Flight Patterns

by Karen White

  “At least he waited until seven o’clock to call Marlene’s to tell me,” Georgia said. “Although he could have called earlier, since I was awake. I’d forgotten how quiet it is here at night. I kept waking up, thinking something was wrong.”

  “If you had a cell phone, I could have texted you so that you’d have known to call me when you were ready,” James said matter-of-factly.

  She sent him a withering look. “It would still be an hour earlier in Illinois. I doubt anybody would be in at the museum answering phones.”

  “Remind me to tell you sometime why she doesn’t have a cell phone,” Maisy blurted out. She wasn’t sure why she’d said that, thinking it probably had to do with lingering resentment over the incident with Birdie and the lipstick.

  Georgia stared hard at the floor, while James only raised his eyebrows, making Maisy wonder how much he’d been told—or warned about—by Georgia.

  James cleared his throat. “Anyway, I went for a run, and it was still early, so Georgia took me to Dolores’s Sweet Shoppe for breakfast. So we’re already fed and ready to get started.”

  “Get started with what?”

  Their grandfather emerged through the back hallway from the kitchen.

  “Looking for the china piece I remember seeing in Birdie’s closet. The soup cup with the bee design,” Georgia said, her face brightening at the sight of their grandfather.

  He paused, breathing heavily, as if he’d just run all the way from the apiary. “Yes, well, good luck with that. Right before she got . . . sick, Birdie went on a huge cleaning-out and remodeling phase. You remember that, Georgie, don’t you? It was right before you left.”

  Georgia’s face had stilled, and Maisy knew she remembered, too. Remembered their mother’s reaction when she’d heard rumors about a movie being filmed in Apalachicola, and how the actors and director might need housing. Maisy wondered, too, if Georgia remembered everything else about the summer of ’05 and the double hurricanes of Katrina and Dennis, the external storms matching those going on inside their house. Or the moment their mother went up to the attic and had to be brought down in a catatonic state by their grandfather. Probably not, Maisy thought. Georgia was very good at brushing her hands clean of a messy past.

  “Yes,” Georgia said, her voice strained. “Birdie made it through the downstairs closets and cabinets, but stopped when she was halfway through the attic. I always thought . . .” She stopped. “I figure I’ll ask her, see if I can get through to her. . . .”

  Whatever else she was going to say trailed away as Georgia’s attention focused on the stairwell behind her. Turning, Maisy saw Birdie standing on the landing, a delicate hand poised on the banister, her hair swept up in a French twist, her pink silk shantung suit decidedly retro but still glamorous. She looked so much like Grace Kelly that Maisy almost went to her to put her hand on her arm, to let the others know that despite appearances, Birdie meant to be taken seriously.

  But there was something about Birdie’s face, the way her jaw trembled and her eyes shifted, that made Maisy aware that she’d heard their conversation, had understood most of it. And maybe even comprehended that Georgia wanted to ask her a question and even expected an answer.

  Grandpa stepped forward, and Maisy smelled his sweat, and noticed that beads of perspiration were slipping down his nearly bald head. Two bright spots of red had erupted on his cheeks as he walked toward Birdie. “You look beautiful, my dear. As always.”

  Birdie looked at her father’s outstretched hand and then up to his face, and for a horrifying moment, Maisy was sure her mother was going to cry. After a moment’s hesitation, Birdie stepped down into the foyer, grasping Grandpa’s hand and moving into the center of the group.

  “Good morning, Birdie,” Georgia said quietly. James must have said something, too, because Birdie turned her head to smile at him. But there was something brittle about her, something glasslike, at risk of shattering. Maisy tried to remember what they’d said that might have upset her, but was distracted by the sound of tires rolling over broken oyster shells in the driveway.

  Taking her mother’s elbow, Maisy began leading Birdie into the kitchen. “I’m going to get her breakfast. When Becky comes down, tell her that her dad’s here to drive her to school.” She’d barely made it halfway across the foyer when there was a brief knock on the door before it opened. Lyle stood on the threshold in his uniform, seemingly as surprised to see everybody as they were to see him.

  “Sorry,” he said, taking off his hat. “I didn’t expect . . .” He stopped, his gaze resting on Georgia. And then he smiled, and Maisy felt the old longing, the old hurt. Her own inadequacies. The old anger. Lyle and Georgia had always shared a special friendship, one that had excluded Maisy, made her feel like an intruder. Despite their claims that they were strictly platonic, Maisy knew Georgia too well, and couldn’t completely erase all doubt that there was even one unrelated male in town her sister hadn’t slept with.

  Maisy pulled on Birdie’s arm to leave, but Birdie remained where she was, a silent spectator to what promised to be a good show.

  “Hello, Lyle,” Georgia said, her head tilted like that of a little girl choosing which hand holds a surprise. “It’s good to see you.”

  James reached out his hand toward Lyle. “I’m James Graf. A client of Georgia’s.”

  Nobody said anything as they shook, making Maisy wonder again what Georgia had told James, and whether he was aware of the role he played; whether Georgia had to beg him to come with her, to deflect all the stares and under-the-breath comments that were bound to come her way regardless of how short her stay was supposed to be.

  “Lyle Sawyers. Pleased to meet you.” Lyle took in the stranger with what Maisy had used to joke were his “cop eyes.” They were light brown, just like an actor’s on one of the police shows they used to watch together when they were in high school and they were supposed to be studying.

  “Daddy!” Becky came down the stairs quickly.

  “Hey, squirt,” he said with the same grin Maisy had fallen in love with the first time she’d seen him at the Seafood Festival, when they were both too young to know what love at first sight meant.

  “Daddy.” Becky groaned unconvincingly as she allowed Lyle to hug her to him with one arm.

  She pulled away to fling her arms around Georgia. “Hi, Aunt Georgia. I made a list of all the things I want to show you, and it will take at least four days. Can you stay that long, at least?”

  Georgia bent her head over Becky’s, their hair blending so that it looked like it came from the same head, and it felt as if Maisy was watching Birdie and Georgia again, the hurt of exclusion like a sharp jab to her chest.

  “I wish I could, sweetheart. But I have to get back to work. And so does Mr. Graf. Maybe soon, though, okay?”

  Becky’s entire body radiated disappointment. “But I already told B-Brittany Banyon that you were here for a v-visit and she wants to meet you. She said her d-daddy knew you in high school.”

  Maisy put her hand on Becky’s shoulder to remind her to take a deep breath, aware of Georgia’s stiffening, seeming to be struggling for something to say. Oblivious, Becky said, “I’ll b-bring her home after school and you can meet her then. M-maybe you can tell some embarrassing story about her d-daddy.”

  While Georgia struggled for a response, Maisy asked, “Do you have your homework?”

  “Yes,” Becky answered. “And my tennis racket. I don’t need a lunch because I’m buying today.” She smiled brightly, looking so much like her aunt and grandmother that Maisy’s heart broke a little more.

  “All right. I’ll see you after school.” She smiled, and Becky gave her a long hug, as if she knew her mother needed it.

  Lyle opened the door, then turned back to Georgia. “How long are you staying?”

  “If everything goes as planned, we hope to leave tomorrow.”

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nbsp; Lyle nodded slowly. “Well, don’t be a stranger,” he said with that same slow grin, and Maisy looked away.

  “Nice to meet you,” he said to James before heading out the door toward his patrol car with Becky tucked beneath his arm.

  Maisy pulled on Birdie’s elbow, desperate to get away, knowing she’d have to call in late so that her class wouldn’t be in her first-period classroom without their teacher. But Birdie resisted, pulling her arm free.

  Grandpa sat heavily in a hallway chair, his skin blotchy still from the heat outside. He clutched his hand and Maisy could see the pink welt near the wrist. He’d been stung, which, considering, was a rarity. He’d always told them that he knew how to communicate with the bees, knew how to walk among them without their bothering him. Had always said that you knew when you’d made a mistake when you allowed yourself to be stung.

  Maisy moved toward him, wanting to get him into the light so she could take the stinger out, then stopped. Both she and Birdie watched as he lifted the teacup and saucer James had placed on the table by the chair, holding them up at eye level, his eyes wide and blue behind the thick lenses of his glasses.

  Birdie took a step toward him, and Maisy thought Birdie was going to say something, could almost hear the air move in anticipation. Her grandfather’s eyes flickered up for a moment, meeting Birdie’s, and then, as if in slow motion, the saucer dipped and the teacup slid in an avalanche of china. Everything seemed suspended for a moment, every breath, every heartbeat, even the ticking of the anniversary clock on the hall table where the cup and saucer had just been stopped as if the Earth had suddenly decided to rotate in the opposite direction.

  Then everything was sound and spraying china and shouts. And then their grandfather slid out of the chair like a vanishing man in a magic show, collapsing in a pile of loose clothing. He landed on the bright white shards of broken china, clutching at his chest while Birdie screamed and Georgia knelt on the crushed china, trying to place his head in her lap. Maisy grabbed her phone, misdialing 911 twice until James calmly took it from her and dialed correctly, speaking with authority.

  Birdie knelt next to Georgia and slid a large piece of the saucer from under her father’s elbow, staring at the flying bees, whose flight pattern appeared interrupted by the jagged break. She began rocking back and forth, keening softly and seeming unaware of the deep cut on her thumb that dripped bright red drops of blood onto the pink silk of her skirt.

  chapter 8

  In cooler climates during the winter, the male drones die while the sister bees cluster around their queen, fluttering their wings to keep her warm until spring.

  —NED BLOODWORTH’S BEEKEEPER’S JOURNAL

  Birdie

  There is a curtain inside my head like one would see on a stage, dividing what is allowed to be seen, and hiding what is not. I know it’s there because I hung it in place ten years ago, when I chose to live on the performing side of that curtain, to smile and pretend and to act. To keep that curtain down so I would not see what lay behind it. Some people would call it cowardice, but it’s how I’ve survived all these years. My mother made sure I knew how to act and how to sing and be pretty, but not to face my fears or be strong. Part of me wants to lift that curtain, to peer behind it, to face what’s lurking in the darkness. But I’m not strong enough yet. So I watch, and learn, and wait for that thread of light to appear between the closed curtains, images flickering like a movie projector.

  I think I saw a glimmer of the light today. It started with the vividly colored bees, and then the delicate china they were painted on. I knew them, somehow. Knew what it felt like to hold that delicate cup between my fingers. A flash of memory filled me for a moment, and I held my breath as I stood on the stairway in front of Georgia and Maisy and my daddy, remembering, seeing the images of memory flash behind the drawn curtain of my mind.

  I am very small. I know this because I am swinging my legs from a chair and they are far from the floor. It’s a kitchen, with large black and white square floor tiles and the delicious scent of bread baking in the oven that makes my mouth water. I know I will get a thick slab soon, with cool, melting butter slathered on top, and although I’m not hungry, my stomach rumbles.

  The kitchen door opens and my father steps in, smelling of the sun and warm air and honey. He reaches for my hand, and leads me outside to show me something in the hives and I go with him eagerly, the bread and butter forgotten.

  My hand is small inside his large one, and I feel the familiar calluses. I tell him that if we are ever running somewhere in the dark, I’ll still be able to find him by touching his hand. I know I’ve said something funny because he laughs.

  It is nearly nightfall as we approach the hives, and I imagine all the worker bees inside, their long day’s journey over. A few still linger in the sticky evening air, little guards hovering, buzzing around our heads in warning. But we don’t get stung. It’s as if they know us, recognize us as part of their world. And I love this world. This house and my father and the hives are all I know, and it is all I want to know. I feel the sun on my face and my bare legs and I am happy.

  I want to hold on to this memory, the way summer clings to warm days while autumn tugs at her sleeves. It’s a little slice of sanity I’ve been denied all these years. Doctors have tried to label my condition, classify it to make it worth the money they are paid to diagnose me. But they can’t fix me. Only I can. I’m like a china plate that’s been fractured into too many pieces, and I think I’m getting too old to care enough to glue them all together.

  When I met George I thought I’d found the one thing that could make me whole again, would take me back to that place where I’d felt so happy. But for all things irreparable, fixes are temporary.

  Like most of the boys in Apalach, George grew up along the water of the bay, the son and grandson of oystermen. They called their skiff the Lady Marie, after George’s grandmother. When it became his, he called her Birdie.

  I loved George, loved how he could make me forget things. How we shared a secret, just the two of us. I loved him as much as I hated him, but our love was the brick wall we broke ourselves against. It was like I had to keep hurting myself just to know that I could still feel, hoping that it would wake me from my nightmares. To keep me from the dark places that clouded my memories. Even back then I sensed the dark curtain behind me, pregnant with all the untold secrets I didn’t want to know.

  I thought having children would chase away the darkness. And it did, for a while. When I held both my daughters in my arms I was back in that farmhouse, my hand in my father’s, and I was happy again. But only for a little bit. Until the dark places came back and took over.

  I wish I could tell Georgia and Maisy that I love them. That none of this is their fault. But I kept thinking about my father and the warm summer night and my hand in his, and I couldn’t stop trying to remember what happened next all those years ago when I was so small.

  That’s why I threw the lipsticks on the floor this morning, trying to make my mind go back to the happy part, trying to focus on the colored tubes rolling on the rug and onto the wood floor.

  Maisy practically hummed with anger, but I welcomed it, wanted it, because that’s what I need to crawl back into that person I became whom I don’t really recognize. She’s not me. She’s the person I play so no one looks too closely. Somebody once said that life is a stage. And it’s true. We all have our parts to play. Mine is the crazy woman who thinks she’s always on a stage. The truth would be so much harder to know.

  I want to tell this to my daughters, to make them understand. It would be easier for them if they understood it’s all my fault. That I need to hide from my memories to protect myself. Like now. I’m remembering the bees and the hives and the house, but then he holds up the teacup and saucer and all of a sudden the curtain lifts a little and light floods inside my head, and I can’t make it stop, because of the noise of the breaki
ng china and Maisy shouting and Georgia’s look of sorrow. And suddenly a part of a memory comes back to me and I’m sliding like that teacup from the saucer, except I can’t break because I’m already broken.

  chapter 9

  A bee flies to thousands of flowers to make only a spoonful of honey.

  —NED BLOODWORTH’S BEEKEEPER’S JOURNAL

  Georgia

  Someone tugging on my empty coffee cup brought me abruptly awake. It took me a moment to remember I was in a waiting room at Weems Memorial Hospital and that my grandfather had suffered a stroke. I looked up into James’s blue eyes and relinquished my cup, remembering him bringing it to me hours before.

  It had been James who’d thought to run out the door after handing the cell phone to Maisy to speak with 911, thinking Lyle wouldn’t have gone far and could probably transport Grandpa to the hospital faster than waiting for an ambulance.

  I smiled ruefully up at him. “Thank you. For everything. I guess it’s too late for you to change your mind about coming with me.”

  He placed the empty cup on a table, then lowered himself into the chair next to mine, stretching his long legs in front of him. “It’s certainly been a lot more exciting than I imagined it would be.”

  I glanced across the room, where Maisy sat next to my mother. Birdie had her eyes closed, her head resting on my sister’s shoulder, the bloodstain on her skirt turned the color of rust. I remembered Maisy bandaging our mother’s hand as Lyle left the house with our grandfather, Birdie letting go of the broken saucer only after Maisy promised that she’d leave it on the table and not touch it.