Waiting for Fitz

by Spencer Hyde

  I lowered my head to avoid the breeze and walked down the small rock trail from our cabin to the water. I wanted to say goodbye to this place.

  It’s funny, with all my research for Morris and his unanswerable essay question, I still forgot sometimes life can play out just like a drama. Truth is overlooked, ignored, searched for but never found, and only when we think the character can’t possibly make it out of the innermost cave alive, we witness a resurrection.

  That’s how I felt when I stepped into the cool water and heard the sound of a fin slapping the surface. Well, I thought that’s what I heard. I wasn’t sure. I looked north but didn’t see anything in the water, just a small stand of Caribbean pines ten yards away.

  I should have understood there was something different about that morning. I should have noted the way the wind moved the clouds in the sky, the way the trees bowed to the rising sun. Because there it was. Just like that. From the fringes of existence. All fifty-five ounces of it, and with the most striking colors I had ever seen on a bird. Streaked flanks of bluish-gray, a stark yellow underbelly, a blue head with dark, sharp eyes.

  Enter stage left: the Kirtland’s warbler.

  I walked slowly to the bird and got within five yards. It didn’t flinch. It was as if I was watching some other version of myself approach, quietly hoping, turning over the odds in my mind, and appealing to reason through blind faith.

  But there it was. And it was remarkable. The real thing.

  I took a picture on my phone, and it chirped at me, turning its head.

  “Quentin,” I said.

  I wasn’t ashamed of saying his name out loud and hoping it might be true. I’d seen such hope in the faces of Leah, Junior, Didi, Wolf, and Fitz. Hope is meant to surprise us. Existence is meant to surprise. Love is meant to surprise. Love does not bow to the odds. Never has. Never will.

  Swooping in along with the bird came Dr. Morris’s question: What are the characters waiting for, and why is it significant that it/he/she never shows up? Again. Again. Again.

  The bird tilted its head at me one more time, then flew away. A small speck caught between the blue of the water and the blue of the sky.

  I went back inside and washed and washed, hoping to remove the stain of repetition, to rid myself of the anxiety of not having an answer to the question that I had been obsessed with for months. I even showered twice before we left for the airport to rid myself of the anxiety, but it didn’t help.

  What are the characters waiting for?

  What am I waiting for?

  On the drive to the airport, I wanted to tell Mom about the bird, but I couldn’t. Look, I loved my mom, but right then I was only thinking about Fitz and the rest of the group and telling them about the warbler. Well, telling Fitz about the warbler.

  Mom and I boarded the plane three hours later, both of us trying to settle in to the small seats and the nonexistent legroom. They barely hold a hint of legroom. They’re not even aisles.

  Then I thought of how I would make a joke with Fitz about “aisles” and flying away from the “isles,” and then mention my awesome grammar sweater and his “synonym rolls.” But I wasn’t with Fitz.

  Yet I couldn’t help but feel that having been with Fitz sort of reorganized everything in my life. Like, I had learned more about myself through him and it had reset my existence or something. I had a feeling that hanging out with my old friends at the mall and discussing boys wouldn’t cut it anymore. I had outgrown that kind of thing, at least a little.

  “Says here we have a one in 4,596,032 chance of crashing on our way home,” I said to Mom, pointing at my phone. Sets of islands passed underneath us, numerous ellipses in the water, a geography of punctuation.

  “What? That’s awful.”

  “I don’t know. If we took this flight every day, we’d last 12,591 years before going down. Pretty good odds,” I said, smiling.

  “How do you know that?”

  “An app I just downloaded,” I said.

  “You kids and your apps,” she said.

  “Don’t judge me. You love my apps,” I said.

  Mom shook her head and smiled at me.

  “A fire hydrant falls in love with a dog,” I said.

  “Comedy,” said Mom.

  “But the hydrant is allergic to urine.”

  “Gross, Addie,” she said.

  “And the dog has bladder issues and can only relieve himself on the fire hydrant or else he’d die of pain.”

  “Tragicomedy?” she said.

  “Maybe,” I said.

  As the plane landed, I felt this jolt of excitement inside. Good thing the plane didn’t go down. The irony of birds migrating and me flying in a big steel bird would have been more than my soul could handle in the afterlife or whatever. I’d be immensely ticked that my death was ironic, and I’d never hear the end of it from all my literary heroes.

  Thirteen

  The first night after we got home, I divided my time between thinking about Dr. Morris’s essay question and reading about the jack pines in Michigan. I wasn’t in the mood to think after that—my brain was super tired—so over the next few days, I relaxed and binge-watched two seasons of The Great British Baking Show and only left the couch to satisfy my hunger. Well, it wasn’t so much hunger as it was bored, mindless eating. Whatever.

  Mom occasionally stepped in to see who was Star Baker or who’d been sent home and to make sure I was feeling okay. I think she was well aware of how much I wanted to go back to the hospital. Weird, right? Hate being put there, to a degree, then can’t wait to get back. Isn’t that how most things work?

  But I loved watching the bakers complain, in the nicest way, about their dough not rising or their chocolate not being tempered properly or their custard being a little too thick and all. It was kind of nice to look at the world through the eyes of people I’d never met and see a whole new set of issues. I mean, winning that competition meant a lot to them, and it made me realize that everyone has their own struggles. It doesn’t matter how big or small—they exist. It’s all about perspective. That’s that.

  “Glad you were able to delete all your dirty shows before I got home, Mom,” I said. “That shows some real foresight and maturity on your part.”

  “Ha ha,” she said, mocking me with a fake laugh.

  “No, really, I appreciate you cleaning up the place before my return. How many parties did you throw while I was at the hospital?”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be driving somewhere?” she said.

  I was. Dr. Riddle had called Mom and told her that I could visit that afternoon if I wanted to. Of course I wanted to, and Mom knew it.

  My look: I was wearing jeans and my favorite riding boots—I didn’t ride, but I liked the boots, get over it—and this pretty peacoat with cool whalebone buttons or whatever. It was still pretty cold out, so I snagged a scarf and gave Mom a kiss on the cheek on the way out.

  Outside, flakes of snow fell softly. It was that weird kind of snow-quiet where the world is insulated from all sound. I felt like I was ruining it just by turning over the engine in my car.

  As I drove to the hospital, I began thinking about the warblers again and how they lived. Then I thought of Fitz waiting for me in the psych ward, of Leah and her soft smile and the way she always rubbed her short hair, of Didi and his outrageous escapades and triumphs in the face of reality, of Wolf and his intransigent sturdiness and undeniable stubbornness, of Junior and the kindness hiding behind the temper, of Martha and her lackadaisical attitude and her jovial comments.

  I banked off the freeway and drove through a small part of town that had recently come into its own—new shops, new restaurants, new vibe, that kind of thing. The hospital towered over the houses in the area like some immense, maternal figure watching over the rooftops beneath its shadow.

  I was grateful to be out of b
ooties and into boots. The snow piled in small drifts, and the falling flakes brushed against my face as I made my way to the hospital entrance. The sliding doors breathed warm air over me and blew my unbound hair behind my shoulders. Yes, my hair was down. I was trying a new thing. Get over it.

  Fitz was in the visitor’s room, wearing a shirt I’d never seen. It said, Yoga—I’m Down, Dog.

  “You been waiting for me?” I said, all smiles and anticipation.

  “Only existentially,” he said, flashing that handsome gap and goofy smile all at once.

  I was so giddy I could hardly stand it. I almost put my hands over my stomach to calm down my insides.

  “One of your better shirts,” I said.

  “Meaning isn’t lost on you?”

  “Please. Show some respect.”

  His eyes looked calm. He seemed content and soft in a way I couldn’t quite define. His body seemed lighter—not in the weight department, but in the whole body-and-soul department. Still, I thought I could see a touch of shame beneath his mask.

  “You doing okay?” I said, sitting down on a white bench across from him at a bland and disgusting-looking orange table.

  I hated those tables. Leah was nearby, talking to someone I assumed was her mother, probably mentioning how a pot of watches never boils. She waved my way and gave me that quiet, sincere smile of hers. I waved back. I didn’t see anybody else in the room, but I could hear Didi yelling something to Martha behind the doors.

  “Better,” Fitz said. “Last two weeks really put me through the ringer.”

  “What happened when you got back from, you know, the police station or whatever?”

  I didn’t want to bring up his erratic behavior at the apartment or at the gravesite. I didn’t feel it was my place to mention it if he didn’t want to talk about it. I also wasn’t sure if he knew I had been at Quentin’s grave, how I had seen him there in that moment of pure anguish, or if he would ever want to share that or talk about it.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, looking down at his fumbling hands. “Not now, Lyle. It’s a tired joke, anyway.” He didn’t look in Lyle’s direction, wherever Lyle may have been, and he seemed frustrated. Then he looked at me. “I’m sorry for hurting you.”

  “It was just a cut. Cuts heal.”

  “No, it wasn’t just a cut. It was the entire act of leaving you totally alone while I completely lost it. I was totally gone. You had nobody. You heard where they found me, right?”

  I bit my lower lip on one side and scooted around the table, feeling uneasy and awkward and unprepared to respond to his question. I sighed and played with the scarf around my neck.

  “I heard. I know. I think it’s beautiful, in a way. You were trying to say you were sorry. Again.”

  I smiled gently and put my hand in the middle of the table, reaching for him and letting him know I was there for him and comfortable with whatever emotions he was feeling in that moment.

  “It wasn’t beautiful after I left you. I don’t actually remember much of it. Apparently I was laughing. I was crying. I seized up inside and outside, all over, catatonia took over, and I fell to the floor in the ER.” He paused. “Truth is, these voices I hear—Lyle, Willy, Toby—they’re not my friends, though that’s the mask I put on. They are liars. Skulking in the corners. I have to keep them caged like animals, I must keep them caged, or I get lost.”

  Fitz sighed heavily and lowered his head to his hands before lifting his face again and faking a big smile.

  I put my hand over his and mouthed that I was sorry. I was sincere, and I think he could tell.

  “Like the plays you love so much, Addie—I feel like I can’t escape the script sometimes. The cuckoo bird is in my mind, kicking out all the eggs of hope. I’m endangered by the very actors my mind has created. I feel like the lines of my life are being given to me, and I am destined to follow. Fated to read them, to live them. As if this life could happen to anybody, huh? Nope. Just me.”

  “Just us,” I said. “We few. We crazy few. We band of nutters.”

  “Nice. Henry V?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well. It’s over now. I’m back on my horse,” said Fitz.

  “Are you sure it’s your horse? Or is it Wolf’s horse?”

  Fitz laughed softly, genuinely. “My horse. But I’ll tell Wolf he can have it.”

  “I think he’d be pretty happy with that,” I said.

  I sat up and rested my chin on my fists. I brushed my long hair out of my face and wrapped it around my ear. I was having trouble getting used to the hair everywhere, but I liked trying a new thing.

  Fitz bunched his fingers together like he was kneading his bandana, but his hands were empty. “I’m ice on a stove, Addie. I’ll drift wherever the heat takes me until I disappear. I’m not on a hero’s journey. My story arc isn’t going to have a happily ever after. Max won’t help me. I have nothing when I get out of here. The lines are written. The ink has dried.” He looked legitimately scared.

  “I don’t like that ice metaphor,” I said.

  “What, it’s not mixed up enough for you? What if I said I could wait until the ducks watched me like a hawk and still not feel I could get out of here like the back of my hand?”

  “Those are similes, not metaphors, but . . . better,” I said with a smile.

  “You’re welcome,” said Fitz.

  “You won’t believe where I’ve been,” I said.

  Fitz raised his eyebrows and leaned in a little more, waiting.

  “I saw the Kirtland’s warbler.”

  His eyes got big and he smiled. But the smile dropped as he leaned his head sideways and gave me a mocking look. “No, you didn’t,” he said.

  “Promise.”

  “They’re only in Michigan in the spring,” said Fitz.

  “I know. I didn’t say I saw them here,” I said. “They’re in the Bahamas. Where I was just a few days ago.”

  “No way.”

  “Yes way.”

  I showed him a picture of Mom and me in front of the resort sign and then the single picture I had been able to take of the warbler. I wanted to show him the rest of the pictures, but some orderly I’d never met told me to put my phone away.

  “Wow,” Fitz said. “That is so freaking awesome. I wish I could have been there. What was it like?”

  I felt bad offering up a description of something I knew he’d love to see himself.

  “The warbler was unreal. Like, bonkers amazing. I want to go to see them when they come back to Michigan.”

  “You already saw them though,” said Fitz.

  “Yeah, but not in the jack pines. Not with you.”

  He looked at me in that way I loved, raising his eyebrows and leaning in and tilting his nose down. He still wore that same tie-dyed bandana, worn out and faded, but I reminded myself that he wore it as a sort of security blanket. I realized it would be weird seeing him without it. I found that encouraging in some odd way.

  “The birds require the small jack pines for nesting, and the only way those jack pines grow is after a fire.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” said Fitz. “Sounds more like a tragedy. A log falls in love with a fire.”

  “Yes,” I said, thinking about my game with Mom. “But the cones of the jack pines need fire to open them up before they can spread their seeds. About six years after a fire, the warblers show up because that’s when the trees are the perfect height. When the trees get too tall, they leave. Then they have to wait for another fire before coming back.”

  Fitz thought for a moment. I saw Didi step in, and I waved to him over Fitz’s shoulder.

  “That’s pretty awesome,” he said. “I wish my life was like that. Maybe it will be.”

  “You want to nest in burned-out trees in a forest in northern Michigan? I didn’t know you were so down-to-ea
rth,” I said.

  “I’m not,” he said, smiling. “But our lives have been scorched in some way, right? Touched by fire? We all need new growth.”

  “Yeah,” I said, softly, thinking of blue skies and birds.

  “And once we’ve grown and learned and overcome, we can move on.” He looked down. “But I won’t know freedom or be able to fly away from here until I turn eighteen.”

  “Property Brothers!”

  I looked at Didi, who was blushing because his parents were visiting.

  “At least it’s always something new. I like that he keeps things fresh,” I said.

  Fitz didn’t seem to be listening. “I want to go back to school, but I don’t know if it will last. When I get out, I mean. I don’t know if I can ever keep the balance I need to sustain a normal life.”

  “Normal’s boring,” I said.

  “Freedom isn’t. Freedom of the mind—that’s gold. That’s independence.”

  “Surely not true independence, though?”

  “Who will I have, Addie? I’ve lived most of my life in and out of these places. Nobody has any lasting relationship with me outside of these hospital walls. You saw that disgusting apartment that people call my ‘home.’ I need to be strong if I’m going to be on my own, to stay balanced. I don’t know if I can do that, if I’m being honest. I get out of here in a year. You won’t wait around—nobody’s going to wait for me. People need to go on, to move forward and live. I know that. I understand that.”

  And it was right then that I finally understood why those absurd playwrights wrote their stories the way they did. It happens like that—in a moment. Like a whale breaching the water. Or a bird landing on a branch. I finally understood why they kept their characters waiting for something. I knew how to answer Dr. Morris’s question and move on with my life.

  Fitz looked upset and a little worried. The overhead fans turned on, and I heard the small whir of the motor as the churning began. I thought about Fitz and how his life was a battle of voices and ideas and emotions, like, always, and how he constantly had to fight for the right meaning to triumph. Scorched earth. New growth.