“Oh, lordy!” the voice says. “This is harder than it looks.”
My cockatoo ward, who should definitely not be talking with the voice of a seventy-year-old Southern woman, makes a ruckus as I drive. I think she’s struggling to get back up on the rope perch.
“Balance is all off,” the voice mutters. “What are these creepy chicken feet? Ridiculous things. Couldn’t you have a pet with a little grace? It’s like wearing flip-flops with thumbs.”
“I’m not hearing that,” I say, leaning forward as I hunt for the alley that contains my promised parking spaces. I find a turn-in behind the row of buildings, a road wide enough for a delivery truck with parallel parking spaces running alongside, and one sad dumpster. All the parking spots are taken except one, which has a sign that readsMaggie Kirkwood. Don’t Even Think aboutIt.
I think about it. I pull in.
Or, I try to.
I’m not good at parallel parking. Getting the car passably close to the curb takes me five nervous minutes, which are not made any easier by the running commentary of a disembodied voice fussing in my head.
“This is easier when they respect the second space, but I reckon the moment I keeled over, Marla decided she could park there. You’re gonna have to put up another sign. Oh! Maybe a bit lesssharp braking. Hard to hold on for dear life when you don’t have hands.”
I try to ignore the voice and fail, but at least I don’t argue withit.
Because that would be giving in to lunacy.
Once I’m mostly in the space, I hop out and snag the backpack. Surely it is a coincidence that the voice says, “Whoop! Well, that’s a fine how-do-you-do!”
The alley is silent and shadowy, and smells vaguely of chocolate. I pull out the new key ring and head up a set of sturdy wooden stairs to a second-story balcony above the video store. There’s a worn welcome mat and a concrete statue of a cat, and the door is painted purple.
“Which key?” I mutter to myself, because, honestly, when you’re losing your mind, sometimes you’re the only person worth talking to.
“The round silver one with purple nail polish,” the voice says, and I ignore the fact that Doris is pressed up against the mesh of the backpack, watching me closely.
I can be stubborn and work through the keys my way, or I can do what the mysterious voice says and possibly be showering off human cremains and stepping into a dry pair of pants five minutes faster, so I try the round silver key with a swash of purple and am almost disappointed that it works. The door creaks open on a kitchen/living room combo, but I barely register that as I hurry back out to the car, grab the roller bag I packed with my most immediate needs, and drag my suitcase up the steps with the bird backpack in my other hand.
“What’s it called, that thing where a bird’s body moves but its head doesn’t?” the disembodied voice asks.
“Insanity,” I growl.
“No, that’s not it. There’s a specific sciencey term.”
At the top of the stairs, I nudge open the door and get my first glimpse of who my grandmother must’ve been.
And to tell you the truth, it’s a total shock.
6.
I expected floralsand quilts and pastels and maybe more cardboard movie stand-ups.
I would not have been surprised by faded country chic and mothballs and, I don’t know, ceramic roosters everywhere.
And yet here I stand in a full-on hippie retreat.
There are crystals on every windowsill, macramé plant hangers in every corner, shawls over every lamp, dried flowers on every surface, posters of Stevie Nicks and Picasso’s peace dove and Woodstock. The dominating odors are incense and patchouli.
“Home sweet home,” the annoying voice says, relieved.
Now that I’m in a private place, I close the door behind me, put down my bags, unzip the backpack, and gently take Doris in both hands, holding her up to face me.
“Are you talking?” I ask, inspecting her for a hidden speaker.
“Not with my mouth,” she admits. “It’s telepathy. Pretty neato, right?”
There’s nothing new or unusual about the cockatoo that’s been my ward for the past three years, aside from the dried humancremains dusting her pink feathers. When she struggles in my hands, I place her on the floor. She waddles back and forth, looks at her foot, spreads her wings, raises her crest.
