One Bird's Choice (18 page)

“Yeah,” announces another boy, the one in stocking feet, “usually they don’t even shoot.”

“And I’m still getting no shots on me. I want some action!”

“Mitchell,” I call over my shoulder, irritably, “I’ve been playing great defence — my job is to stop them from shooting on you. It’s good for the team if you don’t have to stop any shots. So just relax.”

“More shots!” he demands.

We continue back and forth until Mitchell’s voice grows ever louder and higher-pitched. I relent, and in the following minutes I allow any child with the puck clear access to our net. Mitchell is peppered with four shots, resulting in four goals. He’s utterly helpless; it looks more like he is trying to avoid the puck than stop it.

“I hate being goalie,” he declares. “I want to play defence.”

“No, Mitchell, you asked to play goalie, and there isn’t enough time left to switch the equipment.”

I turn to run up the floor but Mitchell is sitting down now, refusing to play. Again I relent. It takes ten minutes to unbuckle Mitchell out of the bulky goalie pads. Just as I’m looking for his replacement, the bell rings and gym class is over. It’s a flurry of yelling and irrepressible movement. Mitchell is first out the door, followed by the rest of the screaming kids. I’m left alone in the suddenly quiet gym with the discarded pads and an army of red and blue hockey sticks to collect.

Hour Three: Lunch

Before I leave I decide to stick around for lunch. Grace is headed for yard duty, so I stay inside to watch over the class. We sit and eat the lunches our parents have prepared. I’m hoping to convince one of the kids to trade for my bruised banana. I specifically asked Mom not to give it to me.

Most of the kids eagerly wolf down their meals and are outside within minutes. All except one boy, who is sitting alone at one of the miniature red tables. I walk over and sit down beside him. The boy, like me, is a slow eater. He’s enjoying his food; each bite is chewed carefully and savoured. He’s also shy and shows more concern for his carrot sticks than me. But after a few minutes he breaks the silence, leaning in close as if he has a secret to share. Raising his eyebrows, he delicately asks if I want to see the inside of his sandwich. When I say yes, he deliberately peels apart the two halves, revealing what appear to be slices of ham and cheese and strings of mustard and mayo. Wearing an expression that says,
Pretty crazy, isn’t it?
he slaps his sandwich back together and takes a wee bite.

Back in my car I’m shivering, waiting for the engine to warm, reflecting on my morning. A charming end to my day back at school: this little boy, brimming with excitement and wonder at something as mundane and insignificant as a ham and cheese sandwich. It’s a moment I can keep with me, a constant reminder of the innocence and general enthusiasm so many of us lack. I decide that this thoughtful boy, his ham sandwich, and all that it represents are the highlight of my morning.

Or at least it’s a very close second. We’re talking top corner here — the goalie never had a chance!

Twelve

A Bit of Sun

T
HE SNOW HAS FINALLY STARTED MELTING
. We’ve been clustered in the kitchen all morning. I’m sitting on the counter eating a bowl of Mini-Wheats. Dad, a few feet to my right, sleeves rolled up, hunched over, is washing dishes in the sink. Mom’s sleeves are also rolled up and she is drying with a blue and white tea towel. She stacks the bowls and plates before putting them away. They’re working on the breakfast dishes but are focused on the sheep.

“I suppose about fifty percent of the time nothing bad happens.”

“Yup, fifty percent sounds about right,” echoes Mom.

I’m holding my bowl and spoon in one hand and draining the last of the milk directly into my mouth. “Okay,” I sputter. “So then, fifty percent of the time something bad does happen.”

“Yup, I’d say around fifty,” says Mom.

“Give or take,” agrees Dad.

They’ve been trying to have this talk with me for weeks, the one about the dogs and cats and how to keep them fed and watered; the one about the sheep, explaining exactly how much hay to give them, when to give them stale bread, and how to lure them into the barn with a scoop of grain. They want to make sure I’m prepared for everything. Lambing season has arrived, bringing with it a handful of new arrivals. The last three of our Cheviot ewes are due this week.

The warmer weather has also induced a warmer mood. I find I’m in good spirits, my best in some time, and I’ve been looking forward to this week: the quiet, the solitude, the lack of human presence. I’ve decided I’m not going to leave Lilac Hill for the next three days. Not once. And I’m looking forward to it. I have everything I need here.

Tomorrow my parents are headed south, to Georgia. They’re off to a conference where Dad will deliver a paper on eighteenth-century poetry. I’ve heard him reading it aloud to Mom for the past couple of days. He always gets her to edit his papers before these conferences.

I’ve been feeling unapologetically productive. I’ve been spending the majority of my time writing, often for several hours at a time. When I got into a groove like this in Toronto, I always felt guilty, as if I should be doing something else, something that would help pay the rent. But I’ve been living an inexpensive life and haven’t felt that nip of guilt. I’m also feeling less confined, less anxious about still living with Mom and Dad. Maybe it’s because I’ve been able to write more or because the cold has left. I’m not sure. But the lures of city life have been melting away with the ice and snow.

I brought up my living situation with Dad a couple of weeks earlier, as we stacked the last of the firewood. He was quick to brush the topic aside with a casual wave of his hand, the way he always has since I’ve returned. “It’s okay; we’re not too concerned about it. It’ll be great if you’re still here in a couple of weeks, when we go away. We’ll need someone here to look after the animals, and it seems like you’re doing a lot of writing, which is good.” We stacked the rest of the wood in silence.

Even just four days alone at the farm will be a treat. Birthing mishaps are my sole concern. I’ve never been alone at the farm during lambing season before.

“Well, you can have a breech birth; they can get pretty tricky and are fairly common,” says Dad.

“Yes, and sometimes the little hooves get stuck,” continues Mom. She’s dropped her towel on the counter in a damp ball and is demonstrating with her hands how the hooves can get wedged under the chin. “Just like this. Then you have to get your hands in there and help it through.”

“In there?”

“Right, up in the birth canal.”

“That’s usually your mom’s job because of her small hands.”

Mom and Dad each hold up a hand as an offering of evidence. Dad’s are three times as large. I jump down off the counter.

“What else?”

“Well, if you think the ewe is prolapsing or she isn’t moving around but just lying there or foaming at the mouth, you can always call the vet.”

“Or call a neighbour.”

“Or call your brother.”

This is their strongest point. If something goes wrong with the sheep or the cats or the dogs or, well, anything, I shouldn’t try to figure it out. I should call others for help.

“Okay,” I say, sliding my empty bowl into the sink. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

As I leave the kitchen, Mom’s muttering something about Grandma being another good contact option. Just in case I need help. Grandma is ninety-one.

An hour or so later Dad’s upstairs packing. Mom and I are reviewing more instructions. We’ve left the sheep, chickens, and ducks for the domesticated animals. None of the dogs or cats is pregnant, so I’m anticipating minimal theatrics. Mom’s given me a clipboard, a blank sheet of paper, and a blue pen. She insists I take notes. I’m a couple of steps behind her as she prepares the dogs’ dinners.

“Titan gets three of the big scoops. But one of the scoops comes from the blue bin. That’s his special food.”

“Why’s it special?”

“It’s dental dog food. He has a legitimate tartar problem.”

“I was unaware. Go on.”

“Now, as for Meggers, she gets only two scoops. Use the smaller scoop and get hers from the red bin. It’s special diet food.”

“Meg’s on a diet?”

“Yes, her little hips are getting really sore, so we switched her onto the diet food. It’s made a difference. She was getting pretty chubby there for a while.”

“But don’t you always give her treats after dinner?”

“Yes, but only one, or one and a half if it’s a cold night.” Mom stands looking at Meg, who stares back, anticipating her supper. “Well, sometimes maybe two.”

I scribble down one and a half on a cold night, maybe two. We move back into the house. I’m balancing the bowls in one hand, and I lay them carefully down in front of the heating vent on the kitchen floor. I’ve seen Mom put them here to warm the food and the bowls. Mom is opening a can of wet food.

“Now,” she says, “you also have to break open one of these glucosamine pills and empty it onto Meg’s dinner. That’s also for those stiff hips.”

This too goes down on the pad.

“Okay, she also gets two of these little pink pills, which I just mix into some of this meat.” Mom answers me before I have time to ask. “They’re for her thyroid.”

Two pink thyroid pills, mix into meat
. My page is filling up. I watch Mom take bits of meat and mix it into the dry food with a fork. She does it methodically, tiny bits at a time, to ensure that the meat mixes evenly with the kibble.

“As for ratios, since Meg is so much smaller I give her a lot less.”

“Makes sense.”

“She usually gets around an eighth of a can or so, and only at dinner. She doesn’t need meat at breakfast unless it’s really cold or rainy, then you can put a little treat on her meal. She’s not picky; she’ll eat anything leftover from your supper. Cheese is good. Sometimes I sprinkle a little Parmesan on there, or you could fry an egg quickly.”

My head is down and I’m scribbling frantically.

“Obviously Titan gets a bit more; I usually give him almost the rest of half the can. So I guess about seven-eighths or so . . . of half.”

The dogs attack their meticulously prepared meals, their metal collars clinking on their bowls. It has taken Mom much longer to assemble them than it does for Meg and Titan to inhale them. She continues with her hints as they occur to her. Titan loves rice. Meg loves chicken skin, so if I roast a chicken or a turkey I should save the skin for Meg. I hadn’t planned on roasting any poultry while they’re gone, but I suppose it’s better to be safe than sorry. I jot down
Meg = chicken skin
.

The cats are up next. I observe Mom beckoning them affectionately in a high-pitched voice. She taps one of their tiny china dishes with a fork. This peculiar ritual works. The cats sprint into the kitchen in a blur of black, white, and orange fur.

My only concern about the cats is when I’m told about the shots of insulin that come with each feeding. Pumpkin, the old tabby, has developed diabetes. He’s lived in the barn for most of his life. He’s excruciatingly timid and is comfortable only around Mom. He often bolts under the furniture whenever Dad or I enter the room. Petting him will be a challenge for me, let alone injecting his back with shots of insulin twice a day.

“You shouldn’t have a problem. Just wait till he’s eating, then lightly pinch some of his loose skin and get the tip of the needle in there, and he won’t even notice.” As Mom explains the procedure, I’m peering at Pumpkin. He returns my skeptical gaze. “But be gentle. Your Dad’s obviously my human soulmate, but Pumpkin, he’s my feline soulmate.”

With everyone fed and the medications put away, Mom steps into the living room, where Titan is savouring his post-supper nap. He’s flaked out on his blanket, the tip of his pink tongue protruding from the edge of his mouth. His eyes are closed. Mom slowly bends down to her knees.

“If you rub just the right spot of his back or belly, right around here, and then stop, he’ll actually give you a big smile. Won’t you, boy? Yes, you will.” She’s scratching Titan’s furry back with both hands like a masseuse. He stretches out his hind legs. Then she stops suddenly. Titan tilts his head lazily in her direction. “Oh, come on, Titan, don’t you want me to keep going? Give me a smile.”

He gapes at her and lets his head flop back down on the mat.

“I guess it’s because you’re here,” says Mom, disconcertedly. “Hopefully he’ll smile for you when you’re alone. I swear it’ll work after you feed him.”

I nod but omit these last few instructions from the list. I leave Mom lying on the floor beside Titan, still working for a smile.

I don’t see Mom again until she pops her head into my room. It’s late. I’m reading in bed.

“I just want to let you know, you shouldn’t use the upstairs toilet while we’re gone.”

“What do you mean? It was working fine an hour ago.”

“I know, but I just remembered to clean it before bed so it would be nice and fresh for you, but I’m tired and I accidentally flushed the rag down the toilet. I think it’s stuck somewhere.”

“You flushed the rag down the toilet . . . while you were cleaning it?”

“Uh-huh.”

“How did you do that?”

“Good question. I’m not entirely sure either. But it happened somehow. Anyway, I’ll let you sleep. Nighty-night.”

I should take the time to find my list of instructions. Remembering not to use the upstairs toilet because Mom has lost a rag down the pipe is important. But when I overhear her waking Dad to tell him the same mystifying news, I’m confident that, after reviewing the event for the second time — and likely a third time in the morning when Dad tells me again at breakfast — copying it onto my list would be just plain gratuitous.

Ten minutes later I’m asleep. Another knock on the door wakes me.

“Oh, sorry, Iain.” Mom opens the door a crack and again pokes her head in. “I was lying in bed and just remembered there’s one more thing I want to tell you.”

“Shoot,” I sputter, lying flat on my stomach.

“I’m not sure if you know, but I’ve made a little bed for Pumpkin above Titan’s doghouse. I used some old carpet and a fluffy towel. And I’ve been trying for weeks to get him to feel comfortable and sleep there. He was finally starting to get used it. I’ve been feeding him and giving him his shot there every morning. It’s actually quite cute because —”

“Mom, is this just an adorable fable or do I need to know something?”

“Right, sorry. Well, yesterday and today I found a single egg in Pumpkin’s bed and no Pumpkin. It’s so frustrating. I guess one of the chickens has found the bed and is laying its eggs in there. It’s spooked Pumpkin, though. So please just try and keep your eye on the situation because I don’t want to be worrying about Pumpkin while I’m away.”

“Done.”

“It’s so annoying because he was getting so used to sleeping there and it was warm and I wasn’t worrying about him trying to find somewhere to sleep and —”

“
Okay
. Thanks, Mom,” I sigh. “Night.”

“Oh, right. Nighty-night.”

The next morning is steeped in tension. It always is the morning of a trip. Mom and Dad rush around the house packing last-minute things, watering neglected plants, changing soiled litter boxes, polishing scuffed shoes. Dad also takes a few minutes, the way he always does before a trip, to say goodbye to the sheep in the barn. Mom uses that time to tell her favourite plants how healthy they are, touching their leaves and branches, telling them she’ll be back soon.

After packing their bags into the trunk, Mom and Dad bid a final adieu to the cats and dogs, each receiving a pat and a personalized message. As we start down the lane I’m startled when Dad, buckled into the passenger seat, turns and asks me to stop the car. I slam on the brakes. Once we’re in, he never wants to stop the car on the way to the airport. He’d be content to arrive there a couple of days before departure, just to be safe.

“Hold on a minute,” he says, ducking out of the car door.

“What did you forget?”

But he’s out before he can answer. I watch him in the rear-view mirror walking back towards the house. He steps softly, as if he doesn’t want to wake the apple trees.