Time to Fly (2 page)

I went out to Los Angeles to visit Mom for Christmas. That was wonderful and awful at the same time. I mean, you're not supposed to
visit
your mom for holidays. It was frustrating, too. She had three callbacks while I was there, so we spent hours hanging out in waiting rooms for her turn to audition. At first it seemed exciting—what if she got the part?!—and we kept the boredom at bay by playing trivia games or quizzing each other with lines from our favorite movies. But when, one by one, Mom didn't get the parts, all the excitement went out of it. Mom summed it up: “Welcome to the glamorous world of acting.”

Sometimes I wish my mom were a normal mom, the kind who makes home-cooked meals and checks your math homework. Brenna's, David's, and Sunita's moms are all like that, even though they have jobs, too. But then I think about how talented my mother is—about all the times she made her soap character seem so real, I almost forgot it was my mom there on the TV screen.

She used to tell me, “I don't want to spend my life sitting in some office somewhere, typing something nobody cares about till my fingers drop off.” I can't argue with that. I know she's lucky to be doing something she really loves, even if it's a hit-and-miss kind of career. I just hate having her be a five-hour plane ride away. Too bad nobody makes movies in Ambler, Pennsylvania.

Something tugs at my sneakers. I look down. It's Sneakers, my dog. He's made living here a lot easier. I reach down to scratch behind his ears, but suddenly he runs to the edge of the deck and barks at the oak tree.

“Sneakers, what's gotten into you? Are you defending me against a tree?” I glance up—and catch a flash of blue between the green leaves.

“There it is again, Sneakers! I knew I didn't dream it!”

Chapter Two

O
f course, everyone else is inside, so nobody sees the parrot but Sneakers and me. And Socrates. He stares up at the tree too, his tail twitching.

The parrot flutters to a higher branch, then perches and looks down at me. He cocks his little round head first one way, than the other, as if sizing me up. Suddenly he lets out a loud “Brwaaaak! Phone home!”

I can't help giggling. The parrot is so cute. “Hey, bird, are you talking to me?” I call up to him.

“Pretty girl!” the parrot replies, bobbing up and down on the branch. Then he begins to preen his wings, just as though he wanted to make himself look nice for me. A green feather drifts to the ground.

I knew I was right—this is obviously an escaped pet parrot. Wait till I tell Maggie!

I pick up the feather and run inside, with Sneakers at my heels, as the parrot shrieks after me, “Pretty girl! Phone home!”

Gran is pouring milk to go with the brownies everyone's scarfing down.

“Guys, quick!” I shout. “There's a parrot in the backyard!”

“And I'm an Inca princess,” Maggie says. “Have a brownie, Zoe.”

“What's the matter with you?” I exclaim. “Don't you want to see it?”

“Sure, if it's got a pirate under it,” David jokes.

“Look!” I say, holding up the green feather as evidence, like a lawyer in a courtroom.

Gran reaches for the feather. “Where did you find this?” she asks, suddenly interested.

“In—the—back—yard,” I say slowly, as if they're all a bit dimwitted.

“It's beautiful,” Sunita says.

Brenna frowns at the feather, puzzled. “But it's the wrong color for any of the native birds around here.”

“That's what I'm trying to tell you,” I say. “It's not a native bird, it's a parrot. It even talks! It said ‘Phone home,' just like E.T. in the movie.”

Gran blinks. “It talked?”

“Show me.”

I shove through the screen door onto the deck with everyone crowding right behind me. But if the parrot is still in the tree, he's well hidden now. Avoiding the skeptical looks I know must be coming my way, I quickly scan the yard. Nothing. I check Mr. Cowan's bird feeders. Just ordinary birds. But what's that bright green spot on Mr. Cowan's lawn? “Look!” I whisper, pointing. “See?”

There he is, a bright green tropical bird like you'd see in a zoo or a pet shop, sitting loose in the middle of a very untropical Pennsylvania lawn. They can't miss him.

I slant Maggie an I-told-you-so look.

“Sorry,” she whispers. “I believe you, I
believe you
!”

The parrot just sits there with his eyes half-closed, as if he's sleepy. Do parrots sleep on the ground? I don't know much about birds, but I would think parrots usually sleep in trees, where it's safe. I take a few steps closer. The parrot's beak opens and opens again, but no sound comes out, as if he's just too tired to get the squawks out. His feathers are all ruffled up, too. “He looks like a bright green feather duster,” I whisper. “Gran, what do you think is wrong with him?”

“By the looks of him, he's either exhausted or sick,” she replies.

“But he seemed fine when I saw him before,” I say. “He was fluttering around in our oak tree. How could he get sick so fast? Do you think he fell?”

“Maybe some of the other birds attacked him because he looks so different. Maybe they know he's not from around here,” David says.

“I don't think so,” Gran says. “Let's see whether—”

Suddenly something low and orange streaks across the yard, straight toward the parrot. Socrates!

Before anyone else can even react, Sunita sprints to the fence and scoops Socrates into her arms. “Oh, no, you don't!” she tells him firmly, carrying him back into the house. Sunita is our resident cat expert—she's always one step ahead of the rest of us when it comes to reading a cat's mind. And Socrates, who treats the rest of us as if we were his personal servants, responds to Sunita as if she were a mystical cat charmer. (Is it just a cat thing? Or could Sunita teach me how to do that with Sneakers?)

As soon as Sunita gets Socrates inside, I start toward the sick parrot, but Gran stops me. “Wait, Zoe,” she says in that soft but serious vet-to-the-rescue voice that we know to instantly obey. “Run and get me a towel, please.”

I'm not sure what she wants it for, but I don't ask questions. I just race inside and grab a clean towel off the pile on the dryer, then zoom back out to the deck.

The parrot is still sitting on Mr. Cowan's lawn. I hand Gran the towel.

Gran strides across the yard, then eases through the side gate that leads into Mr. Cowan's yard, draping the towel over her right hand as she steals up behind the sick bird. She reminds me of Socrates stalking prey. Swiftly and silently she kneels down and captures the parrot in the towel. When she stands up, the towel is wrapped around the parrot, and Gran's fingers are around the bird's neck, immobilizing its head—I guess so it won't bite her. But the bird barely protests. Carefully supporting the lower half of the bird's body with her other hand, Gran walks briskly back to the clinic.

“Zoe, why don't you come help me with this bird,” Gran calls over her shoulder. “The rest of you can go back to your chores.” She heads for the Herriot Room, calling for Dr. Gabe.

I'm right behind her. “Doesn't it hurt the bird's neck to hold it like that?” My hand goes to my neck, and I swallow.

“Not at all,” she assures me. “Birds have a very sturdy windpipe. But they don't have a diaphragm, like we do. A bird has to move its chest in and out to breathe. So if you hold it too tightly around its chest, you can suffocate it.”

In the exam room, Gran cradles the parrot against her chest. “We need to rehydrate this fellow before we can do anything else,” she says. “Sick birds are very vulnerable to dehydration. Let's start with a quick shot of fluids.”

I've done this before. I go to the cabinet and get a syringe of lactated Ringer's solution. While Gran holds the parrot, Dr. Gabe slowly gives it an injection between the shoulders. I hate getting shots, but the bird doesn't even seem to feel it.

Watching the parrot up close, I notice that his head doesn't really look blue under the fluorescent lights. In fact, it's not blue at all, it's green, like the rest of him. “Gran!” I exclaim. “This isn't the parrot I saw before.”

“What?” Gran looks puzzled. “Are you sure?”

I nod my head. “Positive. The talking parrot was about the same size and color as this one, but his head was blue, not green. And he seemed so alert and healthy. I mean, he was fluttering around in the oak tree, squawking and talking to me. He couldn't have gotten so sick this fast, could he?”

“It's not always easy to tell when a bird is sick,” Dr. Gabe says. “In the wild, birds often hide any illness to protect themselves, because a sick bird is easy prey for predators. Unfortunately, pet birds tend to follow that same behavior pattern. That's why bird owners sometimes don't even notice something's wrong until their pet is really sick.”

I shake my head. “But I'm
sure
this isn't the same bird.”

“Well, we'll deal with that mystery later,” Gran says, peering at the parrot, “after I take care of this little fellow.”

“I'll get the oxygen cage,” Dr. Gabe says.

“Is he that sick?” I ask.

“It's hard to know for sure, but he's certainly not doing too well,” Gran replies. “Extra oxygen will help stabilize him and restore his breathing.”

“Poor thing,” I croon, reaching out a finger to stroke his bright green head.

Quickly Gran puts her hand on my arm. “It's best not to touch him, Zoe—not until we know what's wrong,” she warns. “He might be contagious.”

I jerk back my hand. “Really? People can catch bird diseases?”

“Yes, they can.”

The bird has some junk around its eyes and beak. Ick—I don't want to catch
that
.

Dr. Gabe returns with a small plastic chamber. He sets it on the counter, plugs it in, then connects a thin tube to an oxygen tank. Gran tucks the parrot into the plastic chamber and closes the door.

I peek through the window. The box is heated, and the bird looks warm and cozy, still nestled in the towel. “How long does he stay in there?” I ask.

“A half hour should help him feel much better,” Gran says. “With some fluids in him and some oxygen, he'll be stronger, and it'll be easier for him to tolerate me handling him for the exam.”

“Don't worry,” I tell him through the window. “Gran's the best. She'll make you feel better soon.”

But I can't help wondering about the other parrot with the pretty blue head, the one that talked to me. Can there really be
two
parrots flying loose around our neighborhood?

After half an hour, Dr. Gabe eases the parrot out of the oxygen cage. The bird looks a little more alert, but he still doesn't struggle much. Dr. Gabe holds the bird in a towel, the same way Gran did earlier.

He and Gran both have on surgical masks. Gran tells me to put one on, too, “just in case.” A face mask makes me feel very official—but also a little anxious. If this bird has something serious, he might not make it.

“OK, Pickles,” Gran says, nicknaming her small green patient. “Let's see what's bothering you.”

I love watching Gran at work. She's focused but affectionate with her patients, calm and quick and gentle at the same time. Her hands move effortlessly, like a magician performing a trick that's been rehearsed a thousand times. And her face never gives away her thoughts. She keeps her feelings inside, so she won't frighten the animals—or their owners.

As Dr. Gabe holds Pickles in the towel, Gran begins by checking the bird's basic vital signs. She listens to his heart with a stethoscope and peers in his eyes with an ophthalmoscope. She parts the feathers on each side of his head to check his ears. (Yes, birds do have ears!) With the lightest touch she feels his neck, chest, and belly. Very gently she extends each wing and leg, one at a time.

Pickles looks frightened, but he doesn't struggle.

“Can you tell what's wrong?” I ask impatiently.

“Well, there's nothing obvious, like a broken bone,” Gran replies. “But the nasal discharge and listless behavior tell us this bird is clearly not well. It could be a number of things. We'll just have to rule them out one by one. Can you grab me some cotton balls and alcohol, Zoe?”

While I get the supplies from the counter, Gran goes to a cabinet and comes back with a syringe. She wipes the bird's chest area with alcohol, then gives him an injection in the breast muscle.

“What's that?” I ask her.

“It's a broad-spectrum antibiotic,” she says. “I want to get something into his system right away. Then, when we know what's wrong with him, we may switch to a more disease-specific medication.” Gran looks up at Dr. Gabe. “What do you think, doc? Is our patient strong enough to give a blood sample?”