“I know for certain Bernie is at the top of the pecking order, but she’s been isolating herself lately, and she’s been very noisy. Like she’s protesting her life. But as you know, my girls live a very good life.”
This is true. My mother takes care of her chickens better than most people care for their children. Their coop is practically a miniature palace, full-on with a tiny crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
“Anything else?” I ask. I’ve not studied chicken behavior as deeply as my mom, but I did grow up with them. It’s not beyond possible I might have some insight.
“She hasn’t been laying like the other girls. But she’s five. She might just be in henapause.”
“Henapause?” This is not a term I’ve heard her use before.
“Menopause for chickens,” she explains. “But I’m also worried she might be eggbound.”
“Have you ever had an eggbound chicken?” I rack my brain for memories from when I lived at home, and I’m coming up dry. Even so, I know what the term means—a chicken with a stuck egg.
“I have not,” she says.Splash. Splash. Squawk.“But I’m soaking Bernie just in case.”
“And that’s the cure for being eggbound?” I ask.
“The internet says maybe, so I’m trying it.”
“Good luck,” I tell her, thinking now might not be the best time for a heart to heart. Having a live chicken in the sink seems like an all-encompassing task.
“Why are you calling, dear?” my mom asks.
“I, um … I guess I just wanted to ask you some questions. But we can talk later if now is a bad time.”
“So long as you don’t want to know about ornery hens,” she says. “I’m at my wits’ end with this one.”
“I wanted to ask about my childhood. You know, pre-diagnosis.”
“I’m all ears,” she says.
The squawking and splashing suddenly stop, which causes me to ask, “Did you drown her?”
“Huh, will you look at that.” My mom sounds perplexed.
“What happened?”
“This funny little girl has settled right down, and she appears to be enjoying herself.” Before I can comment one way or the other, she adds, “Now, what do you want to know?”
I roll over on my side before pulling the duvet up over my head. Having created my perfect cave, I ask, “Did you think I was particularly odd in my early childhood?”
“No more than any other kid,” she says.
My mom has always been on my side. She’s been my champion when faced with bullies and teachers alike. She’s got my back to the point where I’m not sure if her perception can be trusted. “When was the first time you noticed I was different?” I want to know.
“Aside from the running thing?”
“Yes, Mom. Aside from that.” I’ve seen old videos of myself, and my stride was pretty horrifying.
She exhales loudly before making noises that sound like a staccato grunting—this is her thinking sound. “I suppose inpreschool. You didn’t seem to relate to the other kids the same way they related to each other.”
A shiver of alarm shoots through me. Preschool is early. “How was I different?”
“You used to watch your classmates play like you couldn’t figure out what they were doing.” She’s quick to explain, “Not like you were too stupid to understand, more like you thought they were beneath you.”
“Beneath me? Was I a snob?” I can’t imagine such a thing, as I spent most of childhood in pursuit of being liked.
“Not at all, Finny. You were and are one of the sweetest people I’ve ever known. It was more like they confused you. Like they were babies and you were an adult.”
