“I’ll catch you!” is the last thing I hear before I fall on Eleanor. Her robe is soft against my head.
I am not a bird. My bones aren’t aerodynamic. I think Amelia Earhart was wrong: it doesn’t matter from what direction you’re looking at a tree, as long as you stop and look.
“December, I’m here,” Eleanor whispers. She presses her ear to my chest. My heart is still beating.
“I’m here.” Two words. Simple. Like feathers, they give me warmth.
“December.” The world spins a little, but I see her face. “You’re going to be okay,” she says. She caresses my cheek, and I don’t flinch, my muscles don’t tighten, my first instinct is not to fly away. “Try not to move.”
Try not to move? But I don’t know how not to move. Home to home. Parents to parents. Branch to branch.
Eleanor dials nine-one-one on her cell phone.
After hanging up, she leans close to me, and like the Bird Whisperer she is, whispers, “The social weaver birds’ nests have chambers, and depending on where they’re located and how deep they are in the mass of the nest, the chambers can protect the birds from the cold and heat.”
I hear a siren in the distance. This time there’s no place to jump; instead, with the arm I can move, I reach for Eleanor’s hand and hold it like it’s the last feather on the last bird that ever lived.
21
I wake up looking at a white ceiling and hearing voices that seem far away. Between the voices, there’s a beeping sound, my own heart beating, in a normal, human rhythm.
If I open my mouth, I won’t sing like a bird. I was never supposed to. I am not a bird. I am not even birdlike. My mom knew this. I was born a normal, everyday baby.
“December,” Eleanor whispers. She’s blurry, too, but I can tell she’s smiling at me.
A doctor lifts one of my eyelids and shines a light. “Can you hear me, December?” the doctor says. I nod. Yes, with my human ears I can hear everything you’re saying.
“How many fingers am I holding up, December?” the doctor asks. “How old are you, December? When is your birthday? What town do you live in?”
I don’t know how much time has passed since my last attempt at flight, but I’m sure I turned twelve. I know I fell. I dropped from the sky like a raindrop.
“She’s lucky she just has a sprained ankle and a broken wrist,” the doctor says to Eleanor. “Even though her MRI scan doesn’t show signs of a concussion, I want to observe her for a day or so, just in case. She’s lucky she had you to break her fall.”
My bones aren’t light and flexible. They’re the same as those of every one of these people standing in the room, just smaller.
Adrian walks through the door and stands by my bed. “December” is all he says.
The doctor listens to my heart. I’m sure he’ll conclude my heartrate is in the normal range for a human. “Sounds good. I’ll come by tomorrow to check up on you. Make sure you get some rest.”
I hadn’t noticed before, but there’s a cast on my left arm, from my elbow to my wrist.
As I try to get up, it’s hard not to think about falling.
“Take it easy,” Eleanor says, sliding her arm across my shoulders.
There’s a bruise on her cheek. The color of sky and soil combined. “Is that my fault?”
“I’m fine.”
Eleanor doesn’t look “fine.” Her face is scratched up, and there’s another bruise on the side of her forehead.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Eleanor helps me lie back down. “I know you didn’t. Just rest right now.”
“I am tired.”
Thoughts drift in and out as Christmas carols play through the speakers above me. I remember one Christmas. I think I was living with Louise and Frank, who didn’t want to waste money on a Christmas tree. A week after the holidays, neighbors pulled their trees out to the street; I stole one, dragged it into the nearest orchard, and decorated it with pine cones and whatever else I could find and sat under it writing my story.
The book. My biography. “Where’s my book?” I ask.
Eleanor holds up The Complete Guide to Birds: Volume One. “It’s here.”
“No, the one that was in my back pocket.”
Eleanor slides open a drawer to a table that’s next to my bed. “This one?”
I want to ask her to open it to the first page and read it to me.
I want to hear the fictional story of my life so far.
Adrian stares at my hands. They scraped branches on my way down. The scratches will be kindred spirits to the scar on my back. I should ask the doctor for a microscope, to see if there’s writing in the scarred skin, like the words my mom wrote in my guidebook. But instead of saying, “In flight is where you’ll find me,” they should say, “Find a place you can call home.”
The only things in Bird Girl I didn’t create were the illustrations pasted at the beginning. Those were with “December’s things,” supposedly sketched by the boy who carried me to Oasis Market after finding me in the orchard. I must’ve looked like a baby bird that had fallen from its nest. I had to believe I was something different, miraculous, because I know, well, I remember enough to know the real story of my scars.
This time I close my eyes, but my dreams aren’t filled with falling, or with flying, or with wings, or feathers. I’m sitting on the ground, against a tree, my flight tree. I’m writing in my book. I’m not writing a story. I’m writing a list of words, filling the pages with miraculous, amazing, friend, normal, just, girl, home. They’re pieces to a new story.
I sleep, and when I open my eyes this time, Adrian and Eleanor aren’t here, or I can’t see them in the sea of spinning blue origami birds, the ones from my birthday party, now hanging from the ceiling of my hospital room. “Eleanor?” I say.
My voice sounds like it’s been covered with rocks and dirt. “Eleanor,” I say again, just to make sure it’s my voice.
Eleanor walks into my room holding one of the origami birds. “December.” She says my name like she’s known me all my life. She stands up on a chair and hangs the bird. “Got to get as many up as I can before they tell us to take them down.”
The swaying of the birds reminds me of Henrietta. “How is she? How is Henrietta? We’re going to fall behind. We’ll have to start over, won’t we?”
“She’s fine.” Eleanor steps down. “She’s waiting for you to come back and finish training her.”
I turn my head and look past a Christmas wreath with blue lights, to the sky, always the sky. It’s going to take me a while to break this habit.
“When you talked about finding a house, you said, ‘I have to find another place to live.’ Did you really mean we? Because …” I’m talking like I haven’t talked my whole life, talking as if my life depends on it, which as far as I’m concerned it does.
“… I’ll run …”
I don’t say fly.
“… to wherever you are, Eleanor.”
The birds above Eleanor’s head swirl in the air coming through the ceiling vents. “You don’t have to turn into a harpy eagle to keep me, December. You can stay with me as long as the home we find is a good place for you to live. When I got the phone call saying I had to move, you were always going to come with me.”
I try to lift my left arm out from under the blankets, to give Eleanor a hug, but it’s too sore. “Did you try to tell me that the other night?” I ask.
“I did,” Eleanor says. “When you were in your room.”
“I didn’t want to hear you. It’s my fault for …”
“It’s not your fault, December. I’m sorry for not making myself clear.
“Look …” Eleanor holds up a present. “It’s a belated birthday gift.”
She unwraps the present. “Your teacher called me. She said you read a journal entry to the class. It was in response to a poem. She said your comments about the poem were very insightful. I’m proud of you, December.”
“ ‘Looking for a Sunset Bird in Winter’ is in here.” Eleanor turns to the title page and shows me an inscription. “You’re my ‘piercing little star.’ Always remember that. Love, Eleanor.”
I stare up at the ceiling. “The origami birds are pretty. Thanks for bringing them. Can you hand me my journal?”
As Eleanor opens Bird Girl, careful to turn to a blank page, there’s a knock on the door. A man dressed as Santa Claus pops his head inside the room.
“It’s almost Christmas,” Eleanor whispers.
Santa Claus gives me a candy cane and asks what I want for Christmas. I can’t tell him what I want, but I can tell him what I don’t want. “Scratch the lifetime supply of sunflower seeds, bugs, and worms off my list.”
Eleanor laughs.
When Santa leaves, she folds her hands over the book, holding a pen ready to write. All I say are the words, “My scar …” and the space between my shoulder blades starts hurting. But it’s just a normal scar, hiding nothing but bones, blood, and the memory of my mom that night.
My voice cracks, and I hold the word Mom in my throat as long as I can before I have to let it out. “Once upon a time …”
No, not once upon a time. I take a deep breath. “This is what happened to me.”
“I was eight years old.”
Eleanor reaches for my hand.
“I don’t think my mom knew what to do with me. She hurt me. Really bad. And then she left. And, never came back.”
I cry, but the tears don’t stop my words. “The door was already open. I saw her shoes leave. Flip-flops she wore even in winter. I was barefoot, but it didn’t matter because I crawled to the door and almost slid down the steps. The cold ground took away the hurt in my back. I stared at bare branches and wished I was perched on one of them and able to fly away. A boy found me. And now, I’m here.”
“Yes, you are,” Eleanor says, moving the book so her own tears don’t fall on the pages.
Blue from the origami birds covers the space, creating a blurred sky. I’ll never get tired of birds. They’re amazing creatures, from herons and their stillness to owls and their secrets of flying to hummingbirds and their acrobatics.
Eleanor closes the book. I like how she doesn’t say she’s sorry, or how terrible that must’ve been to live through, or anything about life being hard for me. “You’re right, you’re here now,” she says, and caresses my cheek. I don’t flinch. My muscles don’t twitch. Maybe they’ve finally lost the memory to do so.
Most of the origami birds are still now. “Can you get some pink paper?” I ask.
“How ’bout some white paper and a pink crayon?”
“That’ll work. And, maybe, can you let Cheryllynn know where I am? I’d like to see her. And Adrian. Can you tell him I want to talk to him?”
Eleanor smiles like that jack-o’-lantern she and I carved together. “I’ll be right back.”
Eleanor opens the door. Cheryllynn, wearing her furry coat and carrying cups, one in each hand, can’t get into the room fast enough.
“I’m glad you’re here.” I guess I can officially call Cheryllynn my best friend.
“Slushies.” Cheryllynn holds the two cups in the air, and then sets them on a stand next to my bed. “So, you look to me like you’re going to be okay.”
I point to my cast. “A broken wrist. Probably could’ve been worse if Eleanor hadn’t been there. She tried to catch me.”
“She seems like the kind of person who would do that.”
“Yes, she does.”
Cheryllynn looks up to the birds hanging from the ceiling. “Are those the same ones from your party?”
I nod. “Did you know scientists believe that birds evolved from theropod dinosaurs? So now, when you see a bird, you can tell people that you saw a living dinosaur.”
Cherllynn responds, “I’m definitely going to start saying that.”
Eleanor walks in the room with paper and crayons, and I stare at Cheryllynn. Both their clothes, hair, their hearts, everything about them is designed to reflect who they are, no matter what.
They color papers pink, then Eleanor shows Cheryllynn how to fold them, and Eleanor stands on a chair and pins the pink birds to spaces in the ceiling between the blue ones.
If Dr. S asked right now what home meant to me, I hope the image of a nest wouldn’t be the first thing to pop in my head. I hope I’d hear the sound of Eleanor singing first, then maybe a picture of her reading a poem about not one “piercing star,” but two.
Maybe this is how I can end Bird Girl: When December fell on the ground, she hit hard. She lay there, staring up at the sky. There were clouds, and she tried to look for ones shaped like birds, an albatross, a hawk, an everyday backyard swallow. But there was only one cloud shaped like anything she recognized. The cloud was shaped like a house, not a nest.
There’s a knock on the door. Adrian comes in and stares up at the birds. “Wow. Beautiful.”
Eleanor and Cheryllynn leave, and Adrian sits on the side of my bed. “You look like you’re doing okay.”
I take a sip of my slushy. “Eleanor says that even though she has to move, I can move with her. Is that right?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Good, because I want you to know that I want to stay with Eleanor for a long time, okay?”
Adrian nods.
Bird Girl is lying next to me. “Can you turn to page forty-eight and start reading from the top?”
Adrian flips the pages.
“Being a bird is a lonely business. It’s important that December makes sure not to get close to anyone. This might seem sad, but not for a bird. Getting close to people can make December’s spirit heavy, making flight harder.”
Adrian clears his throat. His eyes fill with tears.
He starts reading again.“When December evolves into a bird, her memories will fade away. She won’t remember the sound of her mother’s voice, or remember toys she had, or smells, or certain clothes she wore. Her human senses will disappear. December won’t need her human memories for her bird life.”
Adrian grabs a tissue from the box next to my hospital bed and wipes the tears from his eyes. I’ve never seen him cry.
“You can stop.” I take another sip of the slushy. My tongue is probably blue, an iridescent blue that would never be found in nature. “I wanted you to read that, and to tell you I don’t believe that anymore. And I’m not … I want you to remember that even if we end up living in the forest somewhere, I want to be with Eleanor. I’ve never said that about any foster parent before, so you have to know I’m serious, right?”
Adrian closes Bird Girl. He pats my hand. “I know you’re serious.”
“Always remember that, okay?” I tell him again.
“Don’t worry, December, I’ll remember,” he says, and the door closes.
The room is quiet. Adrian will remember what I said to him today, and I’ll always remember that I have it in me to survive anything.
22
In Eleanor’s truck, the heater is running full blast, and I sink into the seat. The warm air feels good.
We drive down the road. Christmas lights have a faded glow, and the sound of the heater coming through vents is almost better than listening to Eleanor sing, but not quite.
“I don’t know where you were planning on going right now,” I say to Eleanor, “but can you take me to see Henrietta?”
“You’re feeling up to it?”
“I’ve missed her. I want to take her out. I want to start training her again.”
Since one of my wrists is broken, I use the other arm for Henrietta. She’s in good spirits, like she’s happy to see me, and she hops right onto the glove. “I’m glad I’m here, too,” I tell her.
I carry her out to the field, and she climbs onto the perch.
We walk about fifteen yards from her. Eleanor places raw meat on my glove, and I move my hand up and do
wn, ringing the bell hanging from my wrist. Henrietta spreads her wings, but doesn’t take flight.
“Give her a second,” Eleanor says.
I’ll give her as much time as she needs. I needed time, too, to accept the truth about my story, to know I can’t erase the reason I have a scar on my back.
Watching Henrietta take flight, flying right at me, is worth the wait.
“Good job, Henrietta,” I tell her as she pecks at the meat.
The rest of Henrietta’s flights are strong, and when we get into the truck, I’m happy. Eleanor starts the ignition.
“So, where are we going now?” I ask.
“Home.”
“I thought we didn’t have a home.”
Eleanor smiles and sings “Eleanor Rigby” louder than I’ve ever heard her sing.
She turns down the driveway to her old house. The first time Adrian brought me here, I didn’t believe I was going to stay for more than a few days.
“Wait in the truck. I’ll be right back.”
From here the tips of my flight tree’s branches shiver in the wind, like they’re waving goodbye, and through cracks in the fence I see pieces of the garden, a little bit of gray from one of the birdbaths.
Eleanor slides a box into the bed of the truck.
“You ready to see our new house?” she says.
“You’re leaving your garden?”
“Guess I am. At our new house, there’s a spot where we can start one. It’s not as big a space, but it’s big enough for us.”
Us, we, our. These words don’t seem so far away. Maybe the words, no matter where I go in this world, will always be a little strange for me. But they almost feel normal.
Our house is still out in the country, but it’s closer to the river. It’s a shade of blue gray I would call slate, with a rust-colored trim. The door is painted rust, too.
Eleanor unlocks the door.
I’ve lived in houses where everything had a place, houses where things were scattered everywhere, and houses that were in between. I’ve never lived in a house where I got to choose where things went, where I got to start from a beginning.
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