A Secret Shared, Page 3
Patricia MacLachlan
Mother smiles at me.
“Twins,” she says.
People smile at Ben and Birdy as they pick out vegetables. And when they dance home while I pull the litter box in the grocery cart.
“Ben is not embarrassed to look silly,” I say.
Mother looks sideways at me and says something I don’t expect.
“It’s Ben’s ‘beautiful sense,’” she says.
I am quiet for a moment.
“Do I have a beautiful sense, too?” I ask Mother.
She nods and takes my hand.
“You have kindness,” she says.
And we walk, holding hands, watching Ben and Birdy laugh and chant all the way home, Ben pulling the shopping cart.
But when we open our backyard gate all noise suddenly stops.
“The dead tree,” says Ben softly.
Father’s tall tree stands—bark stripped away.
It is smoothed into a figure looking away—hair falling like water—catching something small. The sparkling hair comb.
Birdy points at the sparkling comb.
“Mama,” she says.
“Yes.”
Mother and I still hold hands. She smiles.
She knows herself in wood.
“Beautiful sense,” she whispers.
9.
“Eyes and Art”
It’s school spring vacation. There is no watching Birdy skip off to school, or Billy and Aggie, our crossing guards. Most of all there’s no Miss Skylark.
Father is at the table with a cup of coffee.
Mother’s not at her alcove desk.
“Where is Mom?” Ben asks.
“She left a note on her desk,” Father says.
Gone to an all-day poetry writing class.
To make beautiful sense.
Mother
Mom
Mama
“Is this true?” I ask.
Father nods. “True.”
“Mom can be surprising, can’t she,” says Ben, making Father laugh a lot.
Birdy points to the “Mother, Mom, Mama.”
“She signed the note with all the names we call her. Did you see?”
Then she points to the words “beautiful sense.”
“What do these words mean?” Birdy asks.
“It means your mama is being very brave,” Father tells her.
“She’s going to learn more about poetry,” I tell Birdy.
“Like going to school?” asks Birdy.
Ben nods.
“That is brave!” says Birdy.
Father taps Birdy’s shoulder. He picks up his painting of Mother.
“Time to hang this,” he says.
The four of us go into Birdy’s bedroom.
Tillie sits in the window, watching birds, making small chattering sounds.
Father smiles at Birdy’s cardboard litter box, with her hand-painted figures on the sides—a bird perched on a limb and the tail of a mouse disappearing into tall grass. Inside the box are strips of paper scattered around.
“A work of art, that box,” he tells Birdy.
“Birdy made it when Tillie was a secret,” I say.
“I cut up the newspaper into strips. Not Mother’s column,” she adds. “Tillie likes to scramble around in it before she sleeps with Charles and me.”
“Who’s Charles?” Father asks.
Birdy holds up her stuffed horse.
“My horse. It’s named after my best friend Charles at school. We climb very high on the jungle gym and do tricks until the teachers run to tell us to get down.”
Father grins.
“I put the new litter box in the back hallway,” he says. “We’ll show it to Tillie after I hang the painting.”
He wipes the frame of the painting with a cloth. He picks up his hammer and a picture hook.
“Where?” he asks Birdy.
Birdy points to the wall across from her bed.
“There,” she says. “I can lie in bed and look at it.”
Father nods.
He hammers in the picture hook. He hangs the painting—steps back, then adjusts it a bit.
“There,” he says.
“Come lie down and look,” says Birdy, excited.
Father lies down. Ben lies down. I squeeze into the space left.
“See how it looks from here?” says Birdy.
“It’s a good painting,” Father says softly. “I like seeing it on this wall.”
“It’s beautiful there,” says Ben.
“It’s beautiful anywhere,” I say.
“I see Mother young,” says Birdy.
“Eyes and art,” says Father quietly.
I look over at him.
“What does that mean?”
“We see art with different eyes. You see Mother young. I see the woman I loved even as I painted her.”
“Even then?” I ask.
“Even then,” he says.
Eyes and art.
There are no words then.
Tillie jumps up on the bed, finding a space by Father. Birdy gathers her horse Charles into her arms.
There are no words.
10.
Unlocked
We move from the quiet of Birdy’s bedroom to the noise of the back hallway.
There are lots of words.
Tillie’s new litter box sits, unfilled yet, next to my parents’ hall cupboard.
In school we’ve been learning how plays are written—mostly “dialogue” as Miss Skylark says. And “action.”
“Tillie likes a painted litter box,” says Birdy. “I want to paint this box.”
Father nods. “Good idea. You’re a good painter.”
“So are you,” says Birdy.
“What color?” asks Father. “I seem to have lots of yellow.”
“I love yellow!” says Birdy, excited. “The sun and night moons!”
I miss the quiet of Birdy’s bedroom.
I turn the handle on the hall cupboard while everyone is talking and laughing.
Locked!
I try again.
Locked.
What is there to lock away in the cupboard? It’s always held paper and supplies for school. And files for Mother and Father.
I look over at Ben. He always knows my looks. And what I’m asking. But Ben doesn’t look my way.
Father picks up Tillie’s litter box.
“You’ll have to paint the box outside, Birdy. Let’s go look for yellow.”
He hands the litter box to Ben.
And they’re out the door, Tillie slipping out with them.
I jiggle the cupboard handle again, trying to turn it one way and the other.
Locked.
And then I hear Birdy scream outside.
I hurry out to the porch.
“No, Tillie!!” yells Birdy. “She’ll leave claw marks!”
Tillie is climbing up Father’s wood figure.
She hangs on to one spot, looking around.
Father goes over and gently rescues Tillie. He hands her to Ben.
“She sees a tree, you know,” says Father.
Ben comes over, walking up the steps carrying Tillie.
“‘Eyes and art,’” he comments to me, and we both laugh.
We put down a small bowl of cat snacks for Tillie.
“Okay, Nora,” says Ben. “What’s up? I saw your look.”
“You always do,” I say.
“Yep,” says Ben. “The way of twins.”
“It’s the hall cupboard,” I say. “It’s locked!”
Ben smiles.
“You know something,” I say.
Ben nods. He looks out the door at Birdy and Father, busy with paints. He moves to one side of the cupboard.
He points. Way behind the cupboard, almost hidden, is a key, hanging on a hook.
The key.
“You knew,” I say.
Ben reaches and takes the key off the hook. He hands it to me.
I unlock the cupboard d
oor.
“Be quick, Nora,” he whispers.
Ben looks out the porch door, then comes over to look over my shoulder.
There are many papers inside. There’s a stack of new notebooks for school. There are folders with our names on them. Nothing to lock away.
And then, I suddenly uncover a red folder. I lift it out and read the name “Linnea” written there. The handwriting is Mother’s.
Inside is a death notice for “Linnea Nilsson.”
And a handwritten letter—Ben reads it over my shoulder as I read it out loud.
Dear friends Una and Geo,
You are doing a wonderful thing for me and the beautiful Beatrix. You are making the end of my life full of joy, knowing you will love her as I do. The legal papers are enclosed.
I have one last urgent important request that will make it hard for you—keeping a secret . . .
“Nora!! Close the door. Lock it!” says Ben quickly.
I hurry to put the file in order and close the door. I can feel my heart beating.
“I hear Father and Birdy calling us!” says Ben.
I lock the cupboard door. I lean way back behind the cupboard to hang the key on the wall hook.
“You all right?” asks Ben.
“Yes.”
I look at Ben.
“I know what we have to do,” I whisper.
Ben nods.
“The cemetery,” Ben says quietly.
We go outside then, to see Birdy’s litter box, painted with a bright sun on one side, night moons on the other.
And I smile again for Birdy.
And for her new “work of art.”
11.
Tulips and Stone
Birdy stands up after a late lunch. Or is it early dinner?
Mother says we are “relaxed” about mealtimes.
“Goodbye. I’m going to play kick the can with Nico and other friends,” says Birdy. “Tomorrow’s Nico’s birthday.”
“Goodbye,” echoes Father, standing, too. “I’m going to paint in falling light.”
“Ben and I have an errand,” I say.
“Now?” whispers Ben.
I nod.
Birdy and Nico are beginning their game as we walk down the street. They are laughing and kicking the can in the middle of the yard.
“Comforting,” says Ben. “Watching them play is also calming. I call it the two Cs.”
“All that laughing and yelling. And running?” I ask.
“Calming,” he says. “There is something ‘everyday’ about it.”
“Everyday,” I say, liking the sound of it.
Ben nods.
“Everyday,” he repeats.
We pass the bakery. We pass the library. And we come to the cemetery.
“Ready?” Ben asks.
“Yep.”
We open the gate and go in.
It is peaceful, the grass raked neatly between gravestones.
We know where the gravestone is my mother visits every week. Ben and I walk up to it.
Ben whispers the words on the stone.
“Linnea Nilsson. Born: Stockholm, Sweden.”
I point to the two etched words below—
Best Friend.
There is a vase of flowers there.
“Tulips and stone,” I say. “Mother’s flowers.”
“Every week,” says Ben in a soft voice.
I feel tears coming down my cheeks as we stand there.
It’s quiet, the only noise the sound of a worker clearing weeds nearby.
I look at Ben and see tears in his eyes, too.
Ben lets me cry. I think of Miss Skylark, who always does the same.
Ben reaches over to brush fallen leaves from the stone top. Then we turn and walk away.
We open the gate and close it behind us.
We don’t talk all the way home—past the library—past the bakery—stopping only to pat a friendly dog.
When we come to our street Ben looks over at me.
“We know things now,” he says.
I nod. “Most things. Except . . .”
“Why the secret,” Ben says. “Why keep the secret of Birdy.”
I sigh.
“We have to unlock the cupboard again. To finish reading Linnea’s letter,” I say.
“When we can,” says Ben.
“I keep thinking of tulips and stone,” I say.
“Me, too,” says Ben.
We walk silently again.
But when we walk up the steps—through the back hallway and into the kitchen—all things suddenly change.
12.
The Things We Know
Mother sits at the kitchen table, Father next to her.
“You’re home!” I say. “How was the writing workshop?”
“Hi, Mom!” says Ben. “We hung your painting.”
Mother and Father are both silent. Then Mother picks up a large envelope, holds it up, and drops it on the table.
I catch my breath. It’s the secret DNA envelope addressed to Ben.
“Where’s Birdy?” asks Ben quickly.
“She’s at Nico’s birthday party,” says Father. He sighs. He sometimes sighs when he’s waiting to hear what he hopes to hear. It’s as if he fears that time will slip by.
“So you know,” Ben says simply.
It’s quiet.
“Tell them the beginning,” I say to Ben.
He nods.
“Birdy put her spit in the envelope with Mom’s sample when no one was looking,” Ben says.
He sits at the table.
“She sealed the envelope before it was sent.”
Father smiles a bit.
“Birdy?” he says softly. “Birdy began it all?”
I sit down next to Ben.
“And when the return envelope came, her paper fell out and we read it and kept it,” I say.
I take a breath.
“Birdy doesn’t match either of you. She’s not Irish or Italian,” I say quietly.
“And we thought it could be a mistake. So we decided to test it,” Ben says.
There is silence still. I am suddenly angry. I stand up.
“And Birdy was right! She asked if you hadn’t ever had a secret when she first got Tillie.”
My voice rises.
“And you did! And that secret turned me into a keeper of secrets, too. Hiding secrets, finding a letter from Linnea in the cupboard that I couldn’t finish reading!”
I feel tears coming.
Ben gets up and stands next to me, his arm around me.
“And today Nora and I went to the cemetery,” he says, his voice calm.
“And when we talked to Miss Skylark at school . . .” I begin.
“You talked to Miss Skylark about this?” says Mother, shocked.
“We couldn’t talk to you about it,” says Ben calmly. “It is your secret.”
Mother flinches as if she is hurt.
“Miss Skylark told us secrets are hard to keep. And she had only one question to ask us until the problem was solved.”
I see Mother’s eyes get wide.
Father reaches over to put his hand on her arm.
“What was her one question?” he asks in a soft voice.
“‘Does it matter?’ Does it matter where Birdy came from? We love her,” Ben says.
“I hate secrets,” I say. “Now we all have secrets. You started that.”
I begin to leave the kitchen. I turn at the kitchen door.
“It goes on and on and on,” I whisper in the quiet. “You won’t love me for saying this.”
I go down the hallway to my bedroom. I lock the door. I sit on my bed. I’m too tired to cry—too angry to cry.
Someone tries the doorknob to come in. I don’t move.
And then Father appears outside my window.
He opens it from the outside and climbs inside, a piece of lilac bush clinging to his shirt.
He sits on the bed next to me. He puts his arms around me.
It’s Father who has tears now.
And it’s Father who will help us all understand the truth about Birdy.
13.
The Wood Child
Father and I sit on the bed for a while. He doesn’t talk to fill a space, something I love about him. He has come to say what he wants to say and that’s all.
“I’m practicing to be calm,” I say softly.
He smiles.
“You’re doing a swell job of it. And you were very strong in the kitchen just now.”
“Where is Ben?” I ask.
“Still in the kitchen, skillfully convincing your mother of the power of the truth. Especially the truth for Birdy.”
I smile and pick a piece of lilac off his shirt.
“Ben’s a caretaker,” I say. “Like you—climbing in my window.”
“In some ways,” says Father. “In other ways you and I are alike. I’m practicing to be calm, too.”
He gets up and stands at the window.
“I see Birdy coming home,” he says. “Do you want to go out the window with me? Or shall we unlock the door?”
I smile and unlock the door. The two of us go back to the kitchen.
We hold hands.
We are both calm.
Birdy comes into the kitchen, dressed up for Nico’s birthday party.
“Milo’s mother made a yarn ball toy for Tillie.”
She tosses the ball in the air and Tillie streaks out from under a chair to catch and kill it.
“See that?” Birdy says.
She looks around at all of us then.
“What’s wrong?”
“Well, Birdy,” Father begins.
“Geo,” Mother says quietly. “Let me begin.”
Father nods.
“Birdy,” Mother begins, “I have a secret to tell you.”
“I knew you had a secret!” says Birdy, excited.
“I do remember,” says Mother.
Birdy sits on Ben’s lap, waiting. His arms go around her waist.
Mother smiles at her.
“The truth is . . . that I am not your first mother.”
I feel goose bumps on my arms. The truth hangs in the air over us all.
Birdy stares at Mother. She doesn’t move. She is silent.
Suddenly she smiles.
“You mean like Tillie? She had a mother cat. Now I’m her mother!”
Mother nods.
