Nora
The hysteria is building.
I can feel it burning deep in my gut and clawing up my esophagus. I’m seconds from standing in the middle of the street on Wing Whirr Way, screaming, “I give up!”
Everything since I arrived on Grandma’s doorstep has been catastrophic. The horrible conditions of her house on the heels of her untimely death. Grappling with the devastation of losing her and the memories the cottage evoked. A face-off with the surly neighbor. The utilities being off and unable to be restored until Monday. And the unhelpful sheriff who treated me like a criminal.
I really do want to give up.
All it would take is one phone call. Denver would be on the next flight out, handle all my problems with ease by throwing his endless money at it, and then we’d be out of here before I could blink.
Is that what you want?
A part of me does. The weak, pathetic part. However, the part that holds dear memories of her grandmother and this town does not. That girl wants closure.
So, I can’t throw in the towel.
Feeling a bit better, I lift my chin, grab the handlebars of the bike, and begin walking it across Wing Whirr Way like a woman on a mission. Lodging for the weekend is of the utmost importance. If I can find a place to land, even for a few days, I’ll gather my bearings. I’m good at handling complicated projects. I can do this.
A family of five, all wearing matching feathery budgie hats, catch my attention. Two of the kids are young enough to be in strollers, but the older one, maybe five or six, is proudly clutching onto a travel cage with her prize trapped inside.
“A budgie makes for a great pet but takes a lot of care and maintenance. Consider wisely before getting one for a child and make sure they’re mature enough for the responsibility.”
I stand frozen, tears welling in my eyes, as one of Grandma’s favorite things to say to people during BudgieFest pops into my head. I can almost hear the tone of her voice. The smell her sweet, strawberry scent. God, I miss her.
The child with the cage falls and the budgie inside flaps its’ wings in panic. I cringe, wanting to step in and steal the poor bird from the kid. I must be staring a little too long, because the mother shoots me a nasty glare.
Sighing heavily, I send a silent prayer to heaven hoping Grandma can convince an angel to intervene on that little bird’s behalf.Grandma was that angel when she was alive…
I sniffle and hurry past the family to The Nest Box Inn. I’ve always been enchanted by this place. Grandma said it used to be a boarding house and it’s where she came to live before she met Grandpa. It’s sweet and romantic. Probably something my best friend Kayla would gush over if I told her about it.
You should return her calls and texts.
Guilt sits on my shoulders, and I slump as I park my bike in a bike rack on the sidewalk. I’ll call Kayla when I’m settled. She’s normally the chaotic one, not me, so I need to wrangle my own issues before I involve her. Kayla has the magic touch of multiplying them.
I approach the worn white clapboard door that’s been softened by years of salty air and unforgiving sun. Paint flakes off in the breeze, but it doesn’t feel run down to me. It’s charming because it hasn’t been renovated to perfection. I like that it still preserves the essence of this place.
The tiny brass bell on the door jingles as I enter. It’s an ancient bell likely upcycled from one of the fishing boats. There’s history here and I think that’s what’s always drawn me to this inn.
My shoes softly thud across the original hardwood floors that are smooth and a golden honey color from age. The air smells faintly of lemon floor polish and maybe lavender. It’s lovely and welcoming. A massive braided oval rug covers the area in the middle of the entryway that leads up to a compact check-in desk. Beside the open guestbook on the desk, there’s a porcelain budgie figurine painted green and yellow, its eyes bright and friendly. There’s a small bell on the desk with a note that says, “Give us a ring for assistance.” So, I tap the top of it, wincing slightly at the jarring sound in such a peaceful, cozy space.
While I wait for an attendant to help me, I admire the floral wallpaper. It’s a warm cream background with a lace façade covered in tiny pink roses. Though a bit busy, it was obviously chosen by someone who loves pretty things. On the wallpapered walls are framed cross-stitched pictures of the bay and various types of budgies. The owner of this place must be a major bird lover like my grandma was because there are delicate vintage framed prints of more budgies. Even the tiny teacups stackedup on bookshelves along the walls have hand-painted birds on them.
There’s a sitting area off to one side that looks like a nice place to camp out. The material of the sofa is soft pink, and a massive, colorful quilt is folded on top of the back of it. Even the throw pillows carefully positioned have budgies embroidered onto them.
And somehow, it doesn’t feel like too much. Not at all kitschy. It’s a collection. An inheritance. A lifetime of building something you love. My heart warms. I knew coming here was a good idea.
Soft footsteps thudding across the wood floors steals my attention. I swivel around to discover an older woman, likely closer to my grandma’s age than my mom’s, walking over to me. Her slightly wrinkled face wears a friendly smile.
“Welcome to The Nest Box Inn,” she says, evident pride of her establishment gleaming in her eyes. “What can I do for you, hon?”
It’s then I notice a yellow budgie sitting quietly on her shoulder. A grin tugs at my lips. “What a cutie? What’s his name?”
The woman chuckles and turns her head to kiss the little bird. “I’m surprised you know the sex. Most tourists haven’t a clue. His name is Ray.”
As much as I want to delve into the fact my grandma taught me everything she knew about budgies, I figure now’s not the time. I need to secure a place to sleep and then I can blab about birds if I’m feeling up to it.
“Like the sun? Cute.” I gesture around me and then blurt out, “I need to book a room.”
