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“Why all the bird books?” Edie asked on Thursday.
“Birds are incredible…” I’d responded.
The truth was, I didn’t know what it was about delving into a new subject that felt so comforting. In college, after I’d nearly failed a test in organic chemistry, I’d become obsessed with the Kama sutra. Not that I had anyone to practice with at the time, but I memorized all sixty-four positions, the requisite depth of penetration, potential for clitoral stimulation, and so on. I started hooking up with a guy from my study group and by the end of the semester, I thought he was either going to die with a smile on his face or propose.
He did neither. But he did fail o-chem. I have no regrets.
The point is, in college it was that. Now, it’s bird brains. I could try explaining that to Edie, but then she’d want to ask what I’m avoiding and talk about feelings. So instead I offered her some port and a face mask and we got drunk and moisturized our skin and watchedSchitt’s Creek.
On Friday, Edie left for her honeymoon—and I told her that Liza had visited. She hugged me and told me not to worry about all that before she left. Then Mom told me to shower and forced me in the car to make the rounds with her. She didn’t even make a snide comment about my ripped jeans, Stanford sweatshirt, and Sperry topsiders.
‘Making the rounds’ involved checking in at all of her patronages. The Huntington County Library, the Junior League, the Brower Woods Country Club for second-hand purse dogs… I’d started to drown it all out when I realized we were off-roading.
“Where are we?” We’re surrounded by an orange and gold forest.
“Last stop,” she says, her red lips pressed into a soft smile.
The road bends ahead and a rustic log-cabin-style building comes into view. Mom parks in the small lot across the dirt road. The sign out front says: South Vermont Audubon Refuge.
“Figured you might be more interested in this one,” she says, pushing through the door. Inside, there’s a small reception area fitted with old, dim lights and rust-colored threadbare carpet. Mission-style chairs with wine-toned vinyl cushions are pushed beneath the large front window, and a woman in a khaki ranger’s uniform came in from the back door.
“Mrs. Benington?” the woman says with a wide, toothy grin.
“Oh, it’s Maureen. Please,” Mom says, extending her hand to greet the woman. “And you must be Ranger Rowland?”
“Gretchen,” she says, accepting Mom’s hand in a quick but genuine handshake.
“Faye,” I say, finding it easy to smile at the woman’s greeting.
“Why don’t I show you what we’re doing here,” she says, grabbing a hiking stick from an umbrella stand near the door and opening the door.
Mom’s phone buzzes and she picks it up, frowning at the screen. “You two go ahead, I need to take this.”
Gretchen shrugs, handing me my own hiking stick and I follow.
We make our way down the dirt road until it tapers to a narrow trail, and I’m grateful for the hiking stick to push back low-lying branches. The woods are different here than they are in Oregon. They’re older, harder, and have more grit. It’s a strange way to think of a forest, but the hardwood, deciduous forest of Vermont feels like a world away from the cedar groves of the Pacific Northwest. Where, in Oregon, you half expect to find fairies dancing in circles around plumes of ferns and red-spotted mushroom caps. I wouldn’t be surprised to find a troll picking a fight with a wood gnome at the base of a knotty sycamore.
“So this is a new one,” she says, her voice low as she peers through binoculars. She passes them to me and points up.
“What am I looking at?”
“There’s a nest up there. Late for the season, but they’re not ready to fly yet.”
I scan up the tall oak tree until I come across a large notch toward the top where a mass of branches, leaves, and other detritus forms a pillowy nest. A hawk-ish-looking bird with grayish-brown brindle flaps out of it and flies up above the canopy. It looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Cooper’s Hawk,” she says, excited. My stomach twists, thinking of the night we watched the Cooper’s Hawk attack the swifts. “They’re rare here. And to see one of their young, still learning to fly—and this late in the season? It’s a real treat.”
“Cooper’s Hawk?”
“Oh, that’s right. Your mom said you’re from the Northwest?”
“Oregon,” I say.
“They’re much more common out there. Still not as common as others, but you’ve probably seen them around.”
“Recently,” I say, passing back the binoculars. “I went to see a migration of Vaux’s swifts and there was a hawk that attacked them.”
