That’s what I’ve counted, and count again to check, trying to sharpen my memory of all that’s passed since the stain.
What would I give for a remote control with a button to slow down time, or even rewind a little bit? Forty-one days since my mother became a bird, which means when the sun rises, it’ll be the forty-second morning. Including tomorrow, that’s eight days before my mother makes her transition.
Eight days.
I have to work even faster. Burn the incense, see the memories. Find the clues. Find my mother.
I’ve pulled out all the T-shirts and sweatpants I can spare, and found myself a pair of scissors. There’s something very meditative about opening the steel wide and slicing into the fabric, snip snip snip. When I was a kid I learned to weave these baskets out of shirts by first cutting the material up into long strands. It’s pretty easy—the way you cut just spirals up the shirt starting from the bottom, so that one shirt becomes one long piece of string. I need all the pieces I can get.
I’m weaving a net—as big a net as I can make, so I have to cut the clothes as thinly as possible. I don’t think it’ll hurt the bird, since the material is soft, and I’m hoping she’ll recognize the scent of me, or the particular brand of laundry detergent she always bought. If all goes according to plan, then once the net is over her, she’ll notice those familiar smells and see me, her daughter, her own flesh and blood from before she was a bird. She’ll settle down and tell me what it is she wants me to remember.
Snip snip snip.
My brain won’t stop tracing shapes and rewinding through memories. Sometimes, when it gets all cyclical like this, I try to calm myself down by inventing new colors in my head.
I found this video online once about these scientists who unintentionally invented a new shade of blue. They called it YInMn blue.
I thought it was cool but at the same time hard to believe, because how is it possible that YInMn didn’t exist before?
YInMn, they said, was supposedly fade resistant. I scoffed a little when I saw that part. Everything fades.
Everything in the physical world, like paper and furniture, but also things in the mind. Memories, emotions. Life.
Friendships. Those fade, too. It’s just a matter of time.
The creepy thing is, right as I’m thinking that, my phone lights up on its own and starts playing that track Axel sent before. “Goodbye.”
37
WINTER, FRESHMAN YEAR
When the house was empty, I searched for clues, starting with my parents’ bedroom. My hands were careful. The drawers made a loud shush as they slid open. The closet door creaked in warning.
What was I expecting—
A letter? A diary? Anything in Chinese would be useless. But Caro was right. I had to try.
Nothing looked unfamiliar or mysterious until I hit the storage section of the basement, where a shed’s worth of cardboard boxes were stacked in the corner, lined with dust, untouched for who knew how long. I’d never given them much thought before.
I asked my mother what was in the boxes.
“Not sure. Some is mine, other might be yours. Maybe your old homework. I don’t remember. Probably none your father’s—he always throwing away stuff he don’t use. Why you ask this?”
The lie came easily. “I need to find some projects from, like, elementary school. It’s for an assignment. Can I go through them?”
“Okay. It’s very dusty. Maybe when you’re there you also do some vacuum and clean.”
“Sure.” I tried to look reluctant, though I was glad for the excuse to spend more time with the boxes. “I can do that.”
There were so many, their insides completely disorganized. I slowly pawed my way through the mess of each one, paranoid that if I sped up I’d miss something. There were random bank and insurance statements, grade-school spelling quizzes and essays and social studies tests, old postcards from Dad’s parents, ancient pieces of computer software. Just in case my mother actually asked, I pulled out some of the old school projects I came across.
If I was lucky, a weekday afternoon—while Mom was busy teaching piano—could get me through half a box. Weekends were utterly unproductive. If I stayed in, she’d try to chat for endless stretches. Or, if her dark mood took over, the house shrank down so that I felt like I was being choked.
I started going to the Renards’ on Saturdays and Sundays, helping Caro set up her photo stuff so she could get macro shots of water drops and the faces of dead bugs. When we got tired of that, we played cribbage with her grandparents.
I hadn’t had a real conversation with Axel in ages. Even Mom asked why he hadn’t come over when she made chive dumplings or waffles.
“He has a girlfriend, Mom,” I snapped. “He has better things to do.”
Her face flashed a maroon shade of hurt before smoothing again. “I see.”
The first morning of winter break brought a familiar rap on our door, the rhythm drifting upstairs like a dream. I was lying on my stomach, sketching an antique camera borrowed from Caro.
The knock was something I’d imagined—I was certain of it. All the wishful thinking was manifesting in some form of psychosis. My knuckles dug the charcoal harder into the page.
Then came the same knock on my bedroom door. It was so jarring I nearly tore a page out of my sketchbook.
“Come in?” I hated how the words leaped out as a question.
The door opened and there was Axel in his forest-green plaid. His hair was dark and wavy, longer than I’d ever seen it. It draped nicely, framing his face. A few strands fell against his forehead like arrows trying to direct my gaze to his eyes.
“Hey, Leigh,” he said, as though nothing had happened in the last few months.
I stared at him.
“Oh, I like the pink.” He gestured toward the streak of color in my hair. “Did you just do that?”
I meant to respond in the most detached voice I could summon. What came out was “Why are you here?”
His mouth twisted. He tried for a tight smile. “I’m not allowed over anymore?”
“No, I mean, you’re allowed.” I sat up and wondered if my hair was a mess. Had I brushed it today? I decided I didn’t give a crap. “Looks like your mono’s gone. Did you give it back to Leanne or something?”
He looked pained. “That’s not how mono works.”
“Right,” I said. “I wouldn’t know. So how is she? Leanne? Or do you call her Lee for short?”
He opened his mouth and closed it. When he finally spoke again, his voice was very quiet. “I would never call her that.”
“Is she the reason you’re growing your hair out?”
Axel barked out a mirthless laugh. “Are you kidding? She hated it. She was into the military look. I’m the reason I’m growing my hair out.”
“Hated? Past tense?”
“I broke up with her,” he said with a shrug. “Last week, actually.”
Half of me was relieved and the other half was pissed as hell. I slid off my bed and drew myself up to my tallest height. “I’m supposed to be your best friend, you know.”
Axel’s face went gray. “Leigh—”
“I’m not a replacement, I’m not someone to be replaced.”
“You’re right,” he said.
“It’s ridiculous that just because you went and got yourself a girlfriend you stopped being my friend.”
“You’re right.”
I actually heard it this time. “What?”
“You’re absolutely right,” he said. “I was an ass. I pushed you away. I guess I didn’t want you to see the way I was when I was with Leanne.”
I didn’t really understand what he meant, but I also wasn’t sure I wanted to hear more. “So why’d you dump her?” I asked instead.
“I couldn’t figure out who she was.”