by B. E. Baker
Andy rushes to Mom’s side, patiently waiting while Mom fumbles to attach it to the hook on the collar.
“Okay.” I tug my jacket on. It’s not super-duper cold in Atlanta in March, but it’s kind of cold, especially since the sun is getting low. And if I don’t get my jacket, Mom will remind me, and then she’ll have to wait while I get it. I may as well save us the time.
Will she still insist I wear a jacket after the baby is born? Maybe she’ll be too busy to care.
We’re not even past the edge of our yard, Andy pulling on the leash naughtily, when Mom says, “Now that you’ve had some time to think, and your dad and brother aren’t looming over us, why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
“What does ‘looming’ mean?”
She laughs. I love the sound of her laugh. It’s like a fresh pile of leaves to jump into, and a fluffy pile of pancakes covered in syrup. “It means they’re standing around, watching and listening and just…” She waves her hands, tugging on Andy’s neck. “Being in the way.”
“Oh.”
She stops, the leash pulling tight. “Am I looming right now?” She crouches down again, her head at the same height as my shoulder. “You don’t have to talk to me, just because I want to help. You can totally talk to your dad instead.”
I swallow. She didn’t say I could just not talk about it at all, which is what I want to do. “It’s just that I don’t think there’s much anyone can do that won’t make it worse.”
“How about this.” Her eyes stare into mine. “You tell me what’s going on, and I promise that we won’t do anything unless you approve it.”
I blink. “But Dad—”
She takes my hand in hers. “Do you trust me to handle your father?”
I nod.
“Well, then. Tell me what’s going on, and I’ll make sure he abides by my promise. Deal?”
“Deal,” I say.
And then I tell her.
2
Amy
Mom stands up and starts walking again, in her slow, kind of bouncy pregnant-lady walk, as if she knows it’s easier for me not to have to tell her all this while she stares at me.
But her face hardens as I tell her the things Piper has said and done.
And I don’t even mention any of what she said today, about her not loving me. I can’t quite bring myself to say that out loud. I’m not sure I want to hear the answer. Because Mom’s really good at almost everything, but she doesn’t lie very well. If she tells me she’ll love me exactly the same after the baby comes, I’ll know whether she believes it.
Besides. She might not even know how she’ll feel after the baby comes.
“You were offered the part of Annie, and you turned it down because you were worried what Piper might do or say about what?” Her knuckles turn white where they’re holding the leash too tight. Dad’s hands do that on the steering wheel when he’s yelling at someone from work.
I think she’s mad at Piper, not at me, but I’m not sure.
“I actually really want to play Mrs. Hannigan.”
“That’s not the point,” she says, her eyes flashing. “You shouldn’t—” She spins toward me, staring right at me. “I want to march into your choir teacher’s office and tell her that you’d be the perfect Annie. In fact, if I could, I’d kick Piper right out of that school. Since I can’t do that, I’d like to chew her out royally for being a brat.” She sighs. “But I promised you that I wouldn’t do anything you don’t want me to do.” Andy circles round and round her legs while she talks, and the leash gets tangled.
I take it from her and unwind it.
“Okay.” Mom crouches down again, inspecting the cracks in the concrete to make sure there aren’t any ants, probably. Then she collapses on the hard ground. “Sit.”
I swallow, and then I sit. Andy sits next to me, her nose bumping against my face. It’s nice to know people—and pets—care.
After being totally quiet for a minute, she almost whispers the words. “What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I just want her to stop being mean.”
Mom laughs. “That would be nice, but usually objects in motion remain in motion until acted on by another force.” She frowns then. “I haven’t told you much about when I was a kid. She tucks my hair behind my ear. “That’s because my mom left when I was really young. Close to your age, actually.”
“She left?” My mouth dangles open. “Like, just went away? Or do you mean she died?”
Mom flinches. “No, she didn’t die, sweetheart. She just got sick of being a mom, I guess, and she went away and never came back.”
“I didn’t know moms could do that.”
She shakes her head. “Neither did I, at least, not until it happened to me.”
I swallow. “Well. That stinks.”
She nods. “It did, yes. And my dad didn’t really step up like yours did. I think it broke him when she disappeared.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
She puts her hand over mine, where I’m holding the leash. “I didn’t tell you before because I didn’t see the purpose in sharing it. But when I was your age, I didn’t have nice clothes. I didn’t have anyone to tell me to comb my hair. I didn’t have shoes that fit.”
So her life was way harder than mine. Now I feel bad for crying. I use my free hand to pick at a clump of tiny, bright green grass sprouts.
“Amy, I’m not telling you this so you’ll feel sorry for me. I’m telling you this so that I can explain that when kids made fun of me, there wasn’t anyone I could ask for help.”
I glance back up at her. She doesn’t look angry or like she thinks I’m a big baby either. “What did you do?”
“I got in fights sometimes.” She smirks. “Pretty often, actually.”
“Like—wait, did you punch people?” Because that would be so cool.
She laughs. “No, I didn’t punch anyone. And I didn’t really fight them for picking on me, but I did yell in a little boy’s face when he made fun of Trudy. It didn’t go well.” She shakes her head. “I wish I’d had someone to offer me advice.”
“What do you want to do?”
“One of the things I learned—mostly as an adult—was that if a kid is being mean, it’s usually for one of two reasons. First, their parents are mean or have spoiled them, and they’ve learned to act poorly as a result. Or second, they’re struggling with something really hard and their only way to deal with it is to make someone feel bad so they feel better.”
Is she saying I should feel sorry for Piper? Or is she saying she’s a brat? I frown.
“I know this doesn’t sound great—for me to say that the little jerk’s probably struggling. It might even make you feel bad for being angry. I’m not trying to do that, and I think you’re absolutely entitled to all the things you’re feeling. I’m feeling them, too. However, I also think it’s easier to fix something when you know you’re not the real problem.” She touches my face gently. “But sadly, if her actions don’t have anything to do with you, there may be no way for you to fix it, not alone.”
“You want to let Dad yell at her mom?”
Mom shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
At least she’s not lying, and she’s listening.
“Or.” She taps her lip. “I think if you let me talk to her mom and explain how she’s been behaving, we might find out what’s really going on in her life.”
“No,” I practically shout.
“Okay,” she says. “It’s okay.” She pulls me in for a hug. “I wasn’t kidding,” she whispers in my ear. “I won’t do anything you don’t want me to do.”
This time, I’m not embarrassed to be crying. And I believe her promise.
A squawking sound behind us shocks us both and Mom lets me go. “What the—?”
With my bawling like a baby, I forgot to hold Andy’s leash. She ran off and is attacking some kind of bird, shaking it back and forth like a chew toy. I leap to my feet. “Andy! Stop
!”
But she doesn’t stop. It feels like it takes Mom two years to get to her feet and rush toward our dog. The second Mom reaches Andy’s side, she drops the bird she was rattling.
It doesn’t move. Or make any noise.
“Oh no.” Mom hands the leash to me. “Hold her tightly.”
I want to cry at the frustration in her voice. I wasn’t holding Andy. That’s why this happened. I let go of her leash, and now she’s killed something.
“It’s a chicken,” Mom says. She bends over like she’s going to pick it up.
“Wait,” I say. “Dad wouldn’t want—”
“You’re right.” Mom doesn’t pause. “He would probably tell me not to touch it, but it’s clearly domesticated.” She picks it up gently. “And it’s staring right at me, like it wants me to do something.” She gulps and looks at the little blue house a few yards away. She walks slowly toward the front door and presses the bell, still cradling the poor bird’s body against her belly.
It’s still not moving.
The red door swings open. “Oh no,” a woman wails. “Oh! What happened?”
Mom shakes her head. “I’m so sorry. My dog—she was on a leash, but I wasn’t paying close enough attention and she managed to grab your chicken.”
The woman’s eyes fly wide. “Oh, no. Oh.” She closes her eyes and whimpers.
“I am so, so sorry,” Mom says again.
The woman breathes in and out and then opens her eyes again. “Well, it’s kind of my fault too. She’s an Andalusian, and they don’t like to be confined. Usually she stays in my back yard, but she molted late and I forgot to trim her wings afterward.”
“I think she might be…”
Mom passes her the bird and wipes her hands on her pants, smearing red across them. Gross.
The woman examines the limp grey bird carefully. “She’s still alive, but I doubt she can survive a trauma of this severity.” The woman sighs.
If I had been holding Andy, this wouldn’t have happened. “It’s all my fault,” I blurt.
“No,” Mom says. “It wasn’t your fault at all, dear heart. It was mine. I’m the adult, and I shouldn’t have let her leash go.” She turns to the woman. “Please let me pay you for the chicken.”
“I’m not even supposed to have them,” the woman says. “The HOA doesn’t allow it. I hope you won’t report me.”
Mom shakes her head. “I would never do that, but you have to let me pay you for her. I am truly sorry.”
Pay for her, like she’s already dead. But she’s breathing. Even from here, I can tell her feathers are moving up and down. She’s not dead. Not yet. “But maybe we could save her? Right? Maybe?”
The woman looks at me kindly, but there’s no hope on her face. “Dog’s mouths aren’t very clean, and her back is pretty badly mangled. I worry that it would be a punishment to her to force any attempt at recovery.”
Her words sink in slowly. “Wait.” My mouth drops. “You’re going to kill her?”
“It’s probably the compassionate thing to do at this point,” she says.
“It’s not.” I shake my head. “Maybe she won’t die.” We have to try at least.
“Amy, I’m sure—”
“We can’t just give up on her.”
“Unfortunately I’m an ER nurse,” the woman says. “I’m working swing shift for the next week, so even if I wanted to try and save her, I don’t have time to make sure she’s eating and drinking, or to monitor that she’s not suffering from an infection.”
Mom’s shoulders drop. She looks at me for a moment. “What if we did that?”
The woman’s eyes widen. “You’d take a chicken?”
“I mean, I don’t know much about them.”
“You’d need to make sure she’s drinking and eating. She can’t just be left in the back yard. She’ll need to be someplace warm and quiet.”
“I think we could manage that.” Mom glances at me. “The Mannings don’t give up easily, do we Amy?”
I shake my head, my heart soaring. Maybe we can save her. Maybe I can fix this.
“If she doesn’t eat on her own in the first day, you’ll have to hand feed her,” the woman says. “And that has to be done every two hours. Is that something you’d be willing to take on?”
“We’ll figure it out,” Mom says. “Because even when things are hard, we try to do the right thing.”
I wonder whether she’s talking about the chicken…or about Piper.
“My name is Lucy. I can give you my number and some chicken feed to last you at least a few days. I had a chicken survive a raccoon attack once—it lost an eye. The ordeal was terrible, but the recovery was much longer and harder than I anticipated. I doubt I’d have done it if I knew what I was getting myself into. I had to hand feed Alpha for weeks. And you’ll want to give her plain yogurt for at least the first week. A dropper bottle or wide bore syringe is the best thing—”
“What about a kid’s medicine dispenser?” Mom asks. “We have loads of those.”
Lucy smiles. “That should work fine. Let me know your address and I’ll bring some supplies down. But for now, you’ll want to put her in a box lined with a towel or some newspapers or magazines.”
Mom and Lucy discuss a few more details, and then Mom takes Andy from me, and Lucy puts the poor grey chicken in my arms. Its head flops against me, and it makes my heart hurt. It has soft, shiny feathers, except where Andy chewed them up. I walk about five feet behind Mom to make sure Andy keeps her distance. So far, she’s curious, but not aggressive. I wonder why she attacked the bird before.
We’re almost home before it occurs to me to worry that I might be covered in blood. Gross. I know Mom will do her best to clean it up, but I wish I wasn’t wearing my favorite green shirt. “Hey Mom, do you think, if the chicken bled on my shirt, that you can get the stain out?”
“You call her ‘Mom’ now?”
Mom’s head whips toward the street where Aunt Anica is standing, hand on her hip. Aunt Anica’s frowning, but not at Mom.
She’s frowning at me.
“Aunt Anica.” I gulp. “Andy attacked a chicken on our walk. Now we’re going to try and save it.”
“We had no idea you were coming,” Mom says sharply.
“I didn’t realize I needed an appointment,” Anica says, “but I’m sorry if I startled you. I meant to spend the night in Oklahoma City, but I decided to push through.”
“Wait, did you drive here from San Francisco?” Mom asks. “Straight through?”
Anica nods. “And Mom and Dad aren’t answering their phones or the door.”
“They’re on vacation,” I say. “In Hawaii. They just left yesterday.”
“Oh.”
“I’m guessing you didn’t tell them you were coming?” Mom asks.
“Not quite the surprise and excitement I expected,” Anica says. “But I guess I did just show up without any warning. Actually, now that I think about it, I should probably just go find a hotel.”
Mom glances back at me and my chicken, and her shoulders sag. “Don’t be silly. I’m sure the kids will be delighted to have you stay with us. Please, come inside.”
“Are you sure?” Aunt Anica and Mom stare at each other for a few moments. I’m not quite sure why.
Mom tosses her head toward the front door and Aunt Anica walks toward it. “So you’re saving chickens now?” she asks, one eyebrow raised.
I squeeze the little gray bird gently. “I hope so.”
Because if I’m not saving them, I’m killing them.
“I’ll go put Andy in the backyard and have your dad set up a box in the garage,” Mom says.
“Thanks. Good idea,” I say.
Aunt Anica follows me around the corner and through the side door that leads into the garage. “Maybe I can help.”
“Okay.” I sit on a storage tub.
“Mary said to use a box, right?” Aunt Anica looks around, snagging a large box from the top shelf of a big black
cabinet. “What about this?”
I nod. “Mom saves them for stuff like this.”
“You rescue dying chickens often?” Aunt Anica half smiles.
I swallow. “No.”
“Maybe raccoons? Snakes?” She looks at me expectantly.
“No, I mean, mostly we have them in case we need to carry big stuff or go to the mailbox. Mom’s always prepared.” I gulp when I realize I called her Mom again.
Anica sets the box on the ground and opens the flaps. Then she sits next to me on another storage tub. “You call her ‘Mom.’”
“Yeah.”
“When did that start?”
I shrug.
“You have a mom.”
I blink.
“I’m surprised Mary lets you.”
“Lets me?”
“Call her ‘Mom,’ when you’ve got a mom, a mom who loved you more than anything. She would still be here if she had any say in the matter.”
She just got sick of being a mom and went away and never came back. That’s what Mary said about her mom. But my mom didn’t want to leave. She died. My words come out as barely a whisper. “Do you think Mom would be mad that I’m calling Mary ‘Mom’?”
Aunt Anica places her hand on my knee. “I don’t know. I can’t imagine Lizzie ever being mad at you, no matter what you said or did, but I think it might hurt her feelings.” Her head tilts. “Or maybe not. I’m not sure, since I can’t really ask.”
It hadn’t occurred to me that Mom might be up in heaven looking down on me, frowning every time I use her name for Mary.
The garage door opens and Dad barrels through with an armful of towels. Mary’s carrying two bowls.
“Anica, welcome,” Dad says, his voice booming. “Always good to see you.”
“Thanks, Luke. I appreciate you letting me stay.”
“Of course, of course.” He smiles at me. “Never a dull moment at Chez Manning. I hear we’re commencing Operation Rescue Poultry?”
“I wasn’t holding Andy’s leash good enough,” I say.
“Mary told me,” he says. “And I agree with her assessment. It wasn’t your fault, not even a little bit. Accidents happen. This goofy little bird was out when she shouldn’t have been, and Andy took it upon herself to protect her two favorite people from a perceived threat. Even so, we’re going to move heaven and earth to fix her up again, if that’s what it takes.”
