Estrella House Publishing

I wish we had left him there. Mom found him under a bush in our backyard. He was wet; it had rained the night before, and like the grass, his shiny black body was damp and covered in beads of water. He had awkward, twig-like legs and a black, razor-sharp beak. Mom thought his wing was broken, so that’s why she brought him in. It turned out his feathers were just stuck up in an odd position.

It had always been only Mom and I so when she brought him in, I was angry. She said: Here’s your new brother! And lifted him over her head. He pecked at her hands. Mom turned on ABBA and danced around the kitchen with him under her arm. The floorboards creaked. He cooed. I stood in the doorway, hands on my hips and my mouth in a downward U. I felt the tears beginning to well in the corners of my eyes. But it was not the time to cry. We were supposed to be celebrating our new family member. I squeezed my eyes shut and let the tears seep back into wherever they came from. Mom smoothed a feather down on the top of my new brother’s head and made a shhhhhhh sound of love. He closed his eyes and snuggled into her arm. I hung back, unsure where I fit in. Usually, it’s only Mom and me dancing to ABBA. Not anymore. Mom said: Sweetie, pull out your trundle and make it up for Birdy. Sweetie, light a candle in your room so it smells like vanilla and lavender. Sweetie, turn on the heating pad and put it under his sheet so it’s nice and toasty when I tuck him in. But not too hot, please. Sweetie, you and Birdy will be best friends forever.

I did as I was told. I made the trundle and even used my favorite sheets for him: the ones with little blue stars. I lit the candle by my window. I turned on the heated blanket and put it on the low setting so Birdy wouldn’t get burned. My sunflower-yellow room filled with heavy, perfumed smoke. Mom and I had picked the color out on my eighth birthday, and spent the week painting the walls, and ourselves, together. A plastic chandelier hung from the ceiling—an estate sale find of Mom’s.

Birdy! Mom! I called for them, up the stairs. Mom appeared at the top of them, with Birdy in her arms bundled in an old, raggedy towel. Only his little round head poked out of the burrito. He cocked his head to the right.

The room is ready, I said, I even dimmed the lights.

Once Birdy had his well-deserved nap, it was time to get to know my new brother. I decided to play with him because normal kids do that with their normal siblings. I pulled out my bin of plastic dolls from the closet. They were off-brand Barbies with large, round foreheads, black eyes, and narrow hips. I had two girls and a boy. There were many outfits to go along with them: business casual tweed suits for the office, slinky silver night-out clothes with an added-on fedora for the boy, and stretchy floral-patterned swimwear. Birdy pecked at the fake-ken doll’s face and poked a hole in one of its eyes.

Birdy, you’re supposed to hold up the doll by its waist and walk it around like this, I said. I moved around my own doll on the carpet floor, to show him. She teetered this way and that, her plastic legs stiff without joints.

Brrrreeep, said Birdy.

He shuffled his wings.

Oh, I said, I see. You don’t have arms or hands or fingers. I forgot.

The next day we went to three different doctors. Mom said this was an important thing to do since Birdy was performing well below the average social, cognitive, and physical levels of a young child. First was the pediatric doctor, Doctor Dupont, who was a very short, wrinkly old woman with cold hands and a face fixed in an expression of surprise. She told us Birdy was probably a month old, but she wasn’t a bird specialist so she couldn’t be sure. Doctor Dupont said we’d better go to someone who knows stuff about birds because all her patients are humans. Her eyes were very wide when she said this, with almost a crazy look in them. Mom did not like this comment but kept her mouth shut. I could tell she was angry though, because whenever Mom gets angry the crease between her eyebrows gets so deep and it looks like she’s smelling something really, really bad. Birdy got six shots, and they took his blood, but the princess band-aids wouldn’t stick to his feathers and kept falling on to the office floor. Dr. Dupont grumbled, loudly.

After reapplying them for the tenth time, she finally gave up and threw the pile of used Band-Aids into the trash can. Silly people, she said, thinking a bird is a child. Mom threatened to ruin Doctor Dupont’s career. She said: how dare you? Birdy is no different than any other child you treat! I sat on the chair in the corner of the room, kicking my feet. I was already bored.

Next, we went to a speech therapist. She was tall and sort of sickly-looking and wore a silk headscarf with a lion on it. Her name was Ms. Clark. I asked if she liked lions, but she ignored me. Instead, she tried to forcibly open Birdy’s mouth. She pinched two fingers on the top of his beak and two on the bottom. I wanted to tell her how exceptionally sharp his beak was, and that he ruined the only boy doll I owned, but Ms. Clark seemed like the type of lady who didn’t take no for an answer. A popsicle stick lay on the table.

We will have your son speaking in no time, she said to Mom.

Mom smiled, politely.

I use a reward system, said Ms. Clark, children respond well to it. She grabbed a large container of gummy bears from under the table. Birdy flapped his wings.

I’ll hold up an index card with a letter on it. For Birdy to receive a gummy bear, he needs to make the sound of the letter.

That sounds easy enough, said Mom.

Ms. Clark held up a card with the letter R on it in front of Birdy’s face. She smiled expectantly. He stared through it, black eyes unblinking.

Birdy, can you say Rrrr? Ms. Clark said. He cocked his head.

Rrrrr, she said, again. Mom looked at Birdy, waiting. Even I was looking at him too, but with much less hope than the adults. Ms. Clark frowned. I sighed. Birdy stayed absolutely silent. I thought about how wonderful and sweet a gummy bear would be. I could almost taste it in my mouth.

Well, there is definitely room for improvement, Ms. Clark finally said. Ms. Clark was getting on my nerves at this point. Mostly because she and Mom were completely ignoring me, but also because I was craving a gummy bear.

I can make the sound! I said, standing up. Both Mom and Ms. Clark turned to me.

Well of course you can make that sound, Mom said, you’re in the third grade.

After the failed appointment with Ms. Clark, we went to see Birdy’s new physical therapist. I had told Mom about the attempted play time Birdy and I had together, and how his wings stopped him from being a normal boy. Soon after, she booked an appointment with Brad, a physical therapist who was very large and muscular. His head was shaved and looked like a thumb. Brad gave Birdy some exercises to strengthen his wings. Birdy did not like the exercises. He screamed very loudly when Brad lifted his wings above his head. He also screamed when Brad tried to bend his wing in half. I covered my ears. Mom felt so awful about the ordeal that she bought us vanilla soft serve after the appointment. I licked mine hungrily. Birdy didn’t touch his, so I ate it too.

On Monday, school started back up from winter break. I was in Ms. Woods’ third-grade class, and Birdy started as a new student, in Mrs. Russel’s kindergarten class. I had Mrs. Russel for kindergarten too, so in the back of the minivan on our way to school, I told Birdy all the fun facts I knew about her. He didn’t say anything because he was nervous. I smoothed down one of his head feathers, in a loving way. Mom was humming ABBA to herself.

During quiet reading time, Ms. Woods left the room. A group of girls came up to my desk and peered down at me. I put down my book about the ocean and I smiled. They smiled back. One with two long braids spoke.

Aren’t you that girl with the weird brother?

I don’t know what you mean, I said.

Yeah, another one of the girls said. She had blonde hair and bangs and a large nose. He’s strange. A bird.

He’s a crow, I said.

He’s slow, the girl with the braids said. He’s stupid.

No, he’s not! I said. I don’t know why I stood up for Birdy. I wasn’t really. I just wanted these girls to think I was cool. I didn’t want them to think I was stupid, like him. The girls laughed, and I hung my head so low that my nose rested on my book. I had left it open to a picture of a whale shark. I didn’t want them to see me cry.

Ms. Woods walked back in. The girls dispersed as if nothing had happened. Once I lifted my head back up, the whale shark was covered in a large pool of snot and tears.

One night, I found Mom sitting alone in the kitchen. Birdy had gone to bed. She looked tired, with heavy bags under her eyes. I sat down next to her. Mom and I hadn’t had a lot of time alone since the adoption of Birdy. She stared ahead. I knew that taking on a new child was hard on her. Mom gave herself up endlessly. This was always something I looked up to her for, but now, as we sat at the table across from one another, I felt something different. A bad taste in my mouth. I wanted to reach for her hand. I wanted to hug her and have her tell me that she loved me.

How are you? I said.

I’m okay, she said.

I can watch Birdy tomorrow if you want to do something for yourself. She stared at me for a long time. Then she sighed.

Oh, Sweetie, she said, I know you mean well.

January turned into February which turned into March. The girls at school still taunted me because Birdy had not improved very much with his social, cognitive, and physical skills. He could, however, say something that sounded like my name. Shweeeeee! He yelled, high-pitched, as he flew around the living room. Schweeeee! Mom told him to get down. Normal boys don’t fly, they walk, she said. He landed on her shoulder and kissed her on the cheek.

Meep, he said.

Mom said: oh my god, he just said my name. Her eyes filled with tears. I rolled my eyes and sunk into the couch.

Mom? I said. She told me to be quiet and smoothed down the feathers on Birdy’s head. My throat closed up, and I didn’t say anything else after that.

I spent most of my free time searching things up on Mom’s laptop while she was out with

Birdy at his many appointments. She left me alone by myself, which I didn’t mind most of the time.

Sometimes though, the sudden passing of a car on the street made my heart stop. Or just the silence itself was enough to give me goosebumps. I sat at the kitchen counter, eating raspberries, and typing away. I searched: can birds become your siblings? And: lifespan of a crow. Birdy was supposed to live up to eight years. That’s not so bad, I thought to myself. But then I took the thought back. I was an awful sister. Good sisters don’t wish their brothers dead. I should love Birdy. But I missed how things were when it was just me and Mom, and when the girls at school were nice to me. Since Birdy joined the family, life felt a lot heavier than usual. When I walked, it felt like I was carrying ten backpacks, forty pounds each.

After spending an hour on the computer, I got bored. There was only so much one could learn about crows. I wandered into Mom’s room, the only bedroom upstairs. The walls were off-white. Large, delicate flowers and vines were painted along them in a happy blue. She had painted them herself. I traced my fingers along them, remembering a time when mom still felt like mine. I was her real daughter. I had her red cheeks and pointed nose and detached earlobes. We both shared a love for rice pudding and metal slides.

By her bedside table were stacks of books, balls of tissues, uncapped pens, loose change, and a card I made her in kindergarten with a crude smiley face that read: I LOVE YOU, MY MOMMY! All the books were on birds. I grabbed one from the top of the stack and opened it to a random page with a photograph of a group of crows sitting on a telephone wire. The pages were thick and glossy. Without thinking, I ripped out the page and crushed it in my fist. It felt good, the crumpled paper between my fingers. I pulled out more pages, squashing them and throwing them into the waste basket by the bed. I pretended they were my angry feelings towards Birdy. Once all the pages were completely detached from the cover, I closed the book and recognized a small barcode in the upper right-hand side. It was a library book. My stomach sank. Mom would kill me.

I did what anyone would have done in that situation. I went outside, grabbed the garden shovel from the garage, and dug a hole in the backyard. The dirt was coarse and full of rocks. It was hard, but important work. I hacked away, the waste basket and torn book beside me. Dark dirt stained my jeans. It looked like melted chocolate on my knees. There was so much emotion inside of me I felt it spilling out onto the ground. I felt sick; I wanted to vomit. When I figured the hole was deep enough, I poured all of the ripped pages and the book’s carcass into it. The sky began to drizzle. I wiped the back of my hand on my forehead, and I think I accidentally smeared some dirt on it. I began the meticulous journey of covering up what I had done with the loose dirt. Everything ached. I was cold and covered in dirt, but I kept going because all I could see in my head was mom’s disappointed face. Inside, I ran to the bathroom to wash off. My hands were red, stiff, and covered in mud.

When Mom and Birdy got home, she asked me to run the bath for him. I didn’t say anything about the snooping, or the library book, or the freshly filled dirt hole in the backyard. Guilt was eating me from the inside, but I tried to keep a straight face. The water for Birdy had to be not too cold and not too hot. I stuck my hands under the stream to check the temperature, and to finish getting the dirt out from under my nails. I poured in bubble bath soap and Birdy’s essential oils that were supposed to remove toxins from his skin. I lit a few candles. Bath times were stressful for Birdy because of the noise and water, so we tried to make the surroundings as peaceful as possible. Mom always was the one who held Birdy in the water, even though I had asked several times if I could try. I straightened the bathmat on the floor and waited on the closed toilet seat until they both came in. Only Birdy appeared in the doorway, cocking his head to one side.

Shweeee? He said.

Hi Birdy.

Schweee? He said, again. We stared at one another. I tried to figure out what he was trying to convey. He ruffled his feathers. At last, I made the responsible decision that because Birdy attempted to say my name twice in a row, he wanted me to bathe him instead of Mom. I picked him up and he flapped his wings a few times to signal he was happy with the turn of events. I smiled and walked him over to the tub. His wings began to move frantically as I lowered him in; the water sloshed up the sides and spilled onto the ground. It’s okay, I said, trying to calm him down. I became strangely aware of my power as I held him in the water, his wings batting against my hands.

Birdy was much more delicate than I had realized. Without feathers, his body was no bigger than the torso of one of my plastic dolls, and compared to plastic, his body was malleable and soft. I could feel his bones, like toothpicks, that sat right under the skin.

I plunged Birdy completely under water. His wings beat against my hands so hard that I knew they would be scratched and bloody. I didn’t care. I closed my eyes tight. Water splashed up my arms and onto my front and down the sides of the tub. Shut up! I yelled. His wings beat harder. I screamed, as hard as I could. Mom burst into the bathroom and said: STOP! so loudly that I let go of Birdy, who was still alive, somehow. He shot into the air and bounced off the ceiling with a thump. Water and foam sprayed down onto every surface in the bathroom. I began to cry. Mom didn’t say anything. If she did, I couldn’t hear her over the noises I was making. She grabbed Birdy and wrapped a towel tightly around his body. They left the room. I closed the door with my foot.

I sat on the bathroom floor for a long time. My back was against the base of the tub, my knees tucked under my chin. The white tile floor was cool and slippery underneath me. The sun set; the room slowly became dark. I let my mind slip between every bad thing I had ever done. The time I wet the bed, the time I broke Mom’s favorite necklace, the library book fiasco, and everything and anything to do with Birdy. The water on the front of my shirt dried in a dark oval shape. Mom was moving in the kitchen. Pans clanged together. I assumed she was making dinner for her and Birdy. And then there was a knock at the door once some more time passed. I ignored it. My eyes got heavy. I thought about the water and Birdy’s little body, tightly clasped in my hands. I could run away. Things would be better for everyone. Mom didn’t want me here anymore. Birdy was a much better child than me—needy, quiet, and special. There was another knock, a peck. I ignored it. I felt tears and then they dried and then I felt some more. There was another knock, and the door creaked open. It was Birdy. All I could make out were his beady black eyes in the darkness. His feathers were dry and shiny. I sniffled. I told him to go. He didn’t need to see me like this. Birdy hopped onto my shoulder and pecked at my hair. It hurt a bit, but it seemed to bring him joy, so I let him continue. After a while, I started to like it as well. I pretended they were quick, sharp kisses. Then he stopped and began to coo. His call sounded as if something were stuck in the back of his throat. Almost as if he was crying. But I wouldn’t know. And even if Birdy was, he wouldn’t have any way to tell me.