Starling Days

by Rowan Hisayo Buchanan

  “Essentially true?”

  “Okay. I was like seven, so I probably didn’t use those words in my head. I probably just thought they were magic.” But she had felt it. She knew she had. It had felt truer than the tilt of the planet or its long spin around the sun. This world made so much more sense if it was filled with angry, hungry gods. Right now, Persephone would be traveling muddy-footed down to Hades. Her dress would be trailing through molting leaves and the crushed paper cups that once held hot chocolates or lattes or whatever people were drinking to keep warm.

  Phoebe paused as if considering Mina’s answer, then leaned forward and kissed the tip of Mina’s nose. “You’re cute,” she said. And then, more hesitatingly, “But, seriously, you don’t think blogging’s weird?”

  “No weirder than anything anybody does.”

  “And I have to take photos of myself, you know. I’m part of the product.”

  Mina considered. “Okay, then. Let’s not take any photographs today. Let’s have a photo-free day. Let’s just be us.”

  So there were no photos of Mina climbing a tall tree until she was up in the green-brown-gold envelope of leaves. There were no photos of her fists raised in victory as she looked down to Phoebe watching and laughing. Or of them whooping at this simple victory. There were no photos as they kissed against the steady trunk of the same tree, Mina’s palms pressed to the bark. There were no photos of the tarnished silver woodlouse that ambled along the bark, which Mina didn’t alert Phoebe to because she didn’t want the kissing to end.

  There were no photos of dusk blurring the trees into the sky. Or of the cloud that rose from the trees that was not a cloud at all but birds, a flock, pulsing and flowing through the air.

  “Starlings,” Phoebe said. “They fly here in the winter.”

  “Don’t birds go south?”

  “England has a milder climate than where they come from. Did you know a flock of starlings is called a murmuration?”

  “Murmuration,” Mina said. “Murmuration. Murmuration.” She pressed her mouth against Phoebe’s arm. “Murmuration. Murmuration. Murmuration,” she kissed into the skin.

  “Stop it! That tickles.”

  “Starlings. It sounds like they should be from the stars,” Mina said.

  As they lay watching the flock, each bird cut a black star against the sky. There were more birds than all the wishes Mina had ever held. Enough birds to wish for Oscar, for Phoebe, for Psyche, for Cupid, for her grandma flitted past. Her arm wrapped around Phoebe, Mina wished on each of them. “Stay with me tonight. Don’t go back to Theo’s. Stay with me.”

  And Phoebe nodded, her chin bobbing against Mina’s forearm.

  It was only on the train home, with the warm weight of Benson in her lap, that Mina regretted the day had slipped away undocumented.

  Oscar’s father stood in front of the hallway mirror straightening his coat sleeves.

  “Dad, are you going into town?” Oscar asked. “Is it safe for you to drive?”

  “It’s fine.”

  “How about I come with you?”

  “Oh, stop fussing. You’re behaving just like Ami.”

  “It’s for me. I’m out of multivitamins. You could drop me off at the store.”

  “What’re they called? I’ll grab them. I have a checkup with my primary-care doctor. It might take a while.”

  “I can wait,” Oscar said.

  The car had reclining heated seats. Oscar had never been a car man but as his legs stretched out he had to admit it felt good. The car was a sofa mounted on a four-wheel drive. Generous driveways and tall pines sped past the window. The ocean shimmied in and out of view.

  “There’s a bell in town,” his father said. “You ring it if you see a whale.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “Ami saw one once, but someone got to the bell before her.”

  “Dad, I’m glad you’re okay.”

  “They took my spot.” His father gestured to a car with a big sticker on the front: MY DAUGHTER MADE THE HONOR ROLL. “Look, I’ll drop you off by the store.”

  Oscar’s vitamins were among the other bottles promising health and beauty. He was never sure if they helped, but it must be better to give the brain and body as much as you could. He walked to the place his father had told him to wait, a cluster of benches with a view of the water. A girl in silver Dr. Martens sat sideways on a bench so that her boots were propped up on the seat. Her legs were shapely, two neat arcs of calf. Sunglasses were tucked into the top of the denim dress.

  “Have you seen any whales?” he asked. “I was told they come into the bay.”

  She fumbled in her pockets, dug out some earbuds and jammed them in. Oscar felt stupid. What was he doing talking to this girl? She must be only twenty, and she’d come here to sit in peace. He opened his phone and looked again at the picture of Mina that the app used. Next to her image was a red exclamation mark. The app didn’t know where she was. But her battery was on 78 percent and yesterday it had been on 62 percent so she had charged it. She was alive. He should speak to her. He’d never imagined that he would avoid his wife. He hadn’t wanted to be that man. Perhaps she was right: they never should’ve got married. They could divorce, he supposed. That was what people who never should’ve got married did.

  Divorce. Damn, that was a big word. It was one of those words that attached themselves to you. Oscar Umeda—college-educated, married, divorced.

  He’d have to find a lawyer. He thought of his wife’s mouth twisting against Phoebe’s. He thought of his father’s heart stopping. Was there a place to find reviews for divorce lawyers? Could you trust advertisements online? Why was it that some sorts of tiredness, like running, left you feeling clean? Whereas others, like marriage, left you merely exhausted? If his father died and he and Mina split, Oscar would be the only Umeda. But his father wasn’t going to die.

  A day without Phoebe. It shouldn’t be a big deal. Yesterday was still sweet in her mouth. It was almost enough. Almost. But not quite. Because Oscar was everywhere in the apartment. And her phone never rang. And again and again she looked at that little map, at his little unchanging face. She willed him to come home, to write a list, to tell her they’d sort all this out. Did missing Oscar make Phoebe a distraction? Did wanting Phoebe mean she didn’t love Oscar? The desires elbowed each other for more room in her skull. Phoebe. Oscar. Oscar. Phoebe. She wished either of them were here. Anything, so she wasn’t stuck alone with the monologue in her skull. It was just her and the birds.

  Oscar jabbed answer B on the app. Then C, D, D, E.

  90%!!!! celebrated the rabbit, and pink confetti fell across the screen. If he’d only had a minute longer it might’ve been 100. But the app was right: all of life was on a timer. A timer that he had not set. He’d wanted to be introduced to their contacts in imports. But he wasn’t ready.

  JLPT’s listening component demanded: One is able to listen and comprehend coherent conversations in everyday situations, spoken at near-natural speed, and is generally able to follow their contents as well as grasp the relationships among the people involved.

  Mina would make a joke of that. She would ask, “Who ever fully understands the relationships among the people involved?” That was the problem with being with someone for so many years. You started saying their lines for them. Being married to an insane person meant insanity slithered into your words.

  Next he’d do the one where you had to catch birds flying past carrying the correct kanji in their claws.

  A message from Theo—Finally put the case to bed. Drink?

  Theo’s text had its usual chipper tone.

  Can’t. America, Oscar typed. Work trip.

  Boo! Guys putting together 5-a-side in 2 weeks. Back by then?

  Think so, Oscar wrote. He had no idea. But it would be good to feel a ball at his feet and the knock along his muscles that meant he’d hit it just right. Or the feeling of knowing exactly where his teammates would be, of coming together, of everything just
working.

  The first few weeks of school Oscar had been Billy-no-mates. He was chubby back then. When some kid asked, “What’s wrong with your face?” all he’d done was shrug. Nobody asked what was wrong with Theo’s face. Or perhaps they did and he kneed them in the stomach. The second week, Theo’s mum sent him a fresh new Arsenal football. Everyone wanted to kick it around. Oscar was just watching from behind a book until Theo beckoned him into the foul-filled game on the lawn. By God-gifted chance Oscar scored two goals between the school-satchel goalposts. After that everything was easier.

  Just before GCSEs a boy in their year killed himself. No one knew exactly how, though the halls foamed with rumors. The adults kept saying how shocking it was. He’d been a boy no one talked to, not even the other nerds. Oscar’s main memory was of sitting behind him in science, watching the dandruff tumble onto his jumper.

  Back then Oscar had thought, There but for the grace of God go I. Maybe it should have been the grace of footie.

  Mina suggested that it would be easier for Phoebe to keep some stuff at 4B. That way she wouldn’t have to keep rushing across town to change outfits.

  Phoebe brought the canvas suitcase from her brother’s place and left behind the pair of squat nylon twins. On the Tube, Mina steadied the weight of the bag. Phoebe’s arms were busy stopping Benson wandering down-carriage. At the door to the apartment, Mina groped in her tote for the keys. “One second,” she said, and turned to see Phoebe waiting, the sun catching the buttons of her coat. Mina stopped with her hand on the knob just to look at this human who was about to follow her inside.

  Somehow that day had room for everything. Each hour became a palace of details. The clocks had moved like this when she was a child, as if they understood that she needed more space inside each minute because each minute had so much she needed to see. The tea drunk on the orange couch. Phoebe on the bed, her hair spread out in two wings, as if at any moment they might flap and carry away the lovely head. Benson in St. James’s Park, drawing back on his haunches at the sight of the baggy-beaked pelicans.

  Oscar would call it a fish day. Never, not once, did she mention her husband, though she thought of him—his big hands, the way he liked to bite. Phoebe was soft-lipped. If she never said his name, she might be able to pretend that she was an actress in two different movies, one with a male costar and one with a female. Two stories whose consequences would never overlap.

  *

  Oscar sat in the cold outside. It was past midnight. The stars and moon were buried under cloud but car headlights spilled along a distant road. Bugs darted towards the porch lamp in hopeful loops. The weather had turned. He’d put on his father’s blue windbreaker. He got more bars of signal out here and he wanted to check in about the decorators. England was eight hours ahead and there the day was already beginning. So far he’d heard nothing from them. It wasn’t encouraging. Getting the flats done was the least he could do. His father was supposed to rest, and Oscar didn’t want to push him to discuss what stepping down might mean.

  The head decorator took a long time to pick up, and when he did, the line was blurry with static. The man made a grunting noise when Oscar identified himself. Oscar asked how the project was going.

  “Oh, yeah, meant to give you a call. My boys are held up at the last job.”

  “We need this done.”

  “It’s a busy time of year. Everyone wants new walls by Christmas.”

  “So why did you say you could do it?”

  “Sorry, what was that? Driving. Reception’s all buggered up.”

  Oscar looked up at the house, which was grey in the porch light. Above him, Ami and his father would be asleep. It would not be useful to yell.

  “When can you start then? Realistically?”

  “Next week. You’re top of my list.”

  A sound came in the far distance, like a child screaming. It was probably an owl. Oscar hung up. He looked again at the picture of Mina in the app. The profile photo was misleading. It made it seem like his wife was wandering London in her wedding dress. It would be simpler if she was that sort of madwoman. He should call her. He should do so many things. He should practice Japanese.

  He called his mum. She picked up on the first ring.

  “Oh, good. I was just thinking about you.” She sounded brisk. “Are you free next weekend? You and Mina both. My friend Lydia, you know Lydia, from the poetry group. She gave me the best recipe for vegan cottage pie. Perfect for Mina.”

  “Can’t Mum. I’m still in America. When I get back, I’ll visit.”

  The Pacific night gulped down trees and roadways. He listened while his mother listed the ingredients of vegan cottage pie and told him about Lydia’s divorce.

  She talked until it was far past his time to sleep. He went upstairs, but had no desire for bed. So he took the skipping rope from his bag and returned to the porch. By the low light, he began a simple routine: double jump, one foot, crisscross, side swing. When skipping you couldn’t let your mind wander, if you did you’d trip. He made himself concentrate on the rhythm and the flip of the rope until all else sweated away into the night.

  Phoebe woke with a gasping cough. Under her eyes, blue veins stood out. She was beautiful in illness. The veins emphasized her pale cheeks, the way the veins in marble exaggerate its whiteness. She sat up and said, “I feel disgusting.” And then, a few minutes later, “I think I have a fever. Do you have a thermometer?”

  They didn’t. Mina laid her hand on Phoebe’s forehead, which did feel warm. But so did Mina’s hands. Phoebe coughed, her body hurtling with the force of it.

  “Let me try something,” Mina said. “Don’t move. My grandma showed me how to do this.” She leaned forward so that their foreheads were touching and their noses aligned. Forehead to forehead, it could almost be the moment before a kiss. Despite all the kisses that Mina had placed on Phoebe’s mouth, as many kisses as leaves covered the street outside, she was tempted to steal another. She forced herself to concentrate on the oblong where their skulls met.

  “Yes, you’re hot,” she said. “Definitely. I think you should stay home from work.”

  “God, my manager is going to be so pissed off.”

  “I’ll make you some toast,” Mina said.

  “Use the French butter?”

  “What?”

  “Chef gave me some last night to take home.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he likes me.” Phoebe smiled like a child who had got away with something. Then she coughed again. The cough was phlegmy. It was the cough of a human woman unlikely to transform into a flower or a deer. But, unlovely as it was, Mina loved it.

  The nugget of French butter was wrapped in gold paper. It was a yellow so pale it was almost white. Mina held it to her nose and sniffed it. She always used spread. It was what they’d had growing up because it was cheaper, and then it was what she had later because she was trying to consume mostly plants. On the hot toast, the butter turned transparent. She cut the pieces into triangles and arranged them in a pinwheel on the plate.

  She wondered if this was how Oscar felt when he cooked? This pleasant satisfaction of a small and simple task. In their relationship, he had always been the cook, the one with the recipes, the one who got measurements spot-on. It was a pattern they’d fallen into: she did the washing and he cooked. Had she felt pleasure folding his shirts and tucking them neatly in the drawers? Or making the little cannonballs of his socks? Perhaps when they’d first moved in together, but it had become a habit of her hands. Was feeding her a habit of his hands? Oscar. Oscar. There was revulsion in his voice when he said, I can’t talk to you.

  Today the decorators would come, and she must let them in. Strange to think that from so far away her husband could send men to the door. What would they make of Phoebe? It didn’t matter. They were decorators, not priests or social workers. The thought of them telling Oscar tingled like a scab she knew she must not pick.

  The toast was no longer steaming. Sh
e hurried to Phoebe. There was no need to be a bad girlfriend and a bad wife.

  Phoebe ate in huge bites, getting butter on her chin.

  “Is it good?” Mina asked.

  “Mmm . . .” Phoebe replied. Crumbs dropped onto the bed, and Mina picked them up one by one. It was kind of nice, being the healthy one. She felt useful.

  “Can you get me a paracetamol?” Phoebe asked.

  “Paracetamol?” Mina asked.

  “Yeah. Paracetamol.”

  “I don’t think we have that in the US.”

  “Can’t explain. Can you just get it. Head hurts.”

  A note pinged through on her phone. Decorators delayed one more week. She was grateful for the reprieve. She didn’t want big-booted men breaking into their small world. Not yet.

  The pharmacy sold Mina a packet of small painkillers. It was busy. This was the time of year when sickness blew in with the rain. Every street corner seemed to have someone coughing into their coat or their hand or right into her face.

  Oscar was never sick. He just didn’t get ill. Mina didn’t know why. In the decade they’d been together, she had never, not once, had to bring him a pill. The one time he got food poisoning didn’t really count, as he’d dealt with it entirely by himself while she stood outside the bathroom door, asking, “Can I do anything?” She must stop comparing Phoebe to Oscar. She must.

  Back in the kitchen, Mina popped the recommended dose out from the silver foil, poured a glass of water and carried them to the bedroom.

  “Nurse is in,” Mina said.

  Phoebe sat up and swallowed. Her lips were almost colorless. Then she retreated below the covers. Mina flicked off the lights, ready to leave Phoebe in peace.