Wingspan

by Karis Walsh

  “Good,” she said. “I’ll go around to the right so I can stay on the sand. I should be able to be quiet enough to get close that way. Once I drop the net on it, the two of you can bring the rest of the equipment over. We can examine the bird on the flat rock over there, so we can move it as little as possible.”

  Bailey stared at the path in front of her, only looking up now and then to orient herself to the white bag. She felt a burst of hopeful joy every time she saw the bag flutter, but she tried to remain detached and objective. She might only be seeing movement caused by the breeze or the softly lapping water. She carefully picked her way over stones, some speckled with pinks and greens and some slate blue with thick veins of white. The bird must be exhausted, and she didn’t want to alarm it more with a noisy approach.

  Once she got to a small rise between her and her target, she dropped to her knees and crawled closer to stay out of the bird’s sight as long as she could. She felt moisture seeping through the knees of her jeans, and the damp sand was gritty under her hands. Sand fleas hopped around her face, and she waved them away before putting her hand down again. Her palm landed on the sharp edge of a broken shell, but the flash of pain was less worrisome than the involuntary yelp she barely contained. She got on her belly and slithered the last yard, slowly lifting her head to see where she was in relation to the bird.

  Close. Almost close enough. She crawled another foot forward and to the right before she inched the long pole out from its position by her side. Her muscles ached as she kept control over its movements until it hovered directly over the bird. One quick swoop, and she had the bird and the plastic bag contained.

  After her achingly slow progress, the next seconds were a flurry of activity as she hurried toward the bird and pressed down on the edges of the net, keeping her quarry firmly in place. The rush of emotion as she closed her hands over the now-struggling bird was a mingled chaos of relief—because the creature had some fight left—and fear of further injury as it panicked in its double snare. She groped blindly for the bird’s wings, nearly crying with relief when she finally got them folded and pressed close to its body. The steady thrum of heartbeat in her hands seemed to reverberate through her whole body with a steady pulse of relief.

  “It’s bleeding,” she said when Ken and Mike appeared by her side with their arms full of equipment.

  “Nope, the blood’s yours, kiddo,” Mike said.

  Ken knelt and put her hands directly over Bailey’s on the blood-smeared netting. “Slide your hands out and let Mike bandage your cut,” she said. Bailey started to protest, of course, but Ken nudged her with her shoulder. “You can’t help the bird if you pass out from loss of blood. Now, move.”

  Ken could feel Bailey’s reluctance, but she eventually slid her hands away. Ken’s joke about the loss of blood hadn’t been far from the truth. The gash on Bailey’s palm looked disturbingly deep. She kept her mind off the unsanitary conditions around the wound and concentrated instead on holding the bird tightly enough to keep it from flailing and loosely enough not to squish it. She was relieved when Bailey came back—her hands covered with the leather gloves—to relieve her of the burden. Ken shifted aside, ready to relinquish her hold on the bird, but Bailey stopped her.

  “I could use your help,” she said. “Keep your hold on the wings while I carry the bird over to that rock.”

  Ken nodded, standing up as Bailey reached under the bird and scooped it up along with the netting. Mike held the other end of the pole to keep it steady as they edged their way over to the rock. Bailey set the bird down and bent over to peer under the edge of the net.

  “A kingfisher,” she said. “Looks like it speared the bag with its beak. Can you hold the wings with just your right hand, Ken? Good. Give me your left and I’m going to have you hold its beak closed while I get the plastic off. Yes, there. Not too much pressure.”

  Ken followed Bailey’s murmured instructions as they traded hand positions several times until the net was off and Ken was holding the soft gray body of the kingfisher wrapped in one hand and its long, knifelike beak in the other. Mike handed Bailey a pair of scissors, and she pulled off her gloves before she cut the bag away from the bird. He picked up the discarded trash and stuffed it in his pocket.

  “She’s a female,” Bailey said as she extracted one wing, gray with tiny white spots, from Ken’s hand and spread it out to check for injuries. She replaced the wing and ran the tip of her finger over a rust-colored band on the bird’s white belly. “Males don’t have this marking.”

  Bailey continued her examination, and Ken tried to keep her attention on the kingfisher’s blue-gray head, with its wispy feathers that gave the bird a somewhat frazzled look. Anything to keep her mind off the feel of Bailey pressed against her side and the brush of her hands against Ken’s as Bailey checked every inch of the bird. Bailey didn’t smell of vulture vomit today. Instead, she smelled surprisingly of apples. Ken inhaled. Apples and something tropical, maybe guava. Enticing and fresh.

  “Okay,” Bailey said, stepping back and snapping Ken out of her island daydream, where she and Bailey were lounging in beach chairs and drinking piña coladas.

  “Okay what?” Ken asked.

  “You can let her go. She appears to be uninjured.”

  “Really? Let her go, just like that?” Ken hesitated as the bird twitched in her hands as if trying to take flight. “Don’t you need to keep her for observation?”

  “It’d be too traumatizing to stuff her in the carrier and take her home. She’s better off staying here. Let me and Mike get over to the ridge before you let go, so she has as much space as possible.”

  Ken twisted to look over her shoulder as Bailey and Mike moved away from her. When she saw Bailey nod, she released her hold. The kingfisher tilted her head and stared at Ken, as if she was as surprised by her freedom as Ken was. Then, in a startling flurry of gray and white, she launched off the rock and landed on a rotting wooden pylon several yards away. She fluffed out her feathers with an indignant glare at Ken before she started to preen. Ken watched her for a few minutes, until the small bird flew farther down the beach, and then she turned away and walked over to Mike and Bailey.

  “Awesome job, you two,” Mike said. “C’mon, I’ll give you a ride back to your car.”

  “I think we’ll walk,” Bailey said. “Ken hasn’t been here before, so I’d like to show her the trail. You can just leave my stuff next to the car.”

  He shook hands with both of them and zipped up the hill in his golf cart. Ken held the yellow rope for Bailey before stepping under it and back to the public side of the spit. Bailey had once again given her a unique look behind the scenes, a glimpse into the natural world Ken had rarely seen before.

  “I hope you don’t mind walking,” Bailey said. “I thought I’d be sick if I had to ride in that cart again.”

  “Are you kidding? I’m relieved. The man’s a menace behind the wheel.” Ken climbed over a large piece of driftwood and walked toward the strait. Bailey could easily have taken over back there, releasing the bird herself instead of letting Ken have the honor. But she hadn’t. She had let Ken experience the wonder of flight and freedom. How much more wonderful must the moment of release be after she had spent weeks or months caring for the creature and living in such close quarters? She stared out at the strait and watched a dark bird disappear under the water, only to resurface again moments later. “Thank you for today.”

  “I should be thanking you,” Bailey said. She pointed at a flock of birds several yards down the beach. They were scattered along the water’s edge, some on the sand and some floating close to shore. “Pigeon guillemots. Anyway, I appreciated having you here. The whole process was much smoother with the two of us than it would have been if I’d been alone, or if Mike had tried to help.”

  “You’re welcome.” Ken squinted at the pigeon…whatevers. “How can you tell what they are? They all look the same to me.”

  Bailey handed her the binoculars. “See t
heir red feet and the white patch on their wings?”

  “Oh yeah,” Ken said. The distinct features began to stand out once she looked for them. She searched for the bird she had seen diving.

  “It’s a loon,” Bailey said, putting her hands on Ken’s shoulders and turning her slightly. “Black head, black-and-white speckled body.”

  They stayed on the beach for another fifteen minutes while Bailey gave her a crash course in bird identification. Ken doubted she’d remember all the names and markings, but she enjoyed the feel of Bailey’s touch as she guided Ken toward each new species she found.

  “Fascinating,” Ken said. She draped the binoculars around Bailey’s neck again and took hold of her injured hand. She traced the bandage with her thumb. “I could stay here all day, but we need to get you out of here so we can clean this wound. You might need stitches.”

  “I can sew it up at home if I need to,” Bailey said, pulling her hand away. She started walking along the trail leading off the spit. The first section was a steep climb up the bluff, and Bailey used the time to pull her wandering thoughts together. Working side by side with Ken had been too confusing. The quiet and easy way they had handled the bird, as if they could read each other’s moves before they happened, was in direct contrast with the electric charge Bailey had felt every time her skin touched Ken’s. She had shared her work with Ken, and she had wanted to share the reward as well. She had no doubt Ken had recognized the importance of the moment of release—Bailey had seen the beauty of it reflected in Ken’s expression as she watched the kingfisher take flight.

  But Bailey knew there was always pain mixed with joy when a wild creature regained its freedom. Ken was working with her because she had to, because she had been given an unwanted assignment by her boss. She wouldn’t stay for long. Bailey had tried to hurry them to the inevitable time when Ken would decide her bird obsession was too weird or too boring. But Ken had seemed interested in the mini-lecture even though Bailey hadn’t included any jokes or interesting anecdotes as she listed the identifying features of waterfowl. Ken must still be basking in the release. Soon the excitement would wear off, and they’d both return to the routine of their lives.

  Once they reached the top of the hill and the path leveled out, Bailey paused next to a garbage can full of paper coffee cups and fast food bags. She took out her phone and checked the signal strength.

  “I need to call Dani and make sure she didn’t have any trouble feeding.”

  Ken snatched her phone away. “Why don’t I call her and let her know the rescue was a success and we’re going out to breakfast to celebrate. Then she won’t feel like her boss doesn’t trust her, and you’ll know your birds are safe.”

  Bailey grabbed for her phone, but Ken used her extra height to keep it just out of reach. “I don’t trust her. Not yet, anyway. I just met her.”

  “So instead of automatically trusting people until they prove themselves unworthy, you start by believing they’re untrustworthy?”

  Bailey paused with one hand on Ken’s waist. She had been reaching for her phone with the other, but she let it drop while she struggled with a way to answer Ken’s question. Automatically trust people instead of the opposite? She’d never even considered it as a viable option. She paused long enough, distracted by the issue of trust and by her reluctance to move her hand, for Ken to search through her contact list.

  “Hi, Dani? It’s Ken. We met a couple days ago at Dr. Chase’s house…Yes, I’m with her now.”

  “Give me the phone,” Bailey whispered.

  “It was a kingfisher,” Ken continued, batting away Bailey’s hand. “Gorgeous. By some miracle, she wasn’t injured, so we let her go.”

  Bailey tugged on Ken’s sleeve. Apparently, she wasn’t getting her phone back, but she at least wanted an update on her birds. “Did the redtail eat? She can be fussy if her routine is changed.”

  “So can you,” Ken said to her before returning to her phone conversation. “Hey, I was going to take Dr. Chase to breakfast as long as you’re coping there on your own…Oh no…Really? How many of them got loose?”

  “What?” Bailey asked loudly.

  Ken laughed at Bailey’s expression. Shock mixed with resignation, as if she’d been convinced all along Dani wouldn’t be able to keep the birds in their cages. “Thanks, Dani. We’ll be back in a couple hours. Call if you need anything.”

  “You were joking? Please tell me you were trying to be funny,” Bailey said, crossing her arms and glaring at Ken.

  Ken smiled. “Yes, I was kidding. Your birds are fine. Dani said the feeding went smoothly and everyone was well behaved. No one escaped.”

  Bailey pivoted away from Ken and scanned the ground beside the trail.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Something to throw at you,” Bailey said, but Ken could hear the hint of laughter in her voice. It had a hysterical note to it, since Bailey had been tricked into thinking her nightmare had come true, but at least it was laughter. Ken caught her by the arm and made Bailey face her, running her fingers over the beautiful curve of Bailey’s mouth. Bailey’s smiles were rare, but genuine.

  “I’m sorry,” Ken said. “I shouldn’t have teased. Your birds are safe, and Dani will be there all afternoon. At least have breakfast with me?”

  Bailey tugged her arm out of Ken’s grasp and started down the trail. “Okay. I have to go to the feed store for some bedding for my cages, and there’s a diner next door to it.”

  Ken easily caught up with Bailey. She had never chosen a restaurant because of its proximity to a feed store, but she wasn’t surprised by Bailey’s order of priorities. Bird supplies first, human meals second. Ken was content to be an afterthought to an errand if it meant Bailey would take an hour or two away from the stress and responsibility of her center. Ken didn’t know the statistics, but she was willing to bet the rate of burnout for wildlife rehabilitators was high. She had watched Bailey at work, had seen firsthand how much emotion she invested in each feathered creature that crossed her path. How long could she keep driving herself, unwilling to accept help or say no to any bird, before she broke down? Whether Bailey wanted to admit it or not, she needed rest and time away from her birds if she wanted to stay healthy. Even now, after the reassurance from the phone call with Dani, Bailey seemed less taut. She walked along the forest trail with the ease of a creature that had been born to live in the nonhuman world.

  The path was marked with scattered signs identifying trees and bushes, and on a normal hike, Ken would have read each one. She might have remembered a name or two if a certain plant caught her attention, but her walk with Bailey was different. Bailey described every detail, pointed out every quality of shape and texture in the plants around her. Ken used to walk through areas she’d refer to in general as woods, but Bailey helped her separate out various forms and shapes from the homogenous whole.

  Even the forest sounds stopped being mere background noise as Ken started to recognize the different voices in the chorus.

  “Hey,” she said, pausing in the middle of the path. She waited as a family with two children passed them going the opposite direction, toward the spit. The forest grew still as the group went by, sharing hellos and comments about the rainy weather. Once she and Bailey were alone again, Ken continued. “I hear an owl.”

  Bailey cocked her head and listened. Adorable. “The cooing sound? No, it’s a mourning dove.”

  Not as exciting, but Ken filed the sound and the species away in her mind. A few moments later, she stopped once more. She stared into the branches of a massive western hemlock until she caught the red flash again. “Look,” she said, pointing toward the bird. The bright color seemed exotic and out of place in the woods. She was sure Bailey would tell her it was something rare, something unusual.

  “It’s a robin,” Bailey said. She handed the binoculars to Ken who confirmed it was, indeed, a standard robin. Ken watched the bird flit through the dense branches. She saw robins everywhere, but s
he had never really noticed how bright their red breasts and yellow bills were, and how delicate and sweet their song was.

  Ken returned the binoculars, her fingers sliding over Bailey’s, and it felt natural to take Bailey’s hand in her own. The world seemed private and isolated, the sounds of the woods only occasionally broken by the discordant noise of a passing group of tourists. Ken turned Bailey’s hand over and pressed her thumb along the edges of the bandage to tighten the seal. Bailey used her hands to heal, and she needed someone to heal her. Ken let go of Bailey’s hand when she heard another group of people approaching from beyond a bend in the path. Ken wasn’t strong enough to be what Bailey needed. She had proven beyond doubt that she wasn’t capable of protecting someone as sensitive and unique as Bailey. Someone who lived in an internal and ideal world but seemed unprepared for the details and dangers of real life. Ken was better off with a woman like Ginny who conformed to the standards set by society. Someone self-protected and not in danger of being deeply wounded because she was different.

  Bailey felt the loss of Ken’s touch as keenly as the release of one of her raptors. One second she was feeling lighthearted and connected, and the next she was standing alone and empty as a trio of laughing and chatting tourists passed by her on their way toward the spit. Ken had done more than drop Bailey’s hand. A touch, a bond so quickly forged and broken.

  Bailey had enjoyed the feel of Ken’s palm pressed against hers. She felt the same rush of energy she got when she held a wild raptor. A powerful life force, strong and sure, infiltrating her veins for a brief time. But Ken was different from her birds. Their reactions and emotions were simple and intense. Consistent. Ken’s seemed no less intense, but they were complex and harder for Bailey to read, capable of change in the rapid blink of an eye. Which one should Bailey trust?

  She walked in silence, still feeling the tingling progress of Ken’s thumb as it had circled around the cut on her hand. She so rarely spent time walking in the woods like this, with no real purpose. She was always focused on birds when she was in the woods, but she was usually catching or releasing one, not merely enjoying the way their different calls and songs surrounded her or the way their movements among the tree branches brought life to the forest. Because these birds didn’t need her. The ones back home did.