Sparrow Migrations (22 page)

She had scanned and stored the ultrasound image on her work computer and stole looks at it throughout the day, as helpless to stop as any addict. The original sat in a frame on her nightstand, the first thing she saw upon awakening and the last thing at night. Staring at it, Deborah pondered the promise and mystery and fear within the black-and-white rectangle. She had never embarked on anything as uncertain and uncontrollable as motherhood. It was almost anathema to her nature. Yet she found herself facing the future with an equanimity Ming Su would applaud.

Except for the times when her mind drifted to questions like whether the baby would have straight dark hair like hers or sandy strands like Christopher’s; Christopher’s aptitude for science or her own extroverted personality. The quicksand of Huntington’s lay around the edges of those questions, which she skirted as fast as she could.

It was for the baby’s future that she asked Christopher to meet at Campus Cantonese, one of their regular restaurants. Decisions loomed—her job, their marriage, the future. She checked her purse again, making sure the envelope was still there.

“Hello, Deborah.”

His voice startled her, and tea sloshed over the edge of the cup as she set it down. First freezing, now burning.

“Hello, Christopher,” she said, standing awkwardly. Should she shake hands? Hug him? Kiss him on the cheek? Ambiguously she leaned toward him, letting him take the lead. He went for the middle ground, the hug. But he clasped her around the shoulders, not her waist, keeping space between her growing belly and his trim one.

He slid into the booth opposite her, his red Cornell shirt blending against the red vinyl.

“Enjoying your summer freedom?” she asked.

“Not so free this year. I’m teaching two classes.”

“Really. No research?” Odd. Christopher usually cherished summer as his time to get out in the field.

“Not much. I’ve got one trip planned later this summer. Vermont. Dr. Felk asked me to go with him on his annual Bicknell’s thrush expedition. But otherwise I’ll be sticking around here.”

“How is Dr. Felk?” Deborah first met the older man at their wedding. They had had him over for dinner a handful of times when he visited campus. She liked him the way you would a grandfather. Christopher had wanted to stop by the museum on their New York trip back in January, but there hadn’t been time.

“He’s fine. Holding his own.” The waitress arrived with the teapot and a menu for Christopher. Silently she mopped up the spilled tea and refilled Deborah’s cup. Deborah warmed her hands again as Christopher looked at the menu.
The lo mein. As usual
, Deborah bet with herself, hoping she would lose.

She cleared her throat. “So what prompted you to teach this summer?”

Christopher looked up. “Earning some extra money sounded like a good idea.”

“Because?”

“Because of the baby, of course, Deborah.”

Her heart rose on a tide of hope. “Does that mean you’re coming home?”

“I didn’t say that.”

The tide rushed back out, Deborah fighting the undertow.

“Then what do you mean?”

“You were right what you said at my office. This is moving forward. I’m going to be a father.” He stared off into space, as if reading lines he’d rehearsed. “I’ll live up to that. You can bank on it. But I’m—” he swiped a finger across his eye. Was he crying? “I’m still struggling with how it started. And whether I can stay married to you.”

Deborah felt like he was spinning away from the table, refracting with the sparkly specks in the booth’s red vinyl.

Behind his trifold, laminated shield, he took a deep breath. “Have you had the HD test yet?”

“Have I had—what?”

“The HD test. What Helen had. The screening for Huntington’s Disease.”

“No.”

Christopher looked taken aback, laying down his menu shield, on the offensive now. “Deborah, your genes aren’t going away. After the baby, I thought for sure you’d recognize the importance of addressing your health.”

“It’s not after the baby yet. It’s before.”

“Well, technically that’s true. But—”

“It’s five months before, and I’m scared. You’ve dropped out of our lives. At least I know now you plan to send a check every once in a while. That will be a help. I assume you’ll be willing to put her on your health insurance, too?” She held her breath.

“Well, yes, I suppose. But why wouldn’t you just add her to yours?”

Belatedly processing the pronoun, Christopher’s eyebrows shot up. “Her? You know it’s a girl?”

“Yes.” She reached into her purse. Her relief at his answer muted her anger, leaving her mostly sad. “Foolish as I am, I even thought you might like to see a picture.”

“A girl,” Christopher repeated, quietly.

“Not just a girl, Christopher.” Deborah stood to leave, dropping the envelope on the table. “Your daughter.”

TWENTY-THREE

H
ow much farther?” Robby called from the backseat.

“About an hour to Traverse City,” his mom answered.

“Park first! Not the hotel!” Alarmed, Robby sat up, pulling his headphones off.

His mom sighed, turning from the front passenger seat.

“I know we said we’d go to the park first, Robby. But we got a late start and—”

It was her
be reasonable, Robby
, voice. “Park first!” Robby insisted, squeezing his iPod tightly. “See the birds!” It was finally June. He’d waited and waited for June to arrive. For school to be over, to be on the road, every minute closing the distance between him and the piping plovers.

“We can make it. The Visitors Center is open until five, right?” His dad was driving.

“Sam, if we go there first, we’ll pass Traverse City. By the time we get to the hotel it’ll be going on seven. He’ll be starving, and we’ll still have to check in and—”

“You know we’ve got to stick to the plan, Linda,” his dad said. “We can hit a drive-through.” He glanced at Robby in the rearview mirror.

“We’ll go to the park first, buddy. Just like we planned.”

Mollified, Robby sat back.
First less yelling and sighing. Now his dad was on his side
.

“Why are we staying out in Traverse City, anyway?” his dad asked.

“I couldn’t find any hotels closer. Just B and Bs,” his mom said. “If Robby had a meltdown, in front of nothing but couples—”

“Right.” His dad nodded.

As they droned on, Robby settled the headphones back over his ears and clicked “Play.” He was listening to his “Birds of the Great Lakes” playlist, the one he had made just for the trip. It had all the regular birds he saw in the backyard—sparrows, cardinals, blue jays, plus the piping plovers, the Kirtland’s warbler, and dozens of others.

It was his second playlist. He already had “Birds of New England,” which started with Dr. Felk’s favorite, the Bicknell’s thrush. Listening to that one was usually relaxing. But today he kept glancing at his watch and then the car clock, which was two minutes ahead. Their trip was only three days long. He didn’t want to waste any time.

They arrived at the Visitors Center with fifteen minutes to spare by his watch, thirteen by the car clock. Robby was outside before his dad even turned off the engine, galloping toward the entrance of the weathered, gray-blue building.

Inside he saw a lady wearing the ranger uniform he’d seen online, a gray shirt and green pants. She was standing in a little office separated from the lobby.

“Hi there. Can I help you?”

Robby stepped up to the counter between them. She had a pencil tucked behind her ear. Her name tag said she was Ruth Heron, park ranger.

“Like the lake?”

“Excuse me?” Her dark eyebrows pulled together.

“Your name. Like the lake?”

She looked down at her nametag. “Oh. No, that’s Huron. H-U-R-O-N. Mine’s Heron. Like the bird.”

“Oh.” Robby gazed past her thinking. Herons. He hadn’t downloaded them yet. Would they belong on his Great Lakes playlist? Or New England?

She rested her elbows on the counter and leaned toward him. A long braid fell over her shoulder. “What’s your name?”

“Robby.”

“Hi, Robby. What brings you to the Sleeping Bear Dunes?”

The Sleeping Bear Dunes. Robby’s brain pivoted. “Piping plovers.”

Ruth cocked her head. “Do you want to see the plovers?”

Robby nodded.

“They’re out in the park. Not here.” She removed the pencil from behind her ear and tapped it on the counter twice as she spoke the last words.

There was a container of pencils on his side of the counter. Green, the same color as her pants. Robby took one.

“Then where?” Tap, tap.

“Well, we have multiple nesting sites.”

“I want to see them all,” Robby said, as the door opened behind him.

“You’re welcome to do so, as long as you observe the breeding boundaries.”

“Breeding boundaries?” It was his mom’s voice.

“Yes.” Ruth’s eyes strayed to his parents. “Plovers are endangered birds, you know.”

“Threatened,” Robby said. “Threatened birds.”

“In other locations that’s true. On the East Coast, in the Great Plains. Here, they’re endangered.”

“That’s worse, right?” His mom again.

“Yes.” Ruth nodded. “And breeding’s the most critical time of year. So our plover patrols fence off their nesting areas to protect them.”

“What happens to them?” his dad asked.

“Predators get them.” Robby answered, as Ruth opened her mouth. “Or people scare them off the nests. Throwing footballs around, leaving garbage that draws the predators.”

“That’s right,” Ruth said. “You sound like you’ve been doing some research.”

“That’s an understatement,” his dad said. “We’ve come up from Detroit just to see these birds.”

“Is that right? Wait, I’ll come out to join you.” She disappeared through a doorway.

“What kind of predators?” his mom asked.

“Crows and gulls.” Robby answered, bouncing on the balls of his feet, tapping the pencil again. “And raccoons, and dogs. Right?”

Ruth emerged around a corner, joining them in the lobby. The pencil was back behind her ear.

“Right.” Ruth paused a moment. “Or the nests get washed out in a storm, if they’re situated too close to the water’s edge.”

“Last year you lost four that way,” Robby said.

“Right again.” The ranger nodded. “But so far this year, we’ve been lucky.”

“The patrols can’t do anything about storms, though,” his mom said.

“No. But they monitor the nests, make sure people observe the fenced-off perimeter. And provide the education. Most people are very respectful, really. We just get a few bad apples.”

“I want to be on a patrol,” Robby said.

“Oh, that’s out of the question.” Ruth shook her head, her dark braid flicking each shoulder. “Our monitor volunteers have all had special training. Piping plovers are very rare, special birds. Endangered, like I said. We have fewer than two dozen pairs here.”

“I can learn.” Robby crossed his arms, rolling the pencil behind his elbow.

His mom put her hand on his shoulder. “Robby, we’re just here for a few days, you know.” It was her
be reasonable
voice again.

He shrugged off her hand and looked at Ruth. “I know what a football looks like. I can pick up garbage. I can learn the rest.”

“You’re persistent, aren’t you?” Ruth said.

“You can’t even imagine,” his mom said.

“And you’re really interested in plovers,” Ruth said.

Silently, Robby bobbed his head.

“He’s in an Audubon club at home,” his dad spoke up suddenly.

Robby looked up
. Again, his dad on his side.

“He’s very good at following directions. You wouldn’t have to tell him what to do twice,” his dad said.

The ranger hesitated, tapping her pencil again. “Monitoring I can’t offer. But the local camera club’s taking a plover hike tomorrow morning. Meets here at seven, before we open. You could come along to see them, anyway.”

“That sounds pretty good, Robby.” His mom was talking in her
isn’t-that-nice
voice.

Robby hesitated. “Will we see all of them?”

“All the eggs haven’t hatched yet. But we’ll visit areas with both brooding chicks and nests, yes,” Ruth said.

Robby thought about it. He wanted to be on the patrol. Ruth said the plovers were endangered, and that was even worse than threatened. So someone had to keep the dog walkers and kite flyers and predators away. Why couldn’t they let him? He’d be the best patroller ever. No one would dare disturb the nests. Inside he felt the anger squeeze his stomach.

But the hike sounded good, too. Chicks and nests? What he read online had said all the eggs would be hatched by now. Ruth must know more, and she was going. She was OK. He would put the heron in the Great Lakes playlist. He rolled the pencil between his fingers, back and forth, thinking.

“Deal,” he said.

“Morning, folks. I’m Ruth Heron, and I’ll be leading our hike today.”

Robby glanced at his watch, pleased she was right on time. It was 6:58 a.m. Ruth wore a wide-brimmed hat and had another, single-lens device slung around her neck in addition to binoculars. His dad had given him his old Sears binoculars to wear around his neck, too. Everyone else in the group outside the Visitors Center had binoculars as well, plus a camera or two apiece.

“As you all know, the plovers are an endangered species here in the Great Lakes,” Ruth said. “Their breeding season is under way, and so far this looks like a better-than-average year for fledging.”

“How many nests?” asked a man with a tripod.

“Ten. With four eggs each, we’d hope to only lose half,” Ruth said.

Robby heard his mother gasp. “Only half? My goodness, that seems high.”

“Survival of the fittest,” Ruth said, flatly. “This year, though, we’ve had twenty-four hatch already, with a few nests still to go.”

A murmur of appreciation went around the group. Robby saw Ruth smile briefly. It vanished just as quickly.

“Migration is still well over a month away, though,” she said. “We’ll caravan out to the north end of the park first. Most of you know the rules. Be quiet. Don’t leave any trash, and pick up any that you see. Observe the roped-off breeding areas, and don’t approach any plover families if you find them beyond the fence. Any questions?”

No one spoke. “All right. Take five minutes, fill up your water bottles, put on your sunscreen. We’ll be out for a couple hours this morning, and it’s going to get hot.”

Water
bottles and sunscreen
. Robby looked anxiously at his mom. “Did you bring water bottles and sunscreen?”

She frowned. “I’ll check in the car. Keys, Sam?”

His dad reached into his pocket as the others drifted apart. Robby jerked the strings on his sweatshirt, tightening the hood over his head, and then jammed his hands in his pockets. Would they be allowed to go on the hike if they didn’t have the right stuff?

“Relax, Robby,” his dad said.

Easy for him to say.
He’d been waiting weeks and weeks and now, finally, the plovers were minutes away. Robby scuffed his toe into a clump of weeds growing in the sandy dirt and stooped to pick one. He had seen water bottles and sunscreen for sale in the Visitors Center yesterday, but it wasn’t open yet today. Still, Ruth would have a key if they needed to get inside. Wouldn’t she? He twirled the weed between his fingers, watching his mom rummage in the car.

“Ready to see your first piping plovers?”

Robby barely heard Ruth’s voice beside him, shrouded in his hood and focused on the problem of water and sunscreen. Beyond the orbit of the weed’s fuzzy green head, his mother slammed the car door and turned around. A water bottle dripped from one hand. In the other, a container that looked like it could be sunscreen, suspended from two fingers.

She’d found it. Robby felt limp as his anxiety drained away. They could go!

“Robby?” Ruth’s hat was tilted to the side. “Ready to see your first piping plovers?”

“Yeah!” As his relief erupted, Robby jumped in the air, dropping the weed. Ruth stepped back quickly. Robby bounced on his toes, trampling the weed. A cloud of dust swirled up past his ankles.

“Here you go, Robby.” His mom was there with the sticky sunscreen bottle. Robby wrinkled his nose.

“It stinks.”

“Want me to do it?”

“No.” He rubbed it over his face and legs, hard and fast, and thrust the bottle back at her.
Let’s go, let’s go. Let’s go see the birds.

“You’ve got a blob on your forehead. Here, let me.” His mom reached for him.

Robby ducked, swatting her hand away.

“Come on, Robby.”

“Linda.” His dad came at them sideways, speaking quietly. “It’s not worth it. Let it go.”

His mom hesitated. “Fine,” she said in her
not-fine
voice, capping the bottle.

“Sure you want to wear that sweatshirt?” Ruth asked. “It’ll be hot on the beach.”

“He’ll be fine,” his mom said quickly, as Robby nodded vehemently, thrusting his hands in the pocket.

“All right.” Ruth shrugged. The four of them crossed the parking lot to join the rest of the group, dust clouds obscuring their feet.

“We really need rain,” Ruth said, working her toe into the dusty lot. “It’s been dry all spring.”

“There’s supposed to be a big storm tonight,” volunteered an older man who carried a single-lens scope like Ruth’s and wore a photographer’s vest covered in pockets.

“I heard. Maybe it’ll help us catch up.” Ruth glanced around the group. “Everyone ready? All right. Let’s go see some plovers.”

In her park service truck she led the caravan out of the parking lot and turned north. Robby exhaled deeply, blowing his bangs out of his eyes
. Finally.

After half an hour of trudging along the beach through ankle-deep sand, Sam paused to wait for Linda. Robby’s gray sweatshirt receded as he trotted ahead with Ruth, oblivious to his lagging parents.

“How you doing?”

She wiped a strand of hair from her eyes. “Hot. Tired.”

“At least we’re not lugging camera gear like the rest of them. If this was a trail it’d be fine, but the sand just makes it brutal,” Sam said. “I sink with every step.”

“Life with Robby.” Linda shrugged. “Even on vacation, we can’t escape it.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Not like you to be so pessimistic.”

Linda sighed. “Sorry. Early onset summer blues, maybe. You know how he gets when school’s out. Without those routines, he falls apart.” She took a long drink from the water bottle.

“Maybe this year will be different. He’s got his playlists, and the Audubon club and all.”

“Yeah. But every time I let myself go there, thinking things are getting better, hoping, it blows up in my face. Stealth autism. Like with this whole birdcall obsession.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, it was dumb. I should have known better.”

“Come on. Tell me.”

Linda hesitated. “OK. So, the calls, the songs, that’s how birds communicate, right?”