The Feathered Bone

by Julie Cantrell

  She gives me a pensive look, as if she’s truly processing what I’m saying to her.

  “But that’s his problem. Not yours.” I continue. “Think of it this way. Let’s say you have a terrible pain in your ear. So you go to the doctor, and he runs every test available. They all show up negative. He scratches his head. He’s got no idea what is causing your pain. So he decides there’s nothing wrong with you. He can’t understand it, so you must be crazy.”

  “It happens.”

  “It does.” I sit back. Let it simmer. “It happens every day.” Then I make sure it sticks. “You aren’t crazy, Mrs. Evans. And what your husband does to you is considered abuse. You are in an abusive relationship. So let’s talk about what you want to do about that.”

  By noon I’m waiting in line to pick up Ellie from her last day of sixth grade. As she comes to the front of the school, a few kids come running, chanting, “We survived! We survived!” They say this with smiles, eager for summer break, but the cheer brings tears from my Ellie.

  Grabbing her backpack, I wrap my arm around her, trying to shield her from any more pain. We hurry to the car, where she collapses in grief. I drive away from the crowded campus as quickly as possible and pull into an empty lot where a concrete slab and driveway have been poured for a new home. At the moment no construction workers are on-site, and we find the privacy we need.

  “Ellie?” I keep the car running, trying to combat the day’s heat with air-conditioning. “Honey?” I reach for her hand, and she lets me hold it. “I’m listening. Please talk to me.”

  “She’s not coming back, is she? That’s what people say. They say Sarah’s never coming back.”

  “They don’t know that, Ellie. We are still trying our best to find her. We won’t give up. I assure you.”

  “But what if we can’t find her, Mom? What if she’s dead?”

  I sit in silence and let Ellie’s sorrow find its way to the surface. She talks. I listen. And for the first time since The Day, we both begin to accept the truth.

  “You know what I think, Mom? I think even if she does come back, it’ll never be the same. So either way, she’s gone for good.”

  July 2005

  “We’re heading out. Come with?” I tie my tennis shoes and try to convince Ellie to join Beth and me for a walk.

  “No.” She doesn’t look up from the couch, where she’s pretty much been camped since the end of school. She’s got a pile of books to read, a glass of sweet tea, and the remote control. She changes channels faster than she can possibly tell what’s showing.

  “Come on, Ellie. You’ll feel so much better if you get some fresh air with us.”

  “No.” She says it louder, in a low monotone. Her message is clear. She won’t join us.

  “All right then. See you in a bit.” I give her a kiss. Beth follows me out the door. “I still hesitate to leave her alone. I know I have to stop thinking that way.”

  “Is it better now? Since you cleared your summer clients to stay home with her?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, I feel better being here, but now she says I’m smothering her.”

  “Carl still won’t let her get a dog? It might be just what she needs. Maybe a Lab, like Boudreaux.”

  “He won’t budge. We’re lucky he tolerates Beanie.”

  Beth says nothing, and I let it go. We walk in silence for a while, down our rural lane that runs long and flat like a landing strip between the open ditches. On each side, crawfish chimneys dot the yards, puffy white towers of mud where they’ve burrowed into the wet soil. As we pass the last of the small brick houses on my street, we turn onto a wooded trail. We’re barely ten yards from the road when a large doe snorts loudly, a guttural warning to other white-tailed deer in the area. In response, Beth breathes deeply, as if she’s glad to have something to distract her from grief. We continue walking, despite the mosquitoes, each of us working up a sweat. Last autumn’s pinecones and sweetgum balls crunch beneath our feet as the bright summer leaves shine green. We weave our way through the sturdy, thick trunks of hickories and honey locusts, cedars and sycamores, until we come into a towering pine grove with a few thick-leaved magnolias tucked around the edge. The evening sun streams through the tops of the pines, turning the needled carpet a burnt orange beneath our feet. The air smells of barbecue, and I’m guessing one of my neighbors has lit their backyard grill for supper. To everyone but us, it’s just a normal day.

  “People like to say this is God’s plan. That he doesn’t give us anything we can’t handle,” Beth says as pine needles wave in the wind, the air whistling crisp notes between their wire-thin tips.

  “I never like it when people say those things. Do you?”

  “Truthfully?” The act of speaking seems to be taking all she has to give. “It’s hard to hear. I’m still angry, Amanda. And the longer this goes on, the madder I get. Why would God let this happen? Not just to Sarah, but to anyone? To any child. I don’t understand.”

  I can’t give Beth the answers, so I stay quiet.

  “Preacher and I always thought we could handle anything that happened to us. Our faith was unshakable. But now . . .”

  I wait in silence, grateful Beth still allows me to be a part of her life.

  “Back when we were in the early years of ministry, we met a young mother who had just lost all three of her children. It was a house fire,” Beth says. “Remember?”

  I nod. The family had not lived in Walker long before the tragedy, but it made the front page of the Livingston Parish News. “How could I forget?”

  “And to make matters worse, it was her husband who had set the fire. He burned down the house with his own children locked inside. Didn’t want her to have custody, so he killed them all. It was one of the worst things I’ve ever seen. Preacher and I were so young. We had no idea how to help her.”

  I shake my head. I can’t imagine.

  “We sat up with her all night in our living room. She cried out again and again, ‘Why would God do this to us?’ Preacher said, ‘It’s okay to be angry at God. He can take it. And it’s okay to blame God. He can take that too.’ The woman said, ‘I do blame him. I do.’ And what could I say to her? I wasn’t even a mother yet. I couldn’t possibly begin to fathom her loss. Everything I thought to tell her sounded so trite. I was afraid she was going to take her own life, right there in front of us. I’ve never seen anyone so broken, not before or since.” She releases a gentle sigh and then adds, “Not even you and me.”

  I pull a palm-sized piece of bark from one of the pines. “What happened to her? The mother?”

  “She moved back down to Grand Isle where her parents lived. But when Sarah disappeared she saw it on the news, and she reached out to us. She said there wasn’t much she remembered about that night when her kids were killed, but one thing Preacher said had always stuck with her. Had seen her through the worst of it all.”

  I wait for Beth to explain.

  “He told her, ‘If you want to ask God, “Why me? Why my children?” that’s okay. Ask him. Because his son was killed too. That’s what the crucifixion is really about. God stands with us through our suffering. The loss. The pain. He understands.’ ”

  “I guess I never thought of it that way,” I admit.

  “The woman said, ‘Every time I start to feel hopeless, as if there is no longer a reason to live, as if God is against me and I’ll never be okay again, I remind myself that life is not all we think it to be, that there is more to the journey. Much more than we can understand.’ ”

  I look up into the straight, thin pine needles striped against the sky, their lines like ribs inhaling and exhaling with each pulse of wind. “Is that still what you believe? Since Sarah?”

  Beth follows my stare to the heavens and exhales loudly. “I don’t know.”

  Hello Sparrow,

  I asked The Man if I could see Ellie. He hit me. He said I wasn’t being good enough, and that Ellie was going to be put in the box because of me. I didn’t cry
, even though blood was all around my eye. He said The Boss is mad at me. I have to do everything they tell me, even when the other men come to visit. I have to stop fighting. I will try.

  Hello Sparrow,

  The day I was taken, we met a lady by the big church in New Orleans. She gave me a feather—the one I think might be yours—and she told me to guard it.

  When we walked away, she shouted, “God’s eye is on the sparrow.” Mom and Pop taught me that in Bible times sparrows were sold for cheap. The verse means that even when other people don’t care about us, God does.

  I think the lady in New Orleans was saying God’s eye is on me. That I’m worth caring about, even here, where nobody thinks I matter at all.

  So I was thinking about God and the palm reader and the feather, and then I figured something out. Now when the men come, and when they make me do all those things I don’t want to do, I leave the shed. I fly away. Just like the lady said. I fly right out of my body, and no one even knows I’m gone.

  Hello Sparrow,

  I learned a new trick today. If I fly all the way across the yard, past the willow tree, past The Man’s house, past the other shed where he says he keeps Ellie, past the muddy palmettos, then I can see the water. I call it the ocean, but it’s really just a swamp.

  If I make it all the way to my ocean, I can let the men do whatever they want to me in here and I don’t even have to know it. I don’t come back until I hear them leave.

  Can you see me flying out there by my ocean? There’s a pretty blue crane and a bunch of doves. Turtles and snakes too. But the snakes aren’t scary from way up high. I bet you know that.

  The men come a lot now. More and more of them. Some come on their way to work at the plants. Sometimes they talk about their wives or kids. I don’t know why they come here. Some of them use drugs or drink beer. Some don’t. Some are mean. Some are not. One man cries when he leaves. I heard The Man call one of them a senator. He wore a suit, and when The Man left us all alone, the senator just sat in the broken chair and looked at me. Then he left.

  Chapter 11

  Friday, August 26, 2005

  “ELLIE, PLEASE DON’T FIGHT ME ON THIS. VIVIENNE’S BEEN VERY helpful so far, and I think if we just stick with it—”

  My daughter turns up her stereo, blasting Green Day over my voice. I stand at her bedroom door, waiting for her to turn my way. She doesn’t. So I move closer, and she spins sharply toward me. “I’m not going!”

  When I turn down the volume, she yells again. “Why can’t you leave me alone?”

  “Ellie, I’m just trying to help.”

  “Don’t you see? That’s your problem! You try to fix everybody. You want to save us all. You really want to help me? Then stay out of my life!”

  Don’t react, Amanda. These are Carl’s words, not Ellie’s. She’s just repeating what she hears.

  When she settles on her bed with Beanie, I leave her room. Then, while folding a basket of laundry, I make the call. “Viv? She won’t come.” I apologize for the last-minute notice. “Maybe she needs some breathing room. I don’t know what more we can do.”

  “Of course,” Vivienne says. “Just let me know when she’s ready. Seventh grade is a hard year. Even in the best of circumstances.”

  “I’m at a loss, Viv. I feel like I can help everyone else I meet, but I can’t seem to reach my own daughter. She won’t take calls from her friends. She won’t go anywhere. All she wants to do is sleep. Theater’s the only reason I could even get her back in school this year. She’s really struggling.”

  “Do you think she might need an antidepressant? Just for a little while? Get her over the slump?”

  “I don’t know. Carl says no way. He thinks it’s ridiculous. Meds. Therapy. All of it.”

  “With the right prescription, I’ve seen it make a big difference,” Vivienne says. “Haven’t you?”

  “For some, yes. For others, it seems worse. Scares me a little, to be honest. She’s just twelve.”

  “I understand.” Vivienne waits through my silence and then says, “Amanda? How are you holding up?”

  “I’m good, I guess. Just trying to keep the ship from sinking.”

  “Be sure you’re giving yourself the care you need too. You know how important that is. In fact, why not use Ellie’s time today? Come in for coffee? Even if we just go for a walk. I need it as much as you do.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” I look down the hall toward Ellie’s door. The music still blares from her room. “I’m hesitant to leave her alone like this. As much as I’d love to see you. Rain check?”

  “Sure,” Vivienne says. “I’ll hold you to that, though. I’m ready for you to come back to work. I worry.”

  “Thanks, Viv. No worries allowed.”

  I hang up the phone and call Carl. He answers on the second ring, surprising me. “Hey. I figured I’d have to leave a message.”

  “Yeah, I was just about to call you. Got a hurricane near Florida. They’ve been shorthanded, so I’m flying out to the rig. Helping with the shutdown.”

  “Think it’ll turn our way?”

  “Probably not. You know how it goes. We’ll stop production. Ship everyone back home. And then it’ll slow to a tropical depression. End up being nothing more than a thunderstorm.”

  “Well, be careful.” After a pause I say, “Ellie’s not doing well, Carl. She’s refusing to go to school today. She won’t see Vivienne, and she’s really lashing out at me.”

  As soon as I try to talk to him about Ellie, his mood shifts. His tone becomes darker, angrier, and his words leave bite marks. “I can’t do this right now, Amanda. I’m busy.”

  “I understand. I’m sorry.” After another awkward pause I add, “It’s okay. I know you’re busy. I love you. Be safe.”

  He says, “Bye.” And he is gone.

  Hello Sparrow,

  You are tapping fast and loud, trying to warn me about something. I think I know why.

  I heard The Man say we’re supposed to get out of town before the hurricane hits. But he thinks we should stay here in Chalmette.

  The Lady says it’s supposed to get bad. She knows where an empty house is. In Hammond. She says it never floods there.

  Fly with me, Sparrow. Don’t stay here in the storm.

  “Knock, knock!” Raelynn walks into my house singing the words. She enters from the back carport, as any good friend would do, and finds me in the kitchen washing blueberries.

  “You’re off today?”

  “Dentist. Figured I’d take a sick day. Brought y’all some étouffée. Hungry?”

  I greet her with a hug and take the two warm Tupperware dishes, setting them on the kitchen counter. “Starving,” I say, pulling out enough bowls and spoons to serve the three of us. “Would you mind asking Ellie to come to the table? She’s not speaking to me. Maybe she’ll be nicer to you.”

  “She’s not at school?”

  I shake my head, too sad to admit I can’t get my daughter to leave her room. Raelynn accepts the challenge, making her way toward the back while I fill our bowls with scoops of rice and then smother them with her rich, roux-based crawfish sauce. The smells of sautéed bell peppers, onions, and celery fill my home. It’s a combination folks here call the Holy Trinity. When mixed with just the right pop of seasonings, it really can bring a soul straight to heaven.

  I’ve set the table and poured three drinks by the time Raelynn returns. “She won’t come.”

  I sigh. Grabbing a TV tray, I carry Ellie’s food to her room.

  “Ellie?” I call through her closed door. The music is lower now, but still playing. She’s moved from Green Day to the Donnie Darko soundtrack, playing “Mad World” on repeat. I’ve told my clients so many times, If you want to understand what a teenager is feeling, pay attention to their music. Now here I stand, with my daughter closed off from me, listening to the saddest lyrics I have ever heard.

  I set the tray down and open her door. “Ellie? Honey, Raelynn brought crawfish ét
ouffée.”

  She is lying facedown across her bed. Doesn’t even acknowledge I’m in the room.

  “Okay, well. I’ll leave it here for you. Try to eat while it’s warm.”

  I stand for a few seconds, wishing I knew how to reach her. “I love you. I’m here when you’re ready to talk.”

  Back at the table, Raelynn has waited for me to join her. “You hear about that hurricane?”

  “Yeah. Carl’s on his way out to the rig. They needed extra help shutting down. Says it’s just a Cat 1 though. Probably won’t do much damage. He should be home tonight.”

  “I don’t know. The news says it’s gaining strength. Heading our way now. We could get a direct hit.” She fills her spoon. “Might want to keep an eye on the weather.”

  I turn on the TV. Carl has set it up so that we can watch it from the dining room table, something I would normally discourage. But not today.

  We watch the noon broadcast. The station’s chief meteorologist tells us the hurricane is “rapidly strengthening” as it crosses the warm Gulf of Mexico. The storm has intensified to a Category 2. Named Katrina. Our governor, Kathleen Blanco, is already taking proactive measures by declaring a state of emergency for Louisiana.

  “Hope Carl doesn’t have any trouble getting home.” I stir my étouffée and take a bite. “Delicious. Thank you. Just what I needed.”

  Raelynn smiles, enjoying hers as well. “The boys are going to be upset. My brother got alligator tags. Planned to leave after school for a weekend hunt.”

  I’m talking hurricane stories with Raelynn when my crisis phone rings. Recognizing the name as one of my most at-risk clients, I excuse myself. “I need to take this.”

  “Mrs. Amanda?”

  I step outside. “Yes, it’s me. How are you, Brooke?” When she doesn’t answer, I ask, “Are you crying?” I take a seat in one of our back porch rocking chairs, giving her my full attention.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know who else to call.” She’s definitely crying.