Up High in the Trees (13 page)

See ya, he says. Next time you don't have to be such a jerk.

Dear Ms. Lambert,

A long time ago, I fell out the window and I was okay. I was thinking about falling and what it would be like and then it happened.

There's a boy here named Jackson and a girl named Shelly. I had to tell them my name and now maybe they will be nice to me.

I have a dead Grandpa Chuck who liked pigeons. Do you think that's weird to like pigeons? I don't like any birds, because when I see one then I think something bad is going to happen.

Mother saw a bird in the white frosting ceiling and I could see it, too. After that, Mother was sad all the time. I used to stare at the bird and wish for Mother to be happy again. When Mother died, the bird was gone. I couldn't find it. I thought maybe the bird took Mother away.

Bye, Sebby

I look in the upstairs closet to find Grandpa Chuck's box. I want to know about pigeons and why they are good.

All the way up on the top shelf, I see a box that says
CHUCK
in capital black letters. I get a chair to stand on so I can reach, but the box is too heavy for me to pull down.

What I want to do is hide in the closet. I think it would be okay to hide for just a little bit, so I go in and pull the door shut almost all the way. Then I sit down and scoot to the back. I want to see if Dad will find me, but then I would be hiding for too long.

Inside the closet, it smells like outside. It smells like the cold-air smell of winter coats. I like being in the dark, but I have to remember I can only hide for a little bit.

I know Dad is upstairs where I am, because I can hear his music now. It sounds soft, like a lullaby. It's the Mamas and Papas song about a man who stands in his window and watches girls walking through the canyon. Mother told me that New York City is like a canyon, because the buildings are so tall.

The closet light wakes me up.

Dad says hello. His eyes look red and sleepy. He asks me what I'm doing and his voice sounds mad at me.

Sebby, he says, do not hide from me again. Then he goes away.

I stay in the closet. I'm lying on a brown box. The box is old and soft. It says Mother's name,
LOUISE
, and also Uncle's name,
ALEXANDER
.

I should go downstairs to my sleeping bag because I'm tired and I don't want to know what's in the box right now. But, I open one of the top flaps, put my hand inside, and pull out a red piece of paper that's written on with black crayon. The writing is messy and this is what it says:

Cass Love Mom

Mom Cass Love

Love Mom Cass

Mom Love Cass

Cass Mom Love

Love Cass Mom.

At the bottom of the red paper, in pencil handwriting, it says, Cass, age five, December 12, 1978.

I put the red paper back in the box and I think about going downstairs, but I don't. I reach in the box and take out a picture
of a birthday cake that says
HAPPY BIRTHDAY
louise. The picture is black-and-white. I count and there are fifteen candles on the cake. Mother's not in the picture. You can only see the cake.

I leave the picture and go downstairs. Dad's already asleep and the fireplace room is dark except for the fire. I like listening to how the wood pops when it burns.

I think about how Mother was fifteen and we were not with her. I was hiding somewhere, watching her, but I was not really me yet. Dad was somewhere, too, but he was not with Mother. He didn't know her until she was sixteen and went to Sandy's Escape and together they heard the song “Satisfaction.” Uncle Alexander was probably there with Mother and Grandmother Bernie and Grandpa Chuck, too. Mother knew them before she knew Dad, Cass, Leo, and me. Now Mother is with only the baby, Sara Rose.

I can't fall asleep because I know what I want is to remember everything Mother did.

In the morning, I find Dad upstairs in the room where he's supposed to sleep. The bed is set up with his yellow sheets and blankets that have tiny blue flowers all over them. I think it's not right for Dad to sleep with all those blue flowers since flowers are for girls and he doesn't sleep with Mother anymore.

Dad's watching TV, but the picture on the screen is not moving and I don't hear any sound.

What channel is this? I ask Dad.

It's a video, he says, I found it in the closet last night. I got down your grandfather's box of bird stuff, too, he says.

The picture on the TV screen is just a girl sleeping in a white bed.

That's Cass, Dad says and nods at the screen.

The sleeping girl's face looks so much softer than Cass's face. I don't think it's really her.

She's maybe twelve or thirteen here, Dad says.

What's she doing? I ask.

Sleeping, says Dad.

Oh, I say.

I'd just bought my first video camera, Dad says. He's talking and watching the TV screen. Cass wanted me to tape her early in the morning before she woke up so that she could see what she looked like when she was sleeping.

Why? I ask.

I don't like watching Cass sleep.

I don't know, Dad says, just curious, I guess.

Dad, I say.

He looks at me for a second.

Yeah, he says and then looks back at the screen.

Is Cass like Mother? I ask.

In some ways, yes, says Dad. I guess I don't know what you mean exactly.

I mean she doesn't look right with her eyes closed and her face empty like she's not feeling anything, but I don't say that. I don't say anything.

In the hallway, I look through the box of Grandpa Chuck's bird stuff and find something to ask Dad about.

What's this? I ask. I'm holding up an X-ray of a bird with its wings spread out.

Dad doesn't answer, so I go over to him and pull on the leg of his gray sweatpants.

Just a second, Dad says and stands up. He reaches forward to push the big button that turns off the TV.

That's an X-ray, Dad says. He stretches up tall so his white T-shirt goes up and I can see his stomach with the rubbery scar from where they took his appendix out.

Who is it in the X-ray? I ask.

It's Butch, your grandfather's favorite pigeon, says Dad. Butch got sick and your grandfather called a special bird doctor all the way out in New Hampshire or someplace and paid for the guy to fly here with all his equipment. The doctor said he couldn't guarantee anything. He was a weird guy. He talked slow and had a tiny, funny mustache.

Dad stops and rubs his face with his hands, then says, The
doctor took that X-ray to see inside Butch's lungs. Turns out Butch had pneumonia.

Dad points to light gray spots on the X-ray. See, he says, that's all fluid.

I touch one of the light gray spots and keep my finger there to cover it up.

What happened? I ask Dad.

Well, he says, the doctor helped your grandfather set up a sickroom for Butch. A cardboard box with a utility lamp clamped above to keep him warm. He survived in there for almost two weeks, I think.

I put the X-ray of pigeon Butch back in the box and close the lid. I don't want to know how light gray spots of fluid got inside his lungs. I don't like to look at the bird's body of bones and know he's dead.

I'm hungry, I tell Dad.

Okay, says Dad, we'll have to go out.

Can we drive? I ask.

We haven't driven anywhere since we came here. It's been days and days.

I guess so, Dad says.

I follow him downstairs and we get ready to go. Without any socks, Dad puts on his boots and laces them up really slowly. He keeps holding out the loose ends of the laces to make sure they're both the same length. I watch him and in my head I start to count. I count as fast as I can.

All right, Dad says and he looks up at me.

I can't stop counting in my head.

Dad finds the car keys in the pocket of his gray coat.
Outside, he keeps feeling around in all his pockets like he's missing something. He pulls out a red pack of sugarless gum and also a five-dollar bill.

Look, he says.

I look, but I don't say anything because I'm still counting.

You want a piece? Dad asks.

Then I have to stop counting to answer. We're standing by the car and Dad's looking at me, waiting.

Okay, I say. I'm not counting now, but I can still feel the numbers moving fast through my head. The numbers make my foot tap.

What are you doing? Dad asks.

Nothing, I say and we get in the car.

I put the piece of gum in my mouth. I used to not like this kind because it tasted too spicy, but now I like how it makes the inside of my mouth feel hot.

We drive into town and after we pass by the post office, then everything's new. Dad parks in front of a brown restaurant with a sign that says Mitchell's.

I haven't been here in years, Dad tells me.

We get out and I run around to Dad's side so I can lock the car. I like listening to the clicking sound.

The restaurant is loud inside. I follow Dad to a booth. We have our own window, but there's nothing to see really, except for all the cars parked in a row. Our car is parked in the middle and I think that's a good place for it to be.

A tall waitress brings us water. She's wearing a short, black skirt so you can see almost all of her long, skinny legs. She asks Dad if we're ready to order.

You want pancakes? Dad asks me.

I nod yes. The waitress looks funny like how flamingos look funny. On her long neck she's wearing a gold cross necklace.

Dad orders pancakes for me and also eggs over easy with well-toasted toast for him.

The waitress goes away and Dad rubs his forehead with both hands like he's tired already. Then he looks out the window. He's sad for Mother and sad for himself. I know he's sad all the time and I heard Cass say that maybe he'll never feel better.

I slide forward off the booth and go under the table. Dad doesn't tell me not to, so I lie down on the floor and look up. There's one name scratched into the wood. Rachel, it says.