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We’re almost to the car when, out of nowhere, Mason appears.
“Hello, Lizzie,” he says. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” I say. “Thanks for coming.”
“I’m happy to be here,” he says, pulling something from his pocket. “But also, I wanted to give you this.” He holds out a small box; my stomach flips, because I’m pretty sure I know who it’s from.
“Mom?” I ask quietly. He nods once before patting me on the shoulder and turning and walking away.
“That guy’s so weird,” Sean says when Mason’s out of earshot.
“Yeah,” I say, “but he’s pretty great, too.”
In the car, I open the box and find a necklace with a tiny bird pendant inside. In a flash, a memory triggers: It’s of Mom singing me to sleep when I was little. She’d always try for “Twinkle, Twinkle” or “Rock-a-Bye Baby,” but I’d say, “No, sing ‘Three Little Birdies.’ ”
“That’s a silly one,” she’d protest, embarrassed by her made-up song.
“It’s the only one I like,” I’d say. And eventually, always, she’d sing.
“Pretty,” Sean says, about the necklace.
“Yeah, it is,” I say, wiping away a tear before he sees. Betsey looks back at the necklace in my hands, then smiles.
“Like the song, right?” she asks.
“Like the song.”
From the front seat, Betsey starts humming quietly. After all these years, after everything, I still remember the lyrics.
Little birds, little birds in a line—count them:
One, two, three!
Painted blue, sitting on a vine—count: one, two, three!
One eats worms; Two sings high; Three chases bees and butterflies.
Little birds, little birds in a row; you look the same but you’re not, oh,
Fly, little birdies, fly.
