Time to Fly (5 page)

I laugh and pull open the refrigerator door. “I'll make a salad.”

“That would be lovely, Zoe,” Gran says. She opens a cupboard and sets out plates and salad bowls.

I dig out the lettuce and an assortment of raw veggies. Before I came, most of the meals Gran and Maggie ate were canned, frozen, or delivered. Gran's too busy to cook, and Maggie leans toward artificial colors and flavors, so she didn't mind just opening a box for dinner.

That's one way my mom is like her mother: she never cooks. Luckily for me, Ethel loved to cook, and she taught me how. We even used to watch the food channel together…
Don't think about New York, or Ethel, or Mom right now.

“Gran, do you think the parrots are OK?” I ask as we tear the romaine for salad. I think of the lush jungle in the aviary. “What if they can't find enough to eat?”

“You'd be surprised how tough these birds can be,” Gran replies. “There are flocks of parrots living wild in many parts of the U.S. There's even a flock of Monk parakeets living wild in Chicago.”

“Parakeets? Those cute little birds you see in pet shops?”

“No. The Monk, also known as the Quaker parakeet, is actually a type of small parrot. No relation to those little pet-store budgies, even though they're both called parakeets,” Gran explains.

“Isn't Chicago even colder than Pennsylvania in the winter?” I ask, and Gran nods. “So what do the people there do about the Monk parakeets?”

“As far as I know, the birds manage to survive more or less on their own.” Gran comes over to help me slice radishes. “Monk parakeets are unique among parrots because they build nests—huge ones—and that probably helps them keep warm through the winter,” she adds. “Some biologists and bird watchers are keeping track of the flock and trying to protect the Monks, which I'm afraid have a bad reputation. Monk parakeets are thought to cause crop damage in Argentina, where they're native, so there's been concern that the same thing might happen here in the U.S., too.”

I frown. How could a measly little flock of parrots cause more crop damage than, say, a herd of deer, or even a big flock of crows? “Have wild parrots damaged any crops in the U.S.?” I ask Gran.

“So far there's no evidence of it,” Gran says.

“Still, in many states—including Pennsylvania—it's illegal to own a Monk parakeet for that very reason: the government is afraid that pet birds will get loose, naturalize into wild flocks, and then damage farm crops. If you're caught owning a Monk, the law requires the bird to be euthanized—put to sleep.”

The doorbell rings, and Gran and Maggie go to get the pizza. As I toss the salad, it occurs to me that maybe we could do the same thing right here in Ambler that the biologists in Chicago are doing. We could set up a network of people to keep track of how the parrots are doing and make sure nobody tries to hurt them. Sunita could even help me put up a Web site for people to post their sightings of the Ambler parrots, so we can find out where they're roosting. We already know one of those places is Gran's oak tree, but there've got to be others.

My mind starts going a mile a minute, planning out a parrot-protection strategy. We could send some of Brenna's photos to the
Ambler Sentinel
and see if they'll send a journalist over to do a story on the parrots, to educate the public about them. In the fall, maybe we could get some pet stores to do promotions to encourage people to put out food for the parrots over the winter…

And then it comes back to me: I may not even be here in the fall.

That night in bed, I can't seem to fall asleep. Watching the curtains move in the warm spring breeze, I can smell spring. The narcissus bulbs we planted last fall by the clinic's small parking lot are blooming like crazy; their smell perfumes the whole front yard and wafts up through my window. And I smell something else—the rich green smell of the earth coming back to life. New York never smelled like this at night. I wonder, what do L.A. nights smell like—car exhaust fumes? How can people there enjoy spring when they never have winter?

A scene from one of my favorite movies,
The Wizard of Oz,
pops into my head. Mom and I must have watched it a thousand times. It's that scene where Dorothy closes her eyes, clicks her ruby slippers together, and murmurs over and over, “There's no place like home, there's no place like home,” as she waits for the magic to take her home where she belongs.

But where do I belong? Where's my home? I don't even know anymore.

As I drift off to sleep, an owl hoots in the distance, a lonely sound. And then I think I hear another sound, so far away I'm not even sure if it's real or I'm dreaming: the distant squawk of a parrot. This place isn't the parrots' real home, either. But I want to help them feel at home here in Ambler—just as I do.

Chapter Five

S
unday morning I wake up late and stretch in the sunlight like a contented cat. Sneakers yaps when he hears me stirring and leaps onto my stomach.

“Sneakers!” I shriek, grabbing him as I sit up, glad he's just a lightweight mutt and not a heavy husky or Saint Bernard. He licks my face like a lollipop, and I hug him tight, laughing.

After all the confusing thoughts swirling through my mind yesterday, I suddenly feel clearheaded. Maybe a good night's sleep was all I needed.

I know what the acting business is like. One day you're a star—and the next day you're a waitress again. I've been there with Mom before. Sure, she sounded certain yesterday, but my mother's a romantic, an eternal optimist. She looks for sunshine even when the weather station predicts rain. That's one of the reasons we had so much fun all those years she was raising me alone.

I like to dream, too, but I also like to keep my feet on the ground. And right now, my feet are firmly planted
here
. I'm all settled into my life with Gran and Maggie and Sneakers and all the other animals that are part of our lives—which now includes a bunch of parrots who need my help.

I kiss Sneakers, dress, brush my hair, and fly downstairs.

At the kitchen table, Maggie is dribbling pink milk onto the sports pages as she slurps up her Froot Loops.

“So, what are we doing today?” I ask cheerfully. “Painting the clinic? Nailing on a new roof?”

Maggie glares at me. “Don't give Gran any ideas.”

“Maggie, you're drooling. Yuck! Don't talk with your mouth full!”

“Who are you, my mother? Don't tell me what to do.”

As she speaks, a spray of milk flies out of her mouth. We look at each other and giggle hysterically.

Just for fun I peer into her bowl of multicolored sugar and chemicals, and gasp. “I think I saw that cereal in yesterday's newspaper!”

Maggie freezes with the spoon in her mouth. “Huh?”

“Yeah—the headline said, ‘Toxic Cereal Turns Seventh-Grade Girl's Freckles Purple.'”

“Very funny,” Maggie retorts. “I'll have you know this cereal is fortified with 10 essential vitamins and minerals.”

“Don't you get it?” I counter. “If it had healthy ingredients in it in the first place, they wouldn't have to fortify it.”

Maggie refuses to dignify my comment with a reply—or maybe she just can't think of anything to say. Feeling smug, I set about making my own breakfast—sliced strawberries on yogurt, a toasted English muffin with honey, and orange juice.

Maggie's lowered the volume on her slurping now that she's lost in the sports pages. Sherlock and Sneakers sleep by our feet beneath the table. Socrates dozes in a patch of sunlight on the wide windowsill by the table. And I can hear some Mozart coming from the clinic—Gran enjoying her “morning off” by doing what she loves best, checking on her animals. Everything feels cozy and peaceful.

And I'm a part of it all. I work in the clinic, I help care for the animals, I cook and make sure Gran and Maggie don't die of malnutrition. Sneakers and I even visit hospitals to cheer up the patients.

In New York I never felt needed. As much as Mom loves me, I sometimes got the feeling I was a burden to her. After all, without me she wouldn't have had to hire Ethel, who must have been expensive. And I guess Mom sort of confirmed that feeling when she went off without me to pursue a Hollywood career.

But here, I'm needed and wanted—and that's such a good feeling. Will I have that feeling living in Los Angeles with Mom? Or will I just feel like a burden again?

Maggie kicks me under the table.

I glance up. “What?”

Maggie stares at me like I'm a dope. “Hello! If you don't get Sneakers outside, he's going to pee.”

One look at my dog tells me Maggie is right. Sneakers is pacing back and forth by the back door, watching me with his I-have-to-go-
now
look. When he catches my eye, his tail wags hopefully.

“Oops,” I mutter, ignoring Maggie's self-satisfied smirk, and scoot out the back door with Sneakers before he gives me something to clean up besides breakfast dishes.

While Sneakers relieves himself beside the oak tree, I search the branches. But the familiar morning bird song, unbroken by squawks or screeches, has already told me the parrots aren't here.

A screen door slams and our next-door neighbor, Mr. Cowan, comes out carrying a tray.

“Hi, Mr. Cowan!” I call.

“Good morning, Zoe,” he says, coming over to the end of his deck. “Nice morning for bird-watching.”

“Did you see what we saw yesterday?” I ask.

“The parrots?” He nods. “Sure did. I've been checking the news to see if anybody's figured out how they got here, but so far nobody seems to know.”

He rests his tray on the railing of his deck, and I notice what's on it—oranges.
Lots
of oranges. Enough to feed a whole family for a week.

Mr. Cowan follows my gaze. “These are for the parrots, in case they come back. Birdseed isn't really the best diet for parrots. They prefer fruit and vegetables.” He picks up a knife and begins slicing the oranges. “Want to help?”

“Sure. I'll be right over.” I let Sneakers back inside, then join Mr. Cowan on his deck and start slicing up oranges while he spreads the slices on the railing of his deck. Mmm. The oranges smell sweet and sunny and make my mouth water.

“Go ahead, help yourself,” Mr. Cowan says with a smile. “The birds won't miss a slice or two.”

Mr. Cowan is a retired university professor, a botanist, so I guess that makes him Dr. Cowan, but nobody calls him that. He's the sweetest man you'll ever meet, but I think he's lonely. His wife died about two years ago, Gran told me. He loves to garden. Last summer he put in a little pond with lily pads and a fountain and these giant goldfish called koi in it. He has a small rose garden, a big vegetable garden, and about a dozen kinds of bird feeders all over his yard.

Maybe I can enlist Mr. Cowan to serve on the front lines of my parrot-protection program. He's obviously a big-time bird lover, and he knows something about parrots to boot. I decided to feel him out. “Maybe with our help, the parrots will stay and make their home right here in Ambler.”

“They're delightful creatures, indeed. But you know, Zoe, there's more to think about than just the parrots' survival.” He opens a large plastic tub and begins refilling the feeders on the deck with regular birdseed. “There's also the impact on the local environment.”

“You mean like causing crop damage?”

“I mean any kind of impact. It's always a risk when a foreign bird or animal or even plant invades a new environment,” Mr. Cowan explains. “There's no way to know for sure how the foreigner will affect native plants and animals. Foreign species can carry diseases and parasites that the native species have no defenses against.”

I nod, thinking of Pickles. Could he have infected other birds with his sickness before we took him into the clinic?

Mr. Cowan continues. “Sometimes foreign invaders simply out-compete the native species for food and habitat.” He clips the plastic cover back on the seed bin and eases himself into a chair, warming to his topic. I can just imagine him lecturing to a class. I'll bet he was a good teacher. “Look at foreign species like the lamprey eel and the zebra mussel, which as a result of ocean ship traffic have moved into the Great Lakes. As their populations have grown, the native fish and shellfish populations have declined.”

“So you really think this parrot flock might grow and crowd out our native birds?” I look around at the chickadees and sparrows clustered at the feeders. They may not be as showy as the parrots, but I certainly wouldn't want them to be driven away from their own food and nesting places.