The Feathered Bone (46 page)

I shrug. “It's easy to feel overwhelmed by it all.”

“You can do this, Amanda. Viv's place will be perfect for you. At least until you decide what you want to buy.”

“I'm just happy to have somebody pay the note,” Viv adds, walking in with more newspaper. “Since the wedding it's been sitting on the market and hasn't had a single bite.”

“It's such a nice place.” I hand a box off to Viv and start a new one. “I don't know why it hasn't sold.”

“It's the price. I shouldn't have bought at the peak, but values were shooting up so fast after Katrina, I got scared and jumped headfirst.” She sighs and adds, “Live and learn.”

I smile and turn toward the kitchen window, where a tapping
sound has caught me off guard. The curtains and blinds have already been packed away, so our view is unobstructed. There, perched against the narrow sill, a small russet-and-gray bird drums its beak repetitively against the pane. With bold streaks down its puffy white chest, I recognize it right away.

“Is that a sparrow?” Raelynn asks, moving toward the window for a closer look. I follow.

“Raelynn,” I whisper, brows peaked high. “You don't think . . .”

I call out to Beth and Sarah, urging them, “Come quick!”

They rush into the kitchen, and Raelynn points to the feathered friend. “Is that your bird?”

Sarah moves quickly to the window and presses her hand flat against the pane. The sparrow pecks its bobbing head, a gentle rhythmic rap. Sarah looks back at us, a smile that sparks the room. Then she moves to another window, this one in the living room. The rest of us stare, astonished, as the bird flies around the house and reappears, knocking again, singing.

“Softly sings the sparrow,” Sarah says.

“No way!” Nate shouts, coming in for another load. Sarah turns and laughs. When she moves to a bedroom window, the sparrow follows.

Viv is in awe, calling her handsome fire chief hubby to take a look. “That can't be happening.”

Sarah says simply, “But it is.”

I hurry outside to find Jay, Gator, and Preacher. They won't believe us unless they see it for themselves. “Hurry,” I call out to the men who are busy cleaning out my shed. “It's Sarah's sparrow.”

Preacher rushes in to join the others, but Gator and Jay hold back. “That don't surprise me. It's her spirit animal,” Gator says, as if there's nothing to be all worked up about. “Her guide.”

“Spirit animal?” I question.

“God's way of talkin' to us. We just gotta learn to hear what he's sayin'.”

“You believe that?” Jay asks Gator.

“Why not?” Gator hobbles over to see Sarah's sparrow.

As I start to follow, Jay calls, “Hold up a second, Amanda. I've got something to show you.”

I will never tire of hearing him say my name.

He walks with me to his truck. “We got an interesting call at the office yesterday. Then this came by fax. This morning. I've been waiting for a chance to give it to you.” When he hands me an envelope, he seems confused by my reluctance. “Don't you want to read it?”

I look down and shuffle my feet. My hesitancy is clear. The last time someone surprised me with paperwork, it was a divorce petition. “What is it?”

He nudges the folder farther into my hands. “Read it. You'll be glad.”

With everyone else in the house marveling over Sarah's sparrow, Jay and I take a seat in two retractable lawn chairs. I open the envelope to find a slender stack of papers. On top, a handwritten salutation:
For Amanda Salassi.

Dear Ms. Salassi:

I am sorry to inform you that your mother, Adelaide Landry, has passed away. While preparing to depart, she asked me to find you. It has taken me awhile, with the limited information I was given. I apologize for the delay.

Before she died, she wrote you a letter. I have enclosed it for you. I hope her words bring you comfort.

I will honor Adelaide's request and remain anonymous. Peace be with you.

My stomach turns a flip. I put the letter down and look at Jay. “Is this from my birth mother?”

He smiles. “Keep reading.”

I fumble to the next page.

Dear Amanda,

My name is Adelaide Landry, and I am your mother.

My parents kicked me out of their home when they found out I was carrying. I knew only one place to go. I was sixteen years old when I left Lafayette. I had no diploma, no job, no husband. My cousin was studying at LSU, and she said she'd let me stay in her apartment until you were born. But when her parents found out, they kicked me out of there too.

I had no one. Your father's name was Jared Cordero. He was a kid, like me. I believe we might could have made it, given half a chance. He's not a bad guy, Amanda. Maybe you can find him. Last I heard, he was living down in Lake Charles. He owned a few car washes.

You may not understand, and you may never be able to forgive me, but I met a man who promised to help me. He convinced me to move to New Orleans. I believed he would give me a job and a place to live. I had no other options, Amanda. I followed him. Worst mistake I ever made.

He did take care of me, at first. He even took me to the doctor. But as soon as I gave birth to you, things changed. He became violent. You were in danger, and we needed to get away. I called home from the bus station, hoping my parents
would change their minds. They refused. My cousin could no longer be involved. She suggested the Sellers Home, a place for unwed mothers back in New Orleans.

An older woman there named Betty wanted to help. She convinced me the best thing would be to give you up for adoption. You were only a few weeks old. I begged her to find another way. But in the end I had no choice. I signed over my rights as your mother and returned home to my own parents.

As soon as I finished high school, I left Lafayette for good and moved to Chicago. I went to college and taught school until the cancer took over. I never married. I never had another child.

I have only one photograph of you. I have worn it in a locket, pressed against my heart, every day of my life, and I will wear it to my grave. Our initials are on the back. A. L.—Amanda Landry. I named you that on purpose. I wanted your name to stand for something. “Always Loved.”

Forgive me, Amanda. I prayed every day that God found you the right parents, a life I was unable to offer. I did not abandon you. You were Always Loved.

I am in tears by the time I turn the page. And there's the photograph. A faded color snapshot of Adelaide Landry sitting on a park bench in the city. She is smiling, one hand on her locket, as the sunlight streams through the sparse row of trees. It's the face I've been searching for all these years. My same dark eyes, dark hair, the same crook in my nose. I pretend she is looking at me, saying, “Amanda, always remember, you are loved.”

Chapter 31

Thursday, October 29, 2009

T
ODAY
I
VISIT
E
LLIE
'
S
GRAVE ALONE
. I
WILL SPEND THIS ANNIVERSARY
with my daughter, shaded by swaying pine limbs and sturdy oaks. A wild orchard of satsumas rests feet from her stone. Their citrus fragrance draws bees and birds alike, as a few forgotten summer figs turn to pungent liqueur across the ground.

I place my stainless steel thermos on the bench and kneel in the moist, cool grass beside my child. I replace the faded artificial bouquet with a new winter spray of white roses, red holly. Then I clean her marker, as I do every Sunday. I brush away leaves and acorns, sweeping tiny twigs from her name and blowing dust from the raised inscription.

E
LLIE
C
LAIRE
S
ALASSI

S
EPT
. 8, 1992—O
CT
. 29, 2006

F
LY
F
REE

I am finally able to set the dates down in order along a line of time. Today we are:

• Five years past The Day when Sarah was abducted.

• Four years past The Day when Carl walked out with Ashleigh.

• Three years past The Day when Ellie made her final choice.

• And nearly one year past Sarah's rescue.

Hour by hour, our lives are slowly spinning back to good.

Near the grave an area of grass is beginning to thin, so I transfer a patch of St. Augustine from a lusher piece of ground and push it into the soft soil, hoping it will take root. Then I trace the edges of her marker, pulling weeds from the perimeter, before placing a small token near the vase. Usually I choose something I find while I'm here: a smooth, cool pebble; a wiry mesh of Spanish moss; a fine and fangled stem of fern. Sometimes I pick wildflower blooms and leave them for Ellie: a velvet tab from shade-soaked lamb's ear; a palmetto spire, sharp as a blade; a bleeding heart, limp and delicate with papery skin; a bright, black berry, plucked gently from the forest's edge. Other times I leave songs in the wind and hope my voice can somehow reach her, the lullabies that once soothed a teething tot or the hymns that taught her soul to mend, or the edgy alternative hits that both inspired and built fire within her adolescent arteries. Today I place two golden acorns just above her name, one for Sarah and one for me.

The sun burns bright between the branches above, speckling the ground beneath me. I reach under the cement bench and scoop cool earth into my palm. The rich smells of the soil are coiled together. A mix of humus and decay, new birth from ruin.

As a child, I was taught to find comfort in the idea of being born again. Even now I like to imagine an eternal life, a state of existence where we are filled with only peace and love and light. That's where I picture my Ellie. She may not be floating around in some picture-book version of heaven, or waiting for the day of
ascension beneath this stone. But I have to believe she's no longer in pain. Wherever that may be.

As the day begins to fold, tree-trunk shadows stretch like matchsticks, each striking the sun. I write a love song to my daughter, as I have done each anniversary. Black ink against a pastel page, loops and letters soon to be set free. I scroll the message, tied with string beneath a bright-blue bulb of helium, and kiss the words good-bye.

Within seconds the turquoise balloon crests high above the canopy of leaves, disappearing into the great beyond. I hope with all my soul that it finds Ellie up there, within the mystery, clothed in wonder. Flying free.

Saturday, December 5, 2009

Sarah doesn't walk in anger or with even a hint of revenge. Instead, she seems to glide through the Broussard family living room, almost suspended like a source of light. The cameras focus on her as she begins to speak.

“My name is Sarah Broussard. I was abducted from a school field trip in New Orleans. It happened five years ago, when I was twelve.

“I was rescued last November, at sixteen. I am now seventeen, and I am ready to speak.

“Many people were with me that day, but I want to make it clear. None of them were to blame—not my chaperone, Ms. Amanda; not my teacher, Miss Henderson; not my best friend, Ellie; not my bus driver, Mr. Gator. Neither were my parents or anyone else who
loved and cared for me. I was tricked. I was tricked into following a lady out of the café. And it was no one's fault but the people who abducted me. The people I came to know as The Boss, LeMoyne, and Bridgette.”

The room is completely still, as if the whole world has paused to hear this young woman's truth.

“I am here today to tell you my story. I will no longer be silenced. I will not be shamed. I will do whatever it takes to be seen and heard. Hopefully, by claiming my own voice, I can give voice to all the people who are living in chains. Whether they are physically, spiritually, or emotionally caged, we will fight to set them free.”

Reporters grab quotes from Sarah's speech and agree to help her promote an upcoming fund-raiser to combat human trafficking.

Frank Doucet, our local correspondent, says to Sarah, “You were abducted during a field trip. Surely that started off as a happy day with your friends. What was one of the last memories you had from this part of your life? Was there something that carried you through all those years?”

Sarah thinks a minute, and then she stands taller. “Mr. Doucet, that's a really good question. I'm glad you asked.”

Preacher gives the familiar newsman a smile, forgiving him for pushing too far in past situations.

“The day I was taken, our class had gone to Mardi Gras World. It was my first time there, and we were having a lot of fun, dressing up in costumes, eating king cake. My best friend, Ellie, was very artistic, creative, so it was exciting going somewhere like that with her. And yes, there was something from that experience that stuck with me all these years.”

Reporters lean in, pens at the ready, cameras recording.