Nest.

The warmth from the mug seeps into my hands and saturates my body throughout, opposing the cold surrounding me. 

I had wanted to sit inside, but the lack of sound barriers caused every noise to bounce against the brick walls and echo to the other side – the conversations between moms with toddlers wiggling around them, the screech of the steam wand dipping into cold milk, the music that they thought, alongside no Wi-Fi, was welcoming and prompted human connection rather than staring at a screen trying to get work done. 

I sit on a cold metal chair and inhale the scent that reminds me of every morning at 6:30 a.m. when the smell crept up the stairs and underneath my closed bedroom door. A shiver runs down my spine, but I’m unsure if it’s caused by the cold or the nerves of seeing her. 

A blue jay settles onto the handrail next to me and cocks her head sideways, her small black eyes meeting mine.

“What?” I ask. I look around quickly, my cheeks warming up, but the patio is empty; nobody else is willing to face fifty-seven degrees in hopes of avoiding a conversation. 

The bird flaps her wings and resettles onto the garden bed surrounding the patio. She tugs and pulls at the ground, collecting a worm, and returns to her nest in the maple tree to share it with the several open mouths. I picture myself as a baby bird and wonder who collected worms for me, who built me a nest, if anyone. I suppose the cardboard box lined with a scratchy blanket and left at the fire station on Main Street was something of a nest.

“Ellie?” Her voice is soft yet startling. 

“Yes,” I confirm, although I don’t look. I’m not sure I need to. I know what she looks like; I’ve seen myself in the mirror every day for the last 17 years. 

“Hi,” her voice becomes even softer. “Can I sit down?” 

I clear my throat and decide to look at her. Sharp blue eyes meet my gaze, and for a moment, I forget she’s not a reflection. “Sure.” 

She – April – sits across from me, clutching her handbag. 

“It’s cold out here,” she says. Fifty-seven degrees is only cold when it’s stacked against a summer of record-breaking temperatures. Dad and I had faced it with three trips to the beach, four camping trips, and so much ice cream it made my head spin. We hadn’t needed April for any of it. 

“It’s always cold in November.” I point out. I want to ask if that’s why she chose a fire station and not a dumpster or a porch. I wonder if November is what saved me. 

April nods, and she looks over me. “Wow, you look…” 

“Like you.” I finish. “I gathered that, given Matt’s hair color and all.” 

April blinks when I say his name and opens her mouth, then closes it as she touches a strand of her dark hair. Dad’s is blond, and his eyes are hazel. He used to joke that his German heritage was too weak for whatever genes his were stacked against when it came to me; I would ask what genes those were, and he would change the subject.  

“How is he?” she asks. She asks it like we’re old friends, like asking how dad is would be something she does every time we see each other. 

            “How is…Matt?” I confirm. 

            “Do you call him that?” her face scrunches slightly. 

            “Not to his face. I call him Sir to his face.” 

            She laughs; I don’t. As soon as she sees I’m not going to, she stops. 

            “I call him dad.” I clarify. “And he’s fine.” 

            The door opens, wafting the inside scent and warmth onto the patio, reminding me of those mornings. The mornings that, when I was young, I would slide out of bed and patter down the hallway, down the stairs, finding Dad in his corner chair with a fresh, hot cup. I’d crawl onto his lap, curl my head under his chin, and listen to the beat of his heart while he sipped and read. Sometimes, he would choose a book for me and read it out loud. As I got older, I would follow the same trail, stepping on the same worn-out spots on the wooden stairs and sitting on the arm of Dad’s chair, kissing the side of his head. Sometimes, he would pour a small cup and place a biscotti next to it for me. 

            “And…you?” she asks. She clears her throat and starts again, “You’re graduating this year, right? In the spring?” 

             “I am.” 

            “Are you going to college?” she asks. 

            “I am.” 

             “What’s your major?” 

            I try not to shift, but the discomfort pushes me awkwardly in my chair. “Mechanical engineering.”

            She smiles, and I hate that it looks like mine. “That was my major.” 

            I bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself from asking her if that’s what she chose over me or telling her that was great, and now I needed to find another major. I wiggle in my seat. 

            “Look, I’m not…I just wanted to talk.” 

            “So then talk.” I use a tone I’d get in trouble with if I used it with Dad. But this isn’t Dad; this is no one. 

            “I was hoping you would. I want to know you…know who you are, since I’ve missed out on the last 17 years.”

            The bird lands on the concrete near the door, and I take the opportunity of a distraction. She bounces closer, her head cocking side to side, watching me. 

            I take a sharp breath, and before I can stop myself, begin: “When I was 9, I tried building a nest for a bird I found in our backyard. The bird was injured, and I thought she would lay eggs; I wanted her to have a nest to lay those eggs in. So, I collected sticks, and twigs, and leaves, and yarn, and I weaved them together for hours. The whole time, I remember thinking, ‘Why do I feel so compelled to create a nest for a bird that may or may not ever have babies?’” I switch my attention from the bird to April. Her eyebrows are dropped, lips parted slightly, blinking slow but intently. “Why did a 9-year-old feel so compelled to create a nest for a baby?” my tone is sharp as I ask us both the question. It hangs between us, my face tightening, hers loosening. Somebody walks past us, talking loudly on their cell phone; I don’t break eye contact. Everything I want to have said, I’ve said. Memories shuffle rapidly through my brain: every time I had to sit through a sleepover where girls complained about their mothers, and I’d remain silent, every time I had a question during adolescence and had to muster up the courage to ask Dad because I didn’t have anyone else, every time someone asked me how my mother let me out of the house with unbrushed hair, or a misbuttoned shirt, or too much eye glitter. My warmth now comes from the inside in a burning manner, starting in my chest. 

“This was a mistake,” April says, pressing her hands against the cold metal table as she stands up halfway. 

“Which part?” I snap, and a part of me hopes she’ll say the fire station. 

            She pauses. “The part where I expected to come here and have some sort of reconnection with you.” 

            “Why would you expect to reconnect with somebody you abandoned 17 years ago?” 

            Her chest jerks back, and she blinks her eyes rapidly at me. 

            “Because I…” she trails off, stops, and swallows. She stands all the way, the metal chair legs scraping angrily against the concrete. She gathers her purse and turns to leave, making it a few steps before she stops. She turns back and looks at me one more time. Her body is looser now, less tense, and her eyebrows are down in a different way. My heart rate feels tripled by the caffeine and thuds rapidly against my rib cage.  

“By the way, Ellie, it was my mom who left you at the fire station, not me.”