by James Bird
And as hard as I fight it, her weeping crawls off of her face and jumps onto mine. Tears leak from my eyes as I paint. My vision blurs. And as impossible as it sounds, my ears even begin to blur. It’s like I hear the forest weeping alongside us. Perhaps all the rocks, lizards, bugs, trees, and birds are as sad as we are.
As we cry, the sky begins to pull the dark blanket over the forest. The beams of sunlight splicing through the trees disappear as the sun descends behind us. The coldness slithers over the forest floor, wrapping its frigid fingers around the both of us. Night is here. I wipe my paint-covered hands over my face, erasing all evidence of my tears, but covering my face with smears of colors, and she suddenly gasps.
“What is it?” I ask.
Her eyes are fixed on the painting of her. I look at it for the first time as a whole and know why she reacted with a gasp. I think this is the best thing I have ever created. It looks exactly like her, but at the same time, I realize how someone might see a butterfly instead of a girl. I have no idea how my portrait of her turned into this. This shouldn’t be possible, but here it is, staring at me.
“It’s beautiful,” she says.
“Twelve,” I say. “Did I really make this?”
“You really did.”
She crawls over to me, but it looks forced and painful, like she is narrowly escaping invisible quicksand. So I crawl to her, meeting her halfway.
“Collin.”
And before I can tell her, “Six,” she wraps her arms around my neck. I pull her into my chest and hold on to her, tightly, just in case the night tries to take her away. “Not yet,” I whisper to all the nature surrounding us.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
MY BRAND-NEW DAD (29)
Orenda gave me the painting, which is weird because it was right after I handed it to her. But she said where she’s going, there’s no need for paintings, and this way I can look at her all day and all night and remember what she looked like as a human. I know that sounds crazy, but she’s really convinced she’s turning into a butterfly … So I accepted it and hung it above my bed, right next to Seven’s portrait. I’m not sure if it’s my imagination or not, but when I look at it, I still smell the forest.
Which reminds me, where is Seven? Where is Grandma? They’ve both been gone since this afternoon. What kind of adventure are they having?
Orenda told me to come visit her tonight around eleven. So naturally, I’ve been checking the clock every ten minutes. It’s only eight thirty. Maybe I’ll finish reading Haunting the Deep. I need to see if Samantha and her charming ghost boyfriend end up together, but I’m kind of avoiding reading it too, because if they don’t end up together, I’ll be sad, and I’m trying really hard to stay away from sadness. Perhaps I’ll work out instead? I’ve grown quite fond of getting stronger. And it shows. I actually have muscles now. I think my dad would be proud if he saw me.
As soon as I open my bedroom door, the smell of the forest is quickly eclipsed by a very familiar smell. A smell I haven’t experienced since leaving California … Pizza.
I follow my nose down the hall and reach the living room. As I turn the corner, I see two pizza boxes on the table, and my mouth instantly salivates. But that’s not all I see.
My mom stands before me, beaming with happiness. She looks like she just found the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. And standing next to her is her pot of gold in the form of a tall, dark, and handsome black man.
“Collin, this is Ronnie,” she says.
I have to look up to meet his eyes. Not just up, but way up, like I’m looking at the ceiling. He definitely had to duck down, under the doorway, when he entered the house. My eyes are instantly distracted by his muscles. I mean, just moments ago I was thinking I had muscles, but this guy … He is muscles. Like, a hundred of them just piled onto each other. They bulge out of his sleeves, barely fitting inside his shirt. His chest presses against the fabric, like trapped inflated balloons; even his neck looks like it could overpower a bear.
I immediately wish that I had his complexion. Not only because black is obviously my favorite color and it’s all I ever wear, but also because his skin looks so smooth and flawless. My pale skin always has blemishes and freckles and red spots forming from who knows where, but his skin looks perfectly wrapped around his muscles, with not a scratch on it.
By the way Ronnie and my mom are just staring at me, I realize I have been staring at his body for far too long. Her letters are bouncing around behind my eyes, waiting for their withdrawal. “Eighteen. Sorry. Hi, Ronnie.”
He smiles. His teeth are even whiter than Orenda’s. Wow. He must brush them three times a day, at least.
“I heard a lot about you, Collin. Nice to finally meet you,” he says, and extends his hand to me.
I shake his hand. I bet our handshake resembles a large bald eagle swooping down and grabbing a field mouse.
“Forty-four. You’re not at all how I pictured,” I say.
He laughs and pulls me in for a hug. As my body hits his, I realize he could easily crush me if he wanted to. His body is hard like steel, not an inch of fat anywhere. He must work out three times a day as well. Right before brushing his teeth, I assume. He pats me on the back, nearly knocking the wind out of me, before he releases me.
“Who’d you picture? Some marine with a buzz cut smoking a cigar?” he asks.
The truth is, I didn’t picture anyone. I didn’t think about this guy at all. In fact, I actively tried to avoid thinking about him as soon as my mom brought up his existence to me. I count, and even his letters seem cooler than other people’s letters.
“Forty-nine. I don’t know. You just look famous, I guess.”
He laughs again and wraps his huge arms around my mom, like a python clutching a fox, and kisses her forehead, which he has to bend down to do.
“I love this kid already,” Ronnie says to my mom.
“He’s mine. What’s not to love?” She reaches up, on tippy toes, to kiss him back.
Now I’m just standing here watching my mom and her boyfriend trade kisses. Which is super awkward since my mouth is still drooling from the pizza three feet away from me.
“I should probably go,” I say to them and reach for the pizza, but Ronnie reaches out and grabs my arm.
“Not so fast, little man.”
“Eighteen. Huh?” I ask.
“I got you something,” he says, and reaches down into his duffel bag and pulls out a silver chained necklace.
I’ve seen this type of necklace before, in war movies. They’re called dog tags. The soldiers would take them off their dead friends to identify who was killed in action. Ronnie places the chain over my head and lets it drop, where it settles near my heart. There are two dog tags attached to it. I hold it close to my face and read the first one. It’s his. Staff Sergeant Ronald B. Spicer III. Even his name is cool.
“Sixteen. Spicer?” I read aloud.
“I call him Spicy,” my mom blurts out.
“I’m sure you do,” I say, and look at the other dog tag.
My mind goes numb, momentarily. It’s my brother’s dog tag. I immediately picture Aji smiling. And this guy attached Aji’s dog tag to his own. I don’t know much about the military, but I’d assume that means a lot. My heart drops a few inches as I realize Aji must have meant a lot to Ronnie.
“He’d want you to have it,” Ronnie says to me.
“Eighteen.”
I look at my mom and she nods. I can see that this moment means everything to her. Like everything she went through in life has finally come full circle. She has a man again. A son again. Her family has changed, but we are a family nonetheless.
“Thank you,” I say, and let the dog tag slip through my fingers, where it lands above my heart and rests with the necklace my mom gave me on my first day here.
And at this very moment, I feel something I haven’t really felt before from a man … I feel wanted. And at this exact moment, I find myself feeling sorry for my dad.
Being wanted feels really good, so I’m pretty sure wanting someone feels just as good. My dad and I lacked both feelings. I never felt wanted, and he never necessarily wanted me. How easily we could have been happy if we just accepted each other for who we are, flaws and all.
“I’m not trying to replace your dad, but I want you to know that you got one here, at home, if you have room for another,” Ronnie says.
“Ninety. I’d like that,” I say.
We both stand and stare at each other awkwardly, like two men not used to being vulnerable. Should we hug? Do men kiss on the cheek like sons and mothers do? Should I shake his hand again? He gives me a thumbs-up, so I mimic him. My mom laughs.
“Okay. As your new dad, my first rule is to never let hot pizza go cold,” he says, and hands me the pizza box.
I smile and accept it. And it’s still warm. “Fifty-three. That’s a good rule.”
“Now, Collin, if you don’t mind, Spicy and I have some making out to do,” says my mom.
Wow. She went there. And by the way they are both grinning at each other like little rabbits, I take the hint.
“Fifty-two. You two have fun,” I say, and carry the pizza toward the sliding glass door.
I know I was going to work out as I chewed time waiting for Orenda, but why chew time when I can chew pizza? I’ll just wait for her in her newly remodeled cocoon. Maybe I’ll even save her a slice. Maybe.
I’m not even completely out of the house before my mom and Ronnie go at it. I hear the lip smacking as he picks her up and rushes her down the hallway like she’s a football and he’s destined for the end zone. And yes, there is definitely a touchdown happening. Their door slams shut.
I pick up my pace and squeeze through the opening. As I near the ramp, I open the box and pull out a slice. It smells heavenly, if heaven is coated in melted cheese. I bite into it. OMG. It’s so good! There is no rooftop to the joy I’m tasting.
A whip cracks the sky. It’s so loud I nearly drop the pizza. I look up, and the entire sky flashes from lightning bolts behind the clouds. Thunder rolls through the sky like bowling balls crashing against the pins. Dark clouds are squeezed, releasing a sudden heavy rain.
I carefully walk up the ramp, balancing the pizza box in one hand and my half-eaten slice in the other. I kind of miss climbing the rope to get in here, but like Orenda says, things change. I stuff the rest of the slice in my mouth and chew.
The moment I enter, Foxy looks up at me. He is applying wet rags to Orenda’s skin as she lies in bed. The room is lit only by candles, but I notice Orenda immediately reaching for a hat and placing it on her hairless head as she sits up.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I know I’m early. I’ll come back later,” I say.
“No, stay. We’re done,” Foxy says, and rises to his feet.
“Fourteen.”
As he passes me, he says, “It’ll cost you a slice, though.”
I open the box, and he reaches in and takes the largest slice and smiles.
“Thanks,” he says as he leaves the tree house.
Even though pizza makes everyone happy, I saw the pain in his eyes. He’s losing his daughter, and there’s nothing he can do about it, because if there were something to be done, he would have done it. Foxy’s that kind of dad. The kind that swallows the pain and lets his daughter think wild thoughts like she’s not dying but instead turning into a butterfly. It must eat him alive to witness this, not once, but now twice. From both of the loves of his life. Ronnie is tough and built like a tank, but Foxy is easily the strongest man I have ever met.
I approach Orenda and set the pizza box on her bed.
“Hungry?” I ask.
“Don’t have much of an appetite these days,” she says, and pulls her knees up so she can rest her elbows on them.
Neither of us pays attention to the way her limbs are vibrating.
“Thirty-three.”
She smiles. “Thirty-three drawn out looks like two butterflies cuddling,” she says, and with her index finger, she traces the number into the air.
“Fifty. Yeah, I see it,” I say.
Her voice is so thin and shallow now, and it looks like it hurts every time she moves. I wish I could take her pain away. I’d happily feel it all if it meant she would feel better, but I also know she would never let me. It’s hers. It’s part of her story.
“Is it painful?”
“I invite pain in sometimes to remind me how beautiful being alive is. But sometimes it overstays its welcome,” she says.
What an amazing way to say it hurts. And I guess there’s some truth to it, I mean, if it weren’t for pain, we wouldn’t really value it as much when we feel good. Everything has its counterpart. We wouldn’t love bright sunny days if we didn’t know a day could also be dark and gloomy. We wouldn’t love kindness if the world was never cruel. And I wouldn’t know what being wanted feels like, if I hadn’t experienced feeling so unwanted most of my life. Orenda has shown me how great life is, because I know how awful it can be sometimes.
“I don’t know how you’re so strong. I’m such a wimp. Seriously. Pain scares me. Just the thought of getting hurt kinda hurts,” I say, which causes her to laugh.
“You’re a dork,” she says, which now causes me to laugh.
“Only dorks still say the word dork,” I say, and put my hand on her knee.
She stares at my hand, each finger, before she lifts her eyes to meet mine.
“I’m gonna miss you, you dork,” she says.
“You shouldn’t miss what is right in front of you.”
She smiles, remembering she once told me that exact thing. She leans forward and holds up her index finger. “Describe me in one word.”
One word. How do you describe the girl that a million words could never come close to describing? There are not enough words, not even if you combine every word from every language. So, I’ll keep it simple and speak one word from my heart. “Pretty,” I say.
She gasps, and her tired eyes widen. “Pretty? Is that it? I’m pretty?”
“Yes. You are pretty. You are pretty kind. You are pretty funny. You are pretty smart. You are pretty amazing. Orenda, you are pretty much perfect,” I say.
My words hold her still. I don’t know what she’s thinking, but I see tears forming under her eyes. But the dam holds back the flood; she doesn’t cry. She just smiles and lets the moment pass by us, float out of the window, and disappear into the storm.
“Wanna do something totally crazy?” she asks, with newfound twinkles in her eyes that resemble the billion stars outside.
I wonder what this girl considers crazy, because by all accounts, she is already pretty crazy.
“Should I be terrified?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says, and shakes from excitement, letting out a sinister laugh as she points to her wheelchair.
“You want me to put you in the wheelchair?” I ask.
“I do,” she replies.
“Three. All aboard,” I say, giving my best attempt at sounding like a train conductor.
This is already a bad idea, but the truth is, I’d do anything for this girl. I get up, scoop her into my arms, and place her softly into the wheelchair.
“Now what?” I dare ask.
“Hop on the back. We’re riding down the ramp,” she says.
Okay. She’s finally lost her mind, I mean completely. “Thirty-three. No way.”
“Fear ceases to exist once you confront it,” she says.
“Thirty-four. Forget fear, how about it being incredibly dangerous?” I ask.
“As long as we don’t fall off the side, we’ll be fine,” she says in a voice that resembles a little girl asking to go on a roller coaster.
“Thirty-eight. We can get hurt! No. We’re not doing this,” I say.
Her eyes narrow in on me, and her lips pull to one side. “I am. You with me or not?” she asks.
She’s serious. She’s really going to do it. And now the ball is in my court. Will I just stand by an
d watch her do this incredibly stupid act, which also does sound kinda fun, or will I throw caution to the wind and hop on board and let whatever happens happen?
“Seventeen. I’m in.”
If she could jump for joy, she’d be doing it now. But we’ll have to settle for her smile.
“You do know it’s raining outside, right?” I ask.
“It won’t be,” she says.
“What do you mean? I can hear it. It’s a storm. Look!” I say, and wheel her toward the door. I swing it open to show her the downpour—except … the rain is gone. The thunder and lightning and the black foaming clouds are gone. It’s just cold. “Where’s the storm?” I ask.
She laughs. “I am the storm. Let’s do this,” she says.
“Twenty-one,” I say, and wheel her out.
We stop at the top of the ramp. I look at the steep path ahead of us. This is a bad idea.
“You sure about this?” I ask.
“Hold on … I’m ready,” she says.
I pause, which makes her laugh. “No, I mean, hold on tight. I’m ready,” she clarifies.
“Thirty-eight. If something goes wrong, you got to share this wheelchair with me,” I say jokingly, but also I kind of mean it.
“We’ll never forget this. Whatever happens, you and I will forever have right now,” she says, and places her hands on both sides, gripping them tightly.
I can’t believe I am about to do this. This is insane. But … this is love, and maybe love is crazy. Maybe everyone needs to try to be a little less normal and a bit more crazy.
She takes a deep breath. “As brave as a brave.” She exhales.
I don’t count her letters because they weren’t for me. They were for her.
