“I’m not sure Dad believes it about you, though,” Sam said.
“That’s been the problem,” her mother had said.
Now, sitting alone in the kitchen with the piece of broken glass, Sam thought how much everything had changed. The world was upside down. She only wished her parentshadgotten divorced—maybe her mother would still be alive.
And what did that mean? The thought scared her, as if she could believe her father would rather kill her mom than go through a divorce.
“He didn’t kill her,” Sam said out loud.
She counted the reasons why: she was pregnant, he loved her and Sam, he could never hurt his family that way—having an affair was one thing, but actually planning and murdering her—no way. But deep down, Sam couldn’t help thinking of what her mother had been skirting around that day driving home from the shelter. Her father hadn’t liked her getting strong.
A light breeze came through the open windows. She stared out at the garden. Without her mom to tend it, the flowers looked dry and weedy. The bird feeders were empty. The sight of those birdless feeders made Sam feel almost as bad as anything.
She started to throw the little piece of glass away, but instead she tucked it into an antique brass bowl her mother always filled with pine cones in the fall. Then she went into the garage, took the lid off the large galvanized bucket. It was full to the brim with #2 sunflower seed—the mix her mother had bought at the Audubon shop in Madison. She lugged the bucket outside, then went back into the garage for smaller pails of thistle seed, peanuts, and safflower seed. Suet could wait till winter.
The feeders were long tubes that hung from four curved arms on a decorative wrought-iron pole. A large cylindrical baffle halfway up the pole deterred raccoons and squirrels from climbing up. Across the yard, a house-shaped feeder swung from a branch in a big red oak tree. It had a flat platform that nonperching birds like cardinals could use. Sam took her time, carefully filling each feeder to the brim.
When she was finished, she went to sit on the stone wall and wait for the birds to discover their food was back. Sam’s heart expanded a little. It had been so small and tight for weeks. Looking at those empty feeders had made it shrink even more. But just then, she felt some blood flowing around her body, back into her heart. Just a little, not a lot. Filling the feeders was like bringing something back to life.
She couldn’t do that for her mother, couldn’t even do it for their house. But at least she could do it for the birds. At least that. She caught sight of the clear red feeder, its base shaped like a flower. How could she have forgotten the hummingbirds? It was always magical to see the tiny birds hover, dip in for a taste, dart away, faster than bees. They were attracted to red; her mother planted columbine and trumpet vines for them, and she also kept their feeder full.
Standing on tiptoes, Sam removed the scarlet flower from the suction cups sticking it to the window over the kitchen sink. She went back into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Inside was a crystal pitcher filled with sugar syrup. Her mother made it fresh every week. Sam started to pour, then noticed a ridge of frosted sugar around the rim.
The syrup was a few weeks old now. Was it still okay? Maybe Sam could make some more. It had to be simple, but why had she never watched her mother do it? She was pretty sure she had to cook it, or perhaps she could just stir the sugar and water together. That was when it hit her—this was the last hummingbird syrup her mother would ever make.
Sam placed the pitcher back in the refrigerator. She closed the door and left the red flower feeder in the sink. Her heart shrank again—she felt it close up, tight and hard. She thought of the glass sliver. She grabbed it from the brass bowl and headed into the basement, making sure to close the door behind her.
Summer silent, the furnace hulked in the corner. Her dad had a workshop filled with his tools. Sam walked to the far end, toward the laundry room with the washer and dryer, some wooden dryer racks, and a wicker basket of single socks. Her mother had decorated the whitewashed concrete walls with pictures Sam had drawn in elementary school, photographs she had taken more recently.
Sam held the tiny glass shard and made one long, shallow slit on the inside of her left wrist. It didn’t go deep, but it allowed a flower of blood to bloom. A trumpet blossom, bright and red. Cutting had always given her relief, and she needed that right now—to release the pent-up tension and grief. But the first cut did nothing, so she tried again. She stared at the blood, saw the red feeder clustered with the hummingbirds her mother had so mystically called from their hiding places, and she missed her mother so much she began to scream.
Loud, loud, louder, deep in the cellar where no one could hear, screaming as if the house were falling down around her, because the person she loved most in the world had died, was gone forever, would never feed the birds again, would never hug Sam again. Screaming because the world had ended.
27
The New London soup kitchen was located in the parish house of Saint Ignatius Loyola Church at the foot of Bank Street. The Whaling City Shelter was right around the corner. Kate had had to fly to Los Angeles twice in the last week, but today was the first of four days off. The church and shelter were a five-minute walk from her loft. She’d passed them countless times, seeing clients and residents lined up around the block, waiting for a hot meal or a safe bed. Just before lunch, she headed over.
Although Beth had volunteered at both for many years, Kate had never stopped in. Sometimes when Beth was working in town, if Kate wasn’t flying, the sisters would meet at the Witchfire Teahouse on the water side of Bank Street, a place where they could drink Darjeeling and Beth could have her tarot cards read.
Kate passed it now. The storefront was painted violet, the sign dark pink with swirling black letters. Purple taffeta curtained the windows, intended by the owner to create an air of mystery for people who wanted to believe.
“An occult thrill for the suburban set,” Kate had said one snowy afternoon last winter, when they were seated inside on a shabby amber velvet love seat, the space lit by candles and Victorian lamps with fringed silk shades.
“It’s not that,” Beth said. “It’s just fun. Thessaly!” She tried to catch the owner’s eye.
“Thessaly?” Kate asked, her tone translating into,How contrived.
“It’s the name of the thousand-year-old witch in Neil Gaiman’sThe Sandman. She adopted it.”
“Okay then,” Kate said. “She knows how to play the part.”
Tall and thin, too young for the long silver hair that Kate was sure was a wig,Thessalywore a crocheted black dress, black lace-up boots, and big glasses with round black frames.
“If you don’t like it here, why don’t we meet somewhere else?” Beth asked. “You make me feel like an idiot.”
“What are you talking about?” Kate asked.
“You’re so technical, scientific. You don’t have faith; you don’t believe in anything except instruments and gauges, and I respect that. I never tell you to lighten up, to be more spiritual. But you condescend to me. I can tell you think I’m a fool.”
