The Feathered Bone

by Julie Cantrell

  “You can always call me, Brooke. What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t do this anymore. It’s too hard. One year today. And I just can’t handle it. I’m scared.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Home.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, is there anyone who can be with you? What about your sister?”

  “She’s supposed to come over later. I don’t want to bother her. She’s got two kids. She’s busy,” Brooke sniffles.

  “She’s not too busy, Brooke. She loves you.”

  “I know, I know. But she’s tired of seeing me like this. Everybody is. I should be able to get over it. It’s too hard.”

  “Brooke, this is a very hard day. But you’ll get through it. Just like you made it through the other hard days. And think about all the good days you’ve had in between.”

  “I can’t see the good anymore, Mrs. Amanda. That’s the problem. You understand? Even the good isn’t good.”

  “You’re depressed, Brooke. You’re having a difficult day. But it’ll get better. I promise. It always does.”

  “Not this time. I keep staring at the medicine cabinet. Trying to find a reason not to swallow all those pills.”

  “Brooke, listen to me. That’s not an option. You have too many people who love you and who need you here in this life. You’re looking for a permanent fix, but this is not a permanent problem. It’s temporary. You will get through this. And you’ll feel so much better. You’ll be glad you didn’t swallow those pills.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  “I may not understand how you’re feeling, you’re right. But I’ve heard too many people tell me how happy they are they made it through the hard part. And some of them barely made it, Brooke. They saw no reason to live. They felt just like you’re feeling right this minute. But they hung in there, and now they’re glad. Able to play with their kids, their grandkids. Go to the beach. Sometimes it’s the littlest things they notice.”

  Brooke is crying louder now as a television blares from her side of the phone. “Like what?”

  “Like crawfish boils. A good movie. A concert. Even a nice, quiet night at home. Alone. They don’t see that as scary anymore, Brooke.”

  “I hate being alone.”

  “That’s because you can’t see the truth right now, that’s all. Your brain is confused. It can only see the lies. But you’re going to feel better. You are here for a reason. And you owe it to yourself to stick it out and see what this journey is all about.”

  “Mrs. Amanda, I want to die.”

  “Okay, listen. We need to find a way to get you through the next few minutes. I’m going to call your sister. I want you to stay on the phone with me and listen while I call her.”

  I carry my cell phone inside the house and dial the number on my landline. “You still with me?” I gesture, and Raelynn gives us privacy.

  “I guess,” Brooke whispers. I make the call, telling her sister to go right away and be with Brooke.

  “Okay, did you hear? She’s on her way. She loves you, Brooke. She’ll be with you soon. Stay on the phone with me until she gets there.”

  “Okay.”

  “She’s going to take all the medicine out of your home. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you have any guns?”

  “No.”

  “I’m going to stay on the phone with you. We’ll get you through this. I promise. You’re not alone.”

  “Thank you. I’m sorry. Thank you.”

  She keeps repeating these phrases through her tears, again and again, until her sister arrives. “Brooke, listen to me. I’ve told your sister to call 911 if she thinks for a single second that you are in danger. I’m also going to call the sheriff and have one of his deputies come by. We’re going to get you through this. I will call to check in with you every hour, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “And if you want to call me in between those check-ins, I’m here. You understand?”

  “Yes. Thank you. I’m sorry.” Her voice is a whimper now.

  “Brooke, you have no reason to apologize. Thank you for calling me. Thank you for caring about me and your sister and all the people who love you and want to help you. Thank you for not hurting yourself, because if you do that, you’ll hurt us.”

  When Brooke’s sister assures me she’s got things under control, Raelynn joins me again at the table. “I don’t know how you do it,” she says. “That job would really get to me.”

  I think for a few minutes and then I tell her a story. “When I was doing my practicum for my master’s degree, I had a client who had survived a suicide attempt. When I read his file, I was expecting to meet a broken kind of guy. But he came in whistling. I remember my mentor said to him, ‘You seem very happy today.’ And the guy said, ‘I am.’ He said that the day he tried to kill himself, he sat in front of Walmart for three hours trying to talk himself out of it. He sat right there on the bench, almost in tears, and thought, If one person smiles at me, I won’t do it. That’ll be a good enough reason to live. But in those three hours, nobody did. You know how many people go in and out of Walmart in the span of three hours? But everybody walked right past him, looking down at their phones or off in the distance, pretending he wasn’t there at all. He felt invisible. As if he were already dead. So he figured, what’s the point? And he went home and he did it. And only by the grace of God did he live to tell us that story. So from that moment on, I decided I never want to be the one who walks by and doesn’t smile. I want to be the one who makes everybody feel glad to be alive. To let them know they matter.”

  Chapter 12

  Saturday, August 27, 2005

  CARL MAKES IT HOME AT ABOUT 3:00 A.M. I WAKE TO THE SOUND of the shower and wait for him to join me in bed. When he finally climbs under the covers, he stays on his side of the mattress.

  I move closer, rubbing my bare legs against his, pressing my body into the curve of his own. “It’s good to have you home,” I say. He smells clean, carrying the floral undertones of soap and shampoo, and his muscular arms feel warm against me. I rest my head on his shoulder and breathe him in.

  “You touched the thermostat? It’s burning up in here.”

  “Of course not, Carl. You know I never mess with the temperature.”

  He sighs. “Don’t lie.”

  I don’t bother trying to convince him. “Was it bad out there?”

  “Stronger than I thought it’d be.” He jerks the covers down and moves away.

  “Looks like a big one, from the radars. But still just a Cat 2, right?”

  “Think so. Let’s get some sleep.” He rolls over, turning his back to me. I try not to feel rejected.

  “Carl?”

  He offers a half mumble, showing he’s not in the mood to talk. I want to tell him about Brooke, how she came back to her senses and called to thank me for talking her away from the medicine cabinet. Instead, I say, “I hope you know how much we appreciate you, all you do for us.”

  I fall asleep trying hard to count my blessings.

  Sunday, August 28, 2005

  “This hurricane hit Category 5 as it strengthened over the Gulf,” Brother Johnson says from the pulpit during early-morning worship. Only a handful of devoted families are here. The rest have stayed home on account of the storm.

  He adjusts his glasses and clears his throat. “We’re expecting winds of 120 miles per hour, with even stronger gusts. Plus, a surge of at least ten to fifteen feet of water along the coast. Some say higher. This is serious, folks.” He peers out to the back pew. “To those of you who have joined us today from the evacuation zones, welcome to Walker. We’ll do all we can to make this a home for you until you can return to your own.”

  A few unfamiliar visitors nod. The rest of us acknowledge them with welcoming smiles and even some handshakes from regulars near the back.

  “We’re expecting Mayor Nagin to announce a mandatory evacuation in
New Orleans any minute now. It’s the first time in history, so that should tell you something. The roads leaving the city have been bumper-to-bumper for days. And the interstates are now under contraflow order, so if you’re thinking about heading east for any reason, scratch those plans. Hotels are overflowing. People are making camp in parking lots, under the overpasses, pretty much anywhere they can find a place to stop. We’ve announced that our church will serve as a sanctuary for anyone in need, and we ask that our congregation help provide food and shelter for these families.”

  Ellie scribbles on the paper bulletin and then draws a hangman with a row of blanks for me to guess her secret phrase. I write my letters, one at a time, and she responds by either filling in the appropriate blank or adding a body part to the noose. As the minister gives the podium over to the choir director, my letters begin to morph into words: I __OPE T_E STOR_ _ITS _S

  I write the letters H, M, and U. As the small congregation finishes singing “How Great Thou Art,” Ellie shows me the complete phrase, in all caps: I HOPE THE STORM HITS US.

  When Brother Johnson returns to the pulpit, he gives us an update. “With the storm coming closer, we’re going to dismiss early and let you all go on home. I’m sure you’ve already stocked up on extra food and water. Be sure to have reserve fuel for your generators and plenty of batteries for your flashlights. We could be without power and water for a long time, so have some candles and matches . . . a weather radio.” Then he waves his hand. “Y’all know what to do.”

  Looking toward Carl, he then says, “Brother Salassi, would you lead us in the benediction. We could use a good one. This storm, Katrina, she’s a doozie.”

  Carl stands and leads us in the closing prayer, and then we head out to our cars, shaking Brother Johnson’s hand on the way.

  Beth and Preacher meet us just outside the sanctuary. The wind is building strength around the steeple. Beth is frantic. “What if Sarah’s been there all this time, Amanda? In New Orleans? What if she’s evacuating? She could end up at a shelter. She could be parked at one of the gas stations right now. This could be our chance. We’ve got to go look.”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” I admit. Carl stands with his arm around my shoulders, smiling and greeting other church friends. “Let me get Ellie home with Carl. Once they’ve eaten, I’ll head out with you and Preacher. Sound good?”

  “We’re going now,” Beth says, shaking her head. “I can’t wait.”

  She shifts uneasily as I look at Carl. I hope he’ll say he doesn’t mind me joining my friends. That he won’t be bothered fixing Ellie a sandwich and taking care of the storm preparation without me. But he says nothing, so I smile at Beth and hope she understands.

  “Just call when you’re ready, Amanda. I’ll update you.”

  “Morning.” Jay joins us, giving Ellie a handshake like she’s one of the adults. “Did I hear you say you’re going to the evacuation sites?”

  “She could be there. Don’t you think?” Beth’s hopes are growing higher, despite the doubt in Preacher’s eyes.

  Jay’s voice shows concern. “The weather could really get rough, Beth. Maybe y’all should stay here where it’s safe. My guys will be out there, and we’ll be keeping our eyes open.”

  “But I want to be out there too, Jay. I need to look with my own eyes.”

  Children run around the church grounds, squealing and tugging at their Sunday clothes, excited to be released. Ellie stands beside us, quiet, solemn, watching the sky. Women pass by, offering Jay flirtatious smiles. He thanks one of them for the casserole she brought to his house last week. No one reacts. He’s been the town’s most eligible bachelor for far too long, and we’ve all grown accustomed to the interest he draws.

  He shifts his attention back to us. “Interstates are westbound only, Beth. Other roads will be at a standstill too. You’ll spend hours stuck in traffic.”

  She turns to Preacher for support. He sighs.

  “If it gets closer, they’ll end up closing the roads completely,” Jay says. “You could get stuck at one of those evacuation sites.”

  Carl pulls his arm a little tighter around my shoulders, drawing me closer into him with his chin raised high. “What’d I tell you, Amanda?” Then he speaks to the group. “Y’all know my wife. She doesn’t always think things through.” He laughs, as if it’s a joke. As if I’m a joke.

  I offer my daughter a half smile, hoping no man ever makes her feel like this. She stares at me, a hollow gaze.

  “Tell you what,” Jay says to the group. “Why don’t y’all stay here at the church. You’ll be safe, and who’s to say Sarah won’t end up here?”

  “Jay’s right,” Preacher says. “I’ll send an e-mail to all the pastors, asking them to distribute fliers at evacuation sites in their communities. And I’ll make sure they keep their eyes open. Jay, can you do the same with law enforcement?”

  “Of course,” Jay says. “I’m on it.”

  “This makes sense.” Preacher tries to sway his wife’s stance. “At least until the storm passes.”

  Beth turns to the reception hall. A few families are already unloading sleeping bags and suitcases from their cars. Toting pet carriers and children, they make their way into the sturdy building. “We’ll get her photos out to every site? Every one of them, right?”

  Jay and Preacher both insist this can be done. And will.

  After a long look to the sky, Beth reluctantly agrees.

  “All right. Looks like y’all have things taken care of here,” Carl says. “We’d better get home.”

  Beth hesitates, then gives in, offering me a long hug as I reassure her.

  “I’ll be a mile away,” I say. “Call if you need anything. Anything at all.”

  With that, Carl pulls me from the group and gives them all a hearty farewell. Ellie trails behind us. “Mom, why are we leaving? If Sarah might come here, shouldn’t we wait for her?”

  My husband climbs into the driver’s seat, unlocking our doors from his control panel.

  “Carl?” I plead with my eyes. “These people are going to need help anyway. Someone will have to cook for them. And you can see Beth needs moral support. Why don’t we go home, take care of a few things, and then head back here? Do our part?”

  “Amanda, you know as well as I do, Sarah’s not going to show up here. It’s a waste of time. We’ve got our own issues to worry about.”

  “What issues, Carl? What issues do we have to worry about? Our daughter is with us. She’s safe. We’re not in the strike zone for this storm. Look at Beth and Preacher. Look at those families over there. We aren’t the ones with any problems.”

  “Well, I live in the real world, Amanda. And in the real world, we’ve got patio furniture to tie down, windows to secure, and a utility room door to barricade. So if you want to sit around the church all day and convince yourself these people need you, then go ahead. Suit yourself. But I’ll be taking care of our family. The one you seem to ignore more and more each day.”

  When we leave church, Carl drives to fill our extra fuel containers at the gas station. From here, we can see that the I-12 overpass is at a standstill, packed with refugees who have fled the coastal parishes. The two main gas stations in Walker have as many as twenty vehicles in line for each lane, and handwritten signs already declare Empty! on a few of the pumps.

  “This is pointless. No way am I waiting in line.” Carl turns the car around and we head home.

  “Carl, there won’t be enough rooms for all those refugees. We should go tell them they can stay at the church. They’ll end up stranded.”

  “Refugees?” He looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “Do you know how much we have to do?” His word is final. He keeps driving. “I swear, Amanda. Why can’t you ever just shut up and look pretty?”

  My stomach spins into a tightened knot, but I stay silent, looking back to Ellie with a smile. I hear my mother’s voice again. He doesn’t mean it, Amanda. He’s got a lot on his mind and he doesn’t han
dle stress well. It’s not his fault.

  At home Carl turns on the television while I start a quick batch of dirty rice. From the living room, the weatherman’s voice delivers stern warnings, reaching me in the kitchen as I chop vegetables, brown the meats, and boil water for rice.

  “Hurricane Katrina . . . Devastating damage expected . . . Unprecedented strength . . . Most of the area will be uninhabitable for weeks . . . All gabled roofs will fail . . . All windows will blow out . . . Livestock exposed to the winds will be killed . . . Power outages for weeks . . . Water shortages will make human suffering incredible by modern standards . . .”

  This last sentence brings me to the living room. “They’re really starting to sound as if this could be a big one,” I tell Carl. “Think we should board up the windows? Fill the tubs with water?”

  “We can tape up, fill the tubs. But I’m not worried. It’s their job to build hype.”

  I glance out the window. Nothing more than normal afternoon winds. “But did you hear what they said about water shortages? I’ve never heard them talk like that.”

  “ ‘Human suffering incredible by modern standards.’ ” He imitates the news report and scoffs. “Makes a good headline.”

  On-screen a ticker scrolls at the bottom, flashing the words CATASTROPHIC HURRICANE EXPECTED.

  Then they switch to a live feed of Mayor Nagin. Just as Brother Johnson predicted, he’s announcing the first-ever mandatory evacuation of New Orleans and opening the Superdome as a shelter for those unable to leave the city.

  As soon as the announcement is made, my phone rings. It’s Beth. “Did you hear? They’re telling people to go to the Superdome. Sarah could end up there. Amanda, this could be our chance. I can feel it.”

  “How can I help?” I ask, tossing in some cayenne, salt, and pepper as I sauté the bell peppers, garlic, and green onions. “I can send e-mails. Call the news stations. What should I do?”

  “Take care of your family, and I’ll keep you posted,” she says. “Otherwise, for now, just pray.”