Extraordinary Birds

by Sandy Stark-McGinnis

  “It is,” I agree, and shove the winter solstice paper into my pocket, a birthday memento.

  Eleanor takes my hand and squeezes it gently. I still brace myself a little, but instead of wanting to pull away, my hand rests in the warmth of hers. If I were to look at it under a microscope, I’d find amazing designs on Eleanor’s skin. Patterns that had never been seen in nature before. There would be hearts, and scars that are shaped like birds and other animals. The designs and shapes would tell a story, like hieroglyphics on a cave wall.

  If Eleanor looked at me under a microscope, she’d see faded photographs. There would be three. The first one would be the kindergarten photo of my mom; the next one would be a picture of me as a baby, my mom holding me in one arm, her eyes looking off to the side, away from me. The last picture would be of me on the day my mom left. I’d be lying inside the doorway, my arm out, waving goodbye.

  But if Eleanor looked at my scar, there would be no photographs, or hieroglyphics. Or maybe there would be, but the images would be distorted and blurry. Maybe the only thing she’d be able to make out is a feather, just one, proof of nothing.

  Eleanor gives my hand one more squeeze before letting go. “You are twelve years old,” she says.

  “I am.” I always believed that by now, I would’ve had the ability to fly to the rain forest, or to Antarctica. But I also believed that there wasn’t ever going to be anyone like Eleanor out in the world.

  After Cheryllynn leaves, I help Eleanor take down the origami birds.

  “Do you want to keep these?” she asks.

  “Sure,” I say. “I’ll hang them in my room.”

  We gather the dishes, the blanket, and the birds, and the whole time I wear the butterfly wings Cheryllynn gave me. I’m still wearing them when there’s a knock at the door.

  As soon as Adrian walks in he says, “Happy birthday! Sorry I’m late.”

  Even though the sky is gray now, and there’s only a little bit of daylight left, we go out to the backyard.

  “Eleanor gave me a party today. I like it here with her.”

  “I’m really glad, December.”

  And if you ever try to put me somewhere else, I’ll just keep running back to wherever Eleanor lives.

  “I can’t believe you’re twelve years old.” Adrian gives me a present.

  I unwrap the paper, which is decorated with feathers. It’s a book, Ornithology.

  “I don’t know if there’s anything you haven’t taught yourself about birds, but I also know there’s always something we miss along the way, questions we still need to have answered.”

  “Thanks.” I open the book. It’s different from The Complete Guide to Birds: Volume One. It has less photographs and more charts and diagrams.

  “I have one more for you,” Adrian says.

  Inside a small blue box is a necklace with a silver bird for a charm.

  While he hooks the clasp around my neck, I look out at some bluebirds. They’re perched on the edge of the birdbath, staring at the water that was frozen this morning. “I really like it here with Eleanor,” I say again. I want to make sure Adrian knows how I feel. “This is the first time I’ve wanted to stay with anybody. Maybe someday she might even decide to adopt me.”

  “That’s good, December. I’m so glad.” Adrian stares at the birds, his voice no longer green. Now, it’s yellow. Not the happy sunshine yellow, but like the yellow at a stoplight.

  It’s habit, though. I think over time he’s had to be cautious when it comes to finding a home for me. Adrian has natural balancing skills, too. He has to keep me hopeful, but be real about things at the same time.

  “I’m so happy that you like being here with Eleanor.” That’s all he says, which is okay for right now.

  Both of us watch the bluebirds. They dip their beaks in the water.

  Water. It can freeze, melt, evaporate, but no matter its state, it always remains what it is. And, no matter my state, or no matter what the future is, I will always remain December Lee Morgan, extraordinary bird.

  Later that night, after I brush my teeth and go into the living room to tell Eleanor good night, the telephone rings.

  “Hello,” Eleanor says. Whoever called is doing most of the talking. “I understand.” Eleanor lowers her voice like she doesn’t want me to hear what she’s saying, but I can anyway. “Thirty days. Yes. Goodbye.”

  Her footsteps press harder against the floor, her pace slower. Sitting down, she stares at a flower-printed tablecloth.

  “Did that call have something to do with the rehabilitation center?” I ask. I lean close to the table to try and look into Eleanor’s eyes.

  “No.” Her voice is not Bird Whisperer–like. It’s shaky again. “I don’t know if Adrian told you, but I don’t own this house. I rent it. The owners have decided to sell it, so I have to find another place to live.”

  I’m about to say, Well, we can start looking for a place tomorrow, but then realize Eleanor said, “I have to find another place to live.” I start to feel like I did the day in the corn maze when I lost my sense of direction.

  “I really loved living here,” she says. “This place was perfect for me, but I guess it’s time to move on.”

  Eleanor fills a kettle with water and sets it on the stove. I wait for her to say something about us finding a place to live, or to say, We will look together, since you’ll be living there, too. But she doesn’t. The water boils, she pours it into a cup, and she stands, dipping a tea bag up and down. She never says anything about we.

  I know the story Eleanor is beginning to tell. It’s the same beginning I’ve heard a hundred times, and it ends with people leaving me behind. My mom left without taking me with her—and it wasn’t because she wanted me to find my wings again on my own. She left, and she’s never tried to come back.

  So I figured out a way to never get left behind again.

  If I’m the first to leave, there’s no chance of ever being left in a house, all alone, with a night sky shading the front door, and me, waiting.

  I go to my room and take out Bird Girl. I’ve written my story. It’s a reminder I was born with a half-human, half-avian heart, and that I, not Eleanor, not Adrian, not any of my other foster parents, get to choose what happens next.

  I turn to the page titled “Flight.”

  All through the day, December waited for her mom, until the windows turned blue, then black, and the only sound was her heartbeat, beating extra deep and fast. The door was still open, a cold wind blowing through the house. December and her heartbeat leaned over the edge of the steps leading down to the trailer park road, and she didn’t wait. There was no one to tell her not to fly.

  I’m not going to pack my clothes, and I’m going to leave my orphan dolls behind. I won’t need them. What I’ll need is to travel lighter than I’ve ever traveled.

  There’s a knock on my door. “December? You ran into your room so fast. Do you want to talk about it?”

  There’s nothing left to say. Eleanor doesn’t have a home anymore; wherever she goes, she won’t be taking me with her.

  Eleanor knocks again. “December.” She’s using her Bird Whisperer voice. “Please.”

  “I just want to be by myself.”

  “I’ll find a place …”

  “You lied to me,” I whisper. She shouldn’t have said, I will never forget you. She shouldn’t have talked about forever. I wrap my pillow around the back of my head, covering my ears. I don’t want to hear … I can’t hear Eleanor’s, the Bird Whisperer’s, words anymore. This is not part of my story.

  She’s still trying to talk to me, but the sound is muffled. I let myself believe I could have a home, but there are only two truths I know for sure now: One, maybe there’s no such thing as home for me. And two, it doesn’t matter. Because I’m an extraordinary bird.

  She once said that the past was tricky. It isn’t. She said to not hold it too close, but I do, because it reminds me of who I am. It helps me remember the words my mom wro
te in my guidebook, “In flight is where you’ll find me,” and why I have to find my wings. I know when I fly I’m not going to find my mom. I don’t want to. Maybe at some point I did, but all that’s happened has changed that. I think the quote was her way of saying that no matter where I go, she’ll always be with me.

  I keep the pillow pressed against my ears and whisper, “I will fly,” over and over again, waiting until Eleanor’s words have stopped. I don’t have time for her anymore.

  I peek out into the hallway. Eleanor’s bedroom door is open but her light is off. I listen for any sound coming from the kitchen. It’s quiet.

  I tiptoe down the hallway to use the bathroom. Washing my hands, I look at my reflection in the mirror. The mirror hangs high on the wall, so I only see half my face, from my nose to the top of my head.

  I lift strands of my hair. I haven’t let anyone cut it in a couple of years. I did let Adrian take me to a hair salon once, but on one condition—I got to keep all the hair the lady cut. I walked out of the salon with a plastic bag full of my hair, but then left it at a foster parent’s house.

  But my hair is heavy now, and heavy isn’t good for flight.

  I find a pair of scissors in a kitchen drawer, go back to the bathroom, and cut fast. I don’t have to have even ends. I’m not cutting my hair for beauty. I’m cutting it for egress.

  Hair drops around my feet. I gather all of it, even the smallest of strands, and flush it down the toilet.

  I’m not sure how to end Bird Girl. I could have December live a happily-ever-after bird’s life, flying all over the world, spending time in the rain forest with toucans, or visiting Antarctica and huddling with emperor penguins.

  Or I could have December be braver than she ever thought she could be, and not worry about whether wings will unfold from her scar, and instead go into Eleanor’s room and offer to help find a place to live. And maybe Eleanor would invite her to stay.

  Or December could sneak out of the house, whisper, “Goodbye,” blowing a kiss to Eleanor, and then fly across the yard.

  And the very end will read like this: As soon as December felt the cold against her skin, it was like she was home again. A half-moon hovered in the sky, lighting her flight tree. The moonlight was a sign it was time for December to find her wings, time for her to find her real home.

  20

  I read in my book that Canada geese return to the place where they were born to lay their eggs. If I had a choice where to be born, I might’ve chosen to be born in Eleanor’s house, and for the rest of my life Eleanor would’ve protected me from storms and predators.

  I look at the photograph of my mom, her kindergarten one, but there isn’t anything familiar, except for the ways—eyes, hair, color of my skin—I look like her.

  I pull myself over the first tier of branches.

  The trick is to keep looking up, even though Adrian’s told me a million times, “You need to look down sometimes, December, even if it’s just to make sure your shoelaces are still tied.”

  I stop at the second tier. Above me a little fog moves in, coloring pieces of the sky white. I take a deep breath. Beyond moonlight, there is a wall of dark space I’ll be flying into. I wonder how long I’ll have to fly before I see sunlight.

  I hold tight to the branches and keep climbing.

  On July 2, 1937, while trying to fly around the world, Amelia Earhart and her navigator, Frederick Noonan, lost their way somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean and disappeared. Some people think they survived on an island somewhere, or that they were rescued and lived the rest of their lives under different names. I think they became birds.

  I look up to the branches above me, to determine which one will be best. The fog makes them hard to see. I climb anyway. I know the tree well enough.

  When I’m a bird, I’ll fly to Cheryllynn’s doorstep and she won’t think anything of it. She won’t be afraid to walk down the street holding the tip of my wing. If I offer, she’ll hop onto my back and we’ll fly past layers of clouds to find blue sky, and she’ll never ask how I became a creature that could really fly.

  When I get to the end of the right branch, my heart will push my wings through skin, and I will fly. Once I’m in the air, I’ll miss the cold, gray world below, but my eyes will be on the winter sun—I’ll fly over the horizon for a peek—and my feathers will soak up its warmth.

  As I climb higher, my heart beats faster. It’s the heart that controls the body’s transformation.

  Branches are smaller, less thick, up high. I’m more careful where I place my feet and hands. Moisture from the fog has made the tree wet and slippery.

  There are three more tiers of branches till the top. My breath is fast, the rest of my body warm. This is high enough.

  I lean against the trunk, still holding tight, still not looking down. There’s only one sound. My heartbeat. It echoes loud enough Eleanor can probably hear it. I breathe cold air. It hurts my throat. My whole body twitches with my heartbeat.

  I will fly.

  Between beats, a twig snaps on the ground, the sound coming from the river in the distance. “Eleanor?” I wait for her voice to say, December! December! December! You belong on the ground with me! Come down!

  “December?” Eleanor’s robe glows in the light of the moon.

  “I’m up here.” My hands are still holding tight to branches. I let go a little and feel my body lean forward. The skin over my scar is warm and getting warmer, the muscles, ligaments, bones beginning to twist into place.

  “Come down,” she says between short breaths.

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not? You climbed up there. You can climb down.” Eleanor stands with her hands on her hips, like a strong tree, or like Wonder Woman, the robe her cape. “I don’t want you to jump.”

  “But I have wings.” The words sound weird out loud, like they don’t belong to me anymore.

  “I understand why you like birds so much. I really do.” Eleanor looks up. Moonlight, shining behind me, filters through fog. “I mean, if I had a choice, I don’t think it’s the animal I’d pick. Flying would be amazing, but I think I’d miss the ground too much. I don’t know what animal I’d be. Maybe I’d just stick to being human.”

  “Being human is too complicated. All you have to do when you’re a bird, or reptile, or any other animal, is survive.” I slide closer to the trunk of the tree. “You don’t have to worry about people not being there for you, or leaving and never coming back.” I try to make Eleanor understand. “If you could be an animal, what would you be? And being human isn’t a choice.”

  “Okay. I’ve always wanted to be a whale, swimming in the ocean all day. But then”—Eleanor places her hand on the trunk of the tree and looks up—“I’d miss out on nursing injured animals back to health, and I wouldn’t be able to eat cookies or soup.”

  A coyote howls in the distance. The sound is sad, but filled with the will to keep going, too.

  “I’d take being able to fly over cookies any day. What’s more amazing than being able to fly anywhere you wanted?”

  “I think I’d still choose cookies.”

  “I don’t really want to talk about cookies.” I slide out again, farther on the branch. I can still see Eleanor from here. “I’m tired of having to hide my scar. The scar is really where my wings poked through my skin, and now I have to make them unfold again.”

  “I want you to come down,” Eleanor repeats.

  The coyote howls. Still sad. Still surviving.

  “If you do have wings, December, there’s a different way to make them unfold besides jumping out of trees. Please come down.”

  “I can’t. It’s not how my story is supposed to go.”

  “You can change your story. Like maybe you were born a bird but are evolving into a human?”

  “I don’t think so.” But … I’ve never looked at my evolution that way before.

  I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to fly. It’s time. I close my eyes and chant, “F
eathers, feathers, feathers.”

  “I’m coming up there,” Eleanor says. She and her glow-in-the-dark robe pull themselves over the first branch.

  “But you’re afraid of heights.”

  “I’m coming up there anyway.” Standing, she reaches for the next tier of the tree, her foot slipping.

  I hear her hit the ground. Hear her say, “That hurt.”

  It does hurt. I know. Even though I’ve talked myself into thinking falling doesn’t hurt, it does. It does hurt. “Eleanor? You okay?”

  I can’t see her. “Eleanor! Can you hear me? Eleanor?”

  “I’m fine,” she says, “but you really need to come down, December. I’ll stay here all night if I have to.”

  She won’t have to stay out here all night. I’m going to fly.

  The only creatures that will see my amazing feat are the owls and Eleanor. I’ll be their midnight feature performer, a strange sight, a once-in-a-lifetime show, like Amelia Earhart’s takeoffs and landings, or the resurrection of a long-lost mother.

  I can’t think too much about the quiet, or about Eleanor. The life I’m leaving behind is the same as always anyway, a life living between houses. It turns out Eleanor’s was just another one of those houses, too.

  I slide out on the limb farther. I’m as far as I need to go. My heart is ready. My breath is ready. The rest of me shakes a little. Adrian told me if I was ever in trouble, and there wasn’t anyone around to help, I should scream, throw my arms in the air, and run, if I had to. I can’t run now, though. But I don’t need to. This is where I belong.

  I close my eyes. All I need are my wings, plus maybe a little lift from the wind.

  On three.

  One. I won’t fall. Not this time.

  Two. I wish Eleanor would sing right now.

  Three. I will fly.

  I hover at first. I do, and I almost call out to the owls, “Do you see me now? What do you think?”

  I fly until “six one thousand.” But owls know the truth, like I do deep down: that everything falls, eventually.

  I drop like rain, and see a blur of green below me. It’s Eleanor’s robe. She has her arms spread out, waiting, standing between me and the ground.