Firefly Summer

by Nan Rossiter

  Birdie nodded. “Do you often see loggerheads in the Bay?”

  Piper shook her head. “No, it’s pretty rare, but this one was so weighed down, the ocean swells probably pushed her off course. Two of her flippers were so badly injured she could hardly swim, and there were several scars from boat strikes on her shell—she looked like she’d been through the war.”

  “Poor thing,” Remy said sadly.

  Piper nodded. “If she survives and heals enough to be released, you should come watch. It’s amazing to see.”

  “I’d like that,” Birdie said, taking a sip of her wine. “Well, please tell Nat and Elias they are forgiven. They’re good men doing a good deed, helping an old sea turtle.”

  Piper nodded. “She really is a grand old lady.”

  Remy stood up. “So, what do you think? Should we start the grill?”

  “Yes,” they all said in unison.

  David finished his margarita and stood to help.

  “Want a refill?” Piper asked him as she reached across the table for Sailor’s glass.

  David considered and then shook his head. “It was good but I’m all set.”

  “Party pooper,” Birdie murmured.

  “I’m not a party pooper. I’m your designated driver and I probably shouldn’t even have had one. The designated driver isn’t supposed to have anything to drink.”

  “Oh, please,” she muttered.

  David ignored her comment and turned his attention to the grill while Sailor followed Piper inside to help Remy. “So, I have some news,” she said.

  “Ooo! Do tell!” Piper said, her ears perking up.

  “Well,” Sailor said, refilling all of their glasses, “Josiah texted me last week and we met for coffee. On Wednesday we went to the Ocean House for drinks and lobster rolls . . . and tomorrow we’re going to P-town.”

  “Wow!” Piper exclaimed. “That’s moving fast.”

  “When are we going to get to meet him?” Remy asked.

  “I already met him,” Piper quipped.

  Remy frowned. “You did?!”

  “Yes, remember . . . I was there when he brought the Munchkins?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Remy said, sounding deflated, and then her face lit up. “You should’ve brought him tonight!”

  Sailor laughed. “He’s definitely not ready to meet all of you. You’ll scare him off!”

  “No, we won’t,” Piper said. “He’d be lucky to be included.”

  Sailor handed them each a refilled glass. “Well, one of these days . . . if it continues. In the meantime,” she said, holding up her glass, “here’s to a fun summer.”

  They each took a sip and then Piper headed out to the porch with the wine bottle. “Need a refill?”

  “Please,” Birdie said, holding out her glass.

  CHAPTER 26

  When the phone rang, Remy was stirring her steel-cut oatmeal and sipping a mug of warm water—into which she’d stirred one tablespoon of honey and one tablespoon of the elixir she’d just ordered from the Vermont Country Store, Strength of the Hills. She’d seen an ad for the liquid supplement in Yankee Magazine. . . or maybe it was Vermont Life—she couldn’t remember which—and it had touted the elixir’s wonderful health benefits. She turned the burner down, left the oats simmering, and answered it.

  “Hello? Oh, hi, Dr. Sanders,” she said, her face brightening. “How are you . . . Yes, everything’s fine. . . . Oh, you’re so welcome.... Rhubarb’s my favorite, too. I’m glad you liked it . . . I had so much rhubarb this year, I didn’t know what to do with it all.... No, I haven’t decided yet, but I’ll definitely let you know.” She paused, frowning, and listened as he spoke. “Okay . . . Do you want me to go today?” She nodded. “That’s fine . . . an ultrasound. . . one o’clock . . . drink lots of water and fast for four hours.” She looked at the clock. “I can do that.” She nodded. “Okay, I won’t worry. Thank you.”

  She hung up the phone and stared out the window. Not worry?! How could she not worry when there was blood in her urine? She remembered giving a sample when she’d had her physical—it had been no big deal and she certainly hadn’t noticed any blood. She glanced at the clock—it was already eight thirty and she hadn’t showered or even had breakfa—her oatmeal! She hurried back to the stove and picked up the spoon she’d left in the pan, but the spoon was hot and she dropped it, spattering oatmeal on the floor.

  “Sugar!” she exclaimed, removing the pot from the burner and reaching for another spoon. She stirred the oatmeal—which was sticking to the bottom, so she scraped vigorously, salvaging what she could, and plopped the thick clump into a bowl. Then she turned to clean up the mess on the floor but Edison was already licking it up. “It’s hot,” she warned, but the little cat was undeterred.

  She looked at the clock again and quickly did the math—she had a half hour before she had to start fasting and then she had to make sure her bladder was full—which was never a problem. She sprinkled flaxseed meal and chopped walnuts onto her oatmeal and poured a little extra almond milk on top so it wasn’t quite so clumpy. Then she took her supplements—fish oil and a probiotic—and wondered if it was something in her diet that was causing the problem. Maybe it was the Strength of the Hills—that was the newest thing she’d added. She opened the refrigerator and studied the ingredients: Vermont apple cider vinegar (made from organic apples), grape juice, apple juice, American ginseng, black cohosh—whatever that was—black walnut, chickweed, cinnamon, clove, echinacea, fenugreek—another question mark—ginger, star anise, and turmeric—which she’d read somewhere was supposed to be good for arthritis, but none of the ingredients sounded harmful.

  She opened her laptop, propped it up in front of her, and as she ate her lumpy oatmeal, Googled “black cohosh.” It was an herb—the root of which had been used by Native Americans for medicinal purposes, namely women’s health issues, so that could only be helpful. Next, she Googled “fenugreek” and learned it was another plant used for all kinds of ailments—from digestive issues to hardening of the arteries to kidney ailments—another positive as far as she was concerned. She looked up “star anise”—which, it turned out, was a star-shaped fruit from an Oriental tree, used in all kinds of medicinal teas, and extolled for a whole host of healing properties—another winner! Finally she looked up “causes for blood in urine” and the first possible cause that came up was urinary tract infection. Of course! she thought with a sigh of relief—that’s what it must be! She probably even had some antibiotics left from her last UTI. She got up to look in the cabinet and found a bottle from three summers ago—had it really been that long? She opened the bottle—there were six pills left. She read the directions and popped one in her mouth—she’d fix the problem all on her own.

  Already feeling better, she sat back down to finish her oatmeal. Then she started scrolling through some of the other potential causes. Dr. Sanders had assured her that it was probably nothing, but according to the Internet, there were all kinds of possibilities, and the one that stood out like a sore thumb—and made her heart pound—was bladder cancer. Maybe she shouldn’t have taken that antibiotic. Maybe she should’ve waited, because now, she suddenly didn’t feel so well.

  She typed in “side effects of ciprofloxacin” . . . and discovered there were many—the most common of which was diarrhea, followed by a very long list of rare but other possible inconveniences—everything from change in urination to nausea, dizziness, dark stools . . . you name it! Why was she so stupid? Within ten minutes of receiving Dr. Sanders’s call, she’d already taken matters into her own hands and quite possibly upset the entire apple cart. She looked down at her oatmeal. The thought of finishing it made her feel sick. She looked at the bottle again. It plainly said, “Do not take with dairy.” Almond milk wasn’t a dairy . . . or was it? Maybe she hadn’t finished the pills three years ago because it had bothered her stomach then, too.

  She stared blindly at the screen. Someone had told her never to look up symptoms or ailments on the Int
ernet. Whoever it was, was right!

  She called the doctor’s office back and asked Mary whether Dr. Sanders thought it might just be a UTI. Mary asked her to hold on and went to ask, but when she came back, she said he didn’t think so because there would be other indications. Remy nodded, thanked her, and hung up. Well, that confirmed one thing—she shouldn’t have taken the antibiotic. She wondered how hard it was to make yourself throw up.

  She scraped the rest of her oatmeal into the garbage, poured her glass of water down the drain, scrubbed the oatmeal stuck to the bottom of the pot, and washed the rest of the dishes. As she dried her hands, she saw something moving in the corner of the window, and when she looked more closely, realized a spider was wrapping a bug with its silk—a practice Remy considered to be utterly macabre! She put her reading glasses on and tried to discern the species of bug—if it was only one of those pesky greenheads, she would look the other way . . . but if it was something else . . .

  “Oh no, you don’t!” she said, sweeping her hand into the web, startling the spider. She put the mummified ladybug on the counter and gently worked it free from the spider’s sticky thread. Moments later, she had most of the silk off its back, but its legs were still stuck to its belly—that was the tricky part—pulling the sticky thread off without pulling off any legs. At last, she was able to get it all off, losing only one leg in the process. She gently flipped the ladybug over, and it immediately hobbled back across the counter in the direction of the window. Horrified, she scooped it up again. “Didn’t you learn anything the first time?” she scolded. She carried the ladybug outside and blew on it. Off it flew into the sky—freedom! Then she went back inside, caught the spider, and put it outside, too. “You can catch all the bugs you want outside!” She came back in, remembered her appointment, looked at the clock, and hurried upstairs to shower.

  The next three hours ticked by slowly. Foremost on Remy’s mind, besides the worrisome presence of blood in her urine, was when she should start drinking. She didn’t want to have to stop on the way to the clinic to find a bathroom—which was usually what happened. She knew the location of every public bathroom on Route 6. Her favorite restroom—although not the most convenient—was the one in the back of the Birdwatcher’s General Store—it was wallpapered with funny bird cartoons; one time she’d stayed in there so long, reading them, Birdie had called through the door to see if she’d fallen in! Finally, just before leaving the house, she went to the bathroom one last time, drank a very large glass of water—at least sixteen ounces—and then filled her water bottle to drink on the way.

  An hour later, she checked in to Imagery and Radiology, and after finding a seat in the waiting area, continued to sip her water. “Mrs. Landon?” a voice called and Remy looked up and gave a little wave to the stout woman holding a clipboard. “Come with me,” she said in a foreign accent that Remy couldn’t quite place, but as she stood up, her nerves kicked into gear. She hated anything that was outside her usual routine, and this entire trip was light-years out of her routine. “Is your bladder full?” the technician asked.

  “Yes,” Remy said.

  They walked into a small, dark room and the woman directed her to lie down and unzip her pants. Remy obliged and the woman squirted warm gel on her belly. Remy took a deep breath as she felt her run a quick scan over her abdomen. “Your bladder is completely empty,” she said abruptly.

  “It can’t be,” Remy said in a flustered voice. “It’s always full and I drank a big glass of water before I left.”

  The technician shrugged as if she’d been expecting it. “I will do your kidneys. Roll to your side.”

  Remy rolled and waited. There was no way her bladder was empty—that was impossible!

  The technician finished taking pictures of what looked to Remy like a dark, ominous cave filled with diseased tumors and instructed her to go to the cafeteria and drink more water.

  “This isn’t enough?” Remy asked, holding up her water bottle.

  The technician looked at the half-full bottle and shook her head dismissively.

  Remy zipped her pants, walked to the cafeteria, and bought a bottle of cold water for a dollar fifty—“What a rip-off!” she muttered—and drank it as fast as she could. She went back to the waiting room, and by the time the technician came to get her a second time, she was shivering.

  After more dark pictures—which also looked cancer-ridden—the technician told her to empty her bladder and come back in. Remy obeyed and two pictures later, she was set free.

  On the way home—because she deserved it—Remy stopped at Sundae School in Dennis Port and treated herself. She almost ordered her usual, vanilla, but at the last second, she threw caution to the wind and ordered a large amaretto nut waffle cone.

  CHAPTER 27

  Birdie listened as David picked up the phone early Thursday morning. “Are you sure it can’t fly? And there are no other fledglings around . . . or parents?” He nodded, listening. “Do you think it’s injured?” More nodding. “Where did you say you found it? Mm-hmm . . . Okay, well, if you’d like to bring it over, we’ll be here.” Birdie raised her eyebrows and continued to listen as he gave directions to their house. For months they’d been trying to cut back on the number of orphaned and injured birds they took in, and the last two weeks had been the first time ever that they hadn’t had a little flock of birds in their small aviary barn and fenced-in sanctuary.

  David hung up the phone and saw her eyeing him. He smiled. “How could I say no? She was very upset.”

  “The only way we’re going to be able to stop people from calling is if we put a note on the website that says we’re not taking in any birds at this time.”

  “Do you really want to stop helping?” David asked.

  “Well, no, but you have to admit, the last couple of weeks without any responsibilities have been kind of nice.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve kind of missed having some little creatures to look after,” David said, smiling.

  “What kind of bird is it?”

  “She wasn’t sure—she thought it might be a ruffed grouse or a quail.”

  Birdie sighed. “Is it injured?”

  “She said it was flopping around next to the road so it might’ve been hit, but it wasn’t bleeding.”

  The phone rang again, halting their conversation, and David answered it. “Yes, this is he.” He nodded. “Are you sure its parents aren’t around? No other fledglings? That’s odd . . . they don’t usually abandon their young.... Of course . . . where are you? Let’s see . . . Mashpee . . .” He started to give directions again, and as Birdie poured a cup of coffee, she shook her head. She sat down, waiting for him to finish, and when he finally hung up, he was smiling like a boy on Christmas morning. “He thinks it’s a baby barred!”

  “Wonderful!” Birdie said, shaking her head. She knew how thrilled David would be if it really was an orphaned barred owl, she also knew how much two baby birds would tie them down.

  “It’s not like we have anything pressing going on,” David said, pouring a cup of coffee and sitting across from her. He looked at the pile of birthday presents still sitting on the table. “How come you’re not using your new mug?” he asked, holding up the Susan Boynton mug.

  “I will,” Birdie said, smiling.

  “Haven’t you already read this?” he asked, leafing through That Quail, Robert.

  “Years ago. Have you?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “You’d remember.”

  “Maybe I’ll read it next.”

  “You should, because we might have our own Robert heading our way right now.”

  “We might. That would be fun.”

  Birdie smiled. It would be.

  Twenty minutes later, a young woman slowed down in front of the house, obviously trying to decide whether she was in the right place, and then pulled into the driveway. Bailey scrambled to her feet, sounding the alarm, and as the woman got out, carrying a cardboard box, David and Birdie b
oth went out to greet her. David carried the box onto the porch and carefully opened it. A small bird blinked at him from where it sat huddled in the corner of a bird poop–covered towel. “What do you think it is?” she asked.

  David smiled. “It’s a ruffed grouse chick,” he said, picking it up and gently examining it. “And its wing is injured.” He saw the concern on the woman’s face. “But not beyond repair,” he assured. “I’m sure we can help her.”

  The woman sighed and smiled. “Good. I didn’t know what to do. I was on my way to work and I saw it by the side of the road and I couldn’t just leave it.”

  Birdie nodded. “Would you like to leave your number and we’ll keep you posted?”

  “Yes, I’d love to,” the woman replied.

  Birdie went inside to get a piece of paper and a pen, and the woman wrote down her name and number. After she left, Birdie looked at the paper and smiled—she didn’t think anyone was named Martha anymore.

  David was in the barn with the little injured grouse when a man pulled into the yard and got out of his SUV with another cardboard box. David opened it, peered inside, and a juvenile barred owl blinked at him and flapped its wings in alarm. David smiled. “It’s okay, missy. We’re not going to hurt you.” He closed the box and had the man write his name and number on top of the box. “When she’s a little further along, she should be released where you found her.”

  The man nodded.

  “Are you sure her parents weren’t around?”

  “I’m pretty sure, but I can’t be positive,” he answered, sounding a little less certain than he had on the phone. “I didn’t want anything to happen to her. . . .”

  David nodded. “Well, I bet she’ll be ready to be on her own in a week or so. I’ll give you a call and you can meet me.”