Skyward (19 page)

She walked a bit farther beside him, letting the words sink in. They came to the fork in the road. If they turned to the right, they’d travel along a well-worn truck path to where the woods thinned and you came to a breathtakingly wide vista of marsh framed like a picture by the woods. Instead, they bore left, traveling farther down the dirt road that led to Highway 17. The highway, with its zooming trucks and cars, seemed a thousand miles away as they walked in a rural hush. Everywhere she looked, palmetto trees stood side by side with pine and she thought it was an amusing parallel between herself and Harris.

They came to the gate, but the white rooster was nowhere in sight. Harris went over to the culvert to stand with his hands on hips, head down, inspecting Brady’s work. The wind did its job of tousling his longish strands of brown hair. He needed a haircut, she thought. It was the kind of thing she would notice and he wouldn’t. Harris was oblivious to how attractive he was. It was one of the things she liked most about him.

She walked to his side and looked up into his face, fighting the urge to reach up and smooth back the hair. A simple enough act, but one that implied a level of intimacy they hadn’t reached. He turned his head when she approached and she felt lost for a moment in the closeness of his blue eyes.

“Penny for your thoughts,” she said.

“I don’t even know who my own daughter is,” he confessed.

Her face softened with sympathy. “Marion’s a bright child who desperately wanted you to be having a good time playing with her. She probably figured out that you weren’t, or that you’d lost interest, and she grew desperate. So when you mentioned testing her blood, she slipped right back into the behavior she knew always got your undivided attention.”

“A temper tantrum.”

“Like I said, she plays you like a fiddle.”

He gave off a short, self-deprecating laugh as his mind recalled how he’d sat on the floor giving mechanical answers to Marion’s questions, not really engaging. “The poor kid. She was probably exhausted from all that chatting.”

She laughed, well acquainted with Marion’s nervous chatter. They started walking back up the road toward the compound. Her short-legged stride worked double time to keep up with his long-legged one.

“How’d you get so smart about children?” he asked suddenly.

Ella flinched. He was offering a backhanded compliment, she knew, but it still pricked that beneath the surface was the question: How could a woman without children of her own know so much about them?

“You forget I’ve worked with children for years and studied child psychology,” she replied, giving her pat answer. “And,” she added, “I know Marion.”

“What’s the secret, then?” All pretense and humor fled from his face. “I love my child, but I can’t seem to
connect
with her. How can I start to enjoy spending time with my own daughter instead of dreading it?”

“By sharing with her the things you love.”

He stopped walking to turn toward her. “How?”

“Harris, you have so much to share. So much you can teach her. Why get stuck in a room indoors when what you love is outdoors? Go out with her! Take her on nature walks and share your world with her. Give her glimpses of who you are. And then, let her loose! Cut the line and just let her fly. Then follow to where she takes you. Marion’s very good at structured games where there are rules to follow and she knows what to expect and what’s expected of her. I was stunned when I first arrived to see that she really doesn’t know how to free play. To let her imagination soar. And, no offense, but the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“Ouch.”

“I’m not criticizing you! But when was the last time you actually had
fun
with your child?”

He walked awhile, pondering the question with a troubled expression.

“If you have to think that long about it,” she said with a chuckle, “the answer is it’s been way too long. Oh, Harris, you’ve been a wonderful provider for Marion. No one could dispute that. You’ve taken good care of her. But all that caretaking is a lot of responsibility. A lot of plain, old-fashioned hard work. Right?”

“Of course.”

“Well, it shouldn’t be. It should also be a pleasure. And it’s not just you. Do you know I used to tell other nurses not to form attachments with their patients? I was so smug. I’d figured everything out, you see. By keeping myself emotionally at a safe distance, I could make all my relationships safe. I could get a lot done, not having to waste time talking to patients or thinking about what they might need to ease their mind, not just their body. Or, God forbid, that I should actually care about them.” She paused while her mind traveled back to a time months earlier, to one child in particular.

“A little boy named Bobby D’Angelo taught me how wrong I was. How one person could make a difference in a child’s life.” She exhaled heavily, regaining the control she could feel slipping at the mention of his name.

“Who’s Bobby?”

She stopped walking. He took another step before realizing she wasn’t beside him. Turning, he looked at her with question in his eyes.

“You don’t have to tell me, if you’d rather not.”

In point of fact, she would rather not, especially since he had been so closemouthed when she’d asked him about Fannie. But this was a step toward honesty between them, and rather than take a step backward, she decided to move forward.

So she told him about Bobby, about his diabetes and death, and how it had driven her away from nursing. How it had driven her from the cold of Vermont all the way to the small town of Awendaw, South Carolina, and an outpost of healing called the Coastal Carolina Center for Birds of Prey. As she talked they resumed walking up the road toward the center. He listened quietly, but at some point in the telling he wrapped an arm around her shoulder, drawing her closer, safe, as she exposed her inner thoughts. This time, she wasn’t nervous or flustered. His nearness felt natural.

When she finished they walked in a silence so deep they could hear the crunch of their footfall on the gravel and, overhead, the piercing
keyer-keyer
of a distant hawk.

At length he said, “When you’re hurt like that, it’s hard to let anyone close again.”

“Yeah,” she replied softly, wondering if he was referring to himself and Fannie. “I came here determined not to allow myself to be close to a child again. But what happened?” She cast him a sidelong glance and they shared a knowing smile. “Yep. Marion knocked down those walls and forced her way into my heart. And thank God. Because that’s what a heart is meant for. For love, Harris. And caring. And sympathy and kindness and forgiveness and compassion. Those are the qualities that make us human. The mind is where the ego rules. The soul resides in the heart.”

They stopped again and he let his arm fall from her shoulder as he faced her, his eyes searching. Ella followed her impulse and reached up to smooth back the long lock of hair from his forehead.

“Just do with Marion what a wise old man told me to do with the birds,” she said. “Simply open up your heart and let all the warmth come spilling out. You don’t always have to be productive, or fix things, or feel like you’re taking care of her. Just
be
with her. All you have to do is set aside time and take your cues from her. Play her games. Then you’ll truly be connecting with your daughter.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“That’s the secret. It
is
easy.”

She smiled then, and he marveled at how it transformed her face into something of quite extraordinary beauty.

Vultures: The Cleanup Committee.
Vultures are large black birds with unfeathered heads. Though they have much in common with raptors in their flight and hunting behavior, they have recently been classified as more closely related to storks. These carrion eaters are gregarious in feeding and roosting habits. Vultures have expansive wings that can catch greater lift than other raptors, allowing them to soar the wind with seeming effortlessness.

12

“WE HAVE TWO MORE ORPHANS COMING IN today.”

Ella looked up from the chart and grimaced at Maggie’s announcement. This was, she’d learned, the expected response at the Coastal Carolina Center for Birds of Prey.

As cute as raptor orphans were, the danger of imprinting nestlings to humans was very real. The nestlings identified with whatever moving, vocalizing object cared for them. Once imprinted, the effect was irreversible and the bird could not be released to the wild. Not to mention, feeding a fast-growing raptor was labor intensive. The volunteers had to wear Burkas when they went into the pens to leave food or pick up leftovers—which was several times a day for those hungry babies.

Secretly, however, Ella’s heart pinged whenever an orphan was brought in. She’d been working at the clinic for several weeks already, and whenever she saw one of those big-headed, big-footed, down-covered fuzz balls looking at her with their innocent eyes, her maternal instincts started kicking in, mulishly knocking down all the rational arguments. And when they started chirping for her when she came near their pen, she was putty. Not that she’d ever let Harris know. He was firm that it was best for the orphans to be returned to the nest whenever possible and groaned when an orphan was brought in. Intellectually, she agreed. But it was a classic case of her brain warring with her heart.

But later that morning, when she opened up the covered transport box and found two of the gawkiest, homeliest-looking birds she’d ever seen, Ella had second thoughts.

“Vultures?” she asked dubiously. “But they’re not birds of prey.”

“No, but we take them in, anyway.” Maggie came closer, donning light gloves en route. She bent low to look inside the box. “Oh, my, bless their little hearts. They’re so young! They can’t be more than two or three weeks old.”

“Poor babies,” Ella said, crooning. She bent closer. “Where did your mama go, hmm?”

“It’s a sad story,” Maggie replied. “The parents were attacked by dogs.”

“I don’t understand. How did the dogs get them both? Did the wind blow the nest down?”

“Vultures nest on the ground, or sometimes in old buildings. But the wind does knock a lot of nests down. You know that osprey orphan we have in Med 8? Someone saw the nest floating down the Intracoastal with the nestling just sitting in it. Really. He was moseying down the waterway.” She chuckled. “We call him Huck Finn—but don’t tell Harris. He has a thing about not naming the birds.”

“The nest just fell into the water?”

“Yep. Thank goodness someone spotted it before it went under. What’s sad is we don’t know what happened to the other nestling. But we can guess. It’s tough coming up as a raptor.”

Maggie hunched over the box to carefully grasp a vulture and lift it out. Like Harris, Maggie’s movements were slow and deliberate. Nonetheless, the vulture nestlings immediately began huddling low and hissing.

Ella stepped aside, giving Maggie space to move the nestling to the treatment table. The nestling’s soft bones and blood feathers could bend and break easily if the bird flapped or was mishandled, and Maggie was the more experienced handler. She put the nestling into a towel-lined bowl for a weight check, but before covering it with the towel, she called Ella over.

“Look here,” she said, lifting up the nestling’s wing. “The flight feathers are already in blood, which is good. When they’re this young, they pretty much just eat, sleep and burrow under mama. This gives them a better chance at survival. Okay, little one, let’s check you out.”

Together they weighed each of the orphans, checked their eyes, feathers and blood, and to their relief, found them in good health for ones so young. Then while Maggie held each one, Ella slipped into a Burka and fed it small chunks of cut-up and skinned mice. Using forceps, she gently tapped the beak with the meat, one side then the other, just like the mama vulture would do. The nestling opened its mouth again and again, greedily eating its fill. At last, both nestlings were fed and settled together in one large kennel with a heating pad.

“Look at them,” Ella said, shaking her head as she took a final view of the baby vultures in the kennel. The two stared back at them, curious and pensive. “What a pair. With those long legs, big beaks and all that tan fuzzy down, they look like two homely chorus girls in feathered boas.”

“Or drag queens.”

They both chuckled again as Ella lowered the flap. She knew that these two would get names.

While Ella was tending to the orphans, Harris was tending to his own little girl. Today was the first day of spring, his favorite season in the Lowcountry. All around them, the earth was ripening. The days were growing longer and warmer, and Carolina jasmine was bursting with its heavenly scented yellow flowers. He knew in a few more weeks the sunlight would lure out the dogwoods, azaleas, wisteria and scores more wildflowers, making their father-daughter walks seem like visits to the fairy world.

Taking Ella’s advice, he wanted to share something he loved with his daughter. Hand in hand they walked through the thick pinewoods that surrounded their home. Harris hadn’t known that Marion loved to climb trees. She was like a little monkey, scuttling up the gnarled, perfect-for-climbing limbs of live oaks.

It amazed him to realize that Marion was her own little person, with her own ideas and talents, not some miniature of himself or Fannie, nor even a combination of them. She was curious about things that he didn’t find remotely interesting. And then, when he least expected it, she’d ask a question about something he could share, like when she asked him about the lichen on a tree bark. It was like watching a flower unfold.

The warm sun on his back made him feel as slow and lazy as an old alligator on a bank. Marion, on the other hand, heard the drumming of a woodpecker and took off with a squeal in the direction of the tree. She scrambled up the bottom limbs, but the bird, quite naturally, flew off. Harris watched with amusement when she stomped back, her face flushed with frustration.

A short while later, he caught sight of a rabbit several yards off, munching away at the tall grass that nearly camouflaged him. Harris squatted down and waved Marion over. When she drew near, almost trembling with anticipation, he first put one finger to his lips to indicate silence, then pointed to the rabbit. It stilled its chomping and was eyeing them warily.

“That marsh rabbit is in a freeze,” he said, still holding the rabbit’s dark gaze.

“He’s trying to hide. Shh…be very still.”

“Where Daddy?”

“Just over there, beyond the dogwood.”

Marion gasped at spotting it, then took off after the rabbit, her arms held straight out, crying, “Stop! Stop, I won’t hurt you!”

“Marion!” he called after her.

Predictably, the rabbit disappeared in two leaps with Marion in hot pursuit.

“Come on back!” he called to her.

“Daddy, make it stay,” she whined, breathless when she returned. Her cheeks were pink from the run and a fine bead of perspiration lined her forehead.

“It’s long gone, honey,” he replied, trying hard not to chuckle. “And it’s been a long time since I could catch a rabbit.”

“He won’t play with me,” she cried, leaning into him. “None of them will play with me.” Tears moistened the tips of her lashes.

“Well, of course they won’t play with you. You keep chasing them. Animals don’t like that. They think you’re going to eat them or something.”

“But they won’t stand still so I can catch them.”

“You shouldn’t chase them. And you shouldn’t catch them. They’re wild.”

“
No,
Daddy,” she said, angry that he didn’t understand. “Then I won’t have anyone to play with.”

“You have me.”

She pouted and looked at her feet. He obviously wasn’t what she had in mind.

Or what she needed, he realized. She’d had a long line of baby-sitters. Occasionally, one of them would bring their child along. But usually Marion played alone. Ella’s words came back to mind.
She doesn’t know how to free play.

He reached out to brush a damp tangle of hair from her forehead.

“Ella does that,” she said with a sigh.

He remembered in a flash the feel of Ella’s fingers on his brow. “Do you like it when she does?”

Marion nodded.

So did he, though he didn’t mention it. “Do you like Ella?”

Marion nodded again, then craned her neck to look up at his face. “Do
you
like her, Daddy?”

“Why, sure I like her.”

“I mean, do you really like her?”

“I just said I did.”

“I mean, do you love her?” Her eyes sparkled with curiosity.

“Marion, where’s this coming from?”

“I dunno. I think she loves you.”

He could have been knocked over by a feather. “What makes you say that?”

“Well, you two are together an awful lot.”

“That’s because we’re working together now. You know that.”

“Yeah, but sometimes she looks at you in a funny way. All googly-eyed.”

“She does?”

Marion nodded and began bulging her eyes out and fluttering her eyelashes.

He laughed and playfully shoved her away. “She does not. She doesn’t like me in that way.”

“Oh, yes, she does,” she replied in a singsong manner.

He thought about that for a moment, surprised at how pleased he was to think it might be true. Thankfully, Marion didn’t pick up on how he was looking at Ella a lot lately, too,
in that way.
“Would it bother you if she liked me? Or, say, if I liked her?”

“It’d be okay, I guess.” She thought about that for a minute. “You’d have to take her out on a date.”

He barked out a laugh. “What do you know about that? You’re only five years old.”

“I’m five and a half, Daddy.”

“Oh. Well, then…” he said with a roll of the eyes.

“Besides, I see it on TV. When a boy likes a girl they go out on a date. She gets dressed all pretty and he does, too, and they go someplace nice.”

He could only stare at this little tin-tyke. He couldn’t believe she was giving him dating advice. “Ella was right,” he told her. “You’ve been watching way too much television.”

Now it was Marion’s turn to roll her eyes. “Oh, Daddy, it’s not just on TV. Everybody knows that. When Linda was baby-sitting me, she telled me how much she liked David and how much he liked her and they went out on dates all the time. So, that’s what you have to do.”

“I do, huh?” He put his hands on his hips. “I’ll have to think about that. Come on, now. Let’s head back.”

They made their way through the woods to the small pond near the house. Lijah’s cabin was perched on a small rise on the other side, and beyond, almost hidden by the long, soft fronds of the giant longleaf pines, was their house. Ella had hung ferns from the porch ceiling and placed big clay pots full of geraniums and trailing ivy by the front door. The beds around the trees were neatly raked, the shrubs trimmed, and in front of the house the rich black earth had been tilled for what would soon be her flower garden. It was a welcoming sight, made more so by the fact that, inside the house, he knew Ella was waiting for them.

“Daddy, look!” Marion exclaimed as they neared the pond.

“Now, look at that,” he replied. Among the tall stalks and cigar-shaped spikes of the cattails, a turtle was basking in the sun. “That’s as fine a specimen of a yellowbelly slider as you’ll ever see.”

He was just about to tell her that the yellowbelly sliders on the South Carolina barrier islands were larger than others, how they nested in May and June and laid about ten eggs. He was about to share this and all sorts of tidbits, but in a flash Marion was tearing off toward the pond, her little legs pumping and a look of fierce determination on her face.

“Marion, don’t run at it!” he called out after her. She ignored his call and reached the pond just as the turtle slid quickly away into the water. The gentle
plop
echoed loudly and the turtle was gone.

“Daddy!”
she cried in frustration.

Harris put his hands on his hips and rolled his eyes.

Neither one of them saw Lijah standing by his cabin, watching and smoking a pipe while a small smile tugged at his lips.

Later that week, Marion stood inside the crows’ pen with Lijah. She looked up at him and scrunched up her face in doubt.

“You’re sure that crow can talk?”

“Not just now, missy, but he can. If you teach it to.”

Lijah was down on one knee and Marion was leaning against his shoulder, listening to him with rapt attention. Most mornings, Lijah found Marion hanging around the crow pen, peering in and jabbering to them. She especially liked Little Crow, having watched him grow from a nestling. Lijah figured that she thought of Little Crow as just another child to play with.

She tilted her head from left to right. “I never heard of a bird that could talk.”

“Missy, there be lots of birds that can talk. Parrots, mynahs, even budgies.” He pointed a long finger to Big Crow and Little Crow sitting on a perch a few feet away inside their pen. “Buh Crow, though, he the cleverest of birds. Did you know that when lots of crows are all flocked together, they send lookouts high up to a branch? The scouts sit quiet and keep their eyes peeled. If they see something bad, they let loose that screechy
caw-caw
they do to warn all the mama crows and their children. You know the one I’m talking about.” He cupped his hands around his mouth, took a breath and released a perfect imitation of a crow’s cackle.