“Need help with dinner?” he asked.
“Thanks, but all that’s left is grilling the burgers,” Jo said. “Stay in the air-conditioning—if you can call it that.” When Ursa insisted on eating inside, Jo turned the living room window unit to its highest setting, but it was old and hadn’t done much to lower the temperature yet.
Jo stayed outside while she cooked four turkey burgers and grilled the buns. When she brought the food inside, the living room light was on. Gabe and Ursa were seated on the couch looking at Ursa’s crayon drawings of him, Tabby, and Frances Ivey’s house.
“Ursa says you drove up to Urbana to rent a house the day before yesterday,” Gabe said.
“We did. I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to let you know before we left. But if Tabby and I didn’t move fast, the house would’ve been gone.”
“That’s okay.” He returned her pointed gaze. He knew her apology was meant to cover more. “Tabby must be quite a person if she was Ursa’s third miracle.”
“Tabby is miraculous in more ways than I can explain,” Jo said. “I’ve known her since our sophomore year in college, and we’ve roomed together since junior year.”
“Ursa said she’s going to be a vet.”
“And her name is a cat!” Ursa said. “Isn’t that funny?”
“It is,” he said.
Jo set the bowl of sweet potato fries on the table next to the burgers. “Dinner is served.”
Ursa turned off all lights in the living room and kitchen. “Yikes, spooky,” Gabe said to discharge some of the tension. Ursa took the seat next to Gabe at the candlelit table, and Jo sat across from him.
“I made the salad,” Ursa said.
“Good job,” he said.
“The extra burger without cheese is for you,” Jo said.
“Not sure if I’ll be able to handle it,” he said. “I haven’t eaten much the last few days.”
“Because you were throwing up?” Ursa asked.
“No, I just wasn’t hungry.”
Jo had expected as much, but she’d put a fourth burger on the grill anyway. Just like the meals she’d brought her dying mother—always too big—as if she could feed her back to wellness. Sometimes she thought about herself in the same way, afraid the cancer had come back if she didn’t have an appetite.
Good thing she never had those worries about Ursa. She was famished, her usual chatter silenced by a mouthful of burger.
“I hear Ursa has become quite the ornithologist,” Gabe said.
“She has,” Jo said. “She’s found two nests.”
He held up his hand and let Ursa high-five him. He was pretending he felt better than he did. He’d put down his burger before he’d eaten half of it, and while Jo and Ursa finished eating, he picked at his salad to have something to do. “How’s the research going?” he asked.
“Better than expected for my first field season.”
“How many more will you have?”
“At least one more.”
“You’ll be living here next summer?”
“That’s the plan.”
He looked down at the fork he was poking in his salad before he returned his gaze to hers. “Why are you studying buntings?”
“I’m doing a nesting study, and bunting nests are plentiful and easy to find. Historically, they nested in forests that were disturbed by fire and floods. These days, they’re attracted to the edges of our roads and crop fields, and those habitats aren’t so good for them. Lots of birds that nest in those shrubby kinds of landscapes are declining.”
“Interesting,” he said.
“So I’m comparing nesting success between habitats created by natural and human disturbances.”
He nodded. “What brought you into the world of birds in the first place?”
“I’d have to say my parents,” she said. “My dad was a geologist, and my mother was a botanist. When I was a kid, my family camped and hiked all over the United States. That was when I learned my first birds, mostly with my mom.”
“Jo’s mom and dad are dead,” Ursa announced.
Gabe didn’t look especially surprised when Jo had used past tense to describe her parents. But unlike most people, he didn’t ask what had happened to them.
“My dad did research in the Andes,” Jo said. “He was in an airplane that crashed into a mountain when I was fifteen. Two other geologists and the Peruvian pilot died with him.”
“Jesus. How old was he?”
“Forty-one.”
“Was your mom there, doing research with him?”
“No, she was home with my brother and me. She never finished her botany PhD after my brother was born. My dad went on long research trips, and she didn’t want to put my brother in day care while she finished her degree.”
“Jo’s mom died from breast cancer,” Ursa said. “She saved Jo’s life.”
“As you can see,” Jo said, “Ursa has been very curious about my family.” Looking at Ursa, she added, “I wish she’d tell me as much as I’ve told her.”
“You wouldn’t understand if I told you about my Hetrayeh family,” Ursa said.
“I would. You know I would.”
“Tell Gabe about how your mom saved your life.”
“Changing the subject won’t help anything,” Jo said.
“You changed it,” Ursa said, “because you didn’t want to talk about your mom.” She pushed out her chair and left the table to go to the bathroom.
“Outsmarted again,” Jo said.
He smiled.
She slid away her empty plate. “You’re probably wondering what Ursa meant about my mother saving my life.”
“I’m guessing her cancer led to the discovery of yours.”
Jo nodded.
“How long ago did that happen?”
“About two years ago. She died this past winter.”
“And all the while you were dealing with your own cancer. Were you a graduate student yet when you were diagnosed?”
“I was, but I lost two years—between helping my mom and my treatments and surgeries.”
“More than one surgery?”
Her lack of breasts was obvious, but she hadn’t intended to mention the oophorectomy. Especially to a man her age. But she had to get over all of that.
“They found my cancer at an early stage,” she said, “but I still had a full mastectomy and my ovaries removed—because I was at high risk for recurring breast cancer and ovarian cancer.”
He leaned toward her, his face washed in candlelight.
“You don’t have to say anything.”
He sat back in his chair. “I won’t. As always, words fail when you most want to say the right thing.”
“People think they have to say something, and it never makes me feel better.”
“I know. I’ve decided language isn’t as advanced as we think it is. We’re still apes trying to express our thoughts with grunts while most of what we want to communicate stays locked in our brains.”
“This from the son of a literature professor?”
“Maybe I didn’t get the literary gene from him.”
Jo rose to collect plates so he wouldn’t feel obligated to eat what he couldn’t finish. He helped, stacking his dish on top of Ursa’s.
“What is your mother’s field of work?” she asked.
“She was an elementary school teacher for a while, but she did what your mom did: she quit when Lacey was born. She’s also a poet,” he said, following Jo into the kitchen. “She has two books of poetry published.”
“Really? Does she still write?”
“She can’t. The Parkinson’s makes her hands shake too much to write or type.”
“She could recite it while you write it down for her.”
“I suggested that, but she says that would ruin the creative process.”
“I guess I can see that.”
“The Parkinson’s is probably wiping out the poetry anyway.”
“That’s sad.”
Ursa already had the marshmallow bag in her hand.
“Don’t you ever get tired of marshmallows?” Jo said.
“We don’t have anything else for dessert, and the fire is going. Please?”
“Go ahead.”
“Do you want some?” Ursa asked Gabe.
He looked at Jo. “Maybe I should get going.”
“Stay for a while,” Jo said.
“Are you sure?”
“The longer you can avoid the chains, the better, right?”
14
They settled into lawn chairs while Ursa cooked marshmallows. Gabe was quiet, staring moodily into the fire. Ursa didn’t say much either, her usual exuberance diminished by his silence.
“Is Lacey leaving tomorrow?” Jo asked.
“Now that I’m up, she probably will,” he said, still gazing into the fire.
“Where does she live?”
“Saint Louis.”
“That’s good.”
He looked at her. “Why?”
“Because it’s a short drive.”
“It would be better if it were longer.”
“She visits too much?”
“Not because she wants to. She comes when my mother calls her and tells her to come.”
“Does your mother do that often?”
“If I lie down for a long nap, my mother calls Lacey. If I’m in a quiet mood, she calls Lacey. If I skip the morning chores, she calls Lacey.”
“Why?”
“Because she thinks I’m going down again.” He glanced at Ursa to see if she understood his meaning. “She’s terrified I’ll stop taking care of her and the animals.”
“Has that ever happened?”
He made a wry sound. “I wouldn’t know.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve never had a chance to see if I would let it get that bad. Lacey always shows up before it does.”
“And then you shut down because you can and they expect you to.”
His eyes lit up with more than reflected fire. “Exactly!”
“That’s messed up. And having Lacey around would make anyone shut down. She almost seemed pissed that you were able to get up.”
“She was. She complains about coming here when I get depressed, but in reality I think she enjoys it. It’s some power thing with her.”
“That’s why she wouldn’t let us see you. She was threatened by the possibility that you have friends.”
“Who might give me a reason to get out of bed . . . which you did, by the way, and thank you for that.”
“Thank Ursa. I was too chicken to do it.”
“Thanks for sticking to your guns, Ursa. I mean . . . not guns . . .”
Jo and Ursa laughed.
He looked better and maybe felt better, because he toasted two marshmallows and ate them both. But anything he gained would be lost when he returned to the poisonous atmosphere of his home. “What did your sister say when you left to come here?” Jo asked while Ursa ran after a firefly.
“You can imagine.” He tossed his marshmallow stick into the fire. “No, you probably can’t, because you’re a normal person.”
“What did she say?”
He glanced at Ursa to make sure she couldn’t hear. “First, she ripped into me for buying clothes for Ursa. My mother told her about that while we were in the barn. When I ignored her, she got nastier until I got angry, like she always does. She said I might be accused of being a pedophile if I kept letting Ursa come to the farm. I asked her if that was a threat, and she said maybe. She said it was weird that I was picking her up in my arms.”
“That’s terrible!”
“Yeah, it was bad. And she mocked me about you—like she thought we were involved or something.”
So Jo had guessed right about that. “What a bitch! If she thought you found someone, she should be happy.”
“My happiness can only make Lacey miserable and vice versa. She’s hated me since I was in the womb.”
“You know what she said to me?”
“What?” he asked with alarm. Apparently he didn’t trust anything his sister said.
“She told me I should dump you now, rather than later when my research was done.”
“God damn her!” he said, looking in the direction of his cabin.
“Don’t worry about it. I could see what was going on. But I thought you should know.”
He studied Jo’s eyes. “Did she say anything else?”
“That was the gist of it.”
He kept his eyes on hers, as if searching for the truth beyond her reply.
“What did you think she’d said?”
He looked down at his hands, rubbing his palms between his knees. “She and my mother think you’re the reason I went down—because I was last with you before it happened.”
She had surmised as much when he first disappeared, but she wouldn’t ask if it was true. That question might lead to why she had suddenly turned cold the night they looked at the galaxy. She never talked about how the surgeries had changed her view of her body. She could only visit that desolate place in private.
Gabe turned his face toward her. “She had no right to lay that on you. I’m sorry she involved you in our family bullshit.”
“It’s okay. I’m sorry I called her a bitch. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Why not?” He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “You bitch!” in the direction of his property.
“I doubt she heard.”
“You never know. You can hear loud noises between these houses. I’m sure you hear our cow.”
“I do.”
“I meant Lacey.”
“Okay, stop. We should feel sorry for her. People as bitter as her usually have a reason. Is she divorced or something like that?”
“No, but you’re right about her being bitter. She was always desperate for our father’s approval, and she hated that he bragged about how smart I was when I was little. Mostly to please him, she majored in English and tried to become a writer, but she failed. Around that time, she got really mean. She used to tease me relentlessly until my temper blew. She enjoyed trying to make me look bad in front of our parents, especially our father.”
“That’s all pretty typical sibling rivalry.”
“Is it typical for a woman in her twenties to play games with a little kid so she could crush him and tell him how dumb he was? Or to say her newborn brother looked like a toad and call him Mr. Toad into adulthood? Around her, I felt like the ugliest, stupidest thing on Earth.”
“That’s awful. I’m really sorry.”
“Don’t be. I got over it a long time ago,” he said in a hostile tone that contradicted his assertion. “I stopped hoping she would like me the day she abandoned me in the woods. I was picking flowers for my mom, and she just walked away. I still remember how terrified I was.”
“How old were you?”
“Five. It took my mother an hour to find me. She’d asked Lacey to take me for a walk while she worked on a poem. Lacey lied, said I’d wandered off. And she went on and on about how I’d have found my way home if I was smarter.”
“God, I hope she never had kids of her own.”
“She has two sons, and she spoiled them rotten. They’re both in college now.”
“Does she have a job?”
“She kept writing while she did the stay-at-home mom thing, but none of her books ever took off. She felt like she’d disappointed my dad. But she shouldn’t have chosen that field just to please him—especially once she realized writing wasn’t her talent.”
Ursa had returned during their conversation. “Are you talking about Lacey?”
“Yes,” Jo said.
“Why did you yell when I was over there?” she asked Gabe.
“I was just fooling around.”
“I thought Lacey was here and she came to make you leave.”
“She can’t make me,” he said.
“Will
you stay?”
“I’ll go soon. I’m sure you two are tired.”
“You have to stay!” Ursa said. “If you go back, they’ll keep you prisoner again. But this time, they’ll lock the door and we won’t be able to rescue you.”
“It’s not as dire as all that,” he said.
“Please? Jo wants you to stay. Jo, tell him not to go!”
“Maybe you shouldn’t go back,” Jo said. “Show your sister you have a life of your own. And your mother needs to learn that, too. Why doesn’t she ever stay with Lacey in Saint Louis so you can have a break? Or they could hire someone to help her. Who voted you the forever caregiver? You’re way too young for that burden.”
Gabe stared at her.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I tend to spew opinions when I’m pissed.”
“Don’t apologize. Everything you said is true.”
“Then teach them a lesson and sleep on the couch. Ursa can sleep with me, if that’s okay with her.”
“Yes, it’s okay!” Ursa said, thrusting her arms in the air. “And tomorrow Gabe can come with us to Summers Creek! It’s the best place, Gabe! It’s like a magic forest!”
“I’ve never seen a magic forest,” he said.
“It’s pretty damn magical,” Jo said.
15
“Hey, Jo . . .”
Gabe stood thirty yards away in chest-high vegetation. “What?” she called.
“I think there’s a nest over here that lost its tag.”
She waded through the brush toward him. “I don’t believe this—did you really find a nest your first hour out?”
“It has three white eggs in it.”
“That’s an indigo bunting nest!”
Ursa heard what was going on and ran over. She and Jo arrived next to Gabe at the same time and looked down at the nest built in cane stalks. “Congratulations on your first nest,” Jo said. “But damn it, now I have to pay you field assistant wages, too.”
“It probably beats selling eggs,” he said.
“We’re all ornithologists now!” Ursa said.
Gabe touched one finger to a tiny egg.
“It’s kind of a rush, isn’t it?” Jo said.
“I’ve seen nests before, but finding one when you’re looking for one is way better.”
“Watch out, nest searching can become addictive. There’s something about it . . . you’re uncovering these little secrets of the wild.”
Where the Forest Meets the Stars Page 11
