“HOW’S THIS, MOM?”
She’s sitting on the back porch steps, watching me.
I already know that I’m doing a good job clearing the wet leaves away from the purple crocuses that are blooming in the garden. This year Mom didn’t rush out as soon as she saw the first bulbs poking their green noses up through the ground. She didn’t get down on her knees on a folded-up towel, like she always does, and say I’ve got to give these babies a little elbow room.
“Mom?”
She looks like a kid in her puffy green down jacket with her arms wrapped around her knees.
“Am I doing this right?” I ask.
She nods.
“These purple ones are so pretty,” I say. “And aren’t there still some yellow crocuses out here somewhere?” I put my hand above my eyes like I’m a sea captain, trying to spot land. I look all around the ocean of my muddy yard. I try to make it seem fun so that maybe, maybe, Mom will cheer up and be a sea captain, too. But she doesn’t look up. She doesn’t stop hugging her knees.
“You can supervise me,” I say. “Maybe you should show me what to do, since you’re the one who knows how to garden. Maybe I’m not doing such a good job.”
Mom shakes her head.
“Maybe I need your help,” I tell her. Dad says it’s important for us to encourage Mom to feel useful. It’s not easy for her to cope with the reality that not only does she have multiple sclerosis but she fell apart after the diagnosis and had to live on a psych ward for more than three months. Dad says picking up those pieces is no easy feat, no easy feat at all.
My fingers are freezing. I go and sit next to Mom and stick both of my hands in her jacket pocket.
“Chirp,” she says, like she wants to prove that she still knows who I am.
“So what new stuff are you going to plant in the garden, Mom?” I ask.
“Plant?” Mom says. She looks out at the yard and shrugs.
“How about if we make a list? Marcy said it was good for you to make lists and cross things off. When you first got home, you made lists.” I stand up to go get some paper and a pencil. I want Mom thinking violets, daffodils, tulips, bright colors flashing in her brain.
“Thinking about spring tires me out, Chirp,” Mom says.
“But in May we can pick lilacs!” I say. “We love picking lilacs.”
Mom reaches for my hand. “Just sit with me, honey.”
I sit back down.
I need to stay patient with Mom, especially since her new psychiatrist just told her that he thinks her depression is chronic, which means it will never completely go away. She’s been depressed at different times in her life and will probably always struggle with it. That’s news she needed like a hole in the head just two weeks after getting home.
Three black-capped chickadees play follow-the-leader around the rhododendron bush. I can’t tell if Mom’s watching them.
“You don’t have to pick lilacs,” I say. “You can just keep me company when I pick them.”
Mom puts her arm around me and squeezes tight. When I look at her face, tears are streaming down.
“Listen, Chirpie,” she says, brushing the tears away like they’re pesty no-see-ums. “I need to tell you something important, okay?”
“You’re a really special girl. A beautiful, strong, special, special girl. You know that, right?” She’s gripping my arm.
“Uh-huh.”
“Good,” she says. “It’s important.” She lets go of my arm. She rests her hand on my knee. “When I was a girl, my mother loved to tell me what was wrong with me. I made no sense to her at all.” Mom stares out at nothing. “Luftmensch.”
“Luftmensch?”
“It’s a Yiddish word. It means a dreamer. From my mother, the worst thing a person could be.”
“But didn’t she like some things about you?”
Mom doesn’t answer for a long time. Finally she says, “My hair. My mother liked my hair.”
Wind whips across the yard. The grass shivers.
I touch Mom’s hair, but she doesn’t look at me.
“She didn’t love me,” Mom says quietly. “That’s just the simple, hard truth.”
A crow screeches, and all three chickadees take off into the air at the exact same time.
“Wow!” I say.
Please, Mom. Please, Mom. Notice.
“Wow,” Mom says, with a little smile.
We watch the chickadees until they disappear into the trees.
“Lilacs are my favorite flower,” Mom says.
“I love them,” I say.
“They smell so good.”
“Like sweetness and light, Chirpie.”
I put my hand in Mom’s pocket. She reaches in and holds my hand. It’s sweetness and light, our hands together in her warm pocket.
“Krispies, Chirp,” Rachel says, even though the cereal box is practically touching Dad’s arm. Dad hands Rachel the box, but she won’t take it. She waits until he puts it down on the table. Dad nods You’re welcome as if Rachel said Thank you. I guess Dad’s plan is to act like she’s nice to him, even though she’s pretty much stopped talking to him since we found out that Mom forgot about the lemon meringue pie.
“So, do you girls have anything special happening in school today?” Dad asks.
“Dad!” He knows that I have my red-throated loon report. He was my audience last night and the night before, because Mom went to bed right after supper, since she’s still so blue.
“Oh, right,” Dad says. “You’ll do a terrific job with your presentation. I’m sure you’ll nail all of the leaps.”
“Not to make you nervous or anything,” Rachel mutters into her Krispies.
She turns everything Dad says into something else.
“Thanks, Dad,” I say, extra cheery so he doesn’t feel bad.
“Of course,” he says, getting up from the table. As he walks behind Rachel, he reaches out his hand. He lets it hover above her shoulder like a bird about to land, but then he keeps walking.
I hear him in his office, talking on the phone.
“Hi, Clara. She’s still sleeping. I’m feeling a bit concerned. Maybe you could stop by again today and—
“Lunch? That would be great.
“Just so she won’t be alone for very long. It’s been an awfully tough transition for her.
“And can you stay until the girls get home from school?
“Great.
“Yes, Annie said she’d come again tomorrow.
“Thanks. Yes. Thanks. Of course. Hannah will find her way through this. I appreciate it.”
“Okay, girls,” Dad says at the front door. “Have a good day. Don’t forget to clear the breakfast dishes, and make sure you don’t slam the front door when you leave so you don’t wake up Mom.”
“We will. We won’t,” I say. “See you tonight.”
“Adios, amigo,” Rachel says as soon as Dad closes the front door. She pulls her big silver hoop earrings out of the pocket of her bell-bottoms and puts them on. She’s wearing her red bandana blouse, and it’s so cool.
“Maybe you could help me make one like it?” I say, touching her angel-wing sleeve.
“Sure, Chirpie,” she says. “It’s pretty easy. You just sew a bunch of bandanas together. You’ll look far-out. Just like a full-fledged teenager.”
“We started ‘hygiene’ in school. Sean asked Miss Gallagher if she was going to teach us about ‘doing it,’ and Lori and Debbie couldn’t believe that Dawn didn’t know what it was.”
Rach laughs. She shakes her head. “You already know the important stuff. Your amazing big sister has told you the basics.”
“I know. And Mom’s given me a few talks about—”
“Men-” Rachel pops up from her chair and grabs it before it tips over and wakes Mom. She sticks her arms up in the air like she’s a cheerleader.
“-stroo-” I pop up, too.
“-aaaay-” Rachel waves her pretend pom-poms.
“-shun.” I clap my hands, but quietly.
Milk is dribbling out of our mouths, we’re laughing so hard.
“I can’t stand the way that word sounds,” Rachel says.
“It’s so incredibly gross,” I say.
“Why can’t Mom just say period? A normal word, like comma or question mark.”
“When mine comes, I’m going to tell her I got my comma.”
“Good idea, Chirp,” Rachel says.
Rachel grabs her bowl and glass and starts walking to the sink, but then she turns around and sits down next to me.
“So, what do you think about Mom?” she says.
“She told me that spring coming makes her tired.”
“She’s always loved spring. I really don’t want her to go back to the hospital.”
“Did Dad tell you that she’s going to?”
“No, I’m just kind of worried about it.”
“Maybe Clara will make her feel better. I heard Dad talking on the phone. She’s coming for lunch again, so Mom won’t be alone today. Mom really likes Clara. Maybe she can help.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“And Annie’s coming over again tomorrow.”
We clear the table together. Even though Rachel usually leaves for school ten minutes before me and three tardies in junior high means detention, she waits while I grab an index card from the telephone table and draw a dancer with curly hair. I write, To Mom, Feel better, xoxo, your Leaping Loon, and put it by her place at the table. Then Rachel and I head out the door and close it, shhhhhh, behind us.
Dawn chose the chipmunk for her report. So far, she’s told us that chipmunks are smaller than squirrels and run around on the ground, which everybody already knows.
“Another interesting fact,” she says, “is that they eat seeds from bird feeders. Also, they sometimes eat vegetables out of people’s gardens, like our tomatoes in the summer.”
“Wow, fascinating!” Debbie says, and Dawn smiles, because she doesn’t know what sarcasm is.
“The best part of my report is coming up,” Dawn says. She looks over at the record player on Miss Gallagher’s desk and jumps up and down. Maybe she choreographed something, too, which is a little disappointing, since I want my report to be special.
“Before you move on,” Miss Gallagher says, “I’d like to ask you a question.”
I want Dawn to move on, because after Dawn comes Tommy and after Tommy comes me.
“Where do chipmunks make their homes? What is their habitat?” Miss Gallagher asks Dawn.
“Outside,” Dawn answers.
Everyone giggles, and Dawn looks confused.
“Well, yes, outside, but where outside? Can you be more specific?”
Dawn isn’t having fun anymore. She’s staring at the floor. “In our backyard?” she asks in a tiny voice.
Everyone laughs. I feel bad for her, but I’m not sure what to do.
“I don’t know. I don’t know.” Dawn’s ears turn pink. She’s twisting her hands together.
“Class?” Miss Gallagher says.
“In burrows underground,” Lisa B. says. “They dig tunnels.”
“I knew that,” Dawn says. Her eyes are watery. “I did.” One more second and she’ll be crying.
“It’s easy to forget things when we’re on the spot, Dawn,” Miss Gallagher says. “Why don’t you please finish up your report?”
Dawn drags herself over to the record player like she’s been poisoned and is waiting to die. “And now for my grand finale, I’m going to play for you an example of singing chipmunks,” Dawn whispers. She puts the record on and just stands up in front of everyone while Alvin and the Chipmunks sing their squeaky Chipmunk song.
“Please sing along,” Dawn says, all miserable, and then she walks to her desk, picks up a pink Easter basket filled with dry-roasted peanuts, and hands them out, three peanuts each. Nobody sings, but I kind of hum along so Dawn won’t feel so bad.
“Thank you for your report, Dawn,” Miss Gallagher says. “Tommy?”
Tommy always hates standing up in front of the class, so I know he’ll keep it short and sweet. Hopefully we can skip Miss Gallagher’s habitat question, too, since Tommy made a diorama in a shoe box he passes around that demonstrates cougars in the plains in Argentina, and he’s labeled everything very neatly, like the grass made out of broom straws painted green and the rabbits made out of cotton balls, which is exactly the kind of thoroughness that Miss Gallagher appreciates. I point my toes as hard as I can and then flex them, to warm them up for leaping.
Tommy takes a deep breath and starts reading his report, which he’s actually typed on a typewriter. Just like I thought, he reads super fast and includes all kinds of interesting facts, like cougars have different names—mountain devil, sneak cat, silver lion—and they have territories they stay in that are usually in the shape of a circle or an oval. Tommy’s almost at the end of his report. I can tell, since he’s speeding up like a runner right before the finish line. As soon as he’s done, he starts walking back to his seat, so I pop up.
“Whoa, Naomi,” Miss Gallagher says, “let’s give the class the opportunity to ask Tommy questions about his excellent report. Class?” Tommy looks terrified, but he walks back to the front of the class. I have to sit down. I hope we don’t run out of time before the end of school.
“If a cougar and a lion got in a fight, who do you think would win?” Sean asks.
“I don’t know much about lions,” Tommy mumbles.
“How long did it take you to make your diorama?” Claire asks. She just wants to talk to Tommy, since she has a crush on him.
“I don’t know,” Tommy says. He looks at Miss Gallagher. “Can I sit down now, please?”
I’m already up out of my seat and Tommy’s halfway back to his, so Miss Gallagher just smiles and says, “Wonderful job, Tommy. You taught all of us new things that we didn’t know about cougars.”
Finally it’s my turn. “Just one minute, please,” I say to everyone in a very polite voice. Then I run to the back of the classroom and pull my wings out from behind the bookshelf. They’re still kind of dented from when Joey and I sat on them on Halloween, but I’ve added flecks of white paint to change them from gull wings to loon wings, and they look pretty good. Miss Gallagher asks Joey and Sean to please push her desk back against the blackboard while she ties my wings on, just like we planned.
I take a deep breath and imagine warm honey pouring on my head and running over my shoulders, which Mom says you should always do before any kind of performance. I pull my index card out from the waistband of my black Danskin pants.
“What you’re about to see is my interpretation of a red-throated loon taking flight, first from land, then from water. Being able to take off from both is a unique characteristic. I’ll also do an interpretation of a loon swimming underwater. When my dance is done, I’ll share some interesting facts about this very special bird. Thank you.” Everybody claps, which seems like a great beginning.
I start out on the floor, with my head tucked under my wing.
“Dead,” Joey whispers.
“Sleeping,” Dawn hisses.
Slowly, I raise my head and blink my eyes. Then I do a couple of hops on my knees, to show that a loon can’t really walk very well on land. I flap just a little. Then harder and harder. I lean forward and tip my toes underneath me. A few more flaps, and then I’m on my feet and pushing off fast into my first attitude leap, which stands for the loon launching into flight.
“Cool,” Lori says. Miss Gallagher is smiling.
I fly in a little circle, and then I flap down the aisle. Everyone ducks so I don’t smack them with my wings.
“Go, bird, go! Go, bird, go!” the class yells while I fly around the room, and Miss Gallagher doesn’t even shush them. I’m heading back to the front of the room so I can demonstrate liftoff from the water when suddenly—Dad! He’s peeking through the window in the door with Mrs. Mitchell. I can’t believe he decided to surprise me by coming to my report! I’m a little bit embarrassed, because no other parents are here, but I’m really happy to see him. I want to wave to him, but it’s too hard with my wings on. The show must go on, so I get in position at the front of the room and sway and bob, a loon in water, waiting for Dad to come in and sit down. I don’t want him walking in right as I’m demonstrating the water takeoff. Sway, bob, sway, bob, sway, bob … I wish Dad would hurry up. Sway, bob, sway, bob, sway, bob … Is my dance getting boring? Just as I decide to start flapping my wings in preparation for takeoff, the door opens.
“Excuse me,” Mrs. Mitchell says, “I hate to interrupt you, Naomi, but your father is here to see you. Will you come out into the hallway?”
“Could I please just take off from the water and then—”
“I’m sorry. It’s important, dear,” Mrs. Mitchell says. I look at Miss Gallagher, and she nods.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell the class. I start to flap out of the room. Everyone claps. “It’s not over,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”
“What is it, Dad?” I say as soon as the door’s closed.
“Honey,” he says, “you need to take your wings off.” His voice is shaking.
“But, Dad, I’m right in the middle of my presentation!”
“Chirp.” He reaches out and starts untying a wing. Mrs. Mitchell is untying the other one.
“Why?”
“We need to go, honey,” Dad says.
“Go?”
“Leave now,” Dad says. His hands are shaking. “We need to leave, honey, I’m sorry to say.”
Mrs. Mitchell takes my wing off and leans it against the lockers. “Here,” she says, and helps Dad untie his strap.
“Where are we going?”
Dad hands my other wing to Mrs. Mitchell. “Okay,” she says, looking at the ground. She hands me my jacket and lunch box. Somehow she already got them out of my locker.
Dad grabs my hand and pulls me through the hall. He’s walking so fast I have to run to keep up with him. As soon as we’re outside, he kneels right down on the pavement and looks into my face.
“It’s Mom,” he says. “I have terrible news.”
“You took her back to the hospital.”
“Oh, God,” Dad says. He rubs his face with his hands.
“I want to finish my dance,” I say. “I was just about to take off from the water.”
“Listen, honey. Mom isn’t in the hospital. She died. Mommy died.”
“No, she didn’t,” I say. “She’s just really sad. There’s a chance she’ll have to go back to the hospital again.”
Dad holds my shoulders. He puts his face so close to me that his words make wind in my eyes and he says that Mom died, she really did die, this morning after we left for school, and he knows this because Clara went to the house and Mom wasn’t there, but there was a note on the table that said she was very sorry but she just wasn’t able to go on this way and she loves us very much and she didn’t want to make this harder on us, so she wanted us to know that she went to Hutchins Pond.
“Is that where we’re going, Dad?”
“No, honey,” Dad says. “I’ve already been there. With the police.”
“Police?” I say.
“Mommy drowned, honey.”
Dad tries to hold me, but I’m flapping my wings.
Oh, my baby girl. Oh, my poor baby.
I’m diving underwater. I’m kicking my feet.
Dad picks me up and puts me in the backseat. He closes the door.
“We’re driving to the junior high school. We’re going to go get Rachel now,” Dad says in a loud voice. “We’re turning left here on Herring Drive, and soon we’ll come to the light. At the light, we’ll make a right. Main Street.”
The water’s sparkly green. Cold and green. I’m speeding through it.
“Then just another mile and we’ll be there. We’ll go get Rachel. We’ll get Rachel, and we’ll all go home.”
Flap, flap, flap. Down, down, down.
“Okay,” Dad says. “Okay, we’re almost there.”
I’m swimming through the sparkle. Bursts of blue-green light.
“We’re here,” Dad says. “Chirp.” He takes my hand and pulls. “Chirp.” He pulls and pulls me across the parking lot. Rachel’s in the office, waiting. She jumps up when she sees us. She runs out to the car. She looks at Dad. She looks at me. “It’s the worst news, isn’t it, Dad? It’s the worst thing that could happen, right?”
Dad nods.
“Aiiiiiihhhhh!” she screams. “Aiiiiiihhhhh! Aiiiiiihhhhh! Aiiiiiihhhhh!”
Hands on my back. Breath in my ears. Oh, my girls! Oh, my girls!
I dive back under, swim and swim into cold black quiet, wet deep black.