by James Bird
I sit up, and as I do, a folded piece of paper falls from my chest. Breakfast is ready, it says. It even has (16) written above the note. That’s cute. My mom is trying to make me feel comfortable. It won’t last long—it never does—but still, I appreciate the effort. My dad never tried this hard. But he saw my situation as a problem to fix.
Maybe my mom doesn’t see it that way. Maybe she just sees it as me being me. Only time will tell. And I’ll give her time. I hope moms are more patient than dads.
Seven is still asleep, so I leave the door cracked open and make my way toward the kitchen. Halfway through the hallway, in the center of the animal kingdom of drawings, there is a photograph of a young man. He wears a military uniform, and his cheekbones match my mother’s. The frame is surrounded by shells and beads. Who is he? And why is he so cool-looking? I slug my way into the kitchen. My mother is doing the dishes with her back to me.
“Good morning,” I say through a yawn.
She turns around and hands me a dirty plate.
“You can help me,” she says, and takes a step to the side, giving me room to share the sink with her.
I state the number (twelve) and accept the ketchup-stained plate.
“You just missed all the kids,” she adds as she runs another plate under the sink.
“What kids?” I ask as I pick up the sponge and wipe down the plate.
“Where you live now, everyone is family.”
“Everyone is related here?” I ask.
“Family doesn’t always mean blood related.”
Back in Huntington Beach, we rarely talked to the neighbors. Especially at our house. I had the dad that drank too much, and he had the son who had something wrong with his brain. And it wasn’t just us. The family to our left was in the middle of a nasty divorce. They’d scream at each other until midnight sometimes. And the family to our right were super religious and routinely left Bible verses on all the cars in our neighborhood. His wife caught him with another woman, and after that, we all thought the notes would stop. They didn’t. They doubled. Once, my dad got so pissed thinking there was a parking ticket on his truck, but it was just another note from good old Lord-loving Larry.
I have never heard of a place where everyone is considered family.
“Who’s the guy in the hallway wearing the uniform?” I ask.
She smiles and pulls the plate out of the running water.
“That’s your brother,” she says.
“So he is a neighbor, too?” I ask.
“No, he is blood related. You have a brother.”
Wait. What? Why didn’t my dad tell me this? I thought I was in this world on my own. For all the beatings I took from bullies, having an older brother would have been helpful. Especially him. He looks super tough. Nobody would mess with me if they knew I was related to him.
“Where is he?”
She turns off the sink and sets the plate down.
“He’s here. Would you like to meet him?” she asks.
“He’s here? Yes.”
I push my hair back, as though that will make me more presentable to meet my long-lost brother, and I try to clear the sleep debris from my eyes.
“Follow me,” she says, and walks out of the kitchen and into the living room.
I wipe my hands on the towel next to the sink and follow her into the next room.
She stands near the corner. I’m confused. There’s no one in here but my mother and me. I follow her eyes toward the top of the shelf. On it sits a clay-colored urn with a beautiful black design that looks like a tree with roots painted around it. It stares back at me, just as speechless as I am. It is set in the center of a dozen neatly placed flowers.
“Ajidamoo, this your brother, Collin,” she says.
My brain doesn’t count her letters because she isn’t talking to me. In fact, she isn’t talking to a person. She is speaking to the urn. I see the pain in her eyes as they finally drift from her other son to me.
It clicks. My brother is dead. And I just made my mother talk about him first thing in the morning. Again, this is not a great start.
“How did he…?” I ask.
“He fought for this country,” she says proudly.
“I’m sorry. That’s horrible.”
“I can’t think of a greater way to go. Don’t be sorry. Be thankful,” she says as she reaches out and grabs something from the shelf.
“What’s that?”
She pulls down a necklace made of bone and leather, and in the center is a turquoise stone. It the coolest-looking necklace I have ever seen.
“This was Aji’s. I believe he would want you to have it,” she says, and places it over my head, letting it fall around my neck.
The turquoise stone rests over my heart as I tally up her letters (forty-one). It feels heavy, or maybe that’s the weight of the situation. I can’t tell for sure.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“I’m sure.”
“It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
She kisses her fingertips and places them on the urn.
“Even from the next world, he’s still giving to this one,” she says.
“Tell him I said thank you.”
She turns to me, tears on the curbs of her eyes. “Tell him yourself,” she says, and walks back into the kitchen, leaving me alone with my brother.
I stare at the urn and try to picture the guy from the photo. I wonder if he knows what’s going on right now. I haven’t thought much about death before, and I don’t believe in angels or anything like that, but maybe Native Americans are different. Perhaps death is just another part of life for them. I mean, my mom talks about it so easily. She just introduced me to my deceased brother and went right back to washing dishes. There’s so much I have to learn if I’m ever going to be a real Native American.
“Thank you, Aji,” I say to the urn.
He doesn’t respond. Usually this is my favorite kind of conversation, but not this time. I would have loved to have a brother. I would have loved to know him, to see him, to count his letters. Early on, my dad pushed playdates on me. I think he made a deal with my classmates’ parents. Maybe he even paid them. But one by one, they stopped coming by. What was cool and funny soon became annoying. But a brother would have been different. We’d have had a blood connection.
My thoughts are interrupted by a large grumble south of my heart. I nearly forgot how hungry I am. I skipped dinner last night, and now my body is in full protest. I take one last look at my brother and head back to the kitchen. A warm plate of eggs and hash browns awaits me. I take a seat and immediately dig in. My chewing is drowned out by Seven, who is near the corner, scarfing down whatever food my mother set out for her. I love that she thought to feed Seven. Back in California, if I didn’t feed her, she didn’t eat. My dad never took the time to make sure she was fed. Maybe it’s a mother thing.
She hands me a large glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and takes a seat across from me.
“Thank you,” I say, but she just smiles back at me.
Good. She’s learning how to communicate with me. Already, she’s better than my dad at this parenting thing. With me, less is more.
“How do you spell my brother’s name?” I ask.
“A-J-I. It’s short for Ajidamoo. That’s A-J-I-D-A-M-O-O.”
“Ajidamoo, that’s eight. Aji for short, that’s three. What does it mean?” I ask in between bites.
“Squirrel,” she says.
“Also eight letters. Why squirrel?”
For as long as I can remember, I’ve always tried to avoid talking, and here I am, striking up the conversation.
“As a boy, he was always outside, climbing trees.”
“But how did you know he would do that as a boy? I mean, didn’t you name him when he was a baby?” I ask.
“Mothers just know. You’re not a tree climber … You’re more of a tree drawer, aren’t you?” she asks.
How did she know that? Do mothers really
know their kids, even before they do? Her letters fall into my head like someone shaking branches from an apple tree, but instead of apples, they only get inedible numbers.
“Yes. I have a notebook full of trees. An entire forest,” I say.
“Well, we have beautiful trees here. You can climb them and draw them when you’re ready.”
“What do you mean when I’m ready?”
“I’ll leave that between you and the trees,” she says, and reaches for my empty plate.
I guess she means I have to get to know the trees here. Everything is alive here. I forgot. All the plants at my dad’s house were fake. Even our Christmas tree. I never minded that, though—after all, California is constantly in a water crisis—but my dad had them be fake for other reasons … He didn’t want to see them die. He said fake plants were less responsibility, and that was exactly what he strived for. Well, he has finally achieved it. I’m no longer his.
“Where’d you go?” my mom asked, snapping me out of my daze.
“I’m here. Sorry. I’ll introduce myself to the trees pretty soon,” I say.
“I have to go to work. You and Seven should get to know the house while I’m gone,” she says, and washes my plate. “It’s full of stories.”
“Okay. On a Sunday? Where do you work?” I ask.
“On the rez. I’m a Mather,” she says.
“What’s a Mather?” I ask.
“It’s what the kids call us. It’s short for math teacher. We got Sciencers, Englishers, and Arters. I’m the Mather. Sundays are my prep days.”
“I didn’t know you were a teacher.”
“You do now. And hey, we’re looking for a PE teacher. You interested in being a PE’er?” she says, and laughs. “That joke’s funny to a bunch of six-year-olds,” she says as it finally clicks. A pee joke. I laugh.
“I already have that job. Every morning,” I say, which makes my mom laugh again.
I’m smiling. I usually never smile in the morning. My dad was always in such a rush to do whatever he did that he’d practically toss me out the front door with a banana so I wouldn’t miss the bus. Never did we have time for morning jokes. And look at me now: My mom and I have already shared a pee joke.
“Put the seat up. You ain’t the first boy to live under this roof. I know how messy you animals get,” she says as she starts to walk out of the kitchen.
“I will. Before you go, can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Who else lives here?” I ask.
“In this house?” she asks. “Including you?”
“Yes.”
“That’s hard to say. In time, you’ll see why. Have a good day, son,” she says, and walks out of the kitchen.
“Forty-six,” I say under my breath, wondering what she meant by that. Another thing I really like about her is that I don’t see any pity in her eyes, at least not yet. She treats me like there’s nothing wrong. I hope it stays this way for a while longer. I know it won’t last forever, but it feels good not being looked at like there’s something deeply wrong with me.
I watch her from the kitchen window as she climbs into the pickup truck. It looks as if she’s talking to the truck before the engine roars to life. Do all Native Americans have this kind of connection with everything around them, or is it just my family? Maybe it’s just my mom. Maybe she’s known in town as that lady who talks to cars and trees. If that’s the case, then it would make sense that she wouldn’t find my letter counting that strange.
I look down at the sink and give it a shot.
“Hi, sink,” I say, and wait.
Nothing.
Seven barks and rushes out of the kitchen. It’s playtime, and even though we are thousands of miles away from the only home we have ever known, that is not going to stop Seven’s schedule. Not a chance.
I run with her through the living room and toward the sliding glass door that opens to the backyard. After I slide it open, Seven rushes out at a full gallop. The ground outside is shriveled up and brown, encased in a square fence about half the size of my previous backyard. Seven doesn’t care. To her, outside is outside; she keeps it simple like that. And after a few minutes of sniffing the new area, she picks out the perfect spot to pee. She got the job. She’s the new PE’er.
“You like it here, don’t you, girl?” I say.
She runs toward me, but something catches her eye. She stops. Her ears rise. Her entire body perks up. I know that look. There’s a squirrel running along the fence. It locks eyes with Seven and stops. It’s a face-off. It’s dog versus squirrel. Dun dun dun.
“Hi, squirrel,” I say, just to give the connecting-with-nature thing one last go, and as soon as the word leaves my mouth, the squirrel bats its tail at me and takes off running.
Seven chases it along the fence until it disappears into the neighbor’s yard, which shares the fence with our house.
“You’ll catch it next time, girl,” I shout, and slap my thighs, calling her back to me.
I repeat my brother’s name in my head. Ajidamoo. Squirrel. Maybe that was him just now, reincarnated as a small furry animal that came to see who is now sleeping in his bed. The thought makes me happy and sad. If it was him, I hope he liked me. And if it wasn’t him, well, I hope the squirrel liked me too, because why not?
It was so dark last night that I didn’t even realize there was another house right next to ours. The fence between the houses is old and dirty, so I jump a few times to see over it, to catch a glimpse of my neighbor’s house. But the fence is too tall. I imagine this height was nothing to my brother. If he climbed trees with ease, then he’d clear this fence no problem.
Whatever, I need to shower anyway, I may as well get a little dirty. I grab the top of the fence and hoist my body up. My head hovers inches above it, and I’m able to see the next yard, which has grass just as dead as ours. But past the dead weeds, toward the back of the yard, is a large tree, full of thick green-leafed branches sprouting in all directions. That’s odd. How is the ground so dead, but the tree so green and full of life?
My hands begin to shake from the strain, but as I lower my head, I catch a glimpse of something in the tree. It looks like … a wooden tree house?
I lift my head a bit higher and see there’s a window, and through the window, a pair of human eyes looking directly at me. Who is that?
Snap!
One of the wooden boards splits in half beneath me and sends me crashing to the ground, with my left leg now stuck halfway into the broken fence. I hit the ground on my back, hard, knocking the wind out of me. Seven leaps toward my face, covering me in a dozen licks to make sure I’m okay. I lie there and catch my breath for a few moments. My brother would not be impressed. I hope the squirrel didn’t see that.
Great. I’m left alone for five minutes, and I’m already destroying the house. I look up and see the damage. I need to fix this before my mother gets home. I know nothing about woodwork, but how difficult can it be? I just need to find a new board and hammer it to the fence. Sounds simple enough. I get to my feet and peer through the break in the fence to take another look at the tree house. I can’t see those eyes anymore. Whoever it was just saw me take an epic fall.
“Don’t worry, I’ll have it fixed.”
I turn around and see my grandmother staring at me.
She’s grinning, standing with one foot in the house and one foot in the backyard. Today she is wearing a brown dress, but it looks like the exact dress she was wearing last night, like it just changes colors depending on the day.
“I’m sorry,” I shout back to her.
“Don’t be. It used to happen all the time,” she says.
“Really? With Aji?” I ask.
Her eyes focus in on mine. I can’t tell if hearing his name out loud hurts her or soothes her. Her smile hasn’t faded, so I don’t think I’ve upset her.
“He was quite the little squirrel, that boy.”
“I’m sure he wasn’t as clumsy as I am.”
She laughs. “No, he wasn’t,” she says, and steps back into the house.
“I’ll fix it. I just need to find some wood and a hamm—”
I stop talking because she closes the sliding glass door. Oh no. Have I already annoyed her too much? I look back at the fence and realize this all happened because of that darn squirrel.
“That little guy bested us both, Seven,” I say.
I pick up the split boards and carry them to the house. Halfway to the sliding glass door, I begin to limp. I look down and see a bit of blood soaking through my pants. Great. I don’t mind the pain so much, but I definitely don’t want to break my family’s fence and track blood through the house.
This is a rough start to my new life.
I stop in front of the glass door, set the wooden pieces against the wall, and remove my black shirt. It’s cold, but I’d rather be a little chilly than be the reason a trail of blood is streaked across the carpet. I wrap the shirt around my leg. Once it is fastened tightly, I reach for the door handle to slide it open … but it doesn’t move.
My grandmother locked me out.
It would be funny if it weren’t so darn confusing. She knows I am out here—we just talked. I peer through the glass but don’t see her. I tap on it a few times, but she doesn’t come.
“Hello?” I shout.
Nothing. Seven is more patient than I, so she lies down and waits. I limp over to the side gate. Nope. That’s locked too. The only way for me to reach the front door is to hop the gate, but after I just broke the fence, the last thing I need is to break a gate. I’m trapped in the backyard. This is ridiculous.
I limp back to the freshly made gap in the fence. I might be able to squeeze through it and get out through the neighbor’s gate. My eyes shoot up to that strange tree house. Good, I’m not being watched. Coast is clear. I lift my injured leg and put it through the gap. I step down into the neighbor’s yard. I’m halfway through.
Am I trespassing? Well, technically, yeah, but I’ll be quick. I squeeze through, nearly getting stuck, but after my skin scrapes against the two wooden planks on both sides, I’m finally on the other side. Just then it hits me: What if their gate is locked too? Then I’m stuck in two backyards. And if I’m caught, I’ll look like a shirtless burglar. But burglars try to break into houses. I’m trying to break out of one—well, two. What’s the opposite of a burglar? I have no idea.