The Bird House A Novel - By Kelly Simmons Page 0,76
me.
Because only I know how angry I was. How distracted I was. Only I know how I didn’t turn back to look at her as I whisked the baby out of the room, not even when I heard the tiniest sound, the small squeak that I know now must have been skin slipping against porcelain. The slippery bubbles popping, falling out of her way. The water just a little too high. The moment before the small wave went in her mouth. The moment before she hit her head.
No. I thought the squeak was the duck. I thought she was squeezing her rubber duck.
June 22, 2010
Tinsley didn’t return my phone calls this week about seeing Ellie, so I called Tom at work. I didn’t mention that his wife had threatened me and started doing her own private investigative work. No; I didn’t “tell on her”; I simply inquired about his health, his new diet, and his work schedule (fine, fine, and not too busy) and mentioned that I’d like to take Ellie swimming at the club. We agreed he’d drop her off on Saturday, and he did.
Ellie bounded up the porch stairs first, bursting in, tossing a navy backpack onto the floor. “Grandma, I have something to show you!”
“You do?”
“Ellie,” Tom said slowly, “let me talk to Grandma first.”
Her face fell, but I motioned toward the jigsaw puzzle set up in the living room and she took the hint.
“What is it, Tom?”
“Mom, you still see okay, driving and everything?”
“Of course, why?”
“Well, Tinsley seemed to think—”
“Tinsley should mind her own business!”
“Mom, that’s not fair. She’s just being protective, being helpful, and she, well, she seemed to think you shouldn’t be driving anymore. We spoke this morning about it and you have to admit, you’re getting more forgetful, and well, maybe it’s time to start thinking about—”
“You tell Tinsley,” I said, my breath gone ragged as I wagged my finger in his face, “that I see better than she does. You tell her that I see all kinds of things. She’d be amazed by what I see. You tell her that. And tell her that what I don’t see, the remote-control cameras in my backyard do!”
“Cameras?”
I waved him away. “It’s a little security system.”
“Okay,” he said slowly. “But—you are getting your eyes checked every year, and going to the doctor?”
“Yes,” I said firmly. I actually couldn’t recall being to the eye doctor in years, but that means nothing. I could have been there last week, I suppose.
“Tom,” I said, clearing my throat, “I can’t help thinking that all this worrywart nonsense with Tinsley has something to do with what happened to your sister long ago. And since we never really speak of it, I thought perhaps, well, that I should clear the air.” I swallowed hard and tried to conjure up as much as I could remember. Would I even be able to answer his most basic questions?
He shrugged. “It’s okay, Mom, I know all about it.”
“You do?”
“Dad told me everything, a long time ago.”
“What did he tell you, dear?”
“He said there was an accident in the tub and that was why you never took a bath anymore. And why you were a little protective of me, growing up.”
“Is that… all he said?”
“Well, he said if I ever had questions, to just ask. He said it was okay to talk about it with him, but not with you.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Tom. That was probably unfair of him, darling.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“Did you ever… wonder about her, though? What your relationship was like when you were little?”
He shrugged. “I was just a baby, Mom.”
“Yes,” I said softly. “But she was your sister. Your big sister.”
He nodded and the silence between us was awkward. There was so much I wanted to say and couldn’t.
“Sometimes”—he cleared his throat—“I think I remember her face. I know that’s impossible.”
“I don’t think that’s impossible,” I said softly.
“It’s probably from photos, not from actual memory.”
“You used to smile at her when I fed you in the kitchen.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I always fed you first, before the rest of us, and that made you happy. It’s as if you were flaunting your luck.”
“It must have been terrible. For you and Dad, I mean.”
“No one ever expects to lose a child,” I said. “Not that way.” My voice trailed off. I couldn’t tell one child how I had turned my back on another. How I had walked away. It didn’t matter that everywhere I look I see the same cold pivot: on street corners,