by Kyoko Mori
“Let’s go find some food for him.” The doctor leads the way out of the clinic, down the flagstone path between her clinic and the big Japanese-style house next door with black kawara slates on the roof.
“How do you know I can take care of that bird?” I ask as I follow her. “Why don’t you keep him?” My voice sounds shrill and worried. There is no way I can take that bird home. My grandmother will never allow it.
Stopping and turning around to face me, she says, “I usually would. I don’t trust most of the people who bring me birds. But you are different.”
“But you don’t know me. Maybe I’m careless. Maybe I won’t take good care of him.”
“I already know that you are not careless,” she says, starting to walk again. “Most people come and say, ‘I found this bird. It’s hurt. It won’t fly.’ That’s about all they would notice. You could see the injury was on his foot and not his wings. You seemed perfectly comfortable about picking him up.”
I don’t say anything. She looks back.
“Is something wrong?” she asks. “Are you still worried?”
How can I tell her the truth? I can’t take the bird home because my grandmother will kill me. If I say that, the doctor will ask why I’m worried about my grandmother instead of my parents. I will have to tell her more: My mother left me, and my father really doesn’t live with me, either. He’s always in Hiroshima with his girlfriend, so I’m alone with a grandmother who hates animals. I can’t tell her anything like that. She will think of me as a pitiful girl; not the attentive and observant person she imagined.
“No, nothing,” I say, shaking my head.
“It’s okay if you’re worried a little,” she says, smiling. “Caring for any living thing is a big responsibility.”
She seems so cheerful and confident that I try to smile back. She tilts her head a little to the side; the parrot earrings dangle and shake. I can see why people call her Bird Woman, although they may not mean it in a completely flattering way. No one would criticize her openly, of course, because she is a doctor and the daughter of a rich family, but people always sound a little begrudging when they talk about someone who is a spinster. Maybe calling her Bird Woman is like speaking behind her back. But the name fits her, too. She is like a flamingo or a crane—slim and lively, pretty in a slightly odd way.
* * *
Inside the large kitchen of the house next door, an old man and an old woman are seated at the table. They are having miso soup and rice—a standard breakfast for people their age. They put down their bowls and chopsticks when we come in.
“My parents.” Dr. Mizutani sweeps her hands toward them in a somewhat comical way. “Professor Mizutani, of the classics department of Osaka University, and Mrs. Mizutani, teacher of flower arrangement.” She grins and tilts her head, as if to say, I’m exaggerating, don’t be scared of them. “And I forgot to ask your name.”
“I’m Megumi Shimizu.”
The old couple smile and bow slightly without getting up. They are dressed the same way Grandfather and Grandmother Kurihara dressed around the house—the man in a casual black kimono, the woman in a gray housedress.
“Megumi Shimizu, a girl who knows her birds,” the doctor announces, walking past the table and opening the refrigerator. “Megumi brought me a waxwing with an injured foot. She’s going to take him home and care for him for a week,” she tells her parents over her shoulder while pulling out a box of strawberries, a bunch of green grapes, a few nectarines. After washing them in the sink, she cuts them up; it looks like she’s making a fruit salad, only the pieces are smaller.
“Would you like some breakfast?” Mrs. Mizutani asks me, already getting up.
“Oh, no, thanks.”
“Don’t be polite,” the old woman smiles. She is bony and thin, like Grandmother Shimizu, but her voice has the soft, gentle tone Grandmother Kurihara’s had.
“Mother.” Dr. Mizutani shakes her head. “A young girl isn’t going to have miso soup and rice for breakfast. Even I don’t eat that. Megumi is only fifteen, half my age.” Scraping the cut-up fruit into a jar, the doctor returns to the refrigerator and brings me a container of strawberry yogurt. “Here, you take this.”
“For the bird?”
“No,” she laughs, “for you. My mother will get you a spoon. Sit down and wait for me.”
Mrs. Mizutani is already handing me the spoon and then sitting down. Her daughter disappears to another part of the house while I sit down and begin to eat the yogurt.
“So you are a young woman who knows about birds,” Professor Mizutani says in a deep voice. His eyes wrinkle up when he smiles, the lines around them spreading like a cat’s whiskers.
“Not really,” I answer. “Dr. Mizutani is being kind, I’m sure.”
“Oh, no, not our daughter.” The old man widens his eyes and tilts his head toward his wife. “Kumiko is never overly kind in her comments about people, wouldn’t you agree?”
Kumiko—forever beautiful. I wish my name meant something like that, instead of God’s blessing.
“I won’t say that Kumiko is unkind,” Mrs. Mizutani offers, “but no, she doesn’t pay idle compliments.”
Dr. Mizutani returns with two flowering peach branches. “Mother, we are taking these for the bird. I’m sure your students can do without them. They’d be perfect for the bird to perch on.”
Mrs. Mizutani shakes her head, smiling at the same time, as if to say What’s the use of saying no?
“Megumi, you can bring that jar of fruit.”
I jump up, take the spoon and the yogurt container to the sink, and grab the jar.
“It was a pleasure meeting you,” the old man says.
“Yes. Come back and visit us again,” his wife adds.
“Thank you.”
Dr. Mizutani is already going out the door. I have to run to catch up.
* * *
Inside the pet carrier, the waxwing is still sitting in the back corner, leaning on his good foot. The injured foot is folded up halfway.
“Birds perch on one foot all the time,” the doctor tells me. “But normally, the other foot would be folded all the way up to his body, not halfway like that.” She trims a few inches off the peach branches and hands them to me. “In a few days, when he seems a little better, put these inside the carrier and see what he does. If he still can’t perch, you should take them out and try again later. No need for him to get tired out from trying too hard.”
I nod, still wishing I could tell her that I can’t take the bird. But how can I? She has even told her parents that I would care for him.
“When you get home,” she goes on, “give him some of the fruit in a small dish, and also some water in a shallow container. You can clean the cage by changing the paper towel. He won’t be too much trouble.” She hands me the bottle of antibiotics, a syringe, and another small bottle. “Vitamins. You can sprinkle a few drops on his food.”
“All right.”
The doctor puts the bottles and the syringe into a paper bag. “Bring him back next Saturday, and we’ll see if he can fly and perch. Of course, you should call me if you have any questions or problems.” She jots down her number on a piece of paper and drops it inside the paper bag. “Don’t be shy about calling. I don’t care what time it is, and you won’t wake up my parents because they have a different number. I have a room in their house, but usually I sleep in one of the upstairs rooms here.”
“What if the bird gets out of the cage?”
“That’s a good question. Do your windows have blinds?”
“Yes.”
“Keep the blinds closed then so he won’t fly into the glass. How about any mobiles or wires that could hurt him?”
“I don’t have anything like that.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I had said that my room was full of mobiles. That would have been a good excuse, but it’s too late to change my answer.
“It should be all right, then. If he gets away, you can catch him. W
ait.” She goes back to another room and returns with a net, the kind children use to catch butterflies. “Here, you can borrow this.”
“That?”
Tipping her head back, she laughs. “Waxwings are great fliers, but they aren’t that hard to catch. Besides, you are a very competent person. So long as you keep the door closed so he stays in your room and doesn’t fly all over your house, you’ll have no problem. If you want to, you can let him fly around to get exercise, once his foot is better.”
“No, my grandmother would be very upset.” The words come out before I can stop them. My heart sinks, and I wait for the doctor to question me about my family.
But she doesn’t seem to notice anything odd about my having a grandmother. She shrugs and says, “Tell her that the bird can’t hurt her. I know people worry about birds getting stuck in their hair and all kinds of nonsense like that. Tell her she’s wrong.”
She must think that I have a normal grandmother who just lives with my family. I don’t know what to say. How can I tell her that my grandmother is all I have, that she drowns mice?
“Is something wrong?” the doctor asks me.
“No, nothing,” I reply. “But I’d better go home.”
“I’ll give you a ride.”
“That won’t be necessary. I can carry everything.”
“Of course you can. I want to give you a ride all the same.”
She doesn’t wait for my answer. Picking up the pet carrier and the butterfly net, she heads out of the clinic and into the garage, where she opens the door of a red truck. She puts the pet carrier on the seat and waits for me to climb in before closing the door. We sit with the bird between us, the butterfly net and the paper bag on the floor. The moment the doctor puts the key in the ignition and the engine turns over, the waxwing hops forward and trills one sharp whistle. He stands cocking his head to the side for a while; then, straightening out his neck, he stares ahead with his beak slightly raised, looking like a pilot about to take off.
“I don’t know why,” the doctor says, laughing. “Birds always do that in cars. They look straight ahead, as if they want to drive.”
I’m laughing, too, just looking at him. He seems so serious and comical at the same time. My cheeks and mouth feel strange—I haven’t laughed much in the last month and a half.
“Tell me where you live.”
“Just down the hill and then a few blocks to the west.”
Halfway there, the doctor asks, “How did you know this was a Japanese waxwing?”
“The crest, the black markings, and the red band across the tail. They don’t look like any other bird.”
“Of course not. But I meant, how did you know that?”
“My mother,” I answer. “She used to tell me the names of birds. She didn’t want me to grow up knowing only sparrows, crows, and swallows. It bothered her that people didn’t know the birds, trees, and flowers around them, so she used to take me on walks, to show me things.”
“Used to?” The doctor takes her eyes off the road momentarily to glance at my face.
Looking straight ahead, I explain what I was hoping I wouldn’t have to. “My mother doesn’t live with me anymore. She went back to live with her father. She had to leave me behind because my grandfather is too poor to support both of us. He lives north of Kyoto, in a little village, and has an embroidery workshop. He’s poor because people use machines now for the work he does by hand.” I pause and add, so as not to sound completely pitiful, “My mother wanted to take me with her, of course. She only left me behind because she thought I would be better off with my father and his mother, here in Ashiya.” I say nothing about how my father is never around and how my grandmother scolds me every day.
Dr. Mizutani is silent for a long time. Then, in a very gentle voice, she offers, “I’m sorry. That must be so hard.”
Suddenly, my eyes fill with tears. I wish her voice didn’t sound so kind. Turning my head to the side window, I blink and pretend to be looking at the scenery. But a few more teardrops come out before I can stop. Dr. Mizutani’s hand reaches across the truck toward me, over the bird cage. She is holding out a tissue. I take it and dab at my eyes.
“I never know quite what to do,” the doctor says, “because everyone is different about crying. Are you someone who wants to be consoled, or should I pretend you aren’t even crying?”
“You should pretend,” I answer right away. “I hate crying in front of people.”
“Me, too,” she says. “I hate that more than anything.” She pauses and adds, “I hate crying even if I’m alone.” Her voice drops a little, as if she were remembering something sad, but maybe she is just being sympathetic and trying to spare my pride. She doesn’t seem like a person who ever cries, alone or in front of people.
We don’t talk until we are driving the last block to my house. Dr. Mizutani puts one hand on top of the pet carrier and steers with the other. “This bird is lucky to have met you,” she says. “If you hadn’t found him, he would have died from exhaustion.” She parks her truck on the driveway and turns off the engine. “Can I help you carry things?”
“No, thank you. I can manage,” I reply quickly. The last thing I want is for her to meet my grandmother and hear her yell at me.
“I expect to see you in a week, then. Call me if you have any questions.”
“Okay.” I open the door and pick up the carrier, the net, and the bag.
“Listen,” she calls when I step down off the truck. “I really enjoyed meeting you.”
“Thanks.”
Before I can think clearly enough to say, “I enjoyed meeting you, too,” the truck is already backing out of the driveway. I watch for a while and then walk to the front door, feeling sick to my stomach at the thought of my grandmother.
* * *
Grandmother Shimizu is right inside the door, sweeping the hallway with a broom. Her dark brown kimono reminds me of withered leaves. She is just like a shriveled-up plant, frail and bony, her face full of wrinkles. I shouldn’t be scared of her. She is shorter than I am, so I can see the top of her head, where her iron gray hair looks brittle and thin. Even so, I feel as though she were towering over me. I begin to cower, just like my mother used to.
“Where have you been?” she asks in a sharp voice.
“Dr. Mizutani’s, up on the hill,” I answer, making sure to speak up clearly so she won’t accuse me of mumbling. But she is no longer worried about where I have been; she is staring at the pet carrier and the net.
“I brought a bird to the doctor, and she gave it back to me to care for,” I explain. “A waxwing. I’ll have him for a week in my room.”
Grandmother doesn’t start yelling right away. First, she fixes me with an icy stare. This is how she used to scare my mother, too; she’s trying to build suspense before her first angry word, giving me time to feel bad even before she speaks. I have been dreading this moment all along, but now that it’s here, I’m suddenly more angry than scared. The way she tries to intimidate me is so obvious. She must think I am too stupid to see her tactics. But she has no right to try to scare me. Why should I have to explain and apologize for everything I do? I can never please her, anyway. No matter what I say, Grandmother will be upset. The whole time I was gone, she was sitting here imagining the things I might be up to, none of them good. She always assumes the very worst about me, just like she did about my mother. That is wrong and unfair. I shouldn’t have to pacify her about every little thing. This is my house. What I do in my room is none of her business.
I take a deep breath to steady my voice and say, “It shouldn’t make any difference to you if I bring this bird to my room. You won’t have to see him again unless you come snooping.”
About to say something, she changes her mind and snaps her mouth shut. Her jaw is clenched, and she is scowling hard. I can feel her mind working, searching for something mean and cutting to say to me. I’m not going to wait to hear it.
Without a word, I start up the stairs
to my room. I half expect her to come running after me, but she doesn’t. She must know that she’ll never catch me. She has bad knees and complains about backaches all the time. I hurry up the stairs, go into my room, and close the door, my heart beating very fast the whole time. I listen for Grandmother’s footsteps, until I am sure that she is not coming up.
Once I am convinced, I walk up to the desk. I know she will be especially mean to me for the rest of the day and even all week, but for now I am safe. Setting down the pet carrier on the desktop, I put some of the fruit in the small dish Dr. Mizutani has given me and push it inside the cage door. Immediately, the bird comes hopping, one-legged, and pecks at a cut-up grape. He swallows the piece whole; his head goes down again into the dish. By the time I get some water from the guest bathroom across the hallway, the bird has eaten several pieces of fruit. The tip of his beak is red from berry juice. I hang the pet carrier from the hook on the ceiling where my canary cage used to be. My grandmother, too old and unsteady on her feet to stand on the chair, won’t be able to reach the bird. The best she could do, if she ever came into my room, would be to stare at him and feel mean, like an old and feeble cat.
On my oak dresser, the owl-shaped clock is ticking. The clock was my mother’s present to me on my seventh birthday, the year I learned to tell time. The owl’s yellow eyes shift from side to side every second, and every hour the clock makes the right number of hoots. For years, my mother and I laughed to hear that sound. I must have just missed its eleven hoots. I don’t have much time to work on the essay. In less than two hours, I am supposed to meet my friends downtown to see a movie. Sitting down at my desk, I pull out another blank sheet of paper.
“I am not sure,” I write in ink, “what it is like to be a high school student in 1975. I only know about myself. My family is nothing like anyone else’s, and that makes me different from all the other girls at my high school.”
As I continue to write, the waxwing begins to make a thin, lisping sound, a wavering voice like the distant crickets in late summer and fall. His voice reminds me of the field of pampas grass behind Grandfather Kurihara’s house. Long ago, before my mother began crying herself to sleep and making secret plans to leave me, I used to walk in the pampas field every August, holding hands with my mother and Grandmother Kurihara, listening to the crickets in the grass and the cicadas in the trees above. Our footsteps stirred up the green grasshoppers, which spread their iridescent wings and flew up in long arcs all around us.
