Circa Now

by Amber McRee Turner

  “Oh, we’re not…We just…” stammered Mom.

  “He’s not family,” said Circa. “He was hurt in the storm, and we’re helping him is all.”

  “Oh, wow, I’m so sorry,” said the nurse. “I just saw the resemblance and assumed.”

  Circa looked curiously at her. What kind of resemblance? she wondered.

  “I’ll make a note for our billing folks to see if we can write this up as a charity case,” the nurse said.

  “Thank you so much,” said Mom.

  Miles turned ten shades of embarrassed as he held up the gown. Circa and Mom turned away. There were all manner of life-support gadgets on the wall before them. Pedals, switches, plastic pans, glove boxes, giant swabs, and five sizes of cloth tape. Circa couldn’t begin to imagine what all of them were for.

  “It’s okay now,” Miles said after he’d changed and climbed onto the bed.

  Circa and Mom settled onto a couple of folding chairs just as the doctor yanked the curtain open and peeked his head in.

  “Everyone decent?” he asked.

  “Good thing we are,” said Miles. He was still red as could be.

  Once inside the room, the doctor seemed to move in fast motion, asking Miles a bunch of questions that overlapped each other while he shined a light into Miles’s ears and made him follow the same light with his eyeballs, squeeze his hands hard as he could, touch his fingers to the tip of his own nose, and then balance while standing on one leg at a time. All the while, Circa tried to distract herself, but found it harder and harder to keep from staring at the newly exposed collection of scars on Miles’s arms and legs. On just the areas she could see, there were at least a dozen red and purple marks of all shapes and sizes on him. Some scrape-ish ones like you get falling off your bike. Other ones, more like cuts. Some looked older than others, but none were fresh. It wasn’t until they took Miles away for a scan of his head that Circa found out Mom had noticed the scars as well.

  “Circ, what could have happened to him?” Mom whispered as soon as he was gone. “All those marks—”

  “I don’t know,” said Circa, feeling more than a little relieved that Mom was back from space. She’d begun to wonder how they were going to get home with Mom all hazy eyed like she was.

  A few minutes later, the doc wheeled Miles back in. “Well, we can rule out a bleed in the brain or a tumor,” he said. “And there are no signs of acute head trauma whatsoever. Which leads me to believe the memory loss may be PTSD-related. Some kind of temporary effect of post-traumatic stress disorder. Has Child Services been called?”

  “Yes, the police did that,” Mom said.

  The doc scribbled across his clipboard. “You may get dressed, son,” he said. “On the discharge paperwork, I’ll recommend that the state follow up with some sort of psychological workup.”

  “Discharge paperwork?” said Mom. “You mean you’re not going to keep him here?”

  “No reason to,” said the doctor. “By exam, he checks out fine. I think this kid needs a place to rest his head so that everything in there will settle.”

  “You mean he can’t rest his head here?”

  “Not this week,” said the doc. “We’ve got three to a room with tornado injuries as it is.”

  Keeping her head turned as he dressed, Circa asked Miles what the CT scan was like. If it hurt any.

  “Nah,” he said. “Kind of like being in a big toilet paper tube is all.”

  “Isn’t there a medicine he can take that would help him remember?” Mom asked.

  “I’m afraid not,” the doctor said. “I can only prescribe time for that.”

  “Decent again,” announced Miles, scrunching up his jeans one leg at a time to yank on his socks, drawing Circa’s attention once more to the collection of scars there. Circa instantly got goose bumps just thinking about the pain that must have once meant for him. When her eyes met Mom’s, it was clear that both of them had been struck with the same thought. Whatever Miles had been through in his past, it must have been a doozy of an ordeal.

  “Miles,” said Mom with a sigh, “why don’t you come on home with us and stay until we get word about your family? I’m sure it’ll only be a day or so until we hear something, and Circa won’t mind if you take the room next to hers, will you, Circ?”

  Mom looked to Circa for consent as Miles stooped wearily to tie his beat-up tennies. Circa instantly found herself beyond conflicted in that room full of buzzing lightbulbs and sterile smells. Here she was another whole miserable day farther from Dad and the things they had once shared. And yet, strangely enough, that was the very reason she couldn’t bear to pile another hurt on this mystery boy who shared her own father’s crinkle.

  “No, I don’t mind,” Circa said, adding a quiet “Code Thirty-two” under her breath.

  Bud and Marla instantly regretted bringing Sleepy along on their drive through Yellowstone. After hours of being stalled by the curious bear family, they ended up trading their friend for a few pieces of licked-on garbage. By winter, the black bears deeply regretted their trade, when Sleepy hogged up all the hibernating space.

  It was already night by the time they left the hospital, and Mom, Circa, and Miles were all drained of color and words. Miles dozed all the way from the hospital parking lot to the house, but much to Circa’s relief, Mom didn’t.

  “Circ, you show Miles to his room, and I’ll scare up a toothbrush for him,” she said as they entered the front door.

  Circa led Miles upstairs, to the bedroom right next to hers, just across the hall from Mom and Dad’s. The decor was made up of stuff that Dad had brought home from Maple Grove when Aunt Ruby died, great-auntish things like beige circles of lace and dusty, rosy-cheeked cherub figurines. But Miles didn’t seem to mind. He set his backpack down on the rocking chair and sat on the edge of the bed.

  Mom came in with two bottled waters and a small scattering of pretzels on a paper plate. She had a fresh hand towel and a spare toothbrush pinched under her elbow. “I apologize for the slim pickings,” she said. “Mr. Monroe was the executive chef around here.”

  Circa thought about the bedtime snacks Dad used to make for her. Tiny faces carved into cubes of cheese. Carefully balanced grape pyramids. Not so chef-like maybe, but perfect.

  “Don’t you worry, Miles,” said Mom. “Now that we’ve gotten the word out, I’m sure we’ll hear something from your family tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, maybe so,” he said, taking a handful of pretzels and a water. “Good night. And I’m sorry for all the trouble.”

  Mom and Circa turned to leave him for the night and walked to Circa’s room, where Mom kissed her on the head and squeezed her tight. “Get you some sleep,” she said. “And thanks for the help today. I sure couldn’t have handled that without you.”

  Circa only wished she could disagree with her. It felt weird to have to be ready to speak for your own mother in case she totally flaked out. Mom had always been able to get Dad to fill in those gaps before.

  “This will all be cleared up soon,” Mom said, “and we’ll be back to—well, I’m not sure there is any normal for us, huh?”

  Circa shook her head and reached for the remaining pretzels. “Good night, Mom.”

  “Night, Circ. I love you.” Mom gently pulled the door closed on her way out.

  Circa licked the salt off a pretzel as she heard Miles settle into the squeaky brass bed on the other side of the wall. Then she sat on the floor and looked around her own room, a sparse tiny space with little else but a dresser and a bed and a reading lamp. Circa had always spent more time awake in Studio Monroe than in her actual room, so she’d never really put much effort into this one. Just weeks ago, Mom and Dad had let her stay down in the studio every night of spring break in a little fort built from Mom’s photography light stands and some sheet backdrops thrown over them. Circa went to sleep looking at the shape of Dad
’s head and shoulders silhouetted on the big, glowy monitor. It was the last time she’d seen him work on one of the Maple Grove pictures, a particularly worn one of Miss Rempy standing next to her crop-dusting plane.

  Circa thought about the hours of toil Dad put into that photo. She wondered if she was fooling herself, thinking she was capable of doing his work. Frustrated, she tossed the half-full water into her garbage can so hard that it splattered up the wall. Desperate for something that might offer some comfort, she crept out of her bedroom and down the stairs, tiptoed through the foyer and the kitchen, and creaked open the studio door. Then she fumbled around the studio in the dark for the one thing she knew could make tonight better. Circa grabbed the Shopt folder, tucked it under her arm, and tiptoed back up to her room.

  Sitting on the floor, Circa laid the folder open on the carpet in front of her and closed her eyes to pick from the stack randomly. The one she picked was a personal favorite, an old picture of a classroom full of fourth graders. Above their heads, plump green vines grew long and tangled from the ceiling, each branch bearing a different kind of candy. All sorts of sugary things, ripe for the picking, dangled above the students’ heads, each and every one a kind that Circa loved. Underneath the photo, written in Dad’s scrawly handwriting, the story read:

  It was October 23, 1959, and Mrs. Lipman had found it increasingly difficult to teach that day. Hands were raised all morning long, but for harvesting goodies instead of answering questions. By noon, nine bellyaches had already been reported to the nurse’s office. And absolutely nobody wanted to say “cheese” for the photographer.

  It was like Circa could hear Dad’s voice reading the words to her, and gazing at the delightful scene gave her a sweet surge of calm. She fanned out all the Shopt photos in front of her. Then she slid out the bottom-most one, the sight of it making her well up with tears. It was the Linholt Reunion, but not a crumply one laid across a table by a lost boy. Instead, it was full of wonderful Shopt things…the golden pocket watch tangled in the branches, the big sneaky potato, the bugle-playing beaver, and that cute little pudgy baby. One by one, she took in all of the crazy, all the happy things that made Circa long for this to be the real picture of the park where Dad’s accident had happened.

  Each Shopt item was a comfort in its own way, but Circa soon found herself aiming her attention at one small detail in particular. One that hadn’t seemed important until now. As Miles flopped over noisily on the other side of the wall, Circa drew the picture closer to verify. Yes, indeed, there it was. A tiny crinkle on that baby. Like Dad. Like Miles.

  Circa wondered all the more what tale Dad had concocted for this little chubby Monroe-ish Linholt. Her eyes wandered to the big empty white space underneath the photo, where the story would have, should have, been written for her. She clutched the picture tight to her chest, leaned back onto her pillow, and thought about the way it was really supposed to be. That if your dad absolutely has to die, then it should be his hundred-year-old self lying in a cushy place, where he assures his gathered loved ones that his race has been run and his job here on earth is beyond complete. One thing Circa knew down to the sorest part of her heart was that it’s really, really not supposed to be like this.

  Circa thought about Great-Aunt Ruby and how she had run her whole race, and had died so peacefully, despite hardly recognizing her own family. How tenderly Dad cared for Aunt Ruby and all of her friends at Maple Grove. She thought about how there was never a picture that Dad wouldn’t at least try to restore, no matter how hopeless it seemed, and she felt the Memory Wall pull at her heart, strong as ever. She decided that she would absolutely go visit Maple Grove tomorrow, even if she had to walk there. She’d assure them that the Memory Wall was still alive and well. And she would take Miles there too, if for no other reason than to maybe distract him from his own blank page.

  Circa looked at the Shopt reunion picture again. She’d been gripping it so tightly, and her hands were sweating. She couldn’t explain it, but something in that baby’s face kept telling her that there were things worth discovering about that boy on the other side of the wall. A crinkly feeling that there was much to be gained in helping him pull his story off the shelf.

  Just then, Circa’s thoughts were interrupted by the sharp crack of a stick hitting her bedroom window. She jumped up, shuffled the Shopt photos back into the folder, and slid them under the bed. Then she crept toward the window and took a peek down below. There, in the middle of the front yard, bathed in the glow of the streetlight, stood Nattie Boone in her best pajamas and matching slippers, looking around nervously like she might get busted any minute.

  Circa opened her window as quiet as possible and whispered as loud as possible.

  “Nat, what are you doing out there?”

  “I snuck out to check on you,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “I tried to call like ten times. Why didn’t you answer?”

  “Because we had to go to the police station and the hospital.”

  “You did? For what?”

  “To help Miles find his family. I can’t believe you snuck out.”

  “Is that his name…Miles?” said Nattie.

  “Sort of.”

  “What do you mean, sort of?”

  “I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

  “Wait,” said Nattie. “You mean your mom took you guys?”

  “Barely,” muttered Circa with a nod.

  “Is he still there?”

  “Yeah, in the guest room. And get this…He’s been sleeping in our backyard for days. That’s the noise I kept hearing.”

  “No way!” Nattie’s whisper came too close to a shout. “So what’s up with him? Where’s he from? How old is he? How’d he get here?” She stacked the questions all the way up to Circa’s window.

  Circa cupped both hands to her face to aim some answers directly below. “He’s lost,” she said. “He doesn’t remember anything. Like amnesia or something. And get this, Nat…He hitchhiked here from the place where my dad was…from that reunion. He came here because of our address on the back of a picture.”

  Nattie’s eyes were huge. “Wild,” she said. “Totally wild.”

  Circa heard Miles flop over again. “We’ll talk more tomorrow,” she said. “When you guys come over for your dad’s work portrait.”

  “Okay, then,” said Nattie. But she stayed put. “Hey. You never told me,” she said.

  “Told you what?” said Circa.

  “Did he see the bird poo on me?”

  Circa sighed.

  “No, Nat, he didn’t see the bird poo on you.”

  “Good. Night, Circ. See you tomorrow.”

  “Good night, Nat.”

  Nattie turned to walk home, but then turned right back.

  “Oh, yeah, my mom made me promise I’d apologize to you for talking about poop so much on the phone.”

  “No big deal, Nat.”

  Nattie gave another false start.

  “You ought to see if it’s a brown-headed nuthatch in that nest. They like to live in small pine trees in this area.”

  “What nest?” said Circa.

  “The one outside your window right there,” said Nattie, pointing up at Circa’s tree. “The one you took a picture of.”

  “Picture?” said Circa, leaning farther out her window. Sure enough, there was a tangled mess of twigs nestled into the topmost pine tree branch that reached out closest to her room. She’d never noticed it there before, and it sure enough seemed to occupy the very spot she’d photographed that morning.

  “Because if it is a brown-headed nuthatch,” said Nattie, “she’ll lay eggs that look like they have freckles, and we can watch them hatch right outside your window and give the babies names.”

  Circa could have sworn she’d snapped a picture of a thoroughly naked tree branch. But she also knew enough not to argue bird knowled
ge with Nattie. So she answered the only way she knew how.

  “Nattie, you’re a brown-headed nuthatch.”

  Nattie smiled and glided off in her silky jammies as Circa pushed the window shut. Before she could go to bed, though, Circa felt compelled to put the Shopt folder back in its spot on Dad’s desk, as if she’d been viewing an important ancient manuscript that needed to be returned to its spot at the museum. So she snagged the folder once more from under her bed and dashed down to the studio and back, stopping only to place the file gently into its spot and to get a good sniff of Dad’s chair on her way out.

  Upstairs, Circa put her ear to Mom’s door and heard the familiar whoosh of the Soothing Ocean Sounds CD that Dad had given her for Christmas once. Then she peeked in at Miles, who, by his grizzly-bear snoring, had just added another item to the list of his Todd Monroe–ish characteristics. Miles lay there sprawled atop the covers, all conked out with even his shoes still on. She noticed that, peaceful as the rest of him looked, his legs still twitched and shuffled like he was running away from something.

  Bryan struggled once more against the weight. Snoopy was simply not budging, and the pomegranate-throwing orangutan wasn’t making things any easier.

  On Monday, Circa woke up with that oh no, Dad is gone feeling that slapped her upside the soul at least a dozen times a day. Her thoughts bounced wildly from Miles and Maple Grove to that mysterious nest; so much so that, before she got dressed, Circa lifted her window and checked to make sure she hadn’t imagined the nest. Nope. Still there. And with freckled eggs in it, just like Nattie had said. There was even the mother bird chirping on the next branch over. She wished she could compare it to the real thing. Circa instantly regretted how she’d torn her nest picture to bits after Mom had pointed out the Shopt addition.

  Just then, Mom appeared at Circa’s door tying a robe around her middle. She pulled her cell phone from the big square front pocket and checked the screen to see if anyone had claimed Miles as their own in the night. No messages.