Flight Patterns

by Karen White

  “I don’t think that’s a bad thing. My oldest sister is like that. It took me years to realize that she sees more than most people. I just wish I’d paid attention.”

  His tone had almost sounded like a warning. Maisy turned away from the window. “Let me call Aunt Marlene’s and see if I can get hold of Georgia and tell her you’re waiting.” She patted her jeans, looking for her cell phone, realizing she must have left it upstairs.

  James was looking at her with narrowed eyes. “Why doesn’t Georgia carry a cell phone? You said that I should ask you sometime.”

  Maisy paused, debating.

  “Do you want to tell him or should I?”

  They both looked up in surprise as Georgia strode into the room, then slammed down another stack of books on the table before staring back at her sister expectantly.

  Without waiting for an answer, Georgia said, “I hate phones of any kind—because they’re intrusions into my life, annoying interruptions while I’m doing something I’d rather be doing than talking on the phone. When I lived here I wasn’t really good about phoning in to let Grandpa know where I was—mostly because it was usually where I wasn’t supposed to be or with someone I shouldn’t have been with. I guess that reluctance to pick up the phone, and probably not a little bit of guilt, has carried over into my adult life. I have to use a phone for work, but I do so only reluctantly.”

  James’s face was without expression as he regarded Georgia. “When I was a teenager I used to throw eggs out of our fourth-story window to splatter pedestrians. I got away with it for a long time, until someone called the police, and I cowered under my bed while my older sister answered the door and calmly told them that she was alone and that she’d keep an eye out. I had to make her bed and do her math homework for a month so she wouldn’t tell our father.”

  Maisy crossed her arms over her chest. “I think Georgia’s story is worse.”

  James settled himself into one of the dining room chairs. “I wasn’t telling you that story to determine who was a more horrible teenager. I was telling you so that you’d know I understand siblings. There’s nobody you can love and hate so much all at the same time.”

  Maisy met Georgia’s gaze and her cheeks warmed; she felt as if she’d just been caught bullying her sister on the playground. She busied herself by removing the candlesticks and fruit bowl from the center of the table and shoving the books toward the middle to make them reachable from all chairs. She sat down across from James and looked at her sister expectantly. “So, let’s get on with this. The sooner we start, the sooner we’ll be done.”

  Without a word, Georgia sat down at the head of the table between James and Maisy and slid a book in front of each of them. Then she placed the broken saucer in front of her. She’d used duct tape to temporarily keep the pieces together, and Maisy gave an involuntary wince, remembering when it had broken, remembering how the sound of anything breaking had upset Georgia even as a child. It had seemed, even then, that Georgia blamed herself for things beyond her control that would make a teacup slide off a saucer, or a door slam against a wall. Or a father putting a gun to his head because he couldn’t live without her mother.

  Maisy looked down at the book that had been placed in front of her, trying to push away those unwelcome thoughts or anything that would make her soften toward Georgia, would make her forget Georgia taking the blame for one final transgression. Maisy read the title of the book out loud. “Two Hundred Patterns of Haviland China, Book III, by Arlene Schleiger. Sounds fascinating.”

  “It is, actually,” Georgia said, somehow managing not to sound too pompous. “James has already heard all this, so bear with me,” she said, nodding at James. “The Havilands were Americans who built china factories in the Limoges area of France because of the fine white kaolin clay, which was used to make brilliant, durable white porcelain, and the family became hugely successful. They even designed a custom pattern for Lincoln’s White House. Haviland Limoges is still pretty popular today, and appears on lots of bridal registries.”

  She smiled with enthusiasm, and Maisy could picture her in front of a group of collectors or investors listening with rapt attention. She felt an unexpected rush of pride, almost as if she were proud of herself. Just like it had once been when every hurt, every joy, had been felt equally. Each poison-tipped arrow killing a part of each of them.

  Georgia continued. “It’s fascinating because most consumers associate Haviland Limoges with being a French thing, and it’s not. It really got interesting as the success of the company grew in the eighteen hundreds and prompted other family members to open up factories in direct competition. Gives a whole new meaning to ‘sibling rivalry,’ doesn’t it?”

  Maisy sighed. “There are a lot of books here, and I have to be back at work on Monday. Can you just tell us what we should be looking for?”

  “Yes, of course.” Georgia cleared her throat. “Yesterday I had James looking for the actual pattern in these catalogs, and I’m going to have him continue doing that. But you’re going to search in a different place. I’m pretty sure I’ve identified the blank—that’s the shape of the plates. I believe it’s blank eleven produced by Haviland and Co. in the second half of the eighteen hundreds. Once we’re one hundred percent sure that’s it, we’ll know the approximate time period, which narrows down the number of patterns we have to search through.”

  “Thank heavens for small mercies,” Maisy said under her breath. She looked up to find both Georgia and James staring at her, making her feel small and petty. Which she knew she was being at the moment. There was just something in Georgia’s competence and expertise that bothered Maisy. As if Georgia should have spent the past ten years wearing a horsehair shirt and shaving her head instead of finding herself in a career to which she was not only well suited, but in which she was also admired and respected. She heard her old teenage whine of It’s not fair! echoing in her head, and she cringed involuntarily.

  “Sorry. It’s just that I need to pick up Becky from her tennis lesson at eleven, and then we’re going to go see Grandpa.”

  “Can I pick her up?” Georgia asked, her words spoken quickly, as if her heart had told her to speak them before her mind could stop her.

  “No.” Maisy met her sister’s eyes, as if to ask, Remember? “That’s not a good idea.” She felt James glancing between her and Georgia as if he could possibly make sense of it.

  “Fine.” Georgia reached over and flipped open the cover of the book in front of Maisy. “This is volume three—I’ve already gone through the first two. You want to focus on the blanks—show me any that you think match the saucer shape—since there’s always a chance I’m wrong and we’ll have to look at patterns in another blank. We’ll be focusing on the shape first, but if you happen to see any patterns with bees at all, let me know. They’re very rare for twentieth-century Limoges porcelain, so that would be ideal if we spotted the pattern. Just know that won’t necessarily be the china we’re looking for, since the same patterns were used on different blanks. And with gold rims or without.”

  Maisy examined the black-and-white page of half-moon sketches of plates in front of her. “So I just need to go through each page and see if I recognize the shape from the saucer. Or bees. That’s easy enough. I should be able to get through all of these little books in plenty of time to get Becky.”

  “You think so?” Georgia asked in the same petulant tone of voice Maisy had used as she opened up the thick, hardbound book she’d set in front of James and opened it to a premarked page before giving him his instructions.

  Maisy caught James’s expression. He was smiling, definitely smiling. Irritated, she asked, “Do you find something funny?”

  He didn’t even bother to hide his smile. “Not funny. More reassuring, I guess.” His phone buzzed and he quieted it without even looking. “I feel like I’m at home when I listen to the two of you. Except my sisters are a little
bit louder.”

  “Stick around long enough and I bet you’d change your mind about that.”

  His expression sobered. “Good. I’ve learned that you shouldn’t hold back what you really want to say. You might not get a second chance.”

  Both she and Georgia were saved from responding by a shout from Birdie upstairs. Maisy was halfway out of her chair when Georgia touched her shoulder. “Let me go. She’s my mother, too.”

  Maisy wanted to argue, but could feel only relief. And also a sense of justice—at least while Georgia was home she could pay her dues.

  “All right. She’s probably just had a nightmare—she has one at least once a week. Just hold her hand. I think she’s replaying some theatrical production she was once a part of—never changes. It’s always some dramatic farewell scene where she’s being forced to leave against her will. She’ll eventually fall asleep, but you might convince her to come down and eat instead. She hasn’t had breakfast.”

  Georgia nodded, then headed up the stairs.

  Maisy and James studied the pages in front of them, the sound of Birdie’s shouts and moans a distracting backdrop. “She wasn’t always like this,” Maisy said, needing to offer an explanation. Something about his warm eyes and his recent loss made him an easy target for unsolicited confessions. Like the statues of saints she’d seen in Italy on her honeymoon, their stone faces eroded by centuries of weather and unanswerable prayers.

  “When did she change?” he asked.

  Maisy thought for a moment, the sketches of dishes swimming in front of her eyes. “Birdie has always been . . . different. Not like our friends’ mothers, anyway. Georgia used to say she fell into motherhood like some people slip off a curb and into a mud puddle—except she couldn’t figure out how she got there or how to get it off of her.”

  She paused, wondering if he would stop her. “Aunt Marlene said Birdie as a girl was hard to get to know because it was like she was always pretending to be somebody else. Like she was acting in a play. It was just accepted that Birdie was different, which was why Grandma sent her to a performing arts school in Jacksonville—where different was probably a good thing.”

  Maisy raised her hand to her mouth to chew on a fingernail, but withdrew it as soon as she realized what she was trying to do. “I don’t know if Georgia’s told you, but Birdie’s spent time in and out of mental institutions for brief periods of her life. I think the first time was right after she started dating Georgia’s daddy. Marlene said she wasn’t sure what instigated such a drastic measure, but said it had been a long time coming.”

  “And the last time?”

  Maisy met his eyes. “The summer Georgia left. A lot was going on then, and sometimes I wonder if, had I been paying attention, I would have known when she’d reached her breaking point. But . . .” She stopped, not wanting to share any more, but needing to say it out loud. It had been so long that she’d begun to imagine that it had never happened.

  “I’d just lost a child, you see. A little girl. And my marriage . . . well, you can imagine how that might have affected a couple. Georgia was doing absolutely nothing productive with her life, working in a bar downtown. And then Birdie decided that the house needed redecorating because some big Hollywood people were supposedly coming to film a movie here, and she thought one of the stars or director would want to stay in our house.”

  He didn’t flinch or roll his eyes or return his gaze to the catalog, and Maisy took it as a sign that she should continue. “She met with a decorator who came from Tallahassee, who told Birdie that before spending money on new furniture and accessories, she should go through all the closets and attic to see if there were any antique pieces they could feature in the redo. She only made it halfway through the attic. Grandpa found her in a catatonic state on the attic floor. Georgia and I took care of her for a few months until Grandpa decided she needed to go away again to get help. Birdie hasn’t spoken a word since—just sings.”

  “So she doesn’t speak to anybody?”

  “Becky seems to think Birdie talks to her, but that’s just wishful thinking. In the beginning it was like Birdie had forgotten how to speak English, but then she started to sing, which was a huge relief. So we know she’s in there somewhere, and can understand us. She just chooses not to communicate with us.”

  He didn’t say anything for a long moment. “That’s why you and Georgia were so close. Because of Birdie. Nobody else could understand what it was like being her daughter.”

  “Why would you think we were close? We’re certainly not now.”

  “Because no one can hurt us as much as those we love the most.”

  Maisy opened her mouth to tell him that she hated her sister, but her lips were unable to form the words.

  “Maisy? Can you come up here, please?” Georgia’s voice came from upstairs, seemingly calm, but Maisy recognized a note of panic.

  Maisy stood, holding her palm out to James to discourage him from coming with her. “I’m sure it’s fine. Just stay here and we’ll be back soon.” She ran up the rest of the stairs and straight into Birdie’s bedroom. She almost had to double-check that she’d entered the right room. Instead of the usually neat and orderly space, clothes, shoes, and accessories were strewn haphazardly all over the floor and unmade bed, as if someone had left a window open in a strong wind.

  “Georgia?”

  “We’re in the closet.”

  Maisy followed her sister’s voice toward the open closet doors, where more clothing items were stacked in uneven piles. It almost seemed that whoever had made the mess had started off with a plan, and had begun emptying the closet item by item until rationality had disappeared and a frantic search had taken over.

  Birdie, still in her nightgown, knelt by the corner of the closet swaying back and forth, her mouth open in silent agony. Georgia knelt next to her, her hand on Birdie’s arm. She didn’t seem panicked or confused about her role, and Maisy felt an odd jab of anger mixed with admiration.

  “She was here when I found her,” Georgia said. “I think this is what’s got her upset.”

  She reached behind her and pulled out an old leather suitcase, something a person would expect to see in a vintage shop. “It was open, but empty. It’s pretty dusty, so I think it’s been here for a while. I think I even remember seeing it in here before, tucked in the corner. And the soup cup isn’t here anymore, either. I looked.”

  “I know,” Maisy said, irritated. “I told you we already looked in here. We even opened the suitcase. Although we definitely closed it and put it back in the corner when we were done.” Maisy sat back on her heels and looked closely at their mother, wishing that Becky really could communicate with her grandmother. A light, almost airless sound came from Birdie’s lips as a vaguely familiar tune filled the air.

  “What is that?” Georgia asked.

  Maisy closed her eyes and listened. “It’s a children’s song—the alphabet song. But it’s a little different, like she’s thinking of different words and changing the tune to make them fit.”

  “Should we call her doctor?”

  Maisy shook her head. “She’s been like this before. Usually she goes to sleep, and when she wakes up she’s forgotten all about it. I’ll call her doctor if she doesn’t.” She stood. “Come on; help me get her back into bed.”

  They took her gently by her elbows, the strange, familiar-yet-not song teasing her ears. Like a docile child, Birdie allowed them to tuck her under the covers.

  “Do you have something to give her? Something to calm her?”

  “Of course,” Maisy said, her irritation returning. “We have a drawer full of prescription meds, but she refuses to take them.”

  Birdie curled up on her side, her eyes finally closing as the last notes of the melody faded.

  They watched her for a moment and then Georgia spoke. “Have you ever heard the name Adeline before?”
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  “No, why?”

  “I think she said it. When we were in the closet.”

  “She spoke to you?”

  “Not exactly,” Georgia said, her eyebrows knitted. “It was more like a moan, but the name seemed so clear.” She looked Maisy in the eye. “What are we going to do, Maisy?”

  Maisy met her sister’s gaze and raised her chin. “What we’ve been doing. We’ll continue as we have been, and you’ll go back to New Orleans and your work. There’s no reason things have to change.”

  “There’s something we’re missing, something important. I think it’s something about that suitcase.”

  Maisy shook her head. “It’s all about something in the past that we can’t change. All we can do is move forward. She’s made her choices.”

  Birdie’s breathing held the smooth rhythm of sleep. Georgia stepped closer and hissed in Maisy’s ear, “But what if whatever it was that made her this way wasn’t her choice? She’s our mother, Maisy. For better or worse. If there’s some key to unlocking what’s wrong with her, shouldn’t we do our best to find it? We used to be a team, remember?”

  Maisy turned and headed out of the room, shaking her head. She heard Georgia following her and then the soft snap as she closed Birdie’s bedroom door. “I already agreed to help you with finding James’s china and searching for any matching pieces we might have here. But never make the mistake of thinking of us as a team. You gave up that right a long time ago.” She took a step, then paused. “And don’t ever ask me if you can pick up Becky or spend time alone with her. The answer will always be no, and you know why.”

  She headed down the stairs and back to the dining room, still hearing in her head the tune her mother had been humming. It wasn’t the alphabet song, not exactly. But she knew she’d heard the version her mother had hummed somewhere before, a long time ago. The answer would come to her eventually. It always did.

  She smiled at James as she resumed her seat and bent over the book in front of her, even more determined than before to identify the pattern so everything could return to normal. But as she stared at the pages she kept hearing Birdie’s tune playing over and over in her head, except now she imagined it was accompanied by the droning of bees.