The Sparrow (The Returned) (2 page)

The internet was as inundated with speculation as it ever was, but no one was able to explain what the Returned were, where they were coming from or what should be done with them. But one thing was certain: people were confused and afraid. The churches were filled to capacity each Sunday. More people were taking confession. Charity donations and volunteering skyrocketed. People sought answers wherever they could.

Matt came home from work one evening to find Heather and Tatiana sitting in the living room, entranced by the television. Tatiana was seated on the floor between Heather’s legs as Heather combed the child’s hair, never taking her attention away from the TV screen. There was a report on the news about a facility being built in a small town in North Carolina called Arcadia. These facilities were cropping up around the country, serving as regional points of processing for the Returned. It was still unclear exactly what was happening inside the facilities—what the government was doing with the Returned, how long they were holding them, what the conditions were like—but it gave people comfort knowing that at least
something
was being done, however false that comfort was.

When the news report was over, Matt took Heather into the bedroom and sat with her on the bed.

“I’ve got an idea,” he said, his voice in a whisper. “What’s say we start a blog about all of this? I was poking around the internet today, and there are people telling stories about their encounters with the Returned. But it’s all just stories of sightings and what not. There’s nothing about anyone actually living with one, actually having one in their house like we do.”

Heather could see the eagerness and excitement in Matt’s eyes, but she also saw something else, something she did not like. “But we’re not going to keep her here, Matt. And we’re damned sure not going to blog about it. We’re going to help her find her family. How could you even think of anything else?”

“Her parents are dead for all we know,” Matt responded. He stood and scratched his head. “And that’s not really someone’s child in there,” he said. “Children don’t come back from the dead—at least, not any children I’ve ever heard of. These things aren’t people. They’re something else. And if there’s a way for us to capitalize on this, then I’m all for that.”

“No,” Heather said. She took a deep breath, straightened her back and looked up at her husband. “She’s a child, Matt. And somewhere in this world she’s got parents or, at the very least, she’s got a family. And if it were my child, if it were my daughter, I’d want her home. I’d want her back.”

“Well I wouldn’t,” Matt replied. He pointed to the living room. “I wouldn’t want that thing in there pretending to be my daughter, dredging up all the pain and heartache. I don’t know what these things are, but they’re not people, Heather. And you can’t really believe they are, can you?”

“I can believe it,” Heather said. “And I hope to God that it’s true. I hope to God that all of this is real, even if it only lasts for a little while.” Her words began to stick in her throat. “If I could see my mother again, I wouldn’t care if it was
really
her or not. I wouldn’t ask those kinds of questions—and I feel sorry for anyone that would. If my mother somehow shows up in all of this, if I get a call that she’s suddenly been found in some far-off part of the world, I’d pray to God that the person who finds her would take care of her, that they would get her back to me, that they would have the decency to let me decide whether or not she was real, whether or not I could love her again.” She stood then and, with an air of resolution, started out of the room. “We’ve had her too long as it is,” she said. “It’s time to get her back to her family.”

* * *

Tatiana would see her father only one more time. It was very late, and she was awakened by the familiar, low thrumming of his voice. “Tati? Tati?” he whispered.

She awoke, wiping her eyes and smiling blindly. He showed up as little more than a shadow in the darkness before her, but the silhouette of him was enough. She reached for him and was met by the warmth of his arms wrapping around her. He smelled of diesel fumes and clay and grass—the proper way a father should smell, she felt.

“Father!” she called.

He shushed her gently. “Not so loud, Tati. We must be quiet. We do not want to wake your mother.”

“Father, I was worried about you,” she replied. She just could make out his bushy eyebrows and the glimmer of his teeth in the darkness, but her eyes were beginning to adjust. With every second he was materializing before her.

“I know,” he said. “I did not mean to frighten you.” He put his hands on the sides of her face and smiled. “I’ve been a very, very bad father. I should stand with my nose in the corner and my eyes crossed like this.” He squinted up his face and crossed his eyes. Tatiana giggled.

“You’re silly,” she said.

“Yes,” he replied. “But I am very sorry for not being here. I hope that you weren’t too worried about me.”

“Mother says you were working to make extra money.”

“Ah,” he said. He gently patted her head. “Your mother is a smart woman.”

Outside, the moon was full and fat, and Tatiana noticed that the window was open and the small stack of books she kept near it had been disturbed.

“Father?” she said. “Did you come in through the window?”

He looked at the books and grinned. “You have a very sharp eye, Tati.”

“Why?”

Her father thought for a moment. “Because I needed to see you, and I did not want to be seen. Are you old enough to understand that?”

“Are you in danger?” she asked. “I hear the shooting sometimes—in the distance. Mother says that it will stay away, that it won’t come here. Is that the truth?”

He sighed. “The truth,” he said, “is that I do not know. I am not sure that anyone knows. If I have anything to say about it, then it will always stay away from you and your mother.”

Tatiana paused. “Why did she tell me a lie?”

He shook his head. “Your mother did not lie,” he said. “She told you what she hopes to be the truth. People do that sometimes when...well, when the world is complex and the truth is not certain. People create the truth, and they hope that they can create the world of that truth. Does that make sense?”

“It’s like our stories?”

He smiled widely, and his eyes lit up. “Yes, it is just like our stories.” He tapped her foot playfully. “Speaking of which, shall we continue with our tale of the sparrow girl?”

“Yes,” she said, nodding emphatically. She sat with her back against the headboard and kicked off the covers. “Mother offered to help me, but I told her no.”

“Why did you do that?” her father asked.

“Because it would have changed how the story went,” she said quietly and earnestly. “Also, I know she likes being surprised by our stories.”

He laughed quietly. “She likes the worlds we create?”

“Yes!”

“Then you and I will create such a world for her!” He opened his arms as he spoke, as if encompassing the entirety of his daughter’s imagination. She climbed across the bed and into his lap and he closed his strong arms around her, and, for a little while, she believed that things were the way they used to be and that she would always be safe as long as she had her father.

Tatiana’s father held her for several seconds, saying nothing.

“Tati,” he said finally. “When it is over, I will leave again, okay?”

“Why?” Tatiana asked.

“Because there are things happening here, in our country, that cannot be ignored. Terrible things. People are dying, and I must do my part to stop it. For you and for your mother.”

“Mother says she will not let you leave again,” Tatiana said. She wanted to scream, to call out for her mother. She wanted to wrap her arms around this man and never let him go.

But she did not call out. Instead, she and her father spent the rest of that night weaving their magical tale. It was the last they would ever share.

* * *

The day after Heather called the authorities, a small man in a gray suit showed up at her front door with a briefcase and a look of practiced calmness. “Heather Ryan?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“My name is James Duncan. I’m from the Bureau of the Returned. I’m here about the girl.”

What followed was a simple interview held at the kitchen table. Heather and Matt recounted how they had come upon the child; the man from the bureau asked Tatiana about her parents. He videotaped their discussion and took extensive notes. It all seemed rather anticlimactic, Heather thought.

“So what happens next?” she asked.

“It depends,” Mr. Duncan replied.

“Depends on what?” Matt asked.

“We are beginning to build facilities for people like her,” Mr. Duncan continued. “A place where the Returned can be sorted through a bit more efficiently.” He jotted something in a notebook. “If you would like, I can have the girl sent to one of these facilities.”

“A facility?” Heather said. She let the word hang in the air. She remembered the news report about the new facility being built in Arcadia. She wondered what the town was like, what kind of people lived there and, more importantly, how they felt about having so many Returned so close to their homes and their families. Her mind imagined the facility as a building of white rooms, smelling of antiseptic and big government—little more than a prison camp.

Heather looked at Tatiana. “I don’t like the sound of that,” she said.

“It’s nothing to be uneasy about,” the man from the bureau said. “I promise you. There are beds, plenty of food, anything she would need.”

“That sounds good,” Matt said. “I’m not sure I like having it in the house.”

“
Her
,” Heather corrected. “She has a name.”

Mr. Duncan made more notes and, for the most part, kept his attention on Tatiana. While he did not want to make her nervous, part of his job was to watch the Returned for reactions, recognition, anything that might be important.

But all he saw was a young girl caught between a bickering couple. “Maybe it would be for the best,” he said, “if we sent her to one of the facilities.” He rifled through his briefcase and pulled out a piece of paper—a long, complicated form that he placed on the table and began filling out. Heather was lost in her thoughts, imagining Tatiana alone, lost in a mass of people behind the fences of a barren, cold encampment. The word
facilities
would not let her find comfort.

“Can I stay with you, Heather?” the girl asked suddenly.

Matt gently shook his head, his eyes pleading with his wife, making one final, silent case against keeping the girl. Tatiana had become an increasingly greater point of friction between the two of them in the past few weeks. In the beginning, Matt had seen the promise of fame and fortune. But when the girl could offer no answers about the Returned, the lottery ticket he first imagined began to fade—along with his patience.

Heather was certain that Matt’s problem with Tatiana stemmed from the fact that he had never lost anyone. Both of his parents were still alive. His brothers and sisters, even his grandparents, were all still alive. He had never known the loneliness of waking in the middle of the night from a dream of spending time with a mother who had been dead for nearly a decade. A feeling Heather knew all too well. For Heather, if Tatiana was really who she claimed to be—if she really was alive—it meant that her mother could somehow be alive, as well. Alive and searching for her.

How could she ever send Tatiana away?

“No,” Heather said finally. “We won’t send her to any facility. She’ll stay with us, and we’ll find her parents.”

The man from the bureau nodded and put away his paperwork. Matt exhaled through his nose with a loud, frustrated huff, and Tatiana raced across the room and threw her arms around Heather’s waist. “Thank you,” she cried. “Thank you so much.”

“We’ll get you home,” Heather said and hugged the child.

Later that evening, after the man from the bureau was gone and after Matt had stormed out of the house, as Heather was putting Tatiana to bed, the girl took Heather’s hand and asked if Heather would tell her a story.

Heather sat down on the edge of the bed with a sigh. “I’m not very good at telling stories.” She cleared her throat.

Tatiana eagerly perked up in the bed. “I could tell you one, but it’s not finished yet. My father and I still have to come up with the ending.”

“Endings are the hardest part,” Heather said with a smile. “No one ever really wants a good story to end, so I think it’s actually okay that this one isn’t finished.” She stretched out across the bed at the child’s feet and waited expectantly. “I would love to hear it.”

Tatiana folded her legs beneath her and began. “Once, when the world was very young, there was a girl who had no parents. She lived alone in the forest, very afraid and very sad. She did not even have a name because there was no one to speak with.”

“That’s a sad beginning,” Heather interrupted.

“My father says that good stories have to begin sadly,” Tatiana replied matter-of-factly. “Because if we have not been sad, then we cannot be happy.”

“He sounds very wise,” Heather said after a pause.

Tatiana continued with her story.

“So when the girl was five years old, she learned to climb trees—”

“Why did she have to climb trees?” Heather interrupted. She could see that Tatiana took delight in answering her questions.

“To get away from the lions and leopards and wild dogs that were always coming through the forest to hunt.”

“You’ve thought this through, haven’t you?”

“And it was at the top of one of those trees,” Tatiana continued, “that she found a family of sparrows. They were gentle and kind to her. They were like you.”

Tatiana’s story continued for nearly an hour, and when she was finished, she told Heather how she and her father had been working on the story almost every night for weeks. “The sparrows were Father’s idea,” Tatiana said at one point.

“Why did he want sparrows?” Heather asked. “Why not some other bird?”

“Because, when he was a boy, they were his favorite,” Tatiana said. “He said that his mother once told him that sparrows are how wishes are carried to God’s ear.”