All the Dancing Birds Page 3

  With all my love,

  Your Mother

  When I’m finished, when I’m tenderly turned within the melancholy of this memory, I refold the letter to its original crease and return it to the cedar box. I didn’t find what I was looking for (something about Ivan’s hands, I think). I think again about the moment of discovery when one of my children‌—‌probably Allison who is always rather snoopy‌—‌will pull down her PaaPaw’s cedar box from the shelf and find my poems and letters tucked dearly inside.

  And now, lifting the box back to its place on the shelf, I realize I’ve found another and even more ingenious use for my letters, a present and highly purposeful use: I shall learn once again of myself.

  I know I’m the one who sat at my little writing desk, the one who selected a piece of stationery, flowered or plain, depending on my mood or the light falling across my desk. I know I’m the one who then wrote thoughts and poems and little stories across each page, all in my scrawling hand. Still, it seems now that someone else captured my essence‌—‌a stranger, someone with perfect memory and an organized mind.

  An apologist for my side of things.

  I smile. Tomorrow I’ll look for something about Ivan’s hands, if only I remember.

  “Do try to remember what you’re doing, you silly, silly woman,” I say, softly closing the closet door behind me.

  Chapter Three

  I wake this morning, as always, with the sun hugging my body, but once again I’m visited by the thought that something is terribly wrong with me. Again, I’m puzzled.

  I peel away my tangled blankets, unclasping the sun from my arms, my legs, my rumpled face. I feel my mind disengage from the night and move into another agonizing wakefulness. I suppose if someone lived with me, they wouldn’t notice any difference at all. Still, I notice. I’m moody. I try to think my way to my feet, but a new fractured sense leaves me befuddled with the distance between my feet and the floor.

  The floor doesn’t look right.

  “Come on, Lillie Claire,” I say into the quiet of the morning house. “Let’s get on with the… the‌—‌”

  I’m suddenly at odds with a word that should be familiar; a word that should easily spring to mind, but now makes me search for it like I’m a common beggar. There are blank spots and spreading holes where once my mind was seamless and fluid; the movement from thought to thought now comes only with effort, in spurts and spasms.

  “Program,” I say at last. “Let’s get on with the program.”

  In spite of locating my missing word, I nevertheless seem to have allowed my memory gene to slip from my hand, letting it clatter in noisy shards across the floor. The proof is in unexpected moments when my mind turns suddenly dark and empty, like the momentary blank television screen between the end of a commercial and the start of the next program. Sometimes it’s only a fleeting space, but other times the black screen in my mind makes me wonder if I’ve gone off the air for good. Sometimes I roll my eyes upward toward a surprisingly flaccid brain, waiting and waiting for whatever I’m trying to recall. I increasingly find myself in little arguments with books, repeatedly reading even small passages because I get lost in loops of thought that refuse to leave me alone. I forget a new person’s name as soon as it’s given to me and‌—‌just yesterday‌—‌I turned my car again the wrong direction on a familiar road.

  I find daily regret and annoyance for every narrow misstep, every teensy moment of omission. I often lose my way. I forget where I parked my car only to fight tears while I wander up and down the parking aisles, clicking my remote every few seconds, hoping I’ll hear a friendly answering chirp. Everyday things feel shifted from their normal place.

  I’m now even befuddled by my cell phone, which coincidentally went missing yesterday, adding to my growing list of daily mysteries. All day I wondered where it could be, with its dead battery and its increasingly confusing buttons and mechanisms. I found it only by accident, stuffed into one of my socks at the back of the sock drawer.

  Naturally, I hide these small forgetful moments, but today, even the behavior of hiding deficiencies serves to disorient me.

  My skin chafes against the morning and I don’t know what to do to make it better.

  I shuffle through the process of making coffee, all the while wildly calling some semblance of happiness to me like one would whistle over a lively little dog. The kitchen is silent except for the gurgling of the coffeemaker. At last, I decide I like the familiar hug of the sun as it slides through the kitchen curtains to wrap itself around my shoulders.

  Good old sun.

  I drink a second cup of coffee while I make a scrambled egg and a piece of toast, which I accidentally burn because I can no longer figure out the workings of a toaster I’ve known for five years.

  After breakfast, I change from my pajamas to a pair of khaki slacks and a yellow shirt. The shirt is long and bright and fluttery like a flag on a breezy day. It’s my favorite because of its cheerfulness and the indulgent way I feel when I slide my arms into its crisp sleeves the color of a canary’s wings.

  It’s my lucky shirt!

  The lucky shirt does the trick. My day carries on and I carry on, and at last, happiness is wrapped about my body like a bright yellow banner flowing into the day.

  I smile and people smile in return, which is amazing, especially walking through the grocery store, as I do now. Most people stay set to their business in the store, pushing carts and pulling items from the shelf, stopping to read the label, or placing the item directly in their cart before they push on ahead to their next stop. Today, however, in spite of everyone’s bustle, people smile at me as if I’m altogether acceptable.

  I smile back.

  I know it must be my brilliant yellow shirt that causes them to look up from their grocery lists and their hurried feet in time to notice me.

  To smile.

  I love the grocery store, with its scents and colors and especially its freezer aisle that cools me to my bone. I read my shopping list and gather things into my basket.

  In the produce department, I pick out a bunch of slender asparagus, a head of romaine, some Roma tomatoes, and a couple of sturdy cucumbers. Then along the meat aisle, I browse until I find two little lamb chops that won’t ruin my budget. I use my list carefully, but still extra items appear in my cart: a bag of chips and a bottle of chocolate sauce, a four-pack of yellow bug lights, a little travel packet of assorted threads and needles. I don’t need these items, but they catch my eye and I’m powerless to resist.

  By the time I reach the checkout counter, I’ve circled the store several times. My basket is filled with boxes and cans, three bunches of bananas, a bag of blood oranges, clumps of organic broccoli rubber banded together like a bride’s bouquet, several chuck roasts and two large packages of frozen chicken tenders, bags and bags of pinto beans and four, maybe five packages of angel hair pasta. There are three tall, white pillar candles I’m sure I’ll use someday, a red plastic spatula because I can’t remember if I have a spatula at home and certainly I might need one of those, three bottles of my favorite shampoo because I don’t want to run out, two or maybe four air fresheners, five bottles of Ménage à Trois red table wine, and a large box of biscuits for the neighbor’s dog.

  My small list is gone, fluttered from my fingers somewhere along the way, and without its guidance, I find myself now with a basket brimming with variety and color, shapes and textures. Just before selecting a checkout lane, I toss in a fresh bouquet of red and white spider chrysanthemums. My basket is magnificently filled and I’m dazed with all I’ve done.

  The checkout girl smiles at me; I beam back at her.

  We’re both wearing yellow, which makes my lips pull into a wide display of happiness for us both.

  We are happy in yellow.

  She runs my items through the scanner while we chat about the weather and how she’s hoping to get off work early today. As we talk, she passes item after item through her agile hands. A young man
with long wisps of blonde hair floating just over his upper lip loads my things into bag after bag. He smiles and chats along with us. All around are the high-pitched beeps of electronic scanners and the idle chatter of people. I’m nearly frantic with joy because of all the activity; I hold onto the edge of the counter to steady myself. When the last item is accounted for, the smiling, chatting, dizzying checkout girl, who is wearing yellow just like me, gives me my total.

  Three hundred twenty-three dollars and sixty-five cents.

  YOU HEAR. You hear the amount of your purchase and you’re stunned with the figure. Three hundred twenty-three dollars and sixty-five cents! Your face becomes a frozen smile. You don’t know what else to do but pull your checkbook and a pen from your purse and place them on the little check-writing stand, all the while vowing in your head to forever be more watchful over your purchases. All around you, scanners are beeping and people are talking and the wheels of shopping carts are making tiny scraping noises across the floor. You hear it all, but the noises blur together like wind howling across the leaves of a tree. You look at your checkbook and none of the blank lines make sense. You’re confused by the ordinary and the more you force your hand to cooperate, the more addled you become. You take a deep breath and try once more to begin a simple task you’ve done so many hundreds of times. Your hand hovers. The wind howls. Finally, you look up and ask the checkout girl what day it is. She tells you it’s Wednesday and you write Wednesday on the upper right line. You ask her again for the amount and she tells you. You start to write the number and realize halfway through that you need to ask again. A number so long is just not sticking. The cashier tells you one more time and a lull in the wind lets your ears remember the number long enough for your forgetful hand to finish its task. At last, you write your check and hope to goodness it’s in proper order. You leave the store with your packages and your yellow shirt waving behind you like a flag on a breezy day. You leave, knowing for certain you will never tell a living soul what has just occurred.

  I drive home with my bags and bags of groceries. Tucked inside each bag is the gathering knowledge that I’ve not only spent a frightful amount of money, but I’ve also added another secret to my growing list of concealments. My beautiful yellow shirt has failed me and, from this moment forward, it is no longer my lucky shirt. I look at the drape of it over my lap, wondering how long it might take to catch fire if I should hold a match to the corner of its hem.

  By the time I’m home, I forget about burning my disloyal shirt and, rather, concentrate on pulling bag after bag out of the trunk to carry into the kitchen.

  It’s a wearisome task.

  I fill the pantry and refrigerator with cans and bottles and, after I empty each bag, I fold the sack and slide it into the space between the refrigerator and the wall. When I’m done, I have an impressive paper tower reminder of the morning’s adventure.

  The day fritters on. Soon, I find myself in room after room, wondering whatever I should be doing. As early evening comes, I decide to put on my lounging gown to watch the local news. I’m just settled into the depths of my chair when the doorbell rings.

  I open the door to find my lovely Allison on the other side.

  “Mom, you’re not ready!”

  “Ready?” A small tic of something puzzling flirts with my left eye.

  “It’s dinner night for the La La La Girls.” Allison sashays into the living room, plopping her purse on the coffee table. “Better get to it, chop-chop. I thought we’d do Chinese tonight.”

  “Perfect,” I say, knowing my next sentence will be yet one more lie to tie onto the great string of lies I have already told over recent months. “Of course I didn’t forget our Wednesday dinner.” I say this newest untruth easily, without hesitation or even a pinch of regret. I go on with my whopping fib. “I was just about to get dressed,” I say, smiling like a black-hearted weaver of tales.

  Before Allison has a chance to figure out my deception, I run to my bedroom and grab my black pants outfit from the closet. I dress quickly and then find a hole in all the sticky notes I’ve pasted on the bathroom mirror. There must be fifty little rectangles of yellow paper stuck to the mirror, each note holding reminders written in my scrawling hand. I peer through the one available spot to stick my face and slide on my lipstick.

  Written upon each little piece of paper are the same words: Don’t forget about Wednesday.

  I vow future efficiency and write a note to buy more sticky notes. I poke it in the only available hole.

  Breathlessly, I rush back to the living room where Allison has been thumbing through the latest People magazine she apparently brought with her. For a few moments, we bicker about who will drive. In the end, I win. My car, although slightly older and less prestigious than Allison’s bronze Lexus convertible, contains the one thing that always sways my daughter‌—‌it has satellite radio, which means we can listen to music without commercial interruption.

  I drive to our favorite Chinese restaurant, The Bamboo Café, my ears stinging with some classic rock Allison has dialed in. I’m sure the pounding rhythm disrupts my natural heartbeat; the volume makes my fragile eardrums vibrate in protest. The drive takes only a few minutes, still I’m relieved when we pull into a parking spot.

  Inside, we settle into a booth and order beverages while we look over the menu. Soon, I’m sipping a glass of plum wine, which finally settles my thumping heart and allows me to take in the loveliness and liveliness of my daughter. She roars through a glass of Tsing Tao, waving to the waitress for one more, each.

  “So, Mom, I was thinking,” Allison says, her voice round and husky as she takes a breath from her beer. “What would you say about going to Canada this summer?”

  Chapter Four

  Allison looks at me with wide-as-an-ocean eyes that are never refused. I wonder if that could be one reason why she’s now divorced. An uncompromising woman rarely fits for long within the confining curve of an ungenerous man’s hands.

  To be fair, I recall Jim Colson was generous with his money, but stingy with the one thing Allison needed from him‌—‌devout attention to her every whim. Outwardly, she was the caricature of a successful older man’s wife: young, beautiful, blonde, and seemingly aloof. But Allison possessed the one thing that belies a trophy wife‌—‌she loved him fiercely and without compromise.

  By all accounts, when she discovered his playful notions with other women, she handled the situation with her chin in the defiant pose of one not to be discarded. In the end (and most likely because of that pointedly strong chin), he left her with a large settlement that nevertheless did nothing to restore her innocence or trust.

  I suppose it was during the tumult of Allison’s divorce when we silently agreed to cast off our mother-daughter roles and strike up a friendship with our weekly La La La dinners and tight-as-twins secret language. Perhaps I should have kept my distance from such nonsensical girly behavior, but a mother’s compulsion to fix her children’s boo-boos doesn’t necessarily end when they’re grown.

  During Allison’s unfortunate divorce, our conversations changed; we collapsed the difference in our ages and began to wildly regard each other as joyful, newfound friends. I lifted my daughter up as my colleague with the altruistic purpose of easing her shame. She, in turn, sacrificed for herself whatever motherly wisdom I might have provided, while replacing it with a giggly girlfriend. I thought our new arrangement might be only temporary, but it lingered and stuck.

  It works for us.

  Since my widowhood and Allison’s divorce, we’ve made it our habit to take unusual vacations together; the distraction of obscure places is as much a goal as the destination. One year we cruised through the Panama Canal. Another, the Suez. We’ve been to Australia and China and to falling-down, rattle-trap castles in Ireland. Once we stayed in a yurt in Oregon for a week. For all her beauty and money, my Allison is generous and adventuresome. Her Jim was a fool.

  The sound of Allison’s delicious, round voice now
floats across the table. “Nootka Sound. Isn’t that a gorgeous name… Nootka?” She impossibly elongates the word until it sounds like, Nooooot-kaah. “They have this really amazing floating fishing lodge there,” she says, her eyes flaming wild with possibility. Her hands fly through the air and her voice trills in my ears with its high and delightfully varied pitches and tones. “You can fish for Chinook and Coho salmon, snapper, ling cod… right out of your room if you want. Or you can take a guided fishing trip out into this totally huge and wild water where pods of killer whales steal the fish clean off your line as you reel in. I read it on the Internet. Isn’t it incredible?”

  “Oh, I don’t know… fishing?” I ask. “La La La Girls in a fishing lodge? With fishermen? And killer whales? I’m not sure which species would cause more trouble.”

  Allison laughs and then narrows her eyes. “C’mon, Mom, just think of it. You swoop in on a float plane and if the fish disappear in one area, they simply float you, lodge and all, to another part of the lake. Wouldn’t that be amazing?”

  “Amazing,” I say. “But doesn’t it occur to you that falling from the sky in a plane without, God forbid, wheels, just to land at a remote fishing lodge circled by killer whales might be a little more than this old woman can handle?”

  “Mom, you are not old. In fact, you’ll probably get more heads turned by those old fishermen than I will.”

  “Allison, how you talk. I’m still your moth‌—‌”

  I start to argue my case, but suddenly my mouth stops working. I’m struck with the surprising thought that brilliant words are dancing in my mind, yet they can’t seem to take that simple stroll into my mouth. Dinner arrives and I’m saved from the fractured sense of being a sudden mute. I pick at my meal, all the while trying to locate familiar language, known words, simple thoughts. I’m swimming through dark, slender waters of memory, wondering if I’d ever learned to swim in the first place.