The Ostrich and Other Lost Things

by Beth Hautala

  “But families take care of each other! That’s like, Rule Number One!”

  Charlie laughed. “Trust me, I know that better than a lot of people,” he said. “But it’s okay to let other people help, too. And other people did!”

  I sighed. “I guess so.”

  “Were your parents mad you didn’t do something onstage?”

  “No. They didn’t even seem to think I should have.”

  “See?” Charlie smiled. “Plus, maybe Jacob needs to learn to help himself sometimes, too.”

  “He does help himself. He’s actually really independent.” I suddenly felt kind of defensive.

  Charlie stopped and faced me.

  “Olivia, how do you think I learned to use a cane and get around after I lost my eyesight?”

  “Um, I don’t know.”

  “I practiced. A lot. And sometimes it was super scary. But if my mom hadn’t let me go out and find my way around new places, I’d still be sitting in our trailer, by myself, in the dark.”

  “So, you’re saying I should just let Jacob melt down and not do anything?” I folded my arms across my chest.

  “No.” Charlie sighed. “I just think he can probably do more than you realize. So, give yourself a break.”

  I tried not to roll my eyes.

  * * *

  • • •

  After we finished at the zoo, Charlie and I walked to my house. Mom met us at the door when we got there.

  “Hi, Mom. We were just—” The look on her face stopped me. “What’s wrong?”

  “Honey, listen . . .”

  I could hear the concern in her voice. I wondered if Charlie could hear it, too.

  “Olivia, after you left, Jacob disappeared for just a few minutes. I found him in your room . . .” She trailed off and her voice got very gentle. “He didn’t mean to, honey . . . He doesn’t understand . . .”

  A kind of hollowness opened up inside me, and I pushed past her. I ran down the hall and into my room.

  My costume lay in a pile on the floor.

  In dozens and dozens of pieces.

  It had been hanging up. On display. So I could look at it whenever I wanted. So Charlie could feel it. Now it was completely ruined. Fragments of red and orange and brown leaves, and slivers of shredded gold netting lay scattered across the rug. The newspaper hat was just a pile of ripped brown paper strips.

  Big things made small.

  I knelt down on the floor. Something hot was rising from that hollow place in the pit of my stomach. I looked around my room, trying to catch my breath.

  Mom appeared in the doorway and Charlie stood beside her. She didn’t say anything for a minute; she just looked at me, and then she reached out with both arms. But I didn’t want to be hugged. I didn’t want to be touched.

  “I am so sorry, honey. I’m so, so sorry. How can I help? We could try to glue your hat back together?” Her eyes were swimming as she started to pick up the pieces.

  I held out my hands, and she emptied bits of feather into my palms. Jacob had even cut up the peacock feather that had been attached to my hat. The pieces were so light they felt almost invisible. But they were heavy, too. I could hardly hold them in my hands.

  “I’m really sorry, Olivia,” Charlie said quietly.

  “It’s ruined,” I whispered. “Jacob ruins everything.”

  It felt good to say it.

  “I wanted to show you, Charlie.” My words got tight, and I had to clear my throat a couple of times to get them all the way out. “I wanted you to be able to feel it and, like, really know my costume. But there’s nothing to show you now.”

  Charlie just lowered his head. Like he didn’t know what to say or do next. Mom sighed.

  “I’ll walk back with you,” I said. And I took Charlie by the hand and left without saying another word to my mom. If I said or did anything else, I’d have to fill my entire notebook with neverdos.

  * * *

  • • •

  Charlie and I didn’t say a word all the way back to the zoo. Not one word. The quiet was so loud it hurt my ears.

  When we got to the gate, we stopped, but instead of going inside, Charlie held my hand and squeezed tight. And he didn’t let go.

  “I’m sorry, Olivia,” he said. I could hear sadness in his voice. He took a breath, like he was trying to find words. “Just don’t be too mad at your brother. Okay? Promise?”

  But I couldn’t. I couldn’t promise him anything like that. So, I lied.

  “Okay. I promise.”

  Then I walked slowly all the way home, kicking at rocks and twigs as I went.

  29

  Solar Flare Words

  WHEN I GOT home, my costume was right where I’d left it. A pile of fabric scraps. Gold and brown and red and orange on my bedroom floor. It looked even more ragged and broken now.

  I folded my legs under me and sat, staring at it. So much mad was tornado-ing around inside me, I felt like I could spontaneously combust at any moment. That costume had been special. It was the thing that made me something else. Someone else.

  What had Jacob even been doing? Why had he cut it into pieces? What part of my costume had made things feel too big for him? I was so mad at Jacob, but I was mad at myself, too. I never should have taken it home. It was too special. I should have known Jacob would just ruin it like he ruined everything. Maybe he was punishing me for not doing anything to help him onstage? Maybe I deserved it. Was this Jacob’s way of telling me that some part of this had been my fault?

  I ran my fingers over the scraps of fabric. And then tears started running down my face.

  Suddenly my bedroom door opened. My brother walked in—without even knocking, without being told he could enter. He had never done that before.

  “Jacob! What are you doing in here? Get out of my room!” I jumped to my feet, brushing the tears from my cheeks.

  He just stood there in the middle of my room, not looking at me, rocking back and forth, tugging on his shirtsleeves.

  “That is ruined,” he said, pointing to what used to be my costume.

  “I know,” I said. My voice sounded hard as glass. “You cut it up, Jacob. You ruined it!”

  Jacob started laughing. But it wasn’t the kind of laughing you do when you’re happy. It was the kind of laugh that happens when you’re scared and don’t know what to do or how to make things better. Like shivering. You can’t control it.

  “You ruin everything!” I shouted. Tears were streaming down my face. My heart was pounding. “I hate you. I. Hate. You!” The words flew out like a solar flare. Blazing. The speed of light. I couldn’t have stopped them if I’d wanted to.

  Mom ran into the room. “What’s going on?”

  “I cut it up,” Jacob said. “I cut it up. I cut it up. I cut it up.” And he laughed again. But then he slapped himself in the face with the palm of his hand. Hard. So hard it left a mark. I gasped and jumped away from him.

  He’d never done that before, either.

  “Oh! Oh, Jacob,” said Mom, reaching for him before he could do it again.

  “I cut it up,” he said again. He was staring over my shoulder into space and flapping his hands like he was trying to fly away. Away from me and away from the mess he’d made.

  I stood there in the middle of my room, watching and listening while Mom talked to Jacob. Quiet, soft words. Calm words. Safe, protecting, helping words. Then she led him out of my room and closed the door behind her.

  I sat frozen for a minute. I’d never told anyone I hated them before. Not ever. Mom and Dad were pretty serious about our words. “Hate” was one we absolutely never used.

  “Saying you hate someone is as bad as saying you wish they’d never been born,” Dad had told me. And I had just used that terrible word on my brother. I felt exactly like the pile of fabric scraps on my bedro
om floor. Ragged and ruined.

  I stood up and looked around my room. Before I could stop myself, I picked up my copy of Peter Pan from where it was sitting on my nightstand and threw it. Hard. It arced across the room and hit the wall in a flutter of pages, falling to the floor like a lifeless bird.

  With a single sweep of my arm, I brushed a pile of papers off my desk, then tipped over the desk chair.

  With everything I tore apart, something inside of me cracked a little more.

  I pulled open my dresser drawers, tearing clothes from them and throwing them across the room until jeans and T-shirts, socks and underwear carpeted the floor around me.

  I threw my pillow as hard as I could against my bedroom door, knocking a nearby picture off its hook and to the floor.

  I was breathless and shaking. I stopped and looked around at the mess I’d made. My room didn’t look like my room anymore.

  I curled up on my bed and pulled the covers over my head until everything was dark and muffled.

  I screamed.

  And cried.

  Solar flare after solar flare until I burned out. No one even came in to check on me.

  * * *

  • • •

  When I woke up later, I thought I’d gone blind for a minute. My eyes were open, but I couldn’t see anything.

  After I realized I’d fallen asleep under the covers, I pulled them off my head and rolled over. My room was dark. I’d slept all afternoon and into the evening. The glowing numbers on my clock read 9:43 p.m. No one had woken me for dinner.

  There was a heavy weight in the pit of my stomach. The memory of my words rushed out at me. I went over and over them the way you examine your knee after you’ve fallen on the pavement—searching for evidence to justify the pain, trying to assess how bad the damage really was.

  This was bad.

  I felt sick.

  I pulled my knees to my chest in the dark and held myself there, not even daring to imagine how many things I’d have to write on my neverdo list now. Too many to count. They all blended together.

  Latent autism.

  I looked around my shadowy bedroom and then switched on my lamp. My desk chair was on the floor, and clothes and papers were strewn everywhere. My room was a complete disaster. I was already acting more like Jacob than myself.

  This mess was the final proof.

  30

  Speaking Love

  SOMETIME LATER, I fell asleep again, and when I woke up, it was the middle of the night. I rolled over, and my notebook of neverdos slid off the bed and hit the floor. I peered down to look at some of the things I’d written for a moment, but the whole thing felt pointless. The list wasn’t working. I couldn’t stop doing the things I was supposed to never do. I couldn’t avoid being whatever I was becoming.

  I got up to go to the bathroom, but something caught my eye and I looked out the window. Flashing red and blue lights cast their shine on the lawn.

  Why were the police here?

  I crept to my bedroom door and opened it quietly. Voices I didn’t recognize and words and emotions poured in. Fear. Worry. Uncertainty. A dark wave rolled around in my stomach. What was going on?

  I walked slowly down the hall toward the living room. Mom was on the couch. Her face was pinched and white. She looked up, and when she saw me, she held out her hand. Dad was standing off to one side, his arms crossed over his chest, his face twisted.

  “What’s the matter?” I whispered. But my voice didn’t even sound like mine. There were two police officers in the living room. And just having them there, in my living room, made me feel like something horrible was going on. Could you go to jail for screaming terrible words at your brother?

  “Jacob is gone,” Mom said, her voice cracking.

  “Gone?” The floor heaved. “What do you mean?”

  “He ran away. He left the house sometime during the night.”

  “What do you mean? Where did he go?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” one of the police officers said.

  Guilt washed over me. This was my fault. But . . . he had to come back. Didn’t he?

  “This is Officer Blakeman and Officer Holtz,” Dad introduced me to the officers. “They’re heading up a search team so we can try to find Jacob.” Officer Holtz smiled at me, but her eyes were serious.

  “Hi,” I said quietly.

  The officers were here because of me. I glanced at Officer Blakeman. And then at Mom and Dad.

  I hadn’t done a single thing to help Jacob onstage opening night. Maybe this was my chance to make it right.

  “My brother and I had a fight,” I said. My voice was shaky. I stood in front of Officer Holtz, and she raised her eyebrows.

  “Okay. Can you tell me what happened?”

  I glanced at Mom. She’d come into my room when I was upset earlier, but I don’t think she’d heard exactly what I’d said.

  “Jacob cut up my Peter Pan costume,” I said. “It was really special. I was coming home with my friend Charlie, because I wanted to show it to him.” I was trying very hard to be brave and responsible. I wanted Mom and Dad to know I could handle difficult things, difficult conversations. But I was scared of what they would think when I told them the truth. They would be so disappointed in me. And that was worse than them being mad.

  Officer Holtz smiled and pulled a notebook out of her pocket. “Let’s sit down,” she said. She sat at the kitchen table and patted a chair beside her. I sat, too, and folded my hands tight in my lap. She nodded at me to continue.

  “When I got home with Charlie, I ran into my room and saw that my costume had been cut up into many, many little pieces. Jacob had cut it up.”

  “Do you know why he would do that?” Officer Holtz asked.

  “He does that sometimes,” I said. “It’s like he’s trying to make things that are big in his head small—so he can understand them better or something. I don’t know why it had to be my costume, though.”

  Mom and Dad were listening, too. I had everyone’s full attention.

  I continued. “I was really upset so I left the house. When I got back, Jacob just barged into my room and started laughing and saying that he had cut it up. And I yelled at him.” I stared at my hands in my lap. “I told him that he ruined everything. And . . . and . . . that I hated him.”

  I wanted to look at Mom and Dad, but I was too afraid of what I’d see in their faces. Now they knew that Jacob had run away because of me. This was my fault.

  I was to blame.

  No one said anything at first. No one sighed or muttered a single word under their breath.

  Finally, Officer Holtz spoke. “Anything else?” She was holding her pen like she was waiting for more.

  I shook my head and looked up. My parents just held hands on the couch. Their faces were incredibly sad.

  “Can you think of anywhere he might be?” Officer Holtz asked. “Was there anything you said that might have led him to go somewhere specific?”

  “I don’t think so. I didn’t say anything else.”

  The officer nodded and tucked her notebook into her back pocket.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “Am I in trouble?”

  Officer Holtz shook her head and reached over to squeeze my shoulder. “No. Officer Blakeman and I are here to help. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I said. But it didn’t make me feel any better.

  I wished Jacob was just asleep in his own bed. That he’d gone to sleep knowing I probably didn’t mean what I said and that we’d talk about it in the morning, because that’s what an older brother should do. But instead, my brother had run away in the middle of the night, and now there were police officers in my living room.

  I was struggling not to cry.

  Officer Holtz squeezed my shoulder again. “It’s okay,” she said. “If y
ou remember anything else that might be helpful, you can let me know, okay?”

  I nodded. “I could help you search?” I said.

  Officer Holtz gave a small smile.

  “I think you’d better let us have a go first,” said Office Blakeman.

  Dad came over and wrapped his arms around me. He kissed the top of my head. I closed my eyes and hugged him back. Mom sat on the couch with her head in her hands.

  “It’s okay, honey,” Dad said. “We trust the officers to know what they’re doing. And you’ve already been a big help. Thank you for being so honest.”

  I felt even sicker than before.

  * * *

  • • •

  More police officers came and went as morning arrived. Mrs. Mackenelli walked over from across the street to find out what was going on, and then she sat with Mom for a while.

  I called Vera to let her know what had happened, and to tell her I wouldn’t be able to come to the zoo that morning.

  “Oh, Olivia! I’m so sorry! Are you okay? How are your parents?” I could hear her concern through the phone.

  “We’re all okay, I guess, just very worried. But the police are looking for him.”

  “Should I let Charlie know?” Vera asked. “Or would you rather talk to him yourself? He’s right here . . .”

  I didn’t want to talk to Charlie. He’d warned me. He’d told me not to get too mad at Jacob, and I had anyway. “Um, you can let him know,” I said. “I’ll talk to him later.”

  “Okay. Take care, Olivia. Tell your folks I’m here if they need anything.”

  “I will,” I said. “Thanks.”

  I wanted to help, too, but I didn’t know what to do, so I tried to remember everything I could about Jacob. One by one things rushed in.

  The way he asked us questions all the time.