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The closet, too, was bare save for a set of pink sheets and bath towels.
Panic setting in, she took a second turn around the room to make sure, but there was absolutely nothing personal here of her mother’s. Nothing. Not even under the mattress or between the couch cushions. There were no photos, no books with dog-eared pages, no half-written letters, no old address books, no clothes left in the closet. There was only this dust-covered furniture, new and impersonal, as if her mother had had the place redecorated just before she’d died twelve years ago.
Zoey sat on the stiff leather sofa and looked around, stunned.
To her right were the boxes Zoey had mailed a few days ago. They contained books and clothes, the only things she wanted to bring with her from her old life. She’d been told her mother’s condo was furnished, so she’d left all her bedroom furniture behind in Tulsa. Earlier that morning when Zoey’s Uber had arrived to take her to the airport, there had already been a charity truck idling in the driveway to haul it all away. Her stepmother, Tina, had timed it down to the minute.
Zoey hadn’t been surprised. Tina had been talking about turningZoey’s bedroom into a craft room for months. She even had a name for it. Wonderland.
I can’t wait to get started on Wonderland.
That room is perfect for Wonderland.
Zoey, start packing so I can get to work on Wonderland as soon as you leave.
Zoey finally reached for her backpack and emptied its contents onto the coffee table in front of her. These were things she didn’t want to risk mailing—her laptop, her tablet, her phone, important papers, and the small wooden box in which she kept the precious few items she had of her mother’s.
She opened the box and took out the only photo. In it, Paloma was wearing red shoes and had a dark, high ponytail that rested like a question mark against the back of her head. With her short bangs and arched eyebrows, all she would have needed was a scarf around her neck and a bicycle with a basket and she would have looked like something from an old movie. Zoey didn’t know when the photo had been taken. Zoey’s father had only given it a cursory glance and told her he didn’t remember when Zoey had asked years ago. But Zoey figured it couldn’t have been long after Paloma had immigrated from Cuba. Zoey knew the story by heart. She used to recite it to herself over and over when she was a child, sometimes reenacting it in her bedroom. Paloma and her brother had been raised by their grandfather, who had been a birdkeeper. When he died, Paloma and her brother decided to leave Cuba on a small boat. There was a horrible storm, and her brother died. Paloma then drifted on the upturned boat for three days before a fishing boat found her. She looked so young in the photo, far too young to have been on her own, far too young to have taken up with Zoey’s much older fatheronce she arrived in America. Paloma had only lived here in South Carolina four years before Zoey’s father retired and they all moved to Tulsa, where his family was from. But Paloma came back frequently to visit, sometimes for weeks at a time with baby Zoey, to this same condo Zoey’s father bought Paloma as an extravagant gift early in their relationship.
Zoey got up and went to the pink refrigerator. She tacked the photo there with a promotional magnet bearing the name of a local appliance store. She hadn’t eaten all day—she’d been too excited—so she automatically reached for the silver refrigerator handle and pulled it. She stared at the empty interior, realizing she needed to buy groceries and she had no idea where to get them.
She closed the door and leaned her forehead against it, suddenly feeling very alone.
But she could do this.
Shewould.
It was now after midnight, but Zoey hadn’t moved from her sitting position on the balcony floor with her back against the stone wall. The humid air almost had a texture to it, and was unusually still.
God is holding His breath.
Her mother used to whisper that to Zoey in her mysterious accent when the wind abruptly stopped and everything went quiet for a moment, almost as if she’d made it happen. Zoey had a vague sense that her mother had been a great fabricator, as if to her there was no veil between what was real and what was not. It all existed together.
Zoey’s four neighbors were all now home. She’d just watched the man with a night job, Mac, come in. Squares of light from his doors spread onto his patio. Across the garden, Charlotte-the-artist had already gone to bed, presumably with the young man she’d brought home with her earlier. Zoey had watched from the balcony as Charlotte had gestured for the young man to be quiet as they’d entered the garden. She’d pointed to Lizbeth Lime’s condo, as if not wanting any noise to bring out her neighbor.
As for Lizbeth herself, she was still up, all her lights blazing. Her sister Lucy’s lights were out, but the pulse of a small orange ember was flickering near her doors, as if Lucy might be smoking a cigarette inside alone in the dark.
Zoey knew she should probably go in and try to sleep. It had a been a long day. But being inside made her feel closed-in and lonely. And Pigeon was still out. She could hear thewhooshof her wings right now as she flew over the garden to peer into the low trees, curious about the dellawisps. Pigeon was very selective about whom she chose to honor with her presence. She was probably wondering if the little turquoise chatterboxes were worth the trouble to get to know.
Pigeon was obviously trying to make the best of the situation, but she hadn’t wanted to move here. Judging by the years she tipped over glasses and stole trinkets belonging to Zoey’s father and stepmother, generally trying to make their lives miserable, Pigeon hadn’t wanted to stay in Tulsa, either. Sometimes there was no pleasing that bird. She nearly drove Zoey crazy on the plane that morning, perched on her head, pecking at her hair—hence Zoey’s decision to make her stay in her cage on the cab ride. It made no sense to Zoey why Pigeon chose to travel with her instead of just flying herself here.
But then, an invisible bird made no sense by definition.
Pigeon swooped close by Zoey’s head, nearly catching her hair. Zoey put her hands up to bat her away. Pigeon always did this when she thought Zoey was spending too much time in her own head. Pigeon believed in action, in being realistic, which Zoey had always thought was a tad hypocritical.
She heard Pigeon land in the wicker birdcage Zoey had put on top of the pink refrigerator. She cooed for Zoey to come in, but Zoey didn’t want to. She was so wound up that it felt like a current was buzzing through her. She had the strangest feeling something was about to happen.
God is holding His breath.
Her skin prickled. She could almost hear the words, as if her mother were right beside her, whispering in her ear. It made her uneasy but she didn’t know why. Hadn’t that been the reason she’d chosen to go to college here? So she could move into this condo and feel closer to her mother, to have someplace to come to on breaks, someplace that finally felt like home?
At that moment, the patio doors to Charlotte’s condo opened and the young man Charlotte had brought home earlier crept out. His skin was covered in swirls of tattoos that seemed to move in the darkness, like something alive. He pushed his long, straight hair out of his face as he strutted through the garden toward the alley gate. He walked like he was smiling to himself, like he’d gotten away with something. The dellawisps flew out of the trees and dive-bombed him when he got too close and he ran away, cursing softly into the night.
Pigeon cooed again and Zoey reluctantly got up and walked in, saying, “I think I’m going to try to make friends with them—Charlotte-the-artist and Mac-with-a-night-job and the Limes.”She wondered if she even remembered how to do it. Her last real friend had been Ingrid, in middle school. But surely it wouldn’t be that hard.
Pigeon’s silence told Zoey that she didn’t like this idea.
“What else am I supposed to do this summer?”
