Flyaway (29 page)

All four of us sat in front of the fireplace one night, watching a movie in which one of the characters moves to Montana. The sky was blue and endless and empty. I searched the screen for a red-tailed hawk, my heart pounding.

She wasn't there, either.

I rose abruptly and hurried through my bedroom and into the bathroom. I huddled on the floor in the corner, crushed beneath the weight of a world filled with wronged and wounded creatures, a world I stupidly thought I could make right just because I cared so much.

I heard John's footsteps, and the door opened slowly. “What is the matter with you?” he said.

“She's gone,” I sobbed.

“Who?” he asked. “Who are you talking about?”

“The redtail,” I said. “I've looked everywhere and I can't find her.”

John's expression darkened. “But…she's dead.”

“Why can't you understand?” I cried.

“You're a fanatic,” said Elisha Fisch, Ph.D.

“Am not,” I said.

Dr. Fisch leaned back in his comfortable chair, glancing briefly at the notebook resting on his lap.

“Think about it,” he said. “You believe in something so totally that you have allowed it to take over your life. It causes you distress, yet you don't stop or even cut down. You have isolated yourself to the extent where you rarely see your friends. You believe your way is the right way, and that anyone who disagrees with your philosophy is wrong.”

“Hmmm,” I said.

“Tanya. Can you see her point of view?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I disagree with her and she's wrong,” I said, only half facetiously.

“Take a minute and try to understand why she would have kept your hawk alive.”

I blinked rapidly. “Probably for the same reason I did. Because she couldn't stand the thought of losing her.”

“But eventually you had the hawk put to sleep.”

“And here I am.”

“Well. It wasn't exactly an isolated case of cause and effect. But I suspect that Tanya might say that if, at the end of the day she feels good and you're in pieces, you are misguided. And self-destructive.”

“And I would say if you're not doing what's best for the bird, you shouldn't be in this business.”

“Have you told your friends on the mailing list about what happened with the hawk?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don't know.”

“You said everyone on the list consoles one another when something goes wrong.”

“They do.”

“Have you told anyone about your hawk?"

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don't know. Maybe I'm becoming birdlike. I don't want to show any weakness.”

“I thought birds don't want to show weakness because they might be spotted by a predator, who would then try to eat them.”

“It's not an exact analogy.”

“It might be closer than you think. Do you consider yourself weak?”

“Do I seem like a tower of strength to you?”

“Actually, yes.”

“Then why can't I tell people no? Why can't I turn birds away? Why can't I take care of them and just soldier on when they die? How do I stop caring about them?”

Dr. Fisch regarded me with such compassion that I had to look away.

“There are several things you can do to cut down on the number of birds you take in,” he said. “Right now you might consider shutting down for a few months. How do you stop caring? If you ever figure that out, let me know.”

Later I drove home and changed the message on my answering machine. “If this a wild bird call I'm sorry, but we are temporarily closed,” said my recorded voice. “Please call the Wildlife Hotline.” I called the animal hospitals. “Just take it easy for a while,” said Carol Popolow. “We all know how hard you've been working.” I left both my electronic mailing lists, and my rainbow-colored library of three-ring binders lay idle.

The February woods were gray and silent. I haunted the ridgelines, running the border between earth and sky, trying to achieve a clear mindfulness. I sat and watched the river, stroking Merlin's big, powerful shoulders, knowing his strength was an illusion, knowing that no matter how healthy my family seemed they were only a stroke of luck away from disaster. I was no longer exhilarated by the beauty of a soaring hawk; as tears stung my eyes, I felt defeated by its fragility and retreated back into the woods, where the winter canopy obscured the sky.

I watched Mac cradle his guitar as he played “Hey Joe,” saw Skye place her camera carefully on the shelf when she finished using it. At least a guitar or a camera won't sicken and die on them, I thought, grateful they could spend their love on something that was, for now, unable to hurt them.

Skye took a series of photos of the snow-covered field shrouded in mist, dreamlike images in shades of gray and brown. As I stared at them I tried to envision myself being drawn into the photograph, hoped the outline would seep into my subconscious enough to return that night as a dream. But nothing appeared while I slept. I listened to Mac play the opening notes to “Stairway to Heaven,” remembering when teenaged boys would try to decipher the meaning of life from its lyrics. When I was seventeen I didn't need Led Zeppelin to explain the meaning of life to me, but now I wasn't so sure.

Ed sent me e-mails. “Call me if you need to talk,” he wrote. “You will get past this point in your life, it will just take a little while.”

I willed my rickety psyche to a feeling of calm normalcy. I stopped answering the telephone, and turned the sound off on the machine so I couldn't hear who was leaving a message. John sorted through them all at the end of the
day, relaying the ones from friends and family and deleting the rest. Inevitably, though, someone left the sound on by mistake. I was reading in the living room and heard a woman's voice coming from the kitchen.

“Please help me,” it said. “I have this beautiful bird here, and he's really badly hurt. I don't know what to do. Please call me back.”

I hurried out the back door and fled to the rocky outcropping behind the house. I looked down at the shed and the flight cage, on the small world I had so carefully created.

It wasn't supposed to end like this, I thought.

The following morning I changed the message on my answering machine. “If this is a wild bird call I'm sorry, but Flyaway is permanently closed,” said my recorded voice. “We will not be opening again.”

 

I zealously vacuumed the house, cleaned out all the closets, rearranged the kitchen and garage, caught up on five years' worth of yard work, and trailed the kids until they begged me to stop. I filled the bird feeders, then tried to avoid looking out the window lest I start to wonder about the songbirds I didn't see. I ran through the woods with Merlin, trying not to think about anything.

“I wish I could see what's going on in that head of yours,” said John.

“No, you don't,” I said, managing a small smile. “It's like Iwo Jima in here.”

As spring eased its way toward us I watched as Nacho strutted across the yard to investigate an abandoned bone of Merlin's, wondering how many of the migrant birds would return this year and how many would fall by the wayside.

“Mom,” said Mac, startling me. “Don't do this to yourself.”

“What?” I said.

“You're such a good rehabber,” he said. “You do such a good job. When things go wrong, it's not your fault.”

I met his eyes.

“Thank you,” I said.

 

My friend India Howell left her orphanage in Tanzania for the first of her biannual fund-raising trips to the United States. As always she rolled up the driveway in her rented car, here for a twenty-four-hour visit, and from deep within her enormous suitcase came handmade gifts: placemats, baskets, a kikoi for her goddaughter Skye. She opened her laptop, the African Children's Chorus burst into song, and photos flashed on the screen: laughing kids of all ages, their arms around each other, around volunteers, gathered in front of the new library, the new clinic. Kids who suddenly, magically, had a future.

“I get away,” she said, as the two of us drank white wine at a small restaurant overlooking the Hudson River. “Twice a year I come back here for four weeks at a time. I have a whole network of people helping me—not that they don't come with their own complications.”

“But you love those kids. How do you say no?”

“I don't have a choice. Every single day I have people lined up at my office door holding kids. They tell me they can't feed them, they have no money, and if I don't take them the kids will die. But my resources are limited. And if I take in more than I can care for, the whole organization will come crashing down.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“You know that saying—‘You can't save them all'?”

As she regarded me, her expression changed. “You never really believed it, did you?” she asked.

“Damn,” I said lightly, trying to force a smile. “The problem is I've always seen the world in black and white.”

India grinned and raised her eyebrows, as she did whenever someone stated the obvious. “Evidently it's not working for you anymore,” she said. “You think it might be time to let in some shades of gray?”

 

A few weeks later I heard Wendy's voice on the answering machine. “I know you're not taking birds anymore,” she said, “but I just wanted to give you the option. I have an orphaned crow.”

I stared at the machine. “You don't have to give me an answer now,” she continued. “Just think about it. I'll keep him for another day, and if I don't hear from you by tomorrow night I'll give him to a rehabber up north. There's nothing wrong with him—he just needs a place to grow up.”

I considered the idea from my small corner in limbo, trying to decide if a nestling crow would be a life raft or a packet of tainted heroin. You have no emotional discipline, I told myself. Maybe if you could just exhibit a little clinical detachment, everyone around you would be better off.

By the time I picked up the little crow he had decided that humans were hospitable creatures, good for warmth and food and the occasional head scratch, and had made himself right at home. As it turned out, Wendy had found him herself. Walking her land after a violent thunderstorm, she spotted a nest of crows on the ground. Two were dead; the third looked up at her through wide blue eyes, and moments later found himself cradled inside her sweatshirt. She waited. She left and returned to the spot later, but there were no signs of any adults.

I thought perhaps he could be returned to his parents if we rigged up a makeshift nest, but a steady rain had developed and the chance of a reunion seemed slim. “I won't call you for any other birds,” said Wendy. “I just wanted to give you the choice with this one.”

I brought him home to a chorus of approval. The kids peered into the box, exclaiming over the rare white secondary feather on the crow's left wing.

“Maybe this will be a good thing,” said John.

I sat down with the phone and in three calls found a companion: just that morning a rehabber west of me had discovered a box containing a young crow on her doorstep. The attached note explained that the crow had appeared mysteriously in a driveway, with no other crows in sight. There was no return address, which meant no chance of reuniting the fledgling with her family.

While Wendy's crow was a round, easygoing little preteen, the new one was a tall, thin, and fearful adolescent. I set them up in a roomy enclosure containing a nest basket, various sizes of branches for perching, and a potted plant for the fearful one to hide behind. “What are you going to name them?” asked Skye.

“I'm not giving them names,” I said.

“Then how are you going to tell stories about them?” asked Mac.

“I'm not,” I said. “I'm just going to feed them and leave them alone. If I have to refer to them, I'll call them One and Two.”

“One and Two!” cried Skye. “Are you crazy?”

Immediately both kids grimaced, clenching their teeth and bugging their eyes in dismay. “She didn't really mean you were crazy,” said Mac. “Maybe a little upset, but not crazy.”

“That's right,” said Skye. “Mom is definitely not crazy.” Turning toward Mac, she whispered, “Unless she names them One and Two.”

Soon after I approached the crows' enclosure holding a bowl of food. I moved slowly and quietly, eyes downcast, intent on showing the new one that I posed no threat, but it didn't work. She let out a gasp of fear, dove behind the potted plant, and stood quaking while the nestling did everything to mime starvation but suck in his cheeks and point to his stomach. He staggered to his feet, opened his beak like an alligator, and let out a barrage of hoarse, wheezy begging cries, instantly triggering my innate feed-the-crow response. Whipping out an eight-inch pair of tweezers, I stuffed bite after bite into his open beak until he turned away. I offered a bite to the fearful one, but she would have none of it.

Maybe One will be a good influence on Two, I thought, immediately feeling ridiculous and deciding that my kids were far more sensible than I. Hoping the little crow pair would develop a camaraderie like that of the old comedy team, I christened them George and Gracie.

“But this doesn't mean I'm going to fall for you,” I said to George, who gazed at me with admiration. “So don't get any ideas.”

An hour later I tried again. As before, George was thrilled and Gracie was aghast. Gracie was already thin and couldn't afford to lose more weight, but the last thing I wanted to do was force-feed an already terrified young bird.

“She's not buying it,” I told John and the kids dolefully. “I might as well have ridden in on a motorcycle with a bone through my nose.”

“A
bone
through your
nose
?” Skye screeched with delight. “How the
heck
couldja get a
bone
through your
nose
?”

“Gracie's not against you personally,” said Mac soothingly. “She just doesn't like what you represent.”

“Don't worry,” said John. “She'll come around.”

A half hour later I repeated the process with the same result, although Gracie was a bit less frantic. Another half hour later I gave it one last try, and to my relief Gracie lunged through the plant foliage for the tweezers, snatched a piece of food, then retreated behind the greenery. Hunger and George's good example had won her over.

During the next few days Gracie unwillingly settled in, and George left his nest and began hopping around the enclosure. Their initial views of captivity never changed: George openly appreciated my hospitality, while Gracie made it clear that she was a prisoner of war and was simply biding her time until she could stage a daring escape. A week after they arrived I began putting them in the Crow Mahal during the day so they could enjoy the sun and the outdoors. I filled it with crow toys, several perches, a plate of food, and a large dish for bathing. I sat in the hammock nearby, watching.