A Bird on a Windowsill

by Laura Miller

  “There’s a quote here,” she says.

  “What?”

  We’re sitting on the confession bench—the bench that holds all the town’s secrets. In fact, you could probably learn a lot about this place just from this bench alone—if you took the time to decipher it all. Every inch of its surface is covered in light-colored carvings—carvings that say things like: Sorry, A; Your turn. –C; It was 4 you; and RIP JCP, I miss your words.

  I look to the place on the bench her finger is pointing and listen as she reads.

  “ ‘There are three deaths,’ ” she says. “ ‘The first is when the body ceases to function. The second is when the body is consigned to the grave. The third is that moment, sometime in the future, when your name is spoken for the last time.’ And there’s a name. David Eagleman.”

  She takes out something from her cloth bag that looks like a camera, but then again, not quite.

  “What’s that?”

  “What?” she asks.

  “That,” I say, pointing to it. “Is that a camera?”

  She looks down at the black and white contraption.

  “Yeah, it’s a Polaroid. I found it in Uncle Lester’s attic.”

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen one of those in person. I watch as she puts it to her eye, points it at the inscription and then presses a button.

  At once, a piece of paper slides out of the camera. She takes it, waves it in the air a few seconds and then holds it out in front of her.

  “Hmm.”

  “What?” I ask.

  She slumps her shoulders a little and frowns.

  “I don’t know. It’s sad, I guess. Don’t you think it’s sad?”

  I look at the inscription carved in the wood of the old park bench.

  I shrug. “I’m just impressed that whoever took the time to carve that all in there also took the time to put the guy’s name there, too.”

  She gives me a sarcastic look. But I know she’s trying not to smile. “But it’s sad to think that someday no one will ever say my name again.”

  “I guess,” I say.

  She sighs and pushes her lips to one side. At the same time, I put my arm around her and pull her close.

  “Someday, there will be no Savannah Elise Catesby,” she says. “And someday, no one will ever even remember I was here.”

  I squeeze her shoulder and smile.

  “Vannah, the good news is we won’t even be here to know when that time comes.”

  Her narrow shoulders slump even more.

  “I know, but it’s still sad.”

  I kiss her forehead. I think she’s so wrapped up in the quote that she doesn’t even notice how out of character the kiss is. It just felt right, though, I guess.

  “I’ll remember you,” I say. “I know I won’t always be able to say your name, but for the rest of this life and even into the next one, I’ll remember you.”

  She tilts her head back and rests her eyes in mine.

  “You promise?”

  “I promise,” I say.

  Her eyes return to the wood and the carved words.

  “Maybe you could just come back as a ghost and whisper my name in crowded rooms.”

  I nod once. “That’s exactly what I’ll do. I’ll be your name-whispering ghost.”

  “Promise?” she asks.

  “I promise.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Salem

  (Seventeen Years Old)

  Day 4,584

  “Why are we here?” she asks, taking out her camera.

  That Polaroid has come with us everywhere we’ve been since that first day she found it.

  “You’ll see,” I say.

  I stop at the top of the levee and look down at the fields below. We’re in the bottoms—the floodplain along the river where the soil is the most fertile and all the crops are grown. There are no houses. No trees. No people. Just soybeans and blue sky.

  I hear a click and then the machine-sounding slide of the camera spitting out the photo. And I watch as Vannah takes the picture and waves it back and forth.

  “Why are you always taking pictures?”

  “They’re memories, Eben. I’m taking memories.”

  She smiles and takes one of me.

  “I wasn’t even looking.”

  The sound of her sweet laughter fills my ears. “It doesn’t matter.”

  She retrieves the photo and flaps it in the air.

  “You still looked good. See.”

  She holds it out, an arm’s length, in front of us. And I chuckle a little. It’s just a picture of the side of my face. But if she likes it, I like it, too, I guess.

  “Now, why are we here?” she asks, stuffing the photos and the camera back into her bag.

  “Okay,” I say. “You ready?”

  I can tell she tries not to laugh. “I guess. I sure don’t know what I’m ready for, but I’m ready.”

  “Good.” I take a deep breath, and I shout her name at the top of my lungs. “Savannah Elise Catesby.”

  Vannah jumps a little at my voice, but stays quiet. In fact, everything is quiet for at least a heartbeat or two, until we hear it—her name bouncing off the dirt walls of this place and echoing back at us.

  “There,” I say, proudly. “Now, your name will always be spoken. For the rest of time, it’ll just keep bouncing back and forth in this place forever.”

  She looks at me. There’s a certain kind of usual wonder in her stare, but this time, there’s also a kind of awe. And I watch as the whites around her eyes start to turn red.

  And then, just like that, she throws her arms around my neck and squeezes me tight.

  “Thank you,” she whispers into my chest, her voice muffled.

  She holds me like that for a long time, and I hold her back. And in that time, it feels as if heaven itself just opens up on me and sends down everything good from it. And right there, I know that I’d go to the ends of this earth for this girl. I love her that much. And I don’t know if it’s just years in the making—one day on top of another of just being with her, through her laughter and her pain—or if it’s just because we get along so damn well. I can’t even tell you why I love her so much. Hell, I can’t even tell you what I’m supposed to do with it. Am I just supposed to let her go, let her live her own life? Am I supposed to make her stay? Am I supposed to go with her? Do I ever get to make love to this girl or is holding her hand the best I can ever hope for? I don’t know. I don’t know the answers to any of this. And I’m not so sure she knows, either. All I do know is that I love her...and that, no matter which scenario is the one that ends up playing out, I’ll always love her.

  She pulls away from me, halting my thoughts. And then she reaches for my hand. And we stand there, her head resting against my arm, looking at those fields of soybeans as if they’re the most beautiful sight in the world.

  And then, all of a sudden, she breathes in deeply and then cups both of her hands to her mouth.

  “Salem Auguste Ebenezer.”

  I smile, and together, we wait for my name to come back to us. And sure enough, in the space of two heartbeats, it does.

  Salem Auguste Ebenezer.

  “We’ll always be here, at least,” she says, smiling at those green fields. “We’ll always be here...together.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Salem

  (Seventeen Years Old)

  Day 4,592

  “I’m going to miss you when I’m gone,” Vannah says.

  We’re at the end of my dock, lying side by side, our backs against the boards. It’s one of those nights my grandma would call soft—the kind where the air is warm, the sky is mostly black and the crickets are drowned out by the gentle, cool breeze—warning of a change to come.

  Vannah pulls out her camera and takes a picture of the sky.

  Meanwhile, my thoughts go back to her. I’m going to miss her, too. I’m going to miss the way her soft skin feels against mine. I’m going to miss the way her voice
wanders with her mind, flowing in and out of dark and light places—sometimes breathy and sometimes cold and thoughtful. But I think I’m going to miss that way she makes me feel the most. Whenever I’m around her, I feel as though the sun’s shining down on me—only me. She kind of makes me feel weightless. And I know I’ll miss these things because I’ve already lost her once. And I can’t even imagine how much losing her for the second time is going to hurt. But I’ll lose her if it means I’ll get a chance to find her someday again, because finding her was living the best kind of dream.

  She holds out the photo.

  “It’s just black,” I say.

  “It’s just...here,” she says, looking deep into the photo. There’s a certain, far-off longing in her eyes.

  She keeps her stare on the black image a few seconds longer, and then she sets the camera down—but keeps the photo—and lays her head on my chest. I want to kiss her, but in the back of my mind, that boyfriend word lifts its ugly head. So, I just lie there, with our hearts touching. And after a few moments, I can’t tell if I feel my own heart beating...or I feel hers. But I just keep lying there, breathing in, breathing out, until the moon is high above us.

  “Vannah?”

  I lift my head so that I can see her. Her eyes are closed. Strands of her hair are falling over her face and onto my chest. She looks peaceful. It’s a sharp contrast to the dark-clouded storm brewing above us.

  “Hmm?”

  “Are you sleeping?” I ask.

  “Mm hmm.”

  “But you just answered me.”

  “Mm hmm.”

  I smile and let my head rest back on the wooden boards of the dock again.

  “My heart’s awake,” she mumbles, just loud enough that I can hear it.

  I lift my head, rest my eyes on her face and just watch her.

  “My heart’s awake, daydreaming of you,” she adds.

  I pause, my head suspended in the air, my thoughts suspended in time. And then, I smile. I smile and lay my head back down. I don’t know if she really is sleeping or if she knows what she just said, but it doesn’t matter.

  “I love you, Vannah,” I whisper.

  I can hear leaves in the catalpas around us swooshing, their branches bending back and forth in the wind. I can hear the weather shifting. But mostly, I just hear my heart beating.

  “I love you, too.”

  It’s just a soft whisper, but I hear it, loud and clear. I close my eyes and let her words get swept up in the hot and cool air swirling around us. They tickle my skin and then fly up and brush past the willows’ arms, swaying to and fro. They’ll soon be lost, but I’ll remember them. And I’ll remember this moment. And mostly, I’ll remember her...always.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Savannah

  (Seventeen Years Old)

  Day 4,605

  It’s my last night in Allandale. Tomorrow, I’ll leave for the summer and go back to the place I call home now. And the truth is, I don’t know how to feel about that. I’ve gotten used to the salty air and the sand and the smell of sweetgrass everywhere. But I’m still not sure if it’s quite home yet. And truthfully, I miss Aaron when I’m here. But when I’m there, I miss Eben. It’s as if my heart’s always in two different places.

  Eben and I are at Hogan’s slab. I love this place. I love the way the water sounds coming out of the concrete—hurried and free. I love the way it always smells like dirt and sycamore trees. And I love that moon—that moon that hangs just in the right place, so that it can light up a path all the way from its spot in outer space to us, sitting here on this little piece of earth.

  Eben’s been especially quiet tonight. I know he’s thinking about me leaving.

  I look into his sandy-colored eyes, and he smiles.

  I tell myself that we are too good of friends to be in love. But I’m not even sure I believe it. There’s a part of me that feels as if I’d leave it all behind for him—if he asked me to. I’d stay here and live with my uncle. I’d finish high school, and I’d go to college somewhere close. And then, I’d work with my uncle. I think we’d make a pretty good team. But then, I know Eben would never ask me to stay. He’d never ask me to leave everything—my family, my new friends, my new life, Aaron.

  All of a sudden, I feel his arm around me. He pulls me into his chest, and the familiar scent of his cologne fills my senses. I close my eyes and try to hold onto it.

  “The day you stop looking back is the first day of the rest of your life,” I whisper near his ear. The saying is carved into the railing on a weathered boardwalk in Murrells Inlet. I saw it one day, and I never thought about it again, until now. In fact, I never really found it fitting, until now. And in the end, I think I say it more to comfort myself than to comfort him.

  Several seconds beat on into the wind.

  “Turns out, looking back is all I have,” he says, in a breathy voice.

  His words hit me hard—like a heavy downpour to the chest. I breathe in deeply and breathe out a weighted smile that he can’t see.

  I love you, too, Salem.

  “I’m gonna write you a letter,” he says.

  “Okay.”

  It’s all I say, and then he nods and squeezes me tighter.

  And he did.

  One week after I got back to South Carolina, I got a letter. It was from him in his own chicken-scratch handwriting.

  He told me he thinks he’s getting close to finding my star tower and that if he found it, I’d have to come home right away and dance with him and all the stars. He said he’d take care of Rusty. He said he wouldn’t forget me. He said I’d always be his bird.

  It was sweet. It made me laugh. It made me cry.

  And as I set the letter down onto my desk in my bedroom, my heart hurt. And I was mad at the world. I was mad at my parents for making me leave Allandale. I was mad at Eben for not telling me that he liked me under those stairs in junior high. I was mad knowing that it probably wouldn’t have mattered, even if he had. And most of all, I was mad at the fates for making us friends.

  It wasn’t fair—that I got to know Salem Ebenezer, only to have to leave him behind.

  And I remember sliding that letter, along with every Polaroid I ever took that summer, into my favorite book, and I told myself that he would forget...that he would forget me and move on—and that would be better for him. It would be better for him to love someone he could touch.

  And I would forget, too. I wiped my eyes, and I told myself that I would forget every one of those white-bordered memories. And I told myself that I would forget that I ever loved him—that eventually, I would forget the way he bit the inside of his cheek when he thought, that I would forget his beautiful, thoughtful eyes. And mostly, I told myself that I would forget Salem Ebenezer because I feared if I didn’t, I would lose myself.

  And I went on with my life. I went on living in our new little house in Mount Pleasant—just a bike ride from the ocean. I went on playing volleyball and going to the beach with my new friends every weekend we got a chance. And I went on loving Aaron Anson, so much so, that I followed him to college that very next year.

  And I never wrote Eben back.

  And as it turns out, that was the last time I heard from him. But that wasn’t the last time I ever thought about him. Because after it was all said and done, I guess I had learned one of the hardest lessons that life has to give: Sometimes, forgetting someone you love isn’t so easy.

  Chapter Twenty

  Savannah

  (23 Years Old)

  Day 6,570

  My dearest Savannah,

  I know by now you’ve taken over this ramshackle place. I just knew deep down somewhere that you would inherit this little mess of a world someday. I knew even at eight years old that you were destined to have ink under your nails and a writer’s pad in your back pocket. You just fit so well here. So, I also knew you’d be the only one to appreciate this place—with its old, stale paper smell and all—when it came time for me to pass it on.<
br />
  I’m sorry I didn’t spend more time with you or your sister. I had this place, which by now you probably can imagine has a way of tying ya down. And I knew you had your life. And you’re still young and living it; I didn’t want to interfere with that. But I do wish now that I had confiscated more of your time. Hindsight’s 20/20, I guess.

  But anyway, let me get to some things you might need to know. First, there’s a safe buried in the corner of this office.

  I stop reading, lower the letter and look around. Three corners are stacked as high as I am tall with newspapers. And the fourth has an old blue polyester recliner sitting in it. If there’s a safe, he’s right about the buried part.

  I lift the page and start reading again.

  And there’s a key to it, but I lost that a while back. I’m more than certain, however, that you’ll find that, too, if your heart’s in the right place.

  I smile and furrow my brow at his words but then keep reading.

  Paper goes to press Tuesday night. You’ll always find a story up at the Casey’s. Old Weston Hartfield comes in on Mondays. You’ll just have to work through his meanderings. He sets up shop in Ol’ Blue, and he camps out there for at least a couple hours. But don’t worry, he’s harmless. And he knows EVERYTHING. I don’t know how, but he does.

  And for everything else, there’s Jan.

  Well, anyway, that’s that—about all you need to know. I guess you’ll know what to do with the rest. This paper’s been my life. Take care of her. She might be old, but she holds all the town’s secrets, and that means she’ll always be worth something—at least to me...and now, to you, too.

  And don’t stop living! Like I said, this place has a way of tying ya down. Don’t let it!