in your sleep.”

  Micah chuckles. “So, she really doesn’t know you’re leaving?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “It was a spur-of-the-moment decision.”

  “Uh, and she’s going to be . . . fine with that?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, that’s a shit storm waiting to happen.”

  At the airport, I hug Micah good-bye. You know, a man hug. Double pat on the back. And two hours later I’m in the sky.

  AN ALTERNATE FORMULA FOR DISCOVERING ABSENT FATHERS:

  x (y) = z, where x = concrete information,

  y = travel to the subject, and z = the assembly of broken pieces

  5.

  Linny

  WHO: James Willis, singer for the band Middlehouse

  WHEN: 2013, after he skipped out on the MTV Video Music Awards

  WHY: From what I can tell, no one knows why he disappeared, but he came back eight days later to open for Maroon 5.

  NOTES: Grace actually went to this concert in Orlando. . . . Connection? (She said it was the greatest Middlehouse performance ever—and she knows best.)

  The morning before Grace disappeared, she slipped her headphones over my ears while I was sleeping. I woke up to see her standing over me, every one of her curls tightly coiled—a ready-to-burst appearance. Two fake butterfly tattoos were dancing on her collarbone, highlighted by her scooped tank top that she absolutely swore Joan Jett once owned (the guy at the vintage shop told her so).

  “Thank God you’re awake,” Grace said. “I’ve been waiting forever.” I miss that about her—how she stressed the second syllable of important words, how she had the husky voice of a thirty-five-year-old lounge singer, and I was always shocked when it came out of five-foot-three her.

  I didn’t have time to ask, “Jeez Louise, what’s with the headphones?” because she shushed me with her index finger and declared, “This song will change your life.” An electric guitar solo began to rattle—fast and alive—through the headphones, and I started bobbing to the beat, because she was right. As the family music virtuoso, Grace is always right about life-altering songs. She can play eleven instruments (if you count the kazoo, which I totally do) and is the proud owner of no less than two hundred records, mostly of women who wore their hair all big in the eighties.

  “Not bad,” I told her, and she pounced on me—sat on my stomach like she was squeezing closed a suitcase—until I admitted, “Okay, okay, it’s great.”

  I remember this, and then I remember that she’s gone.

  The missing her practically blows me off my feet.

  It’s eight in the morning, I’m (shakily) standing outside Silver Springs waiting for Cass and Ray—and there’s a man in a red baseball cap photographing the building from between two palm trees. He calls out to me: “Do you mind moving about three feet to the right? I’m trying to get a good shot!”

  “Oh,” I mumble. “Sure.”

  News of Álvaro Herrera’s appearance is spreading slowly—but it is spreading. According to findalvaro.com, only the die-hard followers believe that he’s alive and at Silver Springs. I wonder how long it’ll take before other people discover that the rumors are true.

  Fashionably late, Ray and Cass rock up in Ray’s clunker of a truck, which is old enough to be a resident of Silver Springs. In places it’s graying—stripped down to the metal frame, green paint hanging on in fragments. On the sidewalk, they describe their plan, which includes claiming they’re visiting their grandma Ethel (who would be a very lovely woman, if she existed), obtaining visitor badges under aforementioned pretenses, and gawking at Álvaro Herrera from afar.

  “So you’re going to lie,” I say, slightly regretting my decision to tell them.

  “It’s only a white lie,” Ray says, pointing to the building. “I’m sure somewhere in there’s an Ethel.”

  “True,” I admit. “But I still classify ‘falsely entering a nursing home’ under ‘morally dubious activities.’”

  “Chill out, my little Linzer Torte,” Cass says, and my stomach drops a notch. Grace came up with that nickname. “We are superstealthy when it comes to celeb spotting.”

  Turns out that Marla’s not at the front desk, so I sign myself in while Cass and Ray scurry through the lobby. We check the courtyard—no Álvaro. And the halls—no Álvaro. We spend a nice morning in the game room, playing Ping-Pong with two women in canary muumuus, one of whom is named Ethel. (Ray gets such a kick out of that, Cass has to pinch him to stop the giggles.)

  And then, in the cafeteria at lunchtime, there’s Álvaro Herrera, sitting alone at one of the long plastic tables with an ashtray in front of him, studying the smoke mushrooming from his lips.

  “That’s him?” Ray says.

  I nod. “Try not to stare.”

  A small crowd has formed, and a ripple of voices drifts across the room. “Is that really . . . ?” “I thought he was . . . ?” “I saw him yesterday, but . . .” Three nurses hold up the wall behind him, but none of them moves to snatch his cigarillo.

  And there’s something else. Someone else.

  I notice a guy my age—or maybe a bit older—leaning against the vending machine and staring at Álvaro. Like, staring. He has a slightly offbeat look, like a puzzle improperly put together, and if I’m reading it correctly, his bright-green T-shirt says I Believe in Science. He has dark, wild hair. (Side note: Wild is not a word I use lightly. His hair is like Ringo Starr’s in the mid-sixties, if Ringo got caught in a windstorm.)

  Even so, something about him makes me acutely aware of my outfit: tattered jean shorts and a baggy white blouse that matches the chipped polish on my nails. I fiddle self-consciously with a few renegade curls. Most of my hair is woven into a fishtail braid after a lost battle with my straightener.

  Ray and I grab trays and silverware while Cass plops down at one of the tables. With her sparkly silver crop top and sheet of blond hair, Cass usually draws attention, but no one notices her, or us lesser mortals, or anyone but Álvaro.

  A cafeteria worker serves something that resembles meat loaf (or turkey?), and Ray and I take seats next to Cass, who’s been smacking the same piece of cinnamon gum for the last half hour. I offer her some of my meat substance, but she points to her mouth and says, “Nah, I’m good.”

  “Go talk to him,” Ray urges me.

  “I will,” I say. “I’m just waiting for the right moment.”

  The air conditioner must be broken, because the room feels like a jungle. Heavy-duty fans are positioned in the corners, creating a wind tunnel effect and eating up most of the whispers. So it’s impossible that Álvaro hears Cass when she leans over our table and says between smacks of gum, “He’s . . . so different . . . from what I thought he’d be,” but that’s when Álvaro begins b
anging his hands against the table. A frantic look shoots into his eyes. They widen. His jaw clenches. Bang, bang, bang. Palms flat, slapping the plastic in a repetitive motion like a wind-up toy. Focusing on his mouth, I expect him to say something—scream, shout, whatever—but his lips remain cinched together.

  Bang, bang, bang

  Ten seconds pass.

  Bang

  Ray’s neck has gone a dark pink, and he keeps side-eyeing me like: We should do something, right? But I have no idea what to do. Most of us don’t. Except the nurses, who rush to his side, and the puzzle boy, who darts from the room. I wonder where he goes.

  Bang, bang, bang

  It takes all three nurses plus Marla, who has run from the office, to calm him. “You’re all right, honey,” she says. “You’re all right.”

  Clearly that’s not the case. Clearly something’s wrong.

  THE LEFT-BEHINDS (SCENE 3)

  CARSON FAMILY BACKYARD

  LINNY (eleven) and CASS (eleven and a half) are collecting fireflies. Each girl has a Mason jar with ten or so, their little butts lighting up the darkness.

  GRACE (thirteen) rushes out the back door and into the yard, barefoot and screaming. Clearly something is wrong. The skin on her back is no longer puckering, but giving way to lines of soft spikes.

  GRACE

  I told you not to do that!

  CASS

  (confused)

  What are you talking about?

  LINNY

  (guilty)

  We aren’t going to keep them. You know, just look at them for a while.

  GRACE

  They’re wild things, Linny. Let. Them. Go.

  So LINNY and CASS unscrew the lids and watch the blinking lights fade away. GRACE reaches out to them with her fingertips, trying to lift off the ground.

  6.

  Sebastian

  “Scientists have deeply speculated about the possibility of multiple universes, existing side by side.” A Brief Compendium of Astrophysical Curiosities, p. 177

  Something is very wrong.

  I’m ten feet away from Álvaro. His breath is raspy. Like a helicopter struggling to get off the ground. And then he starts completely losing his shit. Bang, bang, bang.

  I have only three thoughts:

  What’s happening?

  Why’s that blond girl on her phone at a time like this?

  Why is nothing—literally nothing—going as planned?

  I was just about to speak with him, and now . . .

  It happens fast. Like teleportation. One minute: in the cafeteria. The next: in the hallway, trying to catch my breath.

  Damn it.

  Theoretically, everything is explainable. But right now, I can’t explain why this moment doesn’t match the fantasy I’ve been harboring for—oh, I don’t know—the last six thousand days of my life.

  If I could hibernate for the rest of the summer, I swear to God I would. But since evolution has yet to extend me the ability to slow my heart rate substantially and drop my body temperature, I settle for the next best thing: I skulk back to Ana’s condo. Wedge myself between couch cushions. Hide in A Brief Compendium of Astrophysical Curiosities.

  Reading. Thinking.

  Thinking about another Sebastian in a parallel universe. Wondering if Other Sebastian feels as broken as I do.

  AN ADDENDUM ON THE MULTIVERSE:

  A shitty situation in universe 1 may have little to no effect on universe 2.

  Meanwhile, my cell phone keeps flashing MOM. I ignore it. She’d want me to explain myself, and I have no explanation other than: I needed to do it.

  Around four o’clock, I open a bag of salt-and-vinegar potato chips and flick on the TV. Maybe Aunt Ana has the Discovery Channel?

  But it’s already programmed to News 6 Miami. On-screen is a shiny-looking newscaster in a purple pantsuit. “This afternoon,” she says, “more shocking news coming out of the most unlikely place. . . .”

  The TV shows shifty footage of a pool and a cement courtyard.

  I think: Hey, that looks familiar.

  I think: Holy shit, it’s Silver Springs.

  I think: GRAN DIOS, IT’S ÁLVARO.

  The cameraman inches closer to Álvaro, who is thwacking the keys of his typewriter at one of the pool tables. In the distance, someone shouts, “Oh naw! Turn that thing off!”

  Footage then switches to a YouTube video. And, oh shit—I’m in it.

  The angle looks like . . . Espera un segundo . . .

  That blond girl! She filmed the whole thing with her phone! Who does that?

  The newscaster provides a dramatic voice-over: “This footage clearly shows that Álvaro Herrera, known for his book Midnight in Miami, is alive. The video is currently gathering steam on social networks, garnering even more speculation about this mysterious man. This afternoon, the questions on everyone’s mind are: Where’d he go? Why’s he here? Is this episode symptomatic of psychological issues or—?”

  Click.

  I sort of punch the remote with my fist. The living room seems devoid of any oxygen.

  Five minutes later, enter Ana, home from her shift at University of Miami Hospital. She drops her pocketbook and unties her massive ponytail. Wavy hair flops every which way. Groaning like a harpooned sea lion, she begins picking at two red specks (ketchup? blood?) on her sleeve.

  “Is that . . . ?” I say.

  She winks. “Better not to talk about it.”

  Because it’s Florida, my aunt Ana (aka Nurse Ana) gets a lot of dementia patients—eighty- or ninety-year-old women who blow through traffic lights and cause four-car pileups. Although she says it’s best not to discuss it, I’ve learned over the last seventeen years that Ana is a talker. She lets out a three-minute diatribe about the risks of operating a vehicle without functional use of your legs.

  “Ouch,” I conclude.

  “Major ouch.”

  She really is cool, my aunt. She’s seven years younger than my mom. Single. And obsessed with healing crystals. There are crystals everywhere. Purple crystals. Pink crystals. A two-foot-tall rock crystal near the kitchen sink.

  Ana picks off the last bit of ketchup and says, “Why are you so quiet?”

  Quiet. It’s the first time in my life I’ve been called quiet. When I was little, Mom would chase me around the house with superglue and pretend she was going to seal my lips together (“Sebastian, you talk too much for your own good!”). It never scared me. Her point was: I babble to anyone about anything. Two-hour debate about alien spacecraft and the possibility of life on Mars? Lecture on quarks, hadrons, and high-energy collision? No problem. Then I saw that news report, and a strange vocal paralysis set in.

  Maybe I’ll take up nonverbal communication. Smoke signals. Morse code.

  I shrug. “I’m just listening.”

  Ana hmmms at me and hits me with this whammy: “Please tell me you called your mom.”

  A pause. “Not in the classical sense.”

  “Sebastian.”

  “I just need some time to figure out everything without her. Por mi cuenta.”

  Sighing—“Well, I spoke with her twice on my shift. She’s really worried about you, but . . . I understand where you’re coming from. Just call her soon, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “So, was Silver Springs good?”

  What a loaded question. PLEASE let something drag her away into the kitchen. I would give anything for the phone to ring. For a small asteroid to strike the condo roof . . .

  I say, “Not so hot.”

  “You don’t have to tell him, sweetie. Just . . .” She grasps for the words. Literally grasps for them. Fingers twitching in the air. “Get to know him, but don’t get your hopes up too much.” Then she leans across the couch to ruffle my hair. Never in my seventeen years have I enjoyed a hair ruffle, despite good intentions. I can already sense this summer is going to be one long hug-a-thon. (I read that oxytocin, the “bonding hormone,” is only released when people hug for over twenty se
conds. A twenty-second hug? Kill me now.)

  Ana uses her nurse voice. Sweet yet detached. “Did you see the news?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’m so sorry . . .” She winces. “Is the couch working for you at least?”

  “Oh yeah,” I say. “It’s great.” I sound convincing, although the couch is a blob masquerading as furniture. Last night before bed, I prayed that the blob wouldn’t swallow me in the night. I picture myself waking up like Jonah in the belly of the whale. Granted, that would still be an improvement over home.

  Clapping her hands together—“Know what would help?”

  “Time travel.”

  She opens her mouth to say one thing but reconsiders. “I’m just going to skip over that and say cooking!”

  “Cooking?”

  “Cooking!” Grabbing my hand, she drags me into the kitchen—which is decorated with, you guessed it, crystals. “Your mom says you don’t know how to cook bistec empanizado.”

  “I’m not even sure she knows how to cook bistec empanizado anymore.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Um . . . no?”

  She slaps three cloves of garlic into my palm. “Then peel.”

  Every few minutes she shouts another direction: “Chop the onions!” “Beat the eggs!” “Give it more salt!” Until I almost forget about the news. Almost.

  “This calls for music,” she says. I hear her switch on the kitchen radio. The static buzz, systems humming awake. But three seconds later I catch the words: “. . . there are still speculations about the former whereabouts of Álvaro Herrera.” Then clang-clash-clang—pots falling as Ana scrambles across the kitchen to turn off the news.

  Now in the house there is an eerie stillness. I think the steaks are burning.

  * AN ADDENDUM TO AFOREMENTIONED ADDENDUM:

  Or, in every universe, shit is still shit.

  7.

  Linny

  WHO: Richard Thorpe of Thorpe Brothers Truffles

  WHEN: 1865

  WHY: He was responsible for the greatest disaster in the history of chocolate making—two thousand gallons of liquid chocolate flooded the streets of the Bronx after a system malfunction. To avoid further embarrassment, Thorpe fled the city for the Catskills but returned two months later when the company’s board threatened to remove him as chief executive.