Yellow Birds by Karen Green

Author:Karen Green
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: re:books

12

WHEN MY MOTHER began collecting ceramic bells, and then broken picture frames, and then mismatched teacups, and then empty coffee canisters, we knew it was because she needed to have control over her things. She needed to have stuff that she loved and that she decided could love her back; stuff that could never be unpredictable or leave her like my dad had. We knew where the compulsion came from, but knowing did not make it any easier to live with. Not with the stuff, and not with my mother, who eventually transferred any affection she once had for people, to her things. And though her affection for my sister and me always seemed forced at best, we felt it being taken from us in tiny slices with each passing day; with each old radio added to the heap.

First she stopped asking to see any forms we brought home from school. Then she stopped asking who we were talking to on the phone. Then she stopped asking us what time we were coming home, or even where we were going. At first these things felt like freedoms, but really, they were cuts. Small cuts; paper cuts. But get enough paper cuts and you can still bleed to death.

So when I overheard a few of my classmates talking about seeing some Open Road shows after graduation the next week, I interrupted and asked if there was room for one more. That night, I told Janine that I was going on Tour for a few weeks, but then I’d back. Besides, you’ll be babysitting almost every day this summer, I said to her, You won’t even miss me.

What about Mom, she asked and I paused in front of my closet where I had been pulling sweatshirts and dresses off of hangers to stuff into my backpack. She’ll be okay. She might not even notice I’m gone. I said it as a joke, but I wasn’t even sure our mother realized we were home at that moment.

She made it to graduation, fussing constantly over her dress, my sister, the contents of her purse, and I was equal parts annoyed and sad that she couldn’t just enjoy herself, be happy for both of us. My father was the unexpected hero of the day. I was surprised and pleased when he had told me he would be there, but downright shocked when he quietly but resolutely helped manage the day—manage my mother, ensuring we all got where we needed to be, picking us up on time and politely shaking hands with the teachers and parents that came up to chat with us at the reception after the ceremony.

When he dropped us back at the house later, he asked me to stay in the car for a moment. How’s your arm, he asked, bending his own and pivoting it up and down like a wing, mimicking the movement he must have assumed still gave me trouble. Dad, it’s fine, I answered. He hadn’t really been there

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