Change is possible. It is not to be feared. If only you could sit where I sit, in this secret, green-roofed spot on my small island hill, under the towering pines—this rare hidden jewel, deep within Sanctuary Marsh. From here, one sees how life could be restored. How we can change Nature for the better. And in doing so, change our own, human natures, for the better.
—Tiberius Shaw, PhD
Over dinner that night at Ye Olde Colonial Diner, we have a powwow. It’s time to figure out the next day or two of the trip.
I have been thinking for ages about how close we are finally getting to Sanctuary Marsh, so I come prepared with suggestions. I have Shaw’s green journal, and a very careful map I’ve made.
“Good news. The marsh is only an hour or so north. We could get there early and spend the whole day birding,” I announce.
I have about 90 percent concluded that I know where Tiberius Shaw’s house is: about a four- or five-mile walk from the visitor center. I have gone over all the parts in Shaw’s green journal that mention the area. I have checked it out on Google Earth on the public computer at the RV park office, where we’re staying near Williamsburg. There’s only one house, according to that map, I think, that could possibly be his.
And although Ludmila and Davis think it’s not good manners, I plan to knock on his door anyway. When he sees I am there to give him back his long-lost green journal, it will change everything. He will be so pleased, he will invite me in and tell me all the answers and advice that I need to know.
“But birds are so boring!” Jake moans. “Blah! And there’s so much stuff in downtown DC. The spy museum! And that theatre where Lincoln got shot! Don’t you want to see that, instead of just bird-watching all day? For crying out loud, Charlie, you can see birds anywhere!”
“This is a special place, Jake. And you should say birding, not bird-watching, just like it’s Trekkers, not Trekkies,” I inform him. “Bird people are sensitive to that stuff.”
Everyone groans. They know not to mess with me when I start to talk fast like this. When I get nervous and my hands get itchy and my feet get rumbly.
Ludmila pulls out her phone. “Well, your grandmother might have something to say about our schedule. Let’s give her a call.”
She props her phone up against the big bottle of ketchup on the table, and hits speaker. Outside the window I notice about a dozen little brown finches scrambling for crumbs from an outdoor table. I stare at them while the phone rings. I both want—and don’t want—to hear Gram’s gruff, familiar voice.
“Hey, Grammy,” Davis says.
“Hey, Gram!” say the twins.
“Davis. Joel. Jake. Charlie,” Gram says.
She doesn’t usually call us by our names. It’s always cuties, or honey-bunnies, or cookie pies. Or for me, Lysol Louie.
“Hello. We are in Virginia! We’re very close now,” says Ludmila in her deep, even voice. “But the boys want to do a few more things. Tomorrow, Charlie very much wants to do the bird-watching in the sanctuary. I mean, the birding. The twins and Davis want to visit DC.”
There’s silence from Gram’s end.
“Or,” she says, “we could come check in with you right away, first. We are very close.”
More silence.
Then, finally, Gram sighs a long, airy sigh. “Well, I’m very sorry to be the bearer of bad news at the end of your long trip.”
I feel like someone just pricked me with an electric shock. We all sit, silent, around the phone, dreading her next words.
“I’m afraid that you’d better come right away, right now. That nice Dr. Spielman was just here—he just left the room, actually. They’ve scheduled your father for another surgery.”
“What?”
“They found something and they want to go back in.” Gram’s voice is tired, flat. Like each word is hard to get out.
Go back in. To my dad’s head. To his brain. To what makes him, him.
The chicken nuggets I just ate turn into lead bullets. Panic shoots into my legs, then rebounds like a string of fire back up into my chest. I am not ready to think of Dad having surgery again. The first time was bad enough. No. I don’t want it. Not again!
Davis’s face looks pale. She is nibbling on a strand of her brown hair from her ponytail—something Gram always yells at her for doing. The twins are sitting very still.
Ludmila says, “We can come to you right now.”
“No, don’t worry; that’s more hullabaloo than I can deal with tonight. Get a good night’s sleep and be at the hospital by seven. It’s going to be a long day tomorrow.”
Ludmila turns off the phone and quietly puts it in her bag. We brush off our hands and scurry and scramble, wordless. The twins pop the last fries in their mouths. They scramble just like those little brown finches, frantic for the last crumbs of a summer day.
Dad was supposed to be getting better at this hospital. Not worse. He is not supposed to go backward, into more problems, into more surgery. It’s not supposed to work like this.
It’s not until we’re back in Old Bessie, chugging toward the motel, that another thought hits me like a punch in the gut:
Tomorrow was going to be the day. My chance with Tiberius Shaw in the sanctuary.
When all my questions about human behavior and bird behavior would get answered.
Sanctuary.
Not surgery.
I am still holding Shaw’s green journal in my hands, along with the map I’d made of how to find his house. I’ve been holding it since Gram’s phone call, holding it so tight that the bones in my hand hurt. So tight that my hands need washing, washing, washing.