The Feathered Bone

by Julie Cantrell

  4. Even though we have electricity again, we have not been making films.

  5. The Lady is being nice to me, and I think The Man is starting to like me more too.

  6. We are in Hammond now, not too far from Walker. Maybe Mom and Pop will find me.

  7. You found me!

  See, Sparrow? Good things do come after the storm.

  Chapter 15

  Wednesday, September 7, 2005

  BETH AND I WORK TOGETHER IN THE CHURCH, WASHING LINENS for the families who are now calling our Sunday school rooms their temporary homes. I add a towel to the basket. “We’ve closed the clinic all week. Still too many clients without power. Or taking care of relatives from evacuation zones.”

  “Yeah,” Beth says with a monotone voice and a stare to the side. It’s clear her thoughts are elsewhere.

  I try to draw her back. “How long do you think people will need to stay here?”

  “Months, maybe. The ones who have insurance are getting the runaround. Can’t move home. Can’t afford to start over. Some are trying to get trailers from FEMA. In the meantime, they’re stuck.” Beth folds a fitted sheet while I tackle the flat one.

  “How do you do that?” I tease her. “Martha Stewart couldn’t fold a sheet better than you.”

  She shrugs. “Mama taught me.” This tugs my heart. I remember my own mother teaching me to do the laundry.

  “My mother always thought of you as the model wife. Said you were the poster child for Proverbs 31.”

  Beth’s forehead wrinkles and she shakes her head.

  “It’s true,” I tell her. “I should be more like you.”

  Now she laughs. “You know Proverbs 31 is taken the wrong way. It’s not supposed to be a bullet list defining how to be a good woman.”

  “I know that. You know that. But Mom didn’t know that. She was terrified I’d end up in her situation. Divorced. Poor. Single mom.”

  “She was a wonderful mother. And wife. It wasn’t her fault he left.”

  “Again, we know that. But she didn’t. One of the last things she told me before she died was that I should always try to be the perfect wife, no matter how hard it may be. She was so afraid I’d end up alone.”

  Beth’s entire demeanor has been flattened since Sarah went missing, but now, as she looks at me, her facial muscles sink. A sadness moves through the room. “Amanda, you are the perfect wife. And mother. And friend. Just as you are. You don’t have to try.”

  I’ve lost Beth’s daughter, and she’s telling me I’m the perfect friend. I’m overwhelmed with emotion, but I don’t let it show. Instead, I stack a folded sheet atop the pile of fresh linens and pull another towel from the dryer, eyeing the board of photographs. “Hard to believe so many people got separated from their families. Just from a hurricane.”

  “Yeah. There’s a mother here in the nursery. Arlene. Did you meet her?”

  “The tall one? With the PhD?”

  “She’s only got three of her four kids with her. Her husband passed away last year, and now she’s got no idea if her oldest daughter is dead or alive. She’s sixteen. Left the house with friends after the storm. But then the levees broke. Arlene hasn’t heard a word since.” Beth points to the board. “Thankfully, she had a photo we could share.”

  I shake my head and stare at the faces, each one tagged with a name, age, and contact information for the person hoping to reconnect. “Just look at all those pictures.”

  “Hard to imagine, isn’t it? All those other moms out there, feeling just like me. On account of a storm. Never imagined anything like that could happen.”

  “I never imagined any of this,” I admit. “Yet here we are.”

  Beth touches a photo of her own daughter. Portrayed in color against the wall of Katrina’s missing. “Here we are. But where is Sarah? It’s been nearly a year.”

  “We’ll find her, Beth. Her photo is everywhere.”

  “You saw those shelters. So many people coming and going. You know as well as I do, Sarah could be anywhere. Lost. Scared—”

  I interrupt. “And all those people are taking time to look at the photo boards. They’re paying attention. This is good.”

  After a long sigh, Beth lifts her shoulders and slides the laundry basket across the counter. “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  With that, we head to my car and spend the rest of the day driving from shelter to shelter, looking for Sarah. Never mentioning that tomorrow is September 8, the day both our girls were born thirteen years ago.

  Thursday, September 8, 2005

  I bend to light thirteen turquoise candles, each one tall, twisted, and thin, as Carl and I sing “Happy Birthday” to Ellie. Carl records her on video as she closes her eyes and makes a silent wish. Her candles light the dining room, lining the wall with shadows as she leans over the heart-shaped cake and blows. One by one the tiny lights give way and darkness descends. I hurry to flip the switch, brightening the room to serve slices of her favorite dessert: butter cake with chocolate-marshmallow icing, a gooey recipe from my own childhood birthdays.

  We are keeping the party small and quiet this year. The mutual understanding is that we’ll have a big bash when we find Sarah. Until then, we use every candle to wish her home to us.

  Adding a second scoop of Blue Bell ice cream to her plate, Ellie shows signs of youth again. “Homemade Vanilla. Yum!” Then she turns her attention to the pile of presents. I’ve wrapped each one with sparkling papers, bright curly ribbons, and oversized bows, but there’s one gift I’ve kept tucked under the table, saving it as a final surprise.

  Before she can finish her cake, she’s already tearing into her gifts. I take over the video camera as she opens a new iPod nano, jumping and squealing with delight. It’s the first time I’ve seen her this happy since The Day. Hope is seeding.

  She thumbs through the playlists. “Weezer!” A few seconds later, “The White Stripes! Ohmigosh! Feist! This is awesome!” I’ve spent hours compiling her favorite artists, and it’s a hit.

  After she has opened a few more gifts, taking time to comment on each new outfit and piece of jewelry, Carl pulls the final present from beneath the table and passes it to Ellie. I work the camera.

  She rips ribbons from the box and lifts the lid. “What is this?” She sets out a stack of videos, each housed in a plastic shell, organized and labeled according to date.

  “We hired a guy to transfer our home movies to DVDs,” I explain. It may be too sentimental, but I hope watching hours of happy family footage will help heal us all, remind us of the good times. “I was thinking we could have a family movie night.”

  Ellie smiles at the camera, hiding her new set of braces with one of the DVDs. “O-kay.” She pronounces it as if she’s unsure, adding a little teenage angst.

  “Don’t look at me. This was your mom’s idea.” Carl holds his hands up, clearing himself from the bad gift. But then he turns and puts his arm around me. When I lift my chin, he kisses me for the first time in days. Just a quick brush of the lips, but still it’s something. My body reacts.

  I turn off the camera and return my focus to Ellie. “Oh, come on. It’ll be fun. Grab your quilt. I’ll make popcorn. We’ll settle in early tonight.” I begin to clear the dishes and ask her to choose a disc.

  She sorts through the stack, shouting over my stream of water. “Disney or Destin?”

  “Hmm . . . both sound good to me.”

  With this, Ellie bounds down the hall in search of her favorite blanket, a patchwork quilt my mother made for her when she was little. Carl sets up the DVD player while I finish the last of the cleanup. We meet in the living room where Ellie curls into the corner of the sofa. I sit near her. Carl finds his La-Z-Boy and hits Play. The memories begin.

  I adjust my own blanket as a six-year-old Ellie skips across the screen singing “Oh! Susanna, don’t you cry for me.” Carl is in the background building her swing set.

  Next, the three of us are on the beach in Destin. Ellie beams i
n Carl’s arms. He protects her from the ocean’s forceful churn, turning his back against every wave, jumping as Ellie squeals with delight. “We’ve had the best vacations.”

  “Every one of them,” Carl says. Then he smiles at me, and for a moment I see the Carl I fell in love with. The teenage boy who danced with me in a field at midnight, our song playing from his car door speakers. The young man in a hard hat who spun me through the air when he got his first real paycheck. The new father who cut Ellie’s umbilical cord and ran through the hospital shouting, “It’s a girl!”

  With every white-capped wave on-screen, all the love comes washing back over me. And I see my husband as I first saw him. Strong. Steady. Stable. That was before life got complicated. We were good together as long as we stayed on the surface. But eventually couples have to navigate deeper waters, far away from the shallows.

  I fear we’ve lost sight of shore. We’ve been drifting for years, farther out into the deep, dealing with a series of undertows and storms. Mom’s illness, then her death. Carl’s career frustrations and the fractured relationships in his own family. Financial pressures and the stress of owning the clinic. Sarah and the immeasurable grief. We can’t catch our breath.

  The film skips to another scene, a bit later in time. We are on vacation in Colorado, renting horses for a trail ride. Ellie waves to the camera. She’s wearing two French braids and Western boots. “The white one,” she says, pointing to the youngest, most skittish horse of the lot.

  “You always have been drawn to animals.” I give her leg a gentle pat.

  She keeps watching the TV, but smiles. When the guide straps the saddle for her, the young-voiced Ellie argues her case. “Indians don’t use saddles.”

  The trail guide sets her straight. “Rules are rules. Even I use a saddle.”

  Carl, still a young father, gives his daughter a wink and helps her climb into the stirrups. He holds the reins, but she thinks she’s leading the feisty mare all by herself. By the end of the trail, the guide has been worn down enough to give Ellie a chance at bareback. She rides the steadiest paint through a field of flowers as the guide keeps one hand in the mane.

  “I always wanted to live in the mountains,” Ellie says from the sofa. “And have a horse.”

  “We still plan to get you a horse.” I look to Carl, but he says nothing about building the new house. It’s been months since we discussed it, and with so much focus on finding Sarah, it’s been the last thing on my mind.

  “A white one!” Ellie imitates her six-year-old voice. She’s giggling!

  The next DVD shows her older, at church camp, taking a brave leap from the high dive. Then riding her bike with no hands. Backflips on the trampoline. A long series of cartwheels across the length of the yard. She stands at the end, dizzy, spinning back down to the ground with pigtails and a belly full of laughs.

  “You were fearless. Remember when you climbed the tree at school and the principal had to call 911? The firemen got you down. Wish we had that on video!”

  Ellie laughs. “I was only afraid of people. As long as I didn’t have to talk to anybody, I was fine.”

  “That’s why I’m surprised you love theater so much. Painting the backdrops is one thing, but I never thought you’d want to be onstage, talking in front of everybody. You’re a natural.”

  “Yeah, but onstage I don’t have to be me.”

  By midnight Ellie and I are both still awake, but Carl is snoring in his oversized chair. We’ve watched hours of recordings, drawing us through laughter and tears. At times Sarah would appear on film, laughing and dancing alongside Ellie as if she were right here with us. In those moments we would all grow silent. In other times, the innocence of Ellie’s childhood would return to a scene on-screen, and we would exhale with relief.

  If only it could be that easy. Hit a button. Go back to good.

  Hello Sparrow,

  Today is my birthday. I’m thirteen!

  The Lady gave me one of those pens. I can write green or red or blue or black. It’s the first time she’s gotten somebody a present. Nobody has ever given her one. Her birthday is in June.

  Ellie and I always give something funny. One year I gave her a can of those snakes that jump out when you open the lid. She got so scared, she punched me.

  Another year I got Mrs. Amanda to put trick candles on Ellie’s cake. She got me back. When I fell asleep, she covered my walls with glow-in-the-dark eyes. She woke me up, screaming, “Help! Help! They’re attacking us!”

  The best was last year. Mrs. Amanda helped me fill Ellie’s room with turquoise balloons. That’s her favorite color.

  I wonder what Ellie is doing for our birthday. I hope someone gave her a funny gift.

  Hello Sparrow,

  I got to go outside today. Just The Lady and me. We walked all around the yard. We sat in the grass and looked at clouds. I almost felt free again.

  I watched you fly. That made me think about the birds at Mardi Gras World. The painter said that when we see a bird, we should remind ourselves not to ever be a slave. I want to fly free.

  Hello Sparrow,

  That day in New Orleans, the fortune-teller put this feather in my hand. I’ve been keeping it safe. She said that feathers are strong. They can bend a long way before they break.

  I’m going to remember that. When The Man gets really mean, or when I get scared, or when I start to think I’ll never go home. Or when The Boss comes and I have to make those films. I’m going to remind myself that I can bend and bend. No matter how bad things might get, I will never break. Because I’m stronger than they think I am.

  Wednesday, September 14, 2005

  “We found Arlene’s daughter,” Beth says enthusiastically, referring to the family we’ve been hosting at the church. “She was in Houston. They’re driving her back.”

  “That’s incredible,” I say, closing my office door. “I forget, how old is she?”

  “Sixteen,” Beth answers. “Can you believe they sent her to Houston all by herself?”

  I flip through my appointment book, checking my schedule.

  “She got separated from her friends when someone rescued her from a rooftop. Left her on a bridge, and she ended up on a bus to Texas.”

  “Gosh, Beth. She’s lucky. Imagine if the wrong person—” Think before you speak, Amanda.

  When Beth stays silent, I change the subject. “I finish at two today. I’ll head that way after work. Need me to bring anything?”

  “Just come when you can,” Beth says. “That’s all I need.”

  At two I head straight for the church, where Beth is busy cleaning dishes from the group lunch. She excuses herself and leads me down the hall to the nursery where Arlene’s family is housed. The door is open, and we find her teen daughter being reunited. The family members are huddled close together, crying. Arlene looks up to us, whispering again and again, “Thank you. Thank you.”

  The scene overwhelms me, and I walk away, giving the family privacy.

  Beth follows, reaching out for me as I catch my tear. “Amanda, do you realize what this means? If Arlene’s daughter was sent to Houston, maybe Sarah’s there too.”

  Chapter 16

  Saturday, October 29, 2005

  WE HAVE SPENT A YEAR PACING DARK CORNERS OF THE CRESCENT City, showing Sarah’s photo again and again, hoping someone would give her back to us. A full year of searching every face, every set of blue eyes, every news report. We extended the search across to Texas after Katrina, visiting shelters and working with every volunteer agency we could find—begging them to be on the watch. And yet, as the anniversary hits, we have not found Sarah. Nor have we found the woman from the tourist’s photo, Bridgette Gallatino.

  “Today’s the twenty-ninth,” I tell Carl. “I can’t believe it’s been a year.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re sinking again.”

  “What does that mean, Carl? Sure I struggle with it sometimes. But I haven’t sunk. I think I’ve stayed very strong.”


  He snorts.

  “Would it hurt you to show a little compassion every now and then?” I regret my sharp tone, but I don’t apologize. “You’re not the one who lost her. You’re not the one whose best friend can’t look you in the eye.”

  I am ironing his shirt for tonight’s graveyard shift at the Shell chemical plant in Geismar.

  He stares at me with a look of warning. The kind a dog uses to say Don’t come any closer. I give him his space and keep ironing, determined to prepare a perfect shirt. A man with wrinkled clothes is a man who isn’t loved. Yes, Mom. I hear you.

  “Just tell me you’re going to work today.”

  When I don’t answer, his jaw tightens, as if all chances of reasonable communication are done. If I really were interacting with a canine, he’d be hunched and growling, eyeteeth long and exposed. But this is no dog; this is my husband. His lips are pinched against his nose in disgust. “You think I like working the night shift? I wanted to work the rigs. Now I’m in the plant, and I hate it. But that’s what we do, Amanda. We grow up. We go to work. Even when we don’t want to. It’s been a whole year. We can’t keep putting our lives on hold.”

  This stings. Maybe the anniversary has me edgy, but for some reason I can’t keep my thoughts in any longer.

  “How can you say I’ve put my life on hold? I’ve worked myself to the bone trying to keep up with my practice while managing all of Ellie’s extra needs, and trying to help search for Sarah, and still making sure you have what you need. You and Ellie have suffered because of me? I run in circles trying to keep you both happy. Not that you’ve noticed. Or offered to help.”

  I set the iron down, fold his collar carefully, and begin to steam the crease. Sarah’s disappearance has left us living on a fault line, with frequent tremors rising up and shaking us to the core. There’s never any warning. One minute we’re able to live a semi-normal life, baking cookies, watching Ellie in the school play, ironing work shirts. The next, something triggers a mind shift and we’re right back in that café, coming to terms with the fact that Sarah has never been found.