In the Arms of Stone Angels (5 page)

The day I saw Mr. Sullivan made me realize something more might be wrong with me, something not as harmless as dreaming about dead people. After that I Googled my way into a deep depression. The internet fed my paranoia until I broke down and admitted that seeing the dead had become part of me. I made the decision that it wasn't a bad thing. It wasn't
good. It simply was. But as I drove home now, I couldn't stop thinking about what had happened today. And I dredged up a horrifying question that I could no longer ignore.

Was I schizophrenic?

Had my obsession with graveyards and the dead spiraled into or masked something far worse? Schizophrenics were psychotics who saw their bent version of reality and deciphered the world through different filters. They had enhanced perceptions of sounds, colors and their environment, making their existence a puzzle with moving parts they couldn't grasp. And they heard voices and saw things that weren't real. Every day they walked a tightrope with meds as their only lifeline. But if they went untreated, they gradually withdrew into their delusions. That's what I thought had happened to me. I'd taken the first step into becoming a full-on, certifiable whack job.

What had happened at the mental hospital—when I touched White Bird and my world erupted into a waking hallucination—had me terrified.

I wanted Mom to fix it. I wanted to be a kid and have my mother hold me and tell me everything would be okay. But I'd learned that my mother couldn't protect me from everything. And if I were losing it like White Bird, my mom's life would be easier if I was locked away. At least then she wouldn't have to deal with the unleashed me. She'd been through too much already by having to move and rebuild her real estate business from scratch in a new town. How could I make things worse for her by tacking on a life sentence of caring for a defective kid?

At that moment, I'd never felt so alone.

And I couldn't imagine what White Bird was going through. Maybe his being locked in his head and not knowing what was happening had been a good thing. I wanted to believe this,
but if that were so, why did I feel physically sick with worry for him?

When I hit the outskirts of Shawano, I seriously needed an injection of happy. And while I looked for a gas station, my mind immediately shifted to my favorite time with White Bird, even though it made me ache to remember it.

 

It always made me happy to picture the little fort he had made near the creek. I thought of it as our special place even though he'd built it before he'd met me. It was a shelter made of tree branches that he had woven together. And on a bright day, the sun dappled light through the green leaves, a picture I still carry in my head.

From the outside, no one even knew his shelter was there, except for the medicine wheel he had made of stones, placed on the ground in a nearby clearing. The medicine wheel had a large center boulder with four rock spokes branching off from it, surrounded by a circle of stones. White Bird had told me the wheel was sacred and had the power to bring good medicine to his shelter.

He'd done a good job of making his fort look like part of the forest we both loved. And the ground inside his hut was soft, better than the mattress on my bed. Decaying leaves and tree limbs had made the ground spongy. And the rich smell of the earth and the trickling sound of the nearby creek made his hideaway my favorite place.

That's where he kept the bird with the broken wing.

He'd made a simple cage for her out of branches that he'd carved with a small knife. Those days, when I'd come to see the bird, had always held a special place in my heart. Yes, I had marveled at the way the little bird improved. I thought for sure she would have died from shock, but White Bird had
been so gentle with her that she grew stronger every day. And she no longer was afraid of us.

But the real reason I looked forward to coming was to see him, even though our days together would be numbered.

When he'd told me that the bird was healed, I had to admit that I was sad. The next day, we'd release her. He'd given me a day to get used to the idea and he wanted to make a ceremony of it. I had grown attached to the little thing. But the main reason I hated the idea of releasing her was that it meant I had no more reason to visit him every day.

“You should be happy. She'll be free of her cage tomorrow.” Inside the hut, White Bird looked at me and smiled, lying stretched out near me. He expected me to be happy, but I wasn't.

“Yeah, but I'll miss her.” Sitting cross-legged, I scrunched my face into a pout as I stroked the cage he'd built for her. “Couldn't we keep her? I'd help you take care of her.”

He shook his head and said, “It's better to die free than live life in a cage. She must be free to fulfill her destiny. And thanks to you, she has one.”

He always reminded me of my part in rescuing the bird. Repairing her wing had been all him, but he always made me out to be the real hero. And I loved him for it.

“Then tomorrow it is. At dawn. I'll be here.” I took a deep breath. “She should have a full day of freedom.”

“That's the spirit.” He grinned and tapped my nose with his finger, a gesture I'd grown fond of.

The next day I showed up at his hideaway at dawn, as I had promised. And I tried to look happy, for his sake. He'd come earlier and had started a small fire in a stone pit in the clearing outside his shelter. He was hunched over the flames now and the burning wood smelled good. It made my stomach growl.
Not even the big wad of chewing gum I had in my mouth stopped my hunger.

When he looked up from the fire, he smiled.

“Come here. You've got something in your hair.”

When I sat next to him, he leaned closer and pulled a small twig from my hair. I had brushed against a low tree limb on my hike in. But instead of throwing the twig away, White Bird put it into his pocket and grinned again.

Something sad and wonderful struck me. I remembered thinking that I wished I could freeze us both in that moment. And even though it made me sad to know I couldn't, that didn't stop me from wishing I could remember him like this forever. His smile always made me feel that way, like every moment of our being together was precious and important…and fragile.

I knelt beside him near the fire without saying a word. The crackling flame felt good against my clothes even though the drifting smoke stung my eyes.

“You ready to do this?” he asked.

“Yep. What do you need me to do?”

White Bird asked me to get the bird. I went into his hut and brought out the cage. He had removed her bandages and she looked as good as new. When I came out from the shelter, he stopped me to grab a small feather that had gotten stuck in a branch of the cage. He made a point to stuff it into a beaded leather pouch that had a drawstring—a part of the ritual he had planned—but that wasn't the only thing he put into the bag. He took the twig from his pocket, the one he had taken from my hair minutes before, and placed it into the pouch, too.

“What's that…that bag?”

“It's my medicine bag.” He blushed and slid the pouch into his pocket. “I made it…myself.”

I could understand why he'd taken the feather, but the twig he'd taken from my hair was another story. I grinned.

“What do you keep in it?” I don't know what I expected him to say, but when he looked into my eyes with a serious expression on his cute face, I stopped smiling.

“I keep things that are…special to me.”

Both of us blushed, but before I said anything else, White Bird pointed to a spot away from the fire.

“Set the cage over there, away from the smoke.”

I did what he told me, finding it hard to fight a grin. When I turned back, White Bird was on his knees, chanting words in Euchee with his eyes closed. The fire had mesmerized me until he chanted in his Native language. The words were foreign sounding and magical. And in English, he translated for me.

“The universe whispers to all of us, from the realm of the Great Creator,
Gohantaney
. Messages of wisdom are carried on the wind if we are open to hear them, even in the sweet song of a morning bird.” He opened his eyes to look at me. “Are you open to hear the Great Creator, Brenna?”

I blinked twice, surprised he'd used my name in his ceremony.

“Yes. I mean, I hope so. I'll try.”

I rolled my eyes at how stupid I sounded. His words were so beautiful, but I acted like a moron. I should have swallowed my gum, but that would have been gross.

“She is healed and ready to fly free,” he said in English. “And the next time you hear a morning bird, you will remember her and be happy.”

His ritual had been for me, so I wouldn't be sad to see the
bird go. After he finished his chanting, he picked up the cage and held it out for me to open the door. At first, the bird stayed inside, scared to fly away. But eventually she perched at the open cage door and cocked her head at us before she flew away.

“Oh, my God. Look. She's flying,” I whispered as he set down the cage.

We watched the bird fly into the glowing pink of early morning with the warmth of the sun on our faces. And when he quietly slipped his hand in mine, my heart nearly stopped. I couldn't look at him. I was sure my eyes welled with tears and I wanted to cry. The moment was perfect and I didn't want to spoil it. I was afraid that if I peeked at him, I would see he only thought of me as a friend.

If I didn't look, I could imagine he loved me.

I didn't think I could feel any better than I did in that instant we held hands, until he looked down at me with his dark eyes and stroked a strand of hair off my face. And I knew he wanted more.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked.

My eyes opened wide and my breath caught in my throat. I nearly choked.

“Ah, no.” My mouth said it before my brain knew what was happening.

“No?” He smiled and cocked his head.

I looked down at my watch. “In two minutes, okay?”

When he grinned and looked down at his watch to count down the time, I turned my head and spit out my gum. It shot out of my mouth like a pink cannonball.

I remembered my body was shaking all over. I was terrified and completely happy at the same time. I'd never kissed a boy before. What if I screwed it up? When was I supposed to
close my eyes? What was I supposed to do with my tongue? Should I have spit on my lips or should they be dry? All my insecurities came rushing to the surface and my knees almost buckled.

When my two minutes were up, he lowered his lips to mine and kissed me for the first time.

In the pale light of morning, he pulled me into his arms with the same gentleness that had healed the bird with the broken wing. I felt his hand on my face and his lips were perfect on mine. It was as if we'd done this a hundred times, maybe in another lifetime. Kissing him sent a rush of emotions through me. I was no longer a little girl. I had crossed a line that made me feel different. And I wondered if it would show on my face.

When he pulled away, I opened my eyes to see him looking down at me. He grinned and didn't say a word. He hugged me without an ounce of selfishness. And as we both gazed into the morning sun, I buried my head into his chest and found it hard to fight the smile on my face. And I wondered if he was smiling, too.

When I think of the single most important moment of my life, I always remember kissing White Bird. Even now I can feel his touch on my skin and the way his lips felt. That memory should have made me happy on a day like today, but it didn't. All I could think about were the words he'd said about the bird.

“It's better to die free than live life in a cage.”

A tear rolled down my cheek when I thought about him locked up, without knowing whether he'd ever be free again. What I had with him was gone now. And I had been the one who had killed it.

I had no one to blame except me.

 

By the time I pulled into the driveway at Grams's house, I was feeling pretty low. And if Mom wanted to make a big deal about me taking my sweet time to run her errands, then she'd better be prepared for a fight. I was in no mood to play nice.

But when I saw a car parked on the curb in front of our walkway—a shiny red-and-white Mini-Cooper—I had a feeling my tardiness would take a back seat. I quickly unloaded my old bike and put it in the garage. And with shopping bags in hand, I opened the front door.

I found my mom sitting in the living room with Chloe Seaver.

“Hey, Brenna. I was hoping to catch you.” The thin blonde stood and smiled.

Like I remembered her, she had huge blue eyes smeared with smoky dark makeup. Her eyes always reminded me of those orphaned cat pictures that made you want to adopt every stray at the kennel, even if you were allergic.

Chloe had the same frail-looking face. Pale skin, a narrow chin and thin lips shining with pink gloss. It was like she was a little girl playing dress up. She wore her straggling blond hair with bangs these days, razor cut in layers to fall beneath her chin. When I realized that she looked like a pixie elf, I gazed down at her shoes and was disappointed not to see her wearing curly satin slippers with bells on her toes.

“You remember Chloe Seaver, don't you, honey? You used to be good friends.” When my mom smiled, my mind lurched into conspiracy mode. Had Chloe come on her own or had Mom orchestrated the
chance
meeting? I set the shopping bags down near the door and went into the living room.

“Yeah, Mom. I remember. What's up, Chloe?” I stuffed my hands in my jeans.

What's up?
I greeted her like nothing bad had ever happened between us. Like Chloe's best friend hadn't been brutally murdered and like I had nothing to do with the boy who had killed her.

In my screwed-up world, very little surprised me anymore. Chloe Seaver showing up on my doorstep was one more piece of crap piled on my WTF day. And since I was already under a heaping pile, what was one more smelly glob?