Flight Patterns (9 page)

“Daddy!” Becky came down the stairs quickly.

“Hey, squirt,” he said with the same grin Maisy had fallen in love with the first time she'd seen him at the Seafood Festival, when they were both too young to know what love at first sight meant.

“Daddy.” Becky groaned unconvincingly as she allowed Lyle to hug her to him with one arm.

She pulled away to fling her arms around Georgia. “Hi, Aunt Georgia. I made a list of all the things I want to show you, and it will take at least four days. Can you stay that long, at least?”

Georgia bent her head over Becky's, their hair blending so that it looked like it came from the same head, and it felt as if Maisy was watching Birdie and Georgia again, the hurt of exclusion like a sharp jab to her chest.

“I wish I could, sweetheart. But I have to get back to work. And so does Mr. Graf. Maybe soon, though, okay?”

Becky's entire body radiated disappointment. “But I already told B-Brittany Banyon that you were here for a v-visit and she wants to meet you. She said her d-daddy knew you in high school.”

Maisy put her hand on Becky's shoulder to remind her to take a deep breath, aware of Georgia's stiffening, seeming to be struggling for something to say. Oblivious, Becky said, “I'll b-bring her home after school and you can meet her then. M-maybe you can tell some embarrassing story about her d-daddy.”

While Georgia struggled for a response, Maisy asked, “Do you have your homework?”

“Yes,” Becky answered. “And my tennis racket. I don't need a lunch because I'm buying today.” She smiled brightly, looking so much like her aunt and grandmother that Maisy's heart broke a little more.

“All right. I'll see you after school.” She smiled, and Becky gave her a long hug, as if she knew her mother needed it.

Lyle opened the door, then turned back to Georgia. “How long are you staying?”

“If everything goes as planned, we hope to leave tomorrow.”

Lyle nodded slowly. “Well, don't be a stranger,” he said with that same slow grin, and Maisy looked away.

“Nice to meet you,” he said to James before heading out the door toward his patrol car with Becky tucked beneath his arm.

Maisy pulled on Birdie's elbow, desperate to get away, knowing she'd have to call in late so that her class wouldn't be in her first-period classroom without their teacher. But Birdie resisted, pulling her arm free.

Grandpa sat heavily in a hallway chair, his skin blotchy still from the heat outside. He clutched his hand and Maisy could see the pink welt near the wrist. He'd been stung, which, considering, was a rarity. He'd always told them that he knew how to communicate with the bees, knew how to walk among them without their bothering him. Had always said that you knew when you'd made a mistake when you allowed yourself to be stung.

Maisy moved toward him, wanting to get him into the light so she could take the stinger out, then stopped. Both she and Birdie watched as he lifted the teacup and saucer James had placed on the table by the chair, holding them up at eye level, his eyes wide and blue behind the thick lenses of his glasses.

Birdie took a step toward him, and Maisy thought Birdie was going to say something, could almost hear the air move in anticipation. Her grandfather's eyes flickered up for a moment, meeting Birdie's, and then, as if in slow motion, the saucer dipped and the teacup slid in an avalanche of china. Everything seemed suspended for a moment, every breath, every heartbeat, even the ticking of the anniversary clock on the hall table where the cup and saucer had just been stopped as if the Earth had suddenly decided to rotate in the opposite direction.

Then everything was sound and spraying china and shouts. And then their grandfather slid out of the chair like a vanishing man in a magic show, collapsing in a pile of loose clothing. He landed on the bright white shards of broken china, clutching at his chest while Birdie screamed and Georgia knelt on the crushed china, trying to place his head in her lap. Maisy grabbed her phone, misdialing 911 twice until James calmly took it from her and dialed correctly, speaking with authority.

Birdie knelt next to Georgia and slid a large piece of the saucer from under her father's elbow, staring at the flying bees, whose flight pattern appeared interrupted by the jagged break. She began rocking back and forth, keening softly and seeming unaware of the deep cut on her thumb that dripped bright red drops of blood onto the pink silk of her skirt.

In cooler climates during the winter, the male drones die while the sister bees cluster around their queen, fluttering their wings to keep her warm until spring.

—NED BLOODWORTH'S BEEKEEPER'S JOURNAL

Birdie

T
here is a curtain inside my head like one would see on a stage, dividing what is allowed to be seen, and hiding what is not. I know it's there because I hung it in place ten years ago, when I chose to live on the performing side of that curtain, to smile and pretend and to act. To keep that curtain down so I would not see what lay behind it. Some people would call it cowardice, but it's how I've survived all these years. My mother made sure I knew how to act and how to sing and be pretty, but not to face my fears or be strong. Part of me wants to lift that curtain, to peer behind it, to face what's lurking in the darkness. But I'm not strong enough yet. So I watch, and learn, and wait for that thread of light to appear between the closed curtains, images flickering like a movie projector.

I think I saw a glimmer of the light today. It started with the vividly colored bees, and then the delicate china they were painted on. I knew them, somehow. Knew what it felt like to hold that delicate cup between my fingers. A flash of memory filled me for a moment, and I
held my breath as I stood on the stairway in front of Georgia and Maisy and my daddy, remembering, seeing the images of memory flash behind the drawn curtain of my mind.

I am very small. I know this because I am swinging my legs from a chair and they are far from the floor. It's a kitchen, with large black and white square floor tiles and the delicious scent of bread baking in the oven that makes my mouth water. I know I will get a thick slab soon, with cool, melting butter slathered on top, and although I'm not hungry, my stomach rumbles.

The kitchen door opens and my father steps in, smelling of the sun and warm air and honey. He reaches for my hand, and leads me outside to show me something in the hives and I go with him eagerly, the bread and butter forgotten.

My hand is small inside his large one, and I feel the familiar calluses. I tell him that if we are ever running somewhere in the dark, I'll still be able to find him by touching his hand. I know I've said something funny because he laughs.

It is nearly nightfall as we approach the hives, and I imagine all the worker bees inside, their long day's journey over. A few still linger in the sticky evening air, little guards hovering, buzzing around our heads in warning. But we don't get stung. It's as if they know us, recognize us as part of their world. And I love this world. This house and my father and the hives are all I know, and it is all I want to know. I feel the sun on my face and my bare legs and I am happy.

I want to hold on to this memory, the way summer clings to warm days while autumn tugs at her sleeves. It's a little slice of sanity I've been denied all these years. Doctors have tried to label my condition, classify it to make it worth the money they are paid to diagnose me. But they can't fix me. Only I can. I'm like a china plate that's been fractured into too many pieces, and I think I'm getting too old to care enough to glue them all together.

When I met George I thought I'd found the one thing that could make me whole again, would take me back to that place where I'd felt so happy. But for all things irreparable, fixes are temporary.

Like most of the boys in Apalach, George grew up along the water of the bay, the son and grandson of oystermen. They called their skiff the
Lady Marie
, after George's grandmother. When it became his, he called her
Birdie
.

I loved George, loved how he could make me forget things. How we shared a secret, just the two of us. I loved him as much as I hated him, but our love was the brick wall we broke ourselves against. It was like I had to keep hurting myself just to know that I could still feel, hoping that it would wake me from my nightmares. To keep me from the dark places that clouded my memories. Even back then I sensed the dark curtain behind me, pregnant with all the untold secrets I didn't want to know.

I thought having children would chase away the darkness. And it did, for a while. When I held both my daughters in my arms I was back in that farmhouse, my hand in my father's, and I was happy again. But only for a little bit. Until the dark places came back and took over.

I wish I could tell Georgia and Maisy that I love them. That none of this is their fault. But I kept thinking about my father and the warm summer night and my hand in his, and I couldn't stop trying to remember what happened next all those years ago when I was so small.

That's why I threw the lipsticks on the floor this morning, trying to make my mind go back to the happy part, trying to focus on the colored tubes rolling on the rug and onto the wood floor.

Maisy practically hummed with anger, but I welcomed it, wanted it, because that's what I need to crawl back into that person I became whom I don't really recognize. She's not me. She's the person I play so no one looks too closely. Somebody once said that life is a stage. And it's true. We all have our parts to play. Mine is the crazy woman who thinks she's always on a stage. The truth would be so much harder to know.

I want to tell this to my daughters, to make them understand. It would be easier for them if they understood it's all my fault. That I need to hide from my memories to protect myself. Like now. I'm remembering the bees and the hives and the house, but then he holds up the teacup and saucer and all of a sudden the curtain lifts a little and light floods inside my head, and I can't make it stop, because of the noise of the breaking china and Maisy shouting and Georgia's look of sorrow. And suddenly a part of a memory comes back to me and I'm sliding like that teacup from the saucer, except I can't break because I'm already broken.

A bee flies to thousands of flowers to make only a spoonful of honey.

—NED BLOODWORTH'S BEEKEEPER'S JOURNAL

Georgia

S
omeone tugging on my empty coffee cup brought me abruptly awake. It took me a moment to remember I was in a waiting room at Weems Memorial Hospital and that my grandfather had suffered a stroke. I looked up into James's blue eyes and relinquished my cup, remembering him bringing it to me hours before.

It had been James who'd thought to run out the door after handing the cell phone to Maisy to speak with 911, thinking Lyle wouldn't have gone far and could probably transport Grandpa to the hospital faster than waiting for an ambulance.

I smiled ruefully up at him. “Thank you. For everything. I guess it's too late for you to change your mind about coming with me.”

He placed the empty cup on a table, then lowered himself into the chair next to mine, stretching his long legs in front of him. “It's certainly been a lot more exciting than I imagined it would be.”

I glanced across the room, where Maisy sat next to my mother. Birdie had her eyes closed, her head resting on my sister's shoulder, the bloodstain on her skirt turned the color of rust. I remembered Maisy
bandaging our mother's hand as Lyle left the house with our grandfather, Birdie letting go of the broken saucer only after Maisy promised that she'd leave it on the table and not touch it.

I rubbed my face, feeling as if we'd been in Apalachicola for weeks instead of just a day. “I'm sorry about your teacup and saucer. The saucer has a clean break, and I have a source who can fix it so that you can't even tell it was broken. But the teacup . . .” I stopped, remembering the splattering of china as it exploded on the floor. “I'm afraid it's not fixable.”

“Don't worry about it. I've got eleven more, and if it makes you feel better, I'll even commission you to find a replacement. But for now, you've got other things to worry about.”

Becky, who'd been allowed to miss school, came back from another trip to the snack machine with a candy bar and a Coke and returned to her seat next to mine. She'd hardly left my side since we'd arrived at the hospital, and I wondered whether Maisy minded. “How's G-Grandpa?” Becky asked, her voice quavering.

She raised her hand to take a sip from her Coke can and I noticed her fingernails. They were bitten to the quick, the cuticles jagged and torn. I felt somebody watching and I looked up to find Birdie's eyes focused on us, taking in what I was seeing, her gaze almost challenging.
You can always tell a lady by her hands,
I remembered her saying to me after spotting my own ruined nails at the dinner table. I'd kicked Maisy under the table to warn her about keeping her own hands in her lap, but she'd misunderstood and had started howling because I'd kicked her.

I'd heard the stutter, and I wanted to say the right thing, wanted to reassure her. I tucked Becky's hair behind her ear, recognizing the gentle curve of it, the silky feel of the blond strands, and for a moment the words were stuck in my throat, and I remembered the last time I'd seen her, tiny and pink and bawling. And I thought of all the years between in which I'd thought nothing had changed. But of course it had. She'd grown older. We all had. Just not any wiser.

I smiled. “He was lucky your dad got him to the hospital so quickly. That saved his life. And we're lucky, too, that we didn't have
to go to the hospital in Panama City, because a very good neurologist happened to be here this month. Grandpa's still very sick, though, and they're going to need to keep him here for a little while.”

She looked at me with worried eyes. “What about his b-bees? He was supposed to m-move the hives next weekend to the swamp.”

I looked over at Maisy and met her eyes for a moment. “I'm sure we'll figure out something. I know your mama will know what to do.”

“But M-Mama hates bees. You p-probably need to stick around to m-make sure they're all right until G-Grandpa gets better.”

I felt the panic rise in the back of my throat. “Oh, sweetheart, I can't. I need to get Mr. Graf back to New Orleans so he can fly home to New York. And I've got work. . . .”

I stopped, watching her face. The set of her jaw and the way she'd narrowed her eyes and tucked in her chin was so much like Maisy when she was preparing an argument that I wanted to laugh. “So you're j-just going to t-take off again?” I would have made a bet that she was quoting her mother verbatim.

I was acutely aware of James next to me. “I never ‘took off,'” I said, feeling the need to defend myself in front of him.

“But G-Grandpa needs you. The b-bees need you.” She put her hand in mine, and I felt the raw, jagged edges at the tips of her slender fingers.

James stood and I knew he was looking at me, but I couldn't return his gaze. “I'm going to get some more coffee. Does anybody need some?”

Nobody said anything and I shook my head. “No. But thanks.”

I looked at our clasped hands, then up at Becky's eager face. Her expression was open and honest, nothing hidden.

“I can come back,” I said hastily. “As soon as I drive Mr. Graf back, I can return until Grandpa is better.”

“You w-won't,” she said matter-of-factly. “If you l-leave, you won't come b-back. M-Mama told me that last night, so that I w-wouldn't be hurt. I just didn't b-believe her.”

My emotions ricocheted between hurt and obligation, shame and hopelessness. How could I explain now the choices Maisy and I had made,
and the promise to never regret them? I put a hand on her arm, meant to calm her, to remind her to take a deep breath. Just like I'd seen Maisy do.

Maisy stood and walked toward us. “We can manage fine without her, just like we always have.” She took the almost empty Coke can and the half-eaten candy bar and placed them on the table by Becky's chair. “Come on, Becky. Let's go get some real food. We can bring something back for Birdie and Aunt Georgia.”

I met Maisy's gaze. “I've been thinking. About Grandpa's stroke, and how unexpected it was. And how he was looking at the teacup when it happened. Do you think that's what caused it?”

She frowned impatiently. “His stroke was caused by a burst blood vessel in his brain. And probably from his high cholesterol and blood pressure. If surprise had something to do with it, I would say it had more to do with your visit and not some stupid teacup.” She held out her hand to Becky. “Come on—let's go get something to eat.”

Becky walked slowly to the door with her mother, then paused before running back to me, cupping her hands around my ear to whisper. “B-Birdie wants you to stay.” She pulled back and I stared at her in surprise. Her teeth—small, white, and straight—worried her lower lip, her eyes trained on the ceiling as if she were trying to remember something she'd memorized for a test. Then she cupped her hands around my ear again and whispered, “She n-needs your help.”

She pulled away, then ran to Maisy, who was watching me closely with the same narrowed eyes I'd just seen on Becky. I stared at the empty space where they'd stood long after they'd left, wondering whether Birdie had really spoken to her, or if Becky simply had a vivid imagination.

My gaze shifted to Birdie, who was staring out the window across the room, humming something low and toneless, and I thought about Grandpa's bees, and how he once said that it made sense for bees to always flap their wings, because if they didn't, they'd fall to the ground and die. But people weren't like that, our constant movement just a distraction from the things we couldn't bear to face.

“Birdie?” I called, almost expecting her to turn to me with clear
eyes for the first time in almost a decade. I wanted to believe that Becky wasn't making it up, that Birdie talked to her. But if that were true, what did it mean? And did I really want to know? My short visit home was turning into quicksand, and the more I struggled to extricate myself, the stronger the pull to keep me stuck.

Birdie continued her soft, monotonous humming, reminding me of a funeral dirge, and I wasn't sure why, but it made me want to cry. Something had happened to my mother almost ten years before and I'd been too wrapped up in my own life to pay attention, to watch as the threads were spun and knotted around her too tightly for me to be able to pick them apart and set her free.

I stood quickly and rushed to the doorway, wanting to tell Becky that I would be back, that it was time to fix things before it was too late. I nearly ran into James, causing him to splash coffee onto the floor and on his shoes.

“I'm so sorry,” I said, clutching at his arm, not completely sure I was apologizing for the coffee. “But I need to stay a little longer. To make sure my grandfather is going to be okay. I can drive you to the airport tomorrow, but I'll come right back. And I'll continue searching for your grandmother's china pattern.”

His eyes searched mine. “I don't need to go back. Not for a while.”

I dropped my hands, understanding. “You're running away.” I didn't mean it as an accusation, merely a statement of fact.

He nodded. “I need to keep moving.”

I thought of the bees again, their incessant wing flapping keeping them aloft. I met his gaze. “Sooner or later you're going to have to find a place to land.” I began walking away, my sandals slapping the linoleum floor.

“Have you?”

I felt the anger in the back of my throat, stinging my eyes. I wanted to turn back and yell at him, to tell him yes, that I was so much better now, and that all those years of being gone were worth it. But then I thought of my grandfather and Becky, and Maisy and Birdie and all that I'd missed, a photo album full of blank pages.

Everything has its price
. I stopped with my back to him, trying to recall who'd said that, remembering it had been Aunt Marlene as she'd helped me pack my small suitcase and I'd told her what I'd done.

I kept walking, feeling his gaze on my back until I pushed through the glass door at the front of the building before running down the front walkway and out into the fresh air saturated with the scent of salt water. I gulped the air into my lungs, tasting it along with all the memories it brought back to me.

“Georgia?”

I spun around and saw Lyle approaching me from the parking lot.

“Are you all right?”

I nodded. “I just needed to be outside. I'll be fine in a minute.”

“How's your grandfather? I was coming to pick up Becky and was hoping for good news.”

Finding a smile, I said, “He's okay, considering. And thanks to you. You saved his life.”

He shrugged. He'd never been any good at accepting compliments. “I wouldn't have been there to help if James hadn't come running after me.” He leaned a little closer. “Is everything okay?”

I tried to pinpoint just one of the things that tickled my brain like crawling insects. “Yeah. It's just . . .” I met his gaze. “I think I'm going to stick around for a little while. At least until I know Grandpa is going to be okay.”

His brown eyes were warm. “That's probably a good idea. I guess with your job you can work remotely.”

A corner of my mouth turned up reluctantly. “Assuming I owned a laptop and cell phone. But James has both, so I'm not worried. And my boss is one of those annoying family men who thinks I should want to spend time with my own family. I haven't asked yet, but I know I can stay as long as I need, with his blessing.”

“Good,” he said. “But that's not all, is it?”

Like Maisy, he'd always been able to read my mind, which was probably why we'd never become romantically involved. That and
the fact that he'd loved my sister since the moment they met. I looked him in the eye. “Has Becky ever said anything to you about Birdie talking to her?”

“A few times. But I just thought that was her being dramatic, making up stuff to suit her point of view, if you know what I mean. She's definitely inherited the flair for drama.”

I looked up at the impossibly blue sky. “That she has.” Glancing back at him, I said, “She's a great kid. You and Maisy have done a really good job.”

“Thanks. That's mostly Maisy's doing. She lets me be the fun parent while she's the rule maker and enforcer. Can't say that's fair, but it just seemed to work for us. Until recently, anyway.”

He shifted his feet, rubbing the soles against the cement, and I noticed how his hair had begun to thin on the sides, and how his face showed lines and shadows I didn't remember.

“How about you, Lyle? Are you doing all right?”

“Yeah, I'm fine. Just trying to work things out with Maisy. Figure out what we're going to do.” Our eyes met for a long moment. “I miss you.”

The stress of the last few days seemed to be compounded by those three simple words, and to my horror I felt my eyes well with tears. Lyle reached out his arm and hugged me to him, pressing my face into his shoulder, and I gave in to his warmth.