by Spencer Hyde
She held a backpack under her arm, but I didn’t know what she was up to, nor did she tell me.
We stepped into an ancient antique shop. There was this really big grandfather clock painted all white, and the sign said it was from 1909 and made of spruce from Europe. Rows of books lined the walls, and a small wooden ladder leading to the second level of books lurked in the shade beyond the front desk. Mom pulled three books from her backpack and placed them on the table.
The clerk nodded. “These the ones?”
“They are,” she said.
“Agatha Christie?” I said, seeing the spines of all three volumes. “Are those Dad’s first editions? You can’t sell those.”
“Don’t worry,” Mom said to me. “It’s only paper. And if it helps get my girl back, I’d sell them all without a second thought. These stories are written. Yours isn’t.”
We walked out with enough money for the entire trip, but I felt an anchor in my stomach and counted each step thinking of Dad and his books. I wondered if he had lost himself in words like I did in order to maintain some semblance of gravity, of hope.
The snow on the grass was thin, like the ground had been spray-painted white. It crackled under my feet as I walked to the car.
“Quit thinking about the books,” Mom said, noticing me staring blankly at the road as it vanished under the tires as we drove.
“I feel selfish.”
“I want this for you—for us. Let it go. Dad would’ve loved this trip, and you know it.”
“I don’t like losing pieces of him.”
“If it means getting pieces of you back . . .” She trailed off and let the silence fill the space between us. When she started to cry, I rested my hand on her shoulder and told her it would be all right. I wasn’t sure if the tears were for the books or for my OCD or for both.
“No Christmas gifts. This is Christmas.”
“I know,” I said, smiling.
“And Easter.”
“I know.”
“And Flag Day. And your birthday. And Presidents’ Day. And the Fourth of July. It’s all the things,” she said, pulling my head to hers and kissing me on the forehead.
“I know, Mom,” I said. “Focus on the road.”
I glanced at the envelope full of money that Mom had tucked between us. I couldn’t quite believe it was really happening.
I mean, how was I to know that the Kirtland’s warbler migrated from Michigan to the Bahamas for the winter? I had told Mom about why the birds mattered. Well, I’d told her that they were supposed to be really cool and that I’d heard about them from Fitz and that I wanted to see them for myself. I didn’t want it to sound like I was doing it for him, or she might question my motives or something. Whatever. It’s not like I needed another reason to think about Fitz.
A few days later, Mom and I were flying over the Bahamas, which were just a group of small dots below the plane. After enduring so much snow, I couldn’t wait for the warmth of the island sun. I rested my head against the little oval window and felt the hum of the plane and imagined the crazy-fast wind vibrating through my body.
“Talk about living right,” I said.
“What do you mean?” said Mom. “This trip?”
“Well, yeah,” I said, turning to look at her. “But I was thinking about the birds. They go to Michigan in the summer, then fly to the Bahamas for the winter. That’s living right.”
“That’s a lifestyle you can’t afford,” she said. “Neither can I.”
The guy sitting next to Mom was wearing one of those ridiculous palm-tree, neon beach shirts. Sure. Okay. It’s an island for tourists and stuff, so those shirts are popular and all. I get it. But it looked absurd.
However, the more I looked at that shirt, the more I thought about Fitz and his yoga shirts. I was so excited about visiting Cat Island, where the majority of birds were supposed to live, even though I knew seeing one was nearly impossible. There were only 2,300 male warblers in the whole world, but I wasn’t going to wait for things to happen to me anymore. I was going to encounter that birding world on my own and take my chances. Fast. Like, move my asana fast.
“Tragedy or comedy?” I said, trying to distract myself from my thoughts of Fitz and impossible birds.
“Sure,” said Mom.
We liked to play this game where we gave each other scenarios, and then we had to decide if it would work better as a tragedy or a comedy. I started.
“Once upon a time a deodorant stick fell in love with BO.”
“Tragedy,” she said. “Once upon a time an EpiPen fell in love with a bag of peanuts.”
I laughed. “Good one, Mom. Comedy.”
I tried to adjust in my seat to get more legroom—something that is futile but always worth a shot, I guess. I couldn’t help but think of the futile actions of the characters in Beckett’s play. Never moving, never taking action, only talking and waiting. I was done waiting for these birds to speak to me, to tell me their secrets. I was going to find them and listen to their warble and go on. I had to go on.
“Once upon a time there was an owl that fell in love with a mouse.”
“Comedy,” said Mom.
“Really?”
“Yes,” she said. “The owl doesn’t have to eat the mouse. I refuse to see it that way. Okay, my turn. Once upon a time there was a stain on a shirt that fell in love with the bleach.”
“Sartorial tragedy,” I said. “Once upon a time there was a whale that fell in love with a compact parking space.”
“Comedy.”
“Once upon a time there was a group of birds who met at the top of Mont Blanc and talked about how great it would be to fly over the Alps. Then they all walked home.”
“Tragedy,” she said. “And you skipped my turn.”
“Sorry,” I said, smiling.
That afternoon we walked along the beach, the dimpled sand giving way under our feet, the water folding over itself and scrambling up the shore to scratch our ankles. I traced my steps along the parabolas of salt etched into the sand after each wave.
Mom’s face was filled with a peaceful light. It was hot outside, but the water helped keep the air cool, and a gentle breeze kept the heat from totally devouring us. I picked up some curved and striated shells and collected them in a cloth bag. The clerk at the Hawk’s Nest resort, where we were staying, had told us we couldn’t collect shells, but I did it anyway. I don’t know why. It gave me something to do, I guess, but I knew I’d have to leave them behind when we left. I wished I could save one for Leah to remind her of Dia de Leah and her family.
Later, as Mom and I were sitting on the beach, I held one of the shells and traced the wrinkles that folded over like the waves. “Did you know that some shells can grow over four feet in length?” I said, setting the shell on Mom’s lap.
She lowered her book and looked out on the water, her sunglasses reflecting the swaying blue swells.
“An oyster wants to create the perfect pearl, but has a problem keeping its big mouth shut,” she said, still stuck on our game from earlier that day.
“Tragedy,” I said, smiling.
We watched as the waters folded, broke, folded. Gulls cried in the distance, some diving into the sea swells in search of lunch or an early dinner, no doubt.
Looking at Mom with that shell and listening to the ocean’s rhythmic pulse made me think of Dad. He’d loved the beach. He’d often take me to the coast with Duck to play near the water. The pain I thought was tamed, under control, rose again, moved in on me like some perpetual wave, the grief lapping at my soul, ebbing, flowing, rinsing. It made me feel so sad for Mom, and then it made me think about Fitz and how his pain must be so much heavier because of the way it all happened.
“Look at all those birds diving for their food,” I said.
“Early bird special,” said Mom.
“Oh my word,” I said, laughing. “You are so corny.”
“Well, you got it from somewhere, you know,” she said, tossing the shell back to me.
In the evening, we ate at this place near the hotel that served some amazing coconut shrimp. I wasn’t sure it was all that authentic or whatever, but it tasted fantastic. Lots of people were heading to some dance hosted by the resort, but I felt like walking.
Mom told me to be back before it got “too late,” but that kind of ambivalent phrasing opened the doors for me to really take my time. Semantics.
I headed to the beach, sat in the sand, and watched the waters surge in the moonlight, the foam frothing white as each wave stretched up the sands and retreated. I spent an hour just watching the waves. I started counting them, and then I started listening to my heart, and then I got frustrated, so I ended up returning to the room earlier than I’d expected. Probably earlier than Mom expected, too.
After a cozy sleep under giant, soft comforters and lulled by quiet ocean noises, I woke up to a gorgeous land covered in greenery and sunshine. Mom decided to take another day on the beach. I snagged some food from the shop in the resort, packed a lunch, and grabbed a ride to the goat farms on the northern end of Cat Island. The taxi driver looked at me like I was crazy for visiting a goat farm, but I’d done enough research about the island to know what I wanted. I told the driver to meet me in a few hours in the same place, hoping I’d paid enough to guarantee his return.
When I stepped off the hot pavement and into the sand and rocks near the water’s edge, I felt like I’d finally arrived. I mean, yes, the plane had already landed, and we’d been on the island for a day, but the whole reason I chose this place was for the birds. I stepped over numerous stalks of black torch—one of the birds’ favorite foods. I also saw some wild sage and figured I was in the perfect spot for a sighting.
And that’s why I was so upset when I didn’t see anything.
The hush of the surf swirled behind me as I stared at the far side of the island where the sun was beginning its slow descent. It was late afternoon, and I was hot, sweaty, and hungry. For some reason, I thought of Junior and the runny applesauce in the cafeteria, and was glad the resort offered actual food.
I leaned back into a soft berm of sand and watched the clouds glide by, shape-shifting in the bright sky. I saw a cloud split into numerous rows and thought of a piano, and wondered which notes the bird might sing.
The alarm on my phone eventually buzzed in my pocket, and I hurried back to the meeting place to find the driver waiting for me. Apparently I’d given him a reasonable tip because we carried on the same routine for the next four days, with the same result. I’d hike east or west of our spot, and wait. Sometimes I’d dip down to the ocean, or I’d sit in one spot for an hour. But mostly I just waited. Always waiting.
Mom enjoyed her days on the beach, reading, and I came home every night sunburned and frustrated. How frustrated, Mom never knew. I couldn’t let her know. She needed this trip, too.
She needed to relax and not worry about her job for once in her life. She never treated herself, and she had to work hard to pay to take care of me and my issues. That always made me feel bad. Like, I often wondered if I was more of a burden than she let on, and maybe she wished that all would change or something. I had been working on it at the hospital, and I felt like I had been improving, but I wasn’t sure if that was enough for her.
And I wasn’t going to ask her. C’mon. She’d just tell me that I was a blessing and that nothing was better than having me around and that she’d do anything for me. Because she’s amazing. Because she knows how to love. Because her heart has enough room for everybody and everything.
But I didn’t want her to start thinking about all those things or worrying about me when I wanted her to enjoy the sand and the sea. It was such a gorgeous place, and I loved that she was soaking up the quiet and soft nature of the island.
On our fifth day, I was exuding hope. We only had a few days left on the island, and I felt that today would be the day for a rare-bird sighting. I took off early, leaving Mom a note. She rolled over in bed as I walked past her to the door.
The driver held the door open for me. “You know the beaches on the resort are much better than these ones. I like your business, but it seems odd to me.” It was the first time he’d said anything to me other than the price and where and when we’d meet.
“Maybe I’ll see one in Michigan,” I said, not really listening to him.
“See what?”
“A Kirtland’s warbler. They live in Michigan part of the year before returning here to Cat Island.”
“Ah, yes, the Kirtland’s warbler. Top of any birder’s list—a beautiful bird with a striking yellow chest and a gray head with varying shades fanning over its air-light bones. Did you know that its heart beats a hundred and fifteen times a minute and over six hundred times a minute when active?” the driver said. “Birders call it a ‘life bird’—as in seeing it is a once-in-a-lifetime event.”
I was shocked. I knit my brow and leaned forward, gripping the passenger-seat headrest. “You know what bird I’m talking about?”
“This island is famous for more than its beaches. You are in the right spot if you hope to see one. But it’s still hard to find. I’ve driven a birder or two, and they never seem to find it. Something tells me you won’t stop, though.”
“Well, maybe I’m just not that smart. I’m living the definition of insanity—doing the same thing but expecting a different result. Being ‘birdbrained’ must be a real thing.”
“Yes. The dodo did not have a nice ending.”
We talked for another half hour about the island’s birding history before he stopped at our usual place.
I decided to take a longer walk and head up to the northernmost point where the rocks made the beaches nearly inaccessible—unless you scrambled over boulders and swam a bit. But I needed to move and hope. I needed to feel like I was doing something. I needed to know that, if I didn’t see the bird, it wasn’t for lack of effort on my part. I felt foolish waiting for one in that scrub, listening to hear that impossible little heart thumping against the tissue-paper walls of its chest, listening for the slightest chirp or fuss in the brush.
After bridging a narrow inlet of water, I sat in a gathering of small trees and drank from my water bottle. I thought of what Fitz might be doing in that moment, and I leaned my head back and pictured his handsome gapped smile. I took my shoes off and pushed my bare feet into the water and watched the sand billow around my toes. I thought of Estragon’s comment to Vladimir in Waiting for Godot: “We always find something, eh Didi, to give us the impression we exist?”
It was more than thinking, though. It was more than an impression. It was knowing I existed. That I was meant to take action. My phone buzzed, reminding me that I had to get back to the resort. I met up with the driver and shrugged when I saw him. He knew my defeated slouch, my tired stare, my incessant blinking meant another day with no luck.
Maybe I’d have to research the birds’ Michigan habitat when I got home. I certainly wasn’t going to see a warbler on Cat Island.
My time was up.
It seemed kind of absurd all of a sudden. This bird just decides to migrate to northern Michigan every year to hang out near small pine trees and then come back to the Bahamas. Why would you ever want to leave the Bahamas? Sounded like those birds needed a good talking-to. A good behavioral therapist or something.
Later, after another overpriced meal of shrimp and coconut rice, I wandered off from where Mom was sitting on the beach, reading. I walked into the water and watched a group of birds in the distance written in the sky like Old English script. I felt the cold water beneath the warm surface curl around my legs. The wind pushed the scent of grass and salt into my face, and I breathed in deeply.
I thought of how little we know about wh
at goes on beneath the surface. And I guess that’s true of all of us, right? Way down, in the deep parts. Surely colossal whales were out there pushing through the waters and singing to their families. Surely. But I only saw and heard what was above the surface of the water: birds chattering to one another, high in the air; the waves; the boats in the distance, catching wind in their colorful, taut sails.
The clouds parted over the water, and I thought of Fitz’s handsome gap.
On the walk back to Mom, I considered telling her about Fitz and about my stay and everything. She’d been asking me about it constantly since I’d gotten home from the hospital, but I hadn’t felt ready. Maybe if I could explain about seeing the blue whale on San Juan Island, she’d understand why I needed to see a warbler here.
I sat next to her on my towel and rested in the soft sand. “A windshield wiper falls in love with a raindrop.”
“Tragedy,” said Mom. She kept her nose in her book.
I decided to spend our last two days with Mom. I owed her that much, even if I lied to myself and said I was being noble by giving her space all the other days.
We had a lot of fun, too. We went snorkeling, and I saw a sea turtle and all these amazing fish and anemones and sea urchins, and the reef was just bonkers. I didn’t understand how so much life could hang onto those small ledges and persist. It was a cool lesson in perseverance, in going on. But it came at a cost—I couldn’t stop thinking of how I’d given up spotting the warbler. The bird’s wings fluttered in my mind during every activity.
The final morning came in as fast as the wind off the water. I thought of Aeolus opening up his bag of winds and how winds can take you everywhere you need to go, just like language can do great things, poetic things, but ultimately you can’t tell someone how much you love them because even that won’t adequately express how you feel. All the winds except the one you want or need, I guess.
