Starlight

My first day of real school was in the fourth grade. It happened to be Pet Day. There were cats, dogs, goldfish, an amphibian or reptile here and there. But me?

I brought my owl. 

Her name was Stea. That means “star” in Romanian. My mom always liked to look up the words for things in different languages, and when we first found Stea as a little baby, she wanted to name her after the stars.

“Not the stars,” she interrupted me one time, when I told the story to a friend. “No, I named it after my daughter.” She smiled down at me, put her arm around my shoulders. “I named her for Stella.”

. . .

Stea perched on my arm as I stood in front of the class.

“Hi,” I said. “My name is Stella. This is my owl. Her name is Stea.”

Twenty-two ten-year-olds gaped at me. 

“My mom and I rescue animals,” I told them. “Usually I stay home from school to help her, but now I’m coming to school. And I brought my favorite animal to show you.”

“Wait, you live on the hippie farm!” one boy called out. “My parents told me to stay away from there. They said you guys are crazy.”

The frazzled teacher shushed the boy urgently, but the other kids exchanged glances. 

I lifted my arm up. Stea ruffled her feathers. “Stea is a snowy owl,” I said. “Snowy owls usually live near the polar regions, but they often spend winters here in the northern part of the United States. We found Stea a year ago, when she was just a little chick. She had fallen out of a nest and was injured. We nursed her back to health.”

“Hippies!” a girl hissed to her friend.

“We have rescued lots of animals,” I continued. “We have a lot of birds, but we also take care of squirrels, rabbits, snakes, and even beavers sometimes. Once, we even helped rescue an injured deer.”

“Do you eat berries and bark?” a boy near the front asked. “I heard you eat berries and bark.”

“We harvest huckleberries every year,” I said. “But I’ve never tried tree bark. I prefer hamburgers.”

Somehow, the second part of that statement was lost to history. From that moment on, I was Berry Girl. 

. . .

When I was twelve years old, I asked my mother if I was pretty.

“A woman’s worth is not in her appearance,” said Mom. “A woman’s worth is in her actions. Society manipulates us to believe that our only value is in how we look. Don’t ask me that question.”

“But I’m just a girl,” I said. “Not a woman.”

“No,” my mother said. “You’re not a girl. I have raised you to be a woman. Girls are foolish and weak. I’ve raised you to be intelligent and strong; you are a woman.”

But I don’t want to be a woman yet. I want to be a girl. 

I stayed silent.

. . .

By the time I was fourteen, Stea was six years old. According to my research, she would still live many more years with me. Some snowy owls could live 28 years in captivity, my Encyclopedia of Birds said. She still had a long, happy life ahead of her. 

Stea and I did everything together. She slept in a cage in my room, and I had even trained her to sit on my arm while I walked around outside. When I let her spend the night in the aviary, she would catch mice. (This annoyed the barn cats.) I talked to her. I read to her. I sang to her. I played guitar to her. I was quite good at singing and playing the guitar; I had discnerned this because Stea always seemed to perk up when I played. My mother never said anything when I played. 

Stea was my best friend. My mother, however, was not so supportive of our relationship.

“You should be making real friends,” she said. “You should be more social. You won’t get anywhere in this world by talking to a bird all the time.”

I ignored her. But high school was around the corner, and as time passed, Mom seemed to grow more and more scornful of Stea. 

“She’s a wild bird,” Mom said one day. “Don’t you think you might want to let her go?” We usually let our animals go after they were rehabilitated, but I had always insisted on keeping Stea. She was mine. 

“No,” I said. “She’s my friend.”

My mother sighed and rubbed her temples.

. . .

I never had friends at school. By the time I was sixteen, I still hadn’t ever had a friend. I didn’t mind much, really; I had Stea. Who else did I need?

When I came home from school that day, Mom was nailing the shutters to all the windows. She slammed the hammer into each nail over and over, breath puffing out into the chilly afternoon air. I paused to watch her, noting each strand of grey that poked through her auburn ponytail. It seemed like every day there was a new one.

“I’m home,” I said after a while.

“You’re early,” she said. 

“Yeah.”

“There’s a storm coming,” she said.

“I know,” I said. “That’s why I’m early. Everyone in town is talking about it.” Everyone in town was talking about it because the weatherman said it on the morning news. We didn’t own a TV, or a computer, or cell phones. But my mother knew there was a storm coming. She could always tell. It was like there was a little bit of animal blood running in her veins. 

Mom wiped her brow and then resumed hammering the wooden shutters against the house. She only put up the shutters when the storm was a bad one. 

“Do you need me to check on our friends?” I asked her.

“Yes. Make sure they all have enough food and water and the houses are shut tight.”

So I walked around the back of the house and into the different buildings where we kept our animals. We had a beaver, two chipmunks, and a cotton-tailed rabbit at the time. They all seemed to know the storm was coming; they were all curled up in the corners of their cages, snuggling into the sawdust. They knew what was on the way—they braced for impact.

Then I went into the aviary. We were rehabilitating a peregrine falcon at the time, as well as a cardinal, two goldfinches, and an old barn owl. I made sure they were all safe and secure, and made my way to the end of the row.

Stea’s cage was empty. 

. . .

Her cage had been left open. Why had it been open? The door to the aviary had been left open. Why was it open? As Stea’s world opened, mine came crashing down upon me.

I sat on the couch and stared at the fire. The first snowflakes were whizzing by the window. 

My mother made tea. She didn’t say anything to me.

Her cage was open. I didn’t leave it open. She couldn’t have opened it. Who did it? She did it. 

Mom slid a cup of turmeric tea into my hand. “Drink. You’re shaking.”

Slowly, I looked up, shooting poisoned arrows into her heart. “You did it.”

Mom stepped back. “What?”

“Stea’s gone. You did it.”

“Dear, I’m sure the lock was just loose and she pushed it open. It’s an old cage—”

“You did it. You let her go.”

Her expression hardened. “Stella Alderidge, stop these ridiculous accusations at once. Don’t speak to me like that.”

“You did it.”

My mother stood in silence for a few moments. Finally, she sighed heavily and rubbed her temples. “It’s possible that I could have left the cage open by accident. But I would never do that to you, Stella. I thought you trusted me more than that.”

“Bullshit!” I yelled, shooting to my feet. 

Mom grabbed my wrist roughly. “My God, what has gotten into you lately? You’re starting to act more and more like a girl every day.” She spat the word girl in my face like it was dirty.

“Why do you hate girls so much?” I yelled. “What’s so wrong with being a girl? I am a girl! I’m sixteen!”

My mother’s face drained of color. “You are not a girl. You have never been a girl. I have made sure of that, and you should be grateful. Do you know why?” When I didn’t respond, she leaned closer, nose-to-nose with me. “Because bad things happen to girls. Girls are stupid and weak, and they are taken advantage of. Girls are taken. Girls are saddled with children they never wanted—” A noise came out of her throat that sounded like a cross between a cough and a scream. If I hadn’t known better, I would have said it was a sob. But my mother didn’t cry. She had lost that ability long ago. “Girls don’t get anywhere in this world. Girls are eaten alive by this world. Your only hope is to be a woman.” She turned away.

“You always claim to be such a feminist,” I snapped, “but you’re just as sexist as the rest of them.”

“I’m a realist,” she said. 

“How would you know? You were never even a girl. You don’t know what it’s like to be one. You don’t even have emotions.”

She whirled on me, eyes blazing. “I was a girl once. And when I showed the world my emotions, it tore me in half and swallowed me whole. I have raised you so that you don’t meet the same fate. You should be grateful I didn’t let you be a girl.”

She left me staring into the fire.

. . .

I left her a note.

You tried to keep me out of the cage. But you had me trapped this whole time. Now I am flying free. Like Stea.

Love,

A Girl

. . .

Sara Alderidge rocks in front of the fire as she knits. She is knitting a scarf. She sells scarves; that’s how she makes most of her money these days. She’s quite good at knitting, she has discovered. People enjoy her creations. At least she can be good at something in this world. 

A song comes on the local station. An acoustic guitar and a young woman’s voice pipe from the tinny speakers. 

I was a girl, just a girl, alone in the snow

But you wanted me to grow

I was an owl, trapped in a cage

That you had made

Now I’m flying free

If I could do it all over again

I don’t know if I would have left you

‘Cause here I am, on my own

And I worry every day

That I’m flying free

Mama, I’m sorry

I shouldn’t have left you alone

Mama, I’m sorry

Will you call me back home?

Sara sits, transfixed, as the song plays. By the time it ends, tears are streaming down her face. She doesn’t remember how they got there.

“And that was the breakout single from folk singer/songwriter Stella Alderdige,” the announcer says. “An amazing story, this young girl, making it big all on her own…”

Sara slowly stands up. She walks over to the telephone. She dials a number she doesn’t even know how she remembers.

On the fourth ring, a voice says, “Hello?”

“My girl,” Sara whispers. “Come home.”