They were always there, sitting on the counter.
So I took them, and I died a little bit every time.
For the first time, anger replaces the indifference I feel toward the memory of Aiden. I know he was handed a pretty rough lot. I am proof of that. He was kicked to shit, abused, traumatized, and pinned under a government boot all his life. But we all had a bit of that; it was the name of the game.
He didn’t have to take years off my life because it was easier than facing what happened to me and Wayland in that mine. He was trying to keep me silent so I wouldn’t tell him what it was like listening to Wayland die in the dark. Maybe so I wouldn’t tell him what I went through either.
He didn’t want to hear it, so he shut me up.
Now, it’s like I’m coming to life in one, shocking surge. A tearing of a chrysalis, a painful, shaky awakening.
I have to do it. One step at a time. No numbing to deal with it.
A little bit angry, I leave the house after my shower and go down to the lake on the other side of the property. It’s a long walk, but I need it to clear my head. There, I make a circle around the edge of the woods and find some sticks and bits. At the edge of the pond, I take out the carving kit, unwrapping the leather.
Overhead, the trees rustle. I glance up, a speck of yellow glinting—a warbler, a bright little bird that only visits in the summertime. It’s a wary kind that keeps to the thicker parts of the underbrush. Without really meaning to, I start working a bird out of a piece of wood, tiny cut by tiny cut, until it comes to life, sitting on my palm, head down, tail fanned.
I feel better than I did.
Stretching my legs, I watch the surface of the water. It’s about time to go back and start my chores. I like having a schedule to keep to. It helps me not overthink.
Crunch—footsteps approach in the dry grass.
I glance over my shoulder, catching sight of Deacon sauntering down the hill. He’s got a shotgun over his elbow, a canvas bagin the other hand. He comes right up to me, because he’s got no concept of personal space, and squints at the water.
“What’re you looking at?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
“You just sitting here?”
“Yeah,” I say. “What’re you doing?”
He lifts the bag. “Freya was talking to me about how she used to make squirrel and dumplings last night, so I thought I’d get her some. Reminds her of the good parts of home, I think.”
I glance down at the warbler in my palm; it always surprises me how thoughtful Deacon is with my sister. He’s not the kind of bird I thought he was. There are birds that drop like bullets from the sky and catch fish, rabbits, mice. Birds like ostriches that can fight. Birds that live off dead animals. Then, there are gentle birds—sparrows and warblers, or bitterns, not doing anything but poking around in the weeds all day.
I’m seeing now that there’s nothing inferior about the gentle birds, the way Aiden raised me to believe.
I thought Deacon was a bird of prey like Aiden. Turns out, he’s not.
“That’s nice,” I say.
“You’re welcome to drop by and have some.”
I shake my head. “Might go into town. Are we allowed to have dogs in the employee housing?”
He shrugs. “Sure, but they have to be trained. I won’t tolerate dogs nipping at the livestock. Why? You getting one?”
“Thought about it.”
I get up, gathering my things and slipping the wooden bird in my pocket. We walk up the hill, heading back to the main house. We’re almost to the secondary barn when he clears his throat.
“You should ask Janie out,” he says.
I stop, swinging my gaze on him. Did I say something to him that I don’t remember?
“Come on,” he says. “I saw you looking at her on your porch the other day. She’s single, just broke up with her shitty boyfriend. I never liked him. He was always talking about his work and wouldn’t let her say a damn word around him. I told Andy I didn’t want him visiting again.”
