The Ostrich and Other Lost Things

by Beth Hautala

  I sighed. “Nothing.”

  He followed my voice and walked over.

  “That’s the fourth time you’ve done that.”

  “Done what?”

  He let out a huge sigh.

  “Oh.”

  “So, what’s the matter?” Charlie sat down beside me.

  “This just feels really hard.”

  “Well, it is.”

  “I know. But I mean, it feels too hard.”

  Charlie nodded. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “What are you hoping will change once you find Jacob’s toy? I know you said you think it will help . . . but help with what, exactly?”

  This was the hard part. Putting words around what this meant and felt like to me. But I had to try.

  “Things were just so much better before Jacob lost his ostrich. It was such a comfort to him. I know if I can find it, things will be a little easier for all of us. Give us another chance at being a more normal family.”

  “A more normal family?”

  “Yeah. A family where people don’t act crazy and scary, and where they don’t throw things all the time. The kind of family that can go places without someone having a meltdown, or screaming and crying, or whatever. Where we don’t have to do things in any particular way and we can just get in the car and drive on the main roads at a normal speed and not have to think about whether we’re going to a place that will be too crowded or not. The kind of family that doesn’t need doctors and therapists to come to the house so they can watch and observe and see how we’re all doing . . . stuff like that.”

  Charlie didn’t say anything for so long I started to wonder if he’d heard me.

  “So, just to be sure I’m getting this straight, you want the kind of family where everyone is healthy? And where you can do stuff together, and go places together, and everyone behaves themselves, and no one gets too worked up?”

  “Yeah, I guess . . .” It wasn’t exactly what I’d said, but it wasn’t untrue, either.

  Charlie kept going.

  “So, not like the kind of family that lives at a zoo, and where someone is, you know, blind or anything? Normal like that?”

  Charlie’s voice had gone sharp now. And hurt. I suddenly realized what he thought I’d been saying—not just about my family but about his. And about him.

  “What? No!” I said. “No! I didn’t mean—”

  “I think I know what you meant, Olivia.” Charlie stood up from where he’d been sitting beside me in the grass. “I get it. It’s okay. I know what it’s like to want things to be normal, too. And to try to do everything you can to make it that way. Believe me. I really, really get it. But life doesn’t work that way.”

  He paused, and we were both quiet.

  “You know,” Charlie said finally, “I think I’m going to let you finish this on your own today. I don’t think I’d be very much help anyway.”

  “Yes, you will! I need your help! Please, Charlie. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean that about you. I want—”

  “You want normal. Right? Well, I’m sorry, but that’s not me. I’ll see you later.”

  Charlie shook the linked pieces of his cane into place and put one foot in front of the other.

  I wanted to ask him to stop, to please stay, but I couldn’t say anything, because a huge lump was stuck in my throat. So, I just watched him walk out of the yard and back down the minimal maintenance road, sweeping his cane in front of him as he went.

  20

  Stranded

  CHARLIE DIDN’T COME around the next morning at the zoo. I’d hoped everything would be fine, that he just needed time to believe I was telling the truth when I’d said I hadn’t meant to hurt his feelings. But I couldn’t find him anywhere. That made my Responsibility Hours, and my tasks that day—raking out the donkeys’ enclosure, replenishing the straw in the Komodo dragon’s area—go by even slower than usual. And it made concentrating at rehearsal that afternoon harder, too.

  At play practice we were just starting to block some of the larger group scenes. We were all still reading off our scripts, of course, but Dorothy assigned each of us a place to stand while we read our lines. It made things feel real.

  We were working on a scene where the Lost Boys argue about who’s the best at being a Lost Boy.

  “I’m pretty sure Peter thinks I’m the best,” said Curly.

  “No way!” Nibs elbowed his way in front of Curly. “I’m better at fighting bears than you are!”

  “Well, neither of you can sing, and Peter loves when I sing,” said Slightly, who broke into song.

  “Hold on!” shouted Tootles. “I am the fastest! Peter can’t fight pirates without me! See?” And Tootles pulled a sword from his belt and ran circles around the rest of the boys to prove how fast he was.

  Jacob was one of the twins, and he just copied exactly what his stage brother said all the time.

  “Well, Peter likes me best because there’s two of me!” shouted Twin One over the noise of the other boys.

  Then there was a long pause.

  Jacob was supposed to echo Twin One. But instead he was standing a little apart from the group, waving at me where I stood in the wings. I didn’t want to break character, so I rushed onstage like Peter was supposed to.

  “Boys! Boys! You’re all my favorite!” I insisted, running into the fray to break up the fighting and keep them from starting a wrestling match.

  “You’re all my favorite!” echoed Jacob, copying me instead of his stage twin. Of course everyone laughed. But not because the line was funny, or the acting was funny, but because my brother was strange and unpredictable.

  We ran the end of the scene twice until Jacob understood which line he was supposed to echo. He didn’t seem bothered by it at all. But it was awkward and uncomfortable for me, and I kept wondering why on earth anyone had agreed to let Jacob play the part in the first place.

  I sighed and turned my attention back to Dorothy.

  “Olivia,” she said, glancing at her clipboard and the stack of director’s notes. “Let’s run the scene where you and Amelia are stranded, just after the fight with Hook when he and his first mate row off laughing. Here—” She gestured to me and patted the top of the large wooden box on stage right. “Why don’t you sit here, and Amelia, you sit beside her.” Dorothy positioned us. “Now, when we do this for real, this box will be a rock and you’ll be surrounded by water with the tide rising. Peter and Wendy are about to be stranded. Imagine waves rising all around you and no help in sight. Amelia, why don’t you start with your line on page thirty-seven: ‘Peter! You’re hurt!’”

  “Peter! You’re hurt!” Amelia read her line and I bent over, pretending I actually was. But all it did was remind me again about how I’d hurt Charlie for real.

  “I’ll be all right, Wendy,” I read my line, trying to put all the emotion into it that I could. “But I’m afraid I can’t fly off this rock. I can’t save you, Wendy.”

  “Oh, Peter! Whatever shall we do?” Amelia buried her face in her hands and started to cry.

  “Good!” Dorothy clapped for us. “Now, this is the part where the kite trails in—” Dorothy gestured toward the hook and tackle in the ceiling overhead. “Olivia, you’ll secure the string of the kite to Amelia’s harness, and the kite will fly her to safety offstage.”

  Then we ran that scene, too, pretending I save Wendy with the last hope of rescue either of us have. And because the kite isn’t strong enough to carry us both, Wendy sails offstage while I’m left on the rock, wounded, about to be swept away by the waves and eaten by the Tick-Tock Croc. Except, of course, I’m unexpectedly rescued, too.

  But while I sat there, waiting for the Neverbird to float by on his massive raft of a nest and sail me to safety, the loneliness under the lights felt so real I had to fight to
hold back tears. I knew what it was like to watch your last hope for rescue, and your last friend, sail away without you.

  Neverdo List, Entry #3

  Never freak out when Dr. Kathy, or any company, is here.

  Never act all crazy.

  Never hurt anyone’s feelings, even by accident.

  21

  Broken Glass

  “SO, HOW WAS rehearsal today?” Dad asked when we got home.

  I didn’t want to talk about rehearsal because it didn’t matter how it had gone. Jacob had still been evaluated, and his ostrich was still missing, and Charlie was still mad at me.

  In my head, I kept hearing my brother repeating the wrong lines onstage.

  “Fine,” I mumbled.

  Dad cleared his throat.

  “Okay then . . . well, how did the evaluation go?” He stabbed his fork through another piece of spinach, and I pushed mine around on my plate. I had completely lost my appetite, and I didn’t want to talk about any of this. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Charlie walking away, sweeping the grass with his cane.

  “I’m not sure,” Mom said. “Good, I think? Jacob seemed to have fun. Did you have fun, Jacob?” My brother sat beside me at the table, his hands clenched tightly in his lap. At the moment, he didn’t look like he was having very much fun at all.

  “I don’t like dinner,” he said. “I prefer breakfast.”

  Dad laughed. But Jacob wasn’t trying to be funny. Mom shook her head at Dad a tiny bit. Jacob didn’t like to be laughed at. But it was too late. He looked at Dad and then at Mom. His face was very serious. Very urgent. Like he needed them to understand something important.

  “I prefer breakfast!” He took a deep breath. “I prefer breakfast! I prefer breakfast!” His voice was loud and high-pitched, and the knot in my stomach clenched. He yelled it again. Mom and Dad looked at each other. They knew what to do. They would handle things. Except they weren’t quite fast enough this time. I watched as Jacob’s arm arced back and then flew forward, releasing his glass of milk like a perfect pitch across home plate. The glass shattered against the wall, sending a spray of milk and shards of glass everywhere. They hit the dining room floor in a tinkling shower.

  No one said anything for the space of a breath. And then Jacob screamed.

  “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

  Mom jumped out of her chair. Dad hollered and waved his arms, frustrated and upset, and Jacob melted down, pounding his fists on things and screaming “I prefer breakfast!” over and over. He lurched out of his chair and banged his head against the wall—once, twice, three times. Dad tried to pull him out of the dining room and away from all the glass.

  I eased out of my chair. I just wanted to get out of there. I wanted to be somewhere quiet where nothing was broken or ruined or lost. I walked quickly away from the table.

  “Owwwwwwww!”

  I stopped. Suddenly there was blood—my blood—and a lot of it. My foot hurt like a million fires and my chest hurt from trying to hold myself together all day.

  “What? What?!” Mom said frantically.

  “I’m bleeding!”

  Mom whirled around, and Dad let go of Jacob, who fell to the floor, wailing. My brother didn’t stop screaming or calm down at all, even when he saw that I was bleeding and crying. He only got louder.

  “I’m bleeding!” Jacob wailed, copying me. “I’m bleeding!”

  When Mom knelt down beside me, her capable I-can-take-care-of-this face crumpled. She shook her head for a minute, and then she started crying, too. Right there beside me in the middle of all that blood and broken glass and spilled milk.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry, honey. Here, let me see?” But I didn’t want her to see, or touch it because it hurt too much. I could feel the piece of glass bite and grate underneath my skin whenever I moved. Getting it out was going to hurt. More than it did already. I cried harder just thinking about it.

  And then Dad got down to business. He scooped me up and set me on the couch. Then he pulled Jacob to his feet and hauled him off to his room to calm him down. Mom pulled the medical kit out from its spot under the kitchen sink. She held my hand and rubbed my back and helped me soak my foot in hot water.

  Eventually, Dad came back in. “He’s okay now,” Dad said. “He’s resting.”

  Mom breathed a sigh of relief, and Dad used the tweezers to take out the piece of glass. It hurt so bad that I cried until I couldn’t catch my breath. I was not even a tiny bit brave. But three Band-Aids, a strip of gauze, iodine for disinfectant, and a dish of strawberry ice cream helped, a little.

  “It’s all Jacob’s fault.”

  I didn’t even realize I had said the words out loud until I saw the look in Mom’s eyes. It was only there for a second. Like I’d hurt her. Cut her with glass. But it was true. None of this would have happened if it hadn’t been for my brother. I didn’t regret saying it, but I felt bad that it had hurt my mom. Truth does that sometimes. There’s the nice truth and the not-so-nice truth. This time it felt good to tell the not-so-nice kind.

  * * *

  • • •

  After I’d finished my ice cream and Mom and Dad had cleaned up the mess of glass and milk and blood, Dad said it was bedtime. I probably could have hobbled to my room on my own, but Dad picked me up, and I let him carry me. Mom went to check on Jacob.

  “I used to carry you around like this when you were itty-bitty,” he said, rubbing his whiskery face against my cheek.

  “Dad!” His face was scratchy, and I felt too old for his teasing. But I let him do it anyway. He even did a little spin in front of my bedroom door before he plopped me down on my bed.

  “You need anything? Water? Tylenol? A pony?”

  I gave a small smile. “Definitely a pony.”

  But all I really needed, all I really wanted, more than my foot to feel better, more than being Peter Pan, more than making sure Charlie and I were still friends, was for things to go back to the way they were before, when everything was easier and Jacob was better. But Dad couldn’t help me with that any more than he could make a pony appear in the middle of my bedroom.

  “Hey, Dad . . . ?” I wanted to tell him that I knew about latent autism. But I couldn’t do that without letting on that I was still looking for Jacob’s ostrich and that I wouldn’t let it stay missing. That I was going to make everything so much better. So, I couldn’t say anything. Not yet.

  “Um . . . could you maybe get me some Tylenol?”

  “Sure.” He walked out of the room, and I put on my pajamas, being careful of my foot. Then I opened my bedroom window and climbed back into bed.

  Dad returned with a glass of water and two Tylenol. He pulled the covers up around my chin and kissed my forehead.

  “You know your window is open?” he said.

  “Yeah. I like it open.”

  “But the screen is out, honey. I’m a little nervous some critter is going to crawl into your bedroom while you’re sleeping.”

  “It’s okay,” I insisted. “I’ll be fine.” But the whole time I was thinking about Ethel and wondering what my parents would think if they knew an ostrich had been wandering into our backyard.

  “Wait!” I sat up in bed. “I have to call Vera and let her know I won’t be able to work at the zoo tomorrow.”

  “Your mom or I will call her,” Dad said. “Don’t worry. She’ll understand.”

  “Can you ask her to tell Charlie, too?”

  “Charlie. Check. Anything else?”

  I thought about it for a minute. “Nope. That’s it. Thanks. Love you.”

  “Love you, too, Olivia. Good night.”

  “Night.”

  The curtains fluttered lightly in the open window as he closed the door.

  Neverdo List, Entry #4

  Never freak out about stuff when I could be
brave instead.

  Never say hurtful things to Mom.

  22

  A Hard Walk

  SOMETIME DURING THE night, I sat straight up in bed, my heart pounding, trying to catch my breath. I’d dreamed Jacob had thrown Ethel against the dining room wall. She’d smashed into a million pieces and covered the room in so many feathers, we’d started breathing them in, choking and coughing. I kept trying to pull feathers out of my mouth, but they wouldn’t stop coming.

  I blinked in the darkness and ran my tongue over my teeth. No feathers. Not a single one. No broken birds anywhere in sight.

  The wind blew the curtains around. Something was out in the yard. I jumped out of bed.

  “Ow! Owowowow!” I had completely forgotten about my foot. I hopped over to the window and there was Ethel, just standing there.

  This was the third time she’d shown up since I’d started working at the zoo. I leaned out the window. The giant bird cocked her head at me, like she was waiting.

  “Now what?” I whispered. I had to be quiet. The last thing I wanted was for Mom or Dad to come in and see the ostrich in the backyard. “What do you want? Why are you here?”

  Ethel didn’t answer me. She just reached her long neck to the ground and pecked at something I couldn’t see.

  Could I walk her back to the zoo? I tested some weight on my foot. It still hurt. But if I walked on my toes and hopped a little bit, I could probably do it. So, I cracked open my bedroom door, peeked out, and listened. I could hear Dad was snoring, but besides that everything else was quiet.

  My hoodie was in the closet, and I didn’t want the squeaky door to wake anyone up, so I limped into the kitchen and pulled down Jacob’s hoodie from its hook on the wall. Carefully, I limped back down the hall to Mom and Dad’s closed bedroom door and whispered what I had the last time I brought Ethel back to the zoo in the middle of the night.

  And then I went back to my room and crawled out the window. Slowly. Painfully.