“Lizzie always said freedom is a noun, not a verb,” I say. “You can’t do freedom. You have to be it.”
She closes her eyes and soaks up the sunshine. A glow settles around her, a beautiful, radiant shade of light purple.
“Orchid,” I say.
“What?”
“Your aura is orchid.”
Baby Girl smiles, and I return the look. Moments pass like the wind floating through the car.
“Lizzie should be here,” Baby Girl says. Her tone has shifted. A shadow blocks the sun and cools the car. “Wren?”
“Yeah?”
“You know how my dad gave me money every month?”
“Yes.”
“It always felt . . . dirty, so I never spent it. I just saved it up.”
“Are you going to spend it now?”
I can’t keep my eyes simultaneously on her and the road.
“I gave it to Lizzie,” she says.
My foot comes off the gas. “What?”
“I gave her the money so she could leave.”
A siren slices through our conversation. In my rearview mirror blue and red lights swirl. It pulls something from the deep.
A memory.
Sing something, Songbird, Lizzie’s tiny voice begged. Distract me from the visions that like to tell different stories at night.
Don’t worry, Lizzie. The sun never really goes away.
I need you to remind me.
Lizzie took my hand in her cold palm, and I began to sing.
You are my sunshine . . .
“Wren.” Baby Girl’s voice sings in my ears along with the song, and the vision of Lizzie dissolves into the wind. I gently press the brake and pull the cruiser to the side of the road safely. Parked, we wait, Baby Girl and I frozen in our seats.
An officer approaches the car.
Baby Girl whispers, “I’m sorry I lied to you.”
Chloe’s dad appears at the window. “Get out of the car, Wren. You’re under arrest.”
36
NO MORE PRETENDING
Before Chloe’s dad dropped off Baby Girl at her house, I whispered to her, “What about a name? I think it’s time you start thinking of a name other than Baby Girl.”
“Aren’t you mad at me? I’m so sorry, Wren.”
“Just focus on you.”
“What about Lizzie?”
But it wasn’t the time to discuss that. We were locked in a cage in the back of a police cruiser.
Here at home, the veins in Chief’s neck are already pulsing when I walk through the door, trailing behind Mr. Dillingham.
I’m starting to think my life might be one proverbial birdcage, made by the hands of Chief.
“Thanks, Phil.” Chief keeps his cool for the moment.
“Not a problem,” Mr. Dillingham says. “See you at the game.”
Once it’s just Chief and me, the coolness is gone.
“First you break curfew, then destroy your room, and now this,” Chief says. “What the hell is going on?”
“Baby Girl needed me,” I say.
“For what?”
“Moons Over My Hammy.”
“You broke the law to go to Denny’s? Are you out of your mind?”
“I wish. I’m so far in my mind, I’m not sure if what I’m looking at is real or not.”
“Driving without a license is dangerous,” he says. “How many times have I told you? Cars are weapons. They kill more people than guns.”
“Staying on a sinking ship will kill you, too.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Some laws are worth breaking in the moment,” I say.
“No,” Chief says definitively. “If we all thought like that, there would be anarchy.”
“What’s wrong with a little mayhem?”
Chief huffs. “Laws are in place to protect people, Wren. You need to follow them.”
“Screw the rules, Chief.” And then I beg, “Jump off this sinking ship with me.”
But the argument is fruitless. We won’t get anywhere. Chief and I are in a game of tic-tac-toe, both of us too smart to lose, so we just keep building a new game, putting up walls, containing each move.
“Go to your room,” he says.
“Fine,” I say. “But you can’t keep me locked up forever.”
Eventually there’s a winner or someone walks away from the game.
Wilder is back. This time he’s in my room. It’s so dark outside, time seems not to exist.
“This is spiraling out of control,” he says.
“I know. I can feel it.”
“There’s still time to stop it.”
“I don’t think so, Wilder.”
“You can’t handle this. You’re weak.”
“No,” I say firmly.
“Yes,” he says just as firmly. “You’re broken. You’ll always be broken.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m weak.” My words come out softer than I want.
He paces my room, his steps heavy, intrusive. “Look at the mess you made. And it’s only getting worse.”
“It’s not a mess.”
“Yes, it is,” he says.
I clench my fists. “I think it’s beautiful.”
“You’re not thinking straight, Wren. You can’t be trusted. Anyone who came in here would see a mess. You’re fooling yourself.”
“Luca didn’t think so.”
“We’ve been over this. He’s going to leave you.”
“He loves me, and I love him.”
“Chief loved your mom, and look what happened,” Wilder says. “I’m trying to help. Let’s be honest. You’re weird, Wren. You always have been. You were born that way. You don’t belong, and you never will.”
“I’m not listening to you.” I cover my ears.
“You can’t shut me up that easily.”
“Go away.”
“Make me.”
Wilder stands in front of the window, where I stood when I first saw him. With a perfect view of his bedroom. The night shades his body, making him seem practically one with the dark. But I’m not the girl who turned her light on and invited him in anymore. I’m different.
“See,” Wilder says. “You can’t. You’re not strong enough to get rid of me.”
My body tenses with anger and frustration.
“Don’t do this to me, Wren,” he says.
“I have to.”
“No, you don’t. There’s still time. You made this. You can change it back to the way it was. It was good, just you and me. Remember? We felt safe. It can be like that again. It’s not too late.”
“It is too late.”
“This will be the end of us. Are you prepared for that?”
I can’t answer him.
“You’re so messed up, you don’t even know what’s real,” he says. “You might even be crazy. What do you think people will do when they find out? They’ll leave you. No one will want you. Do you actually think you’re different? You’re not. This will end with you alone. Like it always does.”
“Stop!” I yell, my eyes pinched closed and tears streaming down my cheeks. “I’m not listening to you anymore. I have to try. Even if I fail.”
“How could you do this to me?” Wilder whispers. “To us?”
“Leave. Now.”
“You’re not strong enough, Wren. You need me.”
My heart pounds in my chest, heavy and fast. I muster the courage to look at him through my tears.
“We’re not the same,” I say. “You don’t have an aura, and you never will.”
“Don’t do this,” he pleads.
This is the hardest truth about love. It’s the ugly, the broken, the messy side. The loneliest side.
But I listen to this truth with everything that I am.
It is easy to love someone else. The harder task is loving yourself.
“I am strong.”
A breeze whistles through my window.
And Wilder is gone.
I look at myself in t
he mirror, my shamrock-green aura radiant, and take a few steps back. That’s what Lizzie said I needed to do to see the picture clearly.
There before me, just like Baby Girl said, I see myself reflected back, surrounded by a mess I made, tears streaming down my face.
But through the disarray, looking right at me is what I’ve been waiting to see.
Love.
37
STRIKE THREE
It’s the last softball game of the season. Every family member is invited to play. Chief’s tuna casserole sits on the potluck table, sweating in the sun along with french-onion dip, fried chicken, watermelon, and an untouched vegetable platter. Flies land on the food, though even the bugs avoid the broccoli. Just like last year and the year before. It’s as if nothing has changed, except everything has changed.
I’ve decided to play. It surprised the hell out of Chief when I came downstairs in sport shorts and a tank top.
In years past Lizzie and I would opt out to pick bouquets of dandelions. Making crowns felt better than making home runs. She’d take my arm and rub the dandelion on my skin, painting it yellow. “See, Songbird? You have sunshine in you. All you have to do is paint it true.”
I would let Lizzie rub dandelion all over—my face, my arms, my legs—until I was covered in yellow and sneezing. Mrs. Dillingham, eying my dandelion stains, would whisper to the other ladies about our “eccentricities” and how girls raised by single fathers show the lack of a mother in their actions.
Chief made me take a shower the moment we got home. The yellow disappeared down the drain. The canvas became blank again, until Lizzie painted the truth on my skin again the next summer.
Now I rub a dandelion along my arm, a streak of yellow appearing, and then look at the bright sun. Streaks of light are everywhere now. I’m alive. I squint in the brightness, but it’s time for eyes wide open.
At some point every artist stops. A last brushstroke, and the painting is complete. There is no going back, and the only way of moving forward is to tell a new story on a blank canvas.
Once you’ve painted the truth, you have to live with the masterpiece. I brush another line of yellow on my skin.
“Wren!” Chief’s voice startles me. He waves me toward the dugout. The inning is over, and it’s our turn to bat.
Running is easy now. Muscles have formed that I didn’t have at the start of summer. I’m still wobbly on my skates, and I know it’s going to hurt getting knocked down in Roller Derby, but it’s what I want. Pain is a part of progress.
Even Chloe sees a change in me. She eyes me suspiciously as we run past each other. It’s graveyard shift versus day shift, and we’re playing on opposite teams. When I asked Chief who’s keeping Spokane safe while we play softball, he said, “Rookies.”
Today would be a good day to get arrested.
Chloe came up to me before the game, her blond hair in a braid that hung down her back.
“You stole a car?” she said accusatorily. “Are you crazy?”
“Maybe. And technically, I didn’t steal anything. It’s my car.” Chief has it parked at the police station now. He’s uncertain he’ll ever give it back to me.
“What were you and Baby Girl doing?”
“None of your business.” I haven’t told Chief the truth. I wasn’t about to tell Chloe.
“You’re seriously not going to tell me.”
Her belief that she should be privy to that information is exactly what’s wrong with Chloe. She hasn’t earned the right to know about Baby Girl’s dad. She hasn’t earned the right to know how Baby Girl found freedom in death and shit.
What Baby Girl said about her dad echoed in my memory. Every body needs an asshole. Turns out, Chloe is mine.
“Why are you laughing?” Chloe demanded, running an insecure hand over her clothes and face.
“Nothing.”
Chloe kept puckering her lips petulantly. Her mouth looked like an asshole, asshole, asshole. I couldn’t hold back the giggles.
“Stop it!” She actually stomped.
But it was funny. It was like someone took the cork out of our relationship after it had been shaken up all summer, and now it was exploding everywhere. Unstoppable. Overflowing. Never to be contained again. It was over.
“It’s not polite to laugh at people, Wren. Didn’t your mom teach you that?” The laughter stopped. I choked. “That’s right. You don’t have a mom.” She walked away.
Now we pass each other again as the teams switch out. She glares at me. She has no clue what an asshole she really is.
The sun comes and goes as puffy clouds pass through the sky. With the shade comes a gentle breeze.
The game is tied in the fifth—three to three. Unsurprisingly, Chief is our team captain. He calls out the batting order for the inning. He has a clipboard with the Spokane Recreational Softball rules, which he checks repeatedly.
I’m fourth in the batting order this inning. So far I’ve been up to the plate twice, both strikeouts. Chief seemed unsurprised, but as I walked back, bat dragging on the ground, he patted my shoulder and offered words of encouragement. And critique.
“Next time keep your eye on the ball.”
“You’re swinging just a second too late.”
“Choke up on the bat, Wren.”
“Don’t crowd the plate.”
Officer McGhee bats first, and he hits a single.
Savannah Walsh, a girl in junior high whose mom runs dispatch, bats next. She’s tagged out on her way to first.
Mrs. Marlow strikes out.
Chief hollers, “You’re up, Wren.”
I move toward the plate sluggishly. Chief now stands just behind me.
“Remember what I said: Keep your eye on the ball. Bend your knees. Swing from the hip.”
The pitcher narrows his eyes. My team cheers from the dugout. Chloe stands in left field, her stance arrogant, her arms crossed as if she’s sure I can’t hit a ball all the way out there. But she doesn’t know that I’ve spent the summer training to kick ass.
The first pitch comes. The softball lobs through the air. I swing, but no contact.
“That’s OK.” Chief claps behind me. “Now you know what it looks like.”
I adjust my stance.
“A little wider,” he says. I step my feet apart slightly. “Choke up, Wren.”
My hands move slightly up the neck of the bat.
“Now, watch the ball.”
The pitch is thrown. I keep my feet steady, my hands properly gripped, my eye trained. When the bat hits nothing but air, I’m almost knocked over. Chief catches me before I face-plant. Chloe’s laughter arrives from the outfield, bringing my blood to a boiling point. She plays with her braid, smoothing her hand down her corn-silk hair as if it’s a horse’s mane.
“Try it again,” Chief says. I yank my arm out of his grasp.
“Stop telling me how to play the game, and just let me play it,” I insist.
“I’m just trying to give you some pointers,” he says. “To help you out.”
“I don’t need your help,” I say, grabbing the bat from the dirt. “I can handle this.”
“Like you’ve handled everything else this summer?”
He has no idea. Chief is too weighed down with rules and laws and handcuffs. He restrains people because he’s scared. I thought it was because that’s his job, but Lizzie knew the truth. He’s screaming scared inside.
But this isn’t the time to fight with Chief. That time will come, but it’s not today. The yellow streak on my arm catches my attention. The truth must be painted, but piece by piece, brushstroke by brushstroke.
The pitch comes. The arch is high and off center. It’s a definite ball, but I’m desperate to hit it—desperate to prove to Chief that I can do this—and I don’t care about the rules. Hitting something will feel so much better than standing around waiting.
“Don’t swing!” Chief yells.
I go for it.
The crack of contact shudders throu
gh me.
“Run!” Chief yells.
I take off toward first base. The ball soars into left field, where Chloe is standing, playing with her hair. I pause at first, long enough to see Chloe picking up the ball, completely shocked. Someone yells for her to throw it. But she holds on to it. Our eyes connect.
She doesn’t want to give up the chance to get me out herself.
I take off toward second base.
Chloe runs toward it from the outfield.
Chief screams, “Go back to first, Wren! Go back to first! Just stay put!”
But staying still is no longer an option. Staying still won’t paint the story. Hiding the colors in the basement doesn’t mean they’re not there. I can’t stop now.
Chloe’s dad is yelling, too. “Throw the damn ball, Chloe! What the hell are you doing?”
But this isn’t about the game. We near second base from opposite sides. I know I’m going to make it first, but Chloe looks determined, and she spent the summer at CrossFit with Jay, banging tires and swinging kettlebells and drinking protein shakes. I know the look—all the times she’s bossed me around, all the times she made me feel like I should be grateful for her friendship, like I should think her existence is one big favor to me.
I told Leia weeks ago that I didn’t think I was strong enough to knock someone over. But that has changed. Physical pain pales in comparison to the pain of an empty room in your heart.
Chloe’s bright-red aura tints my vision. All I see is her blinding, bleeding selfishness.
I dive at the bag. My knee scrapes on the dirt. Chloe does the same. Our bodies collide and tangle.
And then I see it—the ball is loose. Chloe dropped it. I scramble back to the base and touch it with my hand. Then I stand and stamp my foot down.
Dirty and bleeding, I win.
“Did you see that!” Chloe screams. “She ran right into me!”
“You ran into me!”
Chief, Mr. Dillingham, and Mrs. Dillingham run onto the field.
“She’s insane! She attacked me!” Chloe screams. “What the hell is wrong with you, Wren?”
“What’s wrong with me?”
“Calm down, girls,” Mr. Dillingham says. Chief searches his clipboard for the proper rule.
“I’m sure there’s some procedure outlined in the Spokane Recreational Softball rules for just this kind of thing,” he says.
Postcards for a Songbird Page 18
