Birds, Beads, and Buttons

Every morning a choir of birds sing outside on the conifer trees. Their songs scatter through the sky like beads, adorning the wind’s monotonous drone. I like to believe I can identify some of the performers. After all, each of them sing a song that’s been passed down for generations. 

   Do you remember how we used to wake up? The way the first thing we heard each morning was our alarm clocks which had the tenderness of a jackhammer? The way the first thing we saw each morning was the flickering bedroom light we never bothered to fix? 

Our younger selves would find it laughable that I spend so much time now sitting idle. I would’ve said, “you don’t have time for that,” or “think about your career.”

   I find myself wondering why we never slowed down after our thirties. I suppose our corporate jobs were too important. Do you remember how proud you were when Lewis complimented your punctuality? Do you remember how proud I was when Johnson praised my report? We wore our jobs like beads and buttons, hoping our passion for work could hide what little passion we had outside of it.

   And when Margaret came into our lives, I thought we had changed. I thought— 

   —Well, speaking of Margaret, she doesn’t approve of me listening to the birds. I suppose It’s not really about the birds, it’s about the window I prop open to listen. Margaret doesn’t like the cold which I understand, but do you know what she said to me?

She said, “why can’t you just use an alarm clock if you want to wake up so early? I have a job to go to, and I don’t have the time to keep closing this window.” She’s who we used to be. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

   She’s doing alright, if you’re wondering. Every morning she brings me breakfast, usually oatmeal and some fruit. Ever since Dr. Finnecker said I needed to take care of my health, Margaret’s prepared my meals and doesn’t let me leave the house unaccompanied. I fell a few months ago, fracturing some bones. I’m better now, just, well, not who I was, I suppose. 

   Margaret got married, did you know? His name is Barry. I thought it was rather sudden, though it’s because Margaret never indulged me in her private life. She met Barry at work, can you believe? Just like the two of us. Just like the two of us.

   Despite the rain, Margaret was able to pick up some fresh nectarines at the market today. She served it to me for breakfast with oatmeal and medication. Contrasted with the flavor of oatmeal’s gray nothingness, the nectarines were a vibrant sweetness. You always loved nectarines, I think. Or was it peaches? They’re all the same to me really. One’s fuzzy and one’s not. That’s not the point. The point is I thought about you when I ate them. 

   Sometimes I think you’re singing with the birds. I know you’d think that’s crazy, heck me too, but I want to believe you’re still there somehow. I remember the way you squawked when you were angry, the way you chirped when you were flattered. I remember the way you’d click your tongue with Margaret when you were impatient, or the way you’d hoot at your friends when they needed a ride. Just like the birds.

Ha. You loved to flaunt your red Mercedes. 

   Barry drives that car now, by the way, actually takes it places. Now that I can’t work and you’re not here I hoped he could have fun with it.

   They work so hard, him and Margaret. Sometimes I worry she chose him to please us. Sometimes I worry he chose her to please someone too. And sometimes I worry they work so hard because we worked so hard. They wear their jobs like beads and buttons, dressing up the holes we as parents left in them.

   How much time did we spend with Margaret, you think, when she was younger? Was it enough? 

Do you remember when Margaret was in fourth grade, and Ms. Blanca asked her to present to the class what we, her parents, did for a living, and explain how that was important? Do you remember what happened? She asked Lillian’s mom for that information. She didn’t give her presentation on us. Someone else’s mom was more available to her than her own parents.

   Margaret has the most beautiful smile. I see your smile through her lips. I remember how she talked to us through smiles, not her voice. I always assumed she was happy. We provided plenty financially, after all. So why then, why, did she not ask us?

   Lillian’s mom made maybe a quarter of what I did. Lillian’s mom spent her work days updating her self-help vlog with pictures of cats and dogs. Lillian’s mom taught finger painting to kindergarteners while I was consulting with some of the biggest firms in our area. And Margaret chose her.

   Because Lillian’s mom wore her love like beads and buttons, the colors of her affection displayed with the utmost pride. 

   And I...I hid my love like it was an ugly scar. 

 Financial consulting moved from the office to the dinner table, investment planning moved from the meeting room to the kitchen. I treated Margaret like a client, not a daughter. I lectured her about how to save money, how to invest her time into education and other fruitful hobbies. I lectured her on making friends that can boost her career, on making decisions that are pragmatic, not romantic. “It’s a dog eats dog world” I would say.

   I thought I was setting her up for success.

   I was, I hope.

But my voice was a sword that divided us. It was a voice that said, “when you are old enough, you will understand.” It was a voice that said, “find independence” before it said, “I love you.”

   And Margaret is old enough now. She works hard and plans well. She doesn’t need me for advice. I’m dependent on her, like she was on us. Margaret’s overtaken me in a race up the corporate ladder, and my feeble legs can’t climb any further. 

   It’s not about her being more successful than me.

The problem is it never was a race. 

And I don’t know why I made it one.

*   *   *

   Barry adopted a dog, an Irish Terrier I think, though I’m not familiar with many dog breeds. Barry named him Nutmeg. Like the spice, my affection towards Nutmeg is seasonal. On one hand, the hair he leaves around the house is irritating and difficult to clean. On the other hand, his warmth and energy keep up my spirits. I’m trying to focus on the latter.

The best thing about Nutmeg is how he greets things. Despite Margaret’s plea, I continue to leave the window open each night to listen to the birds. And every morning, when the birds start to sing, Nutmeg rushes into my room. He barks so happily. Don’t tell Barry, but I give Nutmeg a treat whenever he greets the tiny performers. I’m glad someone else enjoys them as much as me.

   Nutmeg is very observant. He reminds me of you. He finds things in the house I’ve never seen before, things you left. Just the other day he brought me an old photograph of you at a banquet years ago. You were so handsome when you swept your soft brown hair back, wearing that suit jacket which matched your hazel eyes. I don’t know where you left these things: your relics, your photos. But Nutmeg has a clue.

   Do you think dogs like Nutmeg were made to be observant? It’s not as if Barry taught Nutmeg to find you. But somehow, Nutmeg does.

   Nutmeg finds pieces of you, tiny beads of remembrance. Through those beads I find pieces of myself.

*   *   *

   I spoke with Margaret today, longer than most of our usual interactions. She misses you, I think. Or she’s angry with me. I’d like to say it’s both. 

   It started off innocently enough. At 6:30, she knocked twice before entering my room. Cupped in her hands was a bowl of oatmeal sprinkled with cinnamon and some fresh apricots. My eyes were glued to a wordsearch, her eyes glued to the watch on her wrist.

   “Margaret,” I said. “What’s a six letter word that has something to do with a Harlem theatre?” 

   “What?” She said. “I—Well I’m not sure. Can you show me?”

   I handed her the word search as she lowered the bowl into my lap. 

   “I don’t know how they come up with some of these hints. These are impossible,”

I chuckled. 

   Margaret stared at me, shaking her head. “Mom, why haven’t you tried the rest of the words first?”

   “I don’t know,” I shrugged.

   Margaret sighed. It’s a heavy sigh, a labored one. 

   “Well, I don’t know what to tell you.” Pause. “Solve the easy words first and maybe the letters they share with the harder words will help you guide you.”

   I smiled. Margaret was right. I looked to the open window, hearing the crows squawk more than they usually do. My thoughts moved to you, the way you would lecture me like Margaret, the way your voice projected like the crows.

   “You sound like your father,” I whispered to her. I thought it was a compliment. You were someone we both cherished after all. I admired you. 

   Margaret sighed again. It was a heavy sigh, a labored one.

   “I’m not my dad,” she said firmly. 

   The sparrows chirped longfully. They sounded sadder today.

   “Margaret.”

   “What mom?”

   “That’s not what I meant.”

   Margaret looked at her watch. Her eyes began to twitch.

   “That’s never what you mean.”

   My smile fell.

   “What’s that supposed to mean?”

   Margaret sighed a third time. It was a heavy sigh, a labored one. 

   “I’ve worked so hard for so long. I don’t need you comparing me to you or your husband.”

   The birds stopped singing.

   “Don’t call him that. He was your father.”

   “He was. You were supposed to be my mother.”

*   *   *

   Nutmeg found another picture today. It’s of Margaret and the two of us. Her soft brown hair is tied in a ponytail. It falls to her shoulders. She’s wearing your green t-shirt. It falls to her knees. More importantly, she’s wearing your smile.

   No.

 She’s wearing her smile.

*   *   *

   Barry brings me breakfast today. He makes something different: peanut butter toast with sliced apples. He strolls into my room, no knocks, no warnings.

   “Hey Mom,” he says.

   “Hey Barry.”

   Nutmeg follows after him, panting and barking when he hears the birds performing again. As Barry props breakfast on my lap, Nutmeg runs around the room. 

   “What’s the matter buddy?” Barry laughs, picking up Nutmeg before Nutmeg can jump onto the windowsill. Nutmeg’s eyes are fixed on the conifer trees. 

   “I think Nutmeg can speak bird,” I joke.

   Me and Barry don’t say anything after that, but we’re both grinning. 

*   *   *

   Margaret walks into my room with a slice of cake. It’s a vanilla cake with cream and sliced nectarines. It has to be store bought. The layers are too uniform, the cake is too tender. Perhaps I’m underestimating Margaret’s perfectionism, but I can’t remember her baking it. 

“You still keep that window open,” She says. It’s not a question. It's a tired observation. 

   “The birds are too lovely,” I respond.

   “I thought I told you to— “ 

She stops. Sighs. It’s a light sigh, a resignation. “I’m sorry. That’s not what I came here for.”

   Margaret places the plate of cake into my lap. I pat on the bed where she should sit. She complies. We sit and think for a few minutes. Eventually, I start.

   “I know there’s something between us.”

   “I don’t think you do mom.”

   When I look at her, she can't meet my eyes. Her chest rises and falls as shallow breaths escape her lips. I’m petrified. 

My first instinct is to think about you. I need you right then, more than ever. 

   I realize I have to think about her. 

   “Margaret,” I weep, my hand sliding into hers. “I’m the one who’s at fault. For everything. For everything.” 

   Margaret turns to me, tears streaming down her face. She wears her anxieties like beads and buttons, her doubts sewn onto her eyes and her lips.

*   *   *

   Nutmeg greets us with a letter between his jaws. It’s a letter addressed to you, a letter written by Margaret. A messy scrawl depicts us as a family, hand in hand, smiling. Birds are singing from the treetops, the sky is clear, the sun is bright and warm. I love you, it says. I’ll love you forever.

   Margaret chokes. “Where did you find this Nutmeg?” She asks.

   Nutmeg just pants, mouth wide open, slobber dripping dangerously close to my bedsheets.

Then, he runs out of the room.

   For once I follow him. I leap out of bed and move with a newfound speed.

   “Woah, wait mom!” She calls after me hoping I’ll slow down, but she ends up following Nutmeg too.

   Nutmeg races down the stairs, through the kitchen, into your study, and then he vanishes. 

   I could never bring myself to enter that study. You spent so much time there. It hurt too much to go when you left. I don’t know why it hurt too much when you were still with us.

   But today, I— no, we— entered your study. Margaret and I together. 

   “Nutmeg, Nutmeg!” We call. “Nutmeg where are you?”

   We look around. Piles of untouched folders, papers, and boxes are stacked like mountains. In the corner of the room between two huge piles is a gap. A gap big enough for Nutmeg to pass through.

   We push aside the piles. 

   There’s a small door, ajar. Beyond the door are stairs, leading to something downstairs. I don’t remember you telling me this. When did we have a downstairs?

   We carefully walk down wooden, creaky steps. The room is swamped in shadows. Something is scuttling in the corner of the room. 

   Nutmeg.

   When we find a light switch, only half the lights turn on. It’s been so long I suppose.

   There are more boxes. Boxes of clothes and papers. Memories in physical form.

   “Mom,” Margaret says, shocked. “Did— Did you know about this?”

   “No, I don’t think your father ever told me.”

   I find your brown suit jacket. You know, the one that matches your eyes. It’s musty, I’ll admit, but I can smell the hint of your cologne in the collar.

   I find photo albums. Photo albums I was too busy to ask you about. Photo albums you were building for our family.

   I can’t remember everything we find. CDs, movies, pictures. There were a lot of things.

   But the most important thing is that I find my daughter.

   And I find pieces of us as a family.