But the mirror image isn’t wearing a gold boxing robe, sweats, and worn-out leather huarache sandals.
Instead, Patrick’s wearing what he always wears: an old Chevy baseball hat pulled low, a tucked-in plaid shirt (rolled to the elbows, arms crossed in front), jeans, belt, and work boots.
“Are they ready?” I hear Patrick ask Uncle Carl.
“Of course they’re ready.” Uncle Carl starts up the stairs. “You going to come up? Or should I send them down so you don’t have to step foot in my apartment? Wouldn’t want you to break your—what—almost yearlong streak?”
Patrick watches Uncle Carl climb the stairs to the second-story apartment, his hands now on the hips of his belt.
When Uncle Carl blunders in, I start holding my breath.
Birdie and me stand up from the couch and go behind the coffee table, which holds Marlboro, Uncle Carl’s two-foot-long taxidermied bearded dragon. Birdie is still kind of freaked out by her glassy real-looking eyes and her spiky skin, which Uncle Carl insists is second to no animal’s in radiance and beauty. I keep thinking that Birdie will be less afraid of the giant lizard now that she isn’t alive, but that doesn’t seem to be the case.
It’s ten heartbeats before Patrick shows up in the doorway.
Birdie and me stay behind Marlboro.
“They’re ready,” says Uncle Carl, after taking a long drink of coffee by the kitchen counter. “All packed just like you asked.”
We haven’t been in Patrick’s truck since that seven-hour drive almost ten months ago from our home in Portland, Oregon, to here in Moser, California (aka a small town in the middle of Nowhere, Northern California).
Patrick gathers up our bags that are piled by the door. He looks at Birdie in his yellow shirt that has polka-dot strawberries all over it and his rainbow sneakers. At least his leggings are just plain black and the purple eye shadow has mostly rubbed off. He cradles his favorite purple jacket like a stuffed animal. Patrick won’t stop staring.
Then he silently goes out to his truck with our bags. Uncle Carl turns toward us.
“Phew. Okay. I have some parting gifts even though I fully expect to see you tomorrow. I know it’s a bit of a walk from Patrick’s, but I promise a sundae from the Fry Shack or something better if you come visit me.”
“We’re going to visit you,” I say. “You don’t need to use bribery.”
“Okay, but I have to make a grand gesture so I don’t cry. Now here, just take them.”
The big paper bag in his hands is full of individually wrapped Honey Bunny Buns, the mini cinnamon buns they sell down at the Stop-and-Go for fifty cents each.
Before we can thank him, he puts a hand on each of our shoulders and says, “Now, look. I should have paid better attention to your schoolwork and your teachers, but how was I to know there are truancy laws, right? And I didn’t mean those things I said about your teacher, okay, Mr. Bird? You know I was just really broken up about Marlboro.” He stands up straight and rubs the back of his neck and looks away. “All I’m saying is, things are going to be different for you at Patrick’s. That goat has lived alone for thirty years, so who knows what he’s going to think of living with two kids. But just because you live with him now doesn’t mean you can’t come to me if you need anything.”
He takes a deep breath and I think he’s going to continue his speech, but he doesn’t. Then all of a sudden he’s ushering us downstairs to the truck, where Patrick sits in the driver’s seat with the passenger door open. The engine roars to life.
We don’t hug Uncle Carl. We don’t even say goodbye. After climbing in and clicking our seat belts and closing the door, I roll down the window. The truck pulls away from the curb as Uncle Carl says, “I’ll see you guys later.” He watches us go, sipping his coffee the entire time so that the mug covers his face.
• • •
A week after Mama died, Patrick showed up at Mrs. Spater’s, who we’d known our whole lives because we rented the unit next to hers. She owned the duplex, but she was also our friend. And even though she’s eighty-two years old, there was no question that she’d look after us until family showed up.
It was the first time I’d ever seen Patrick. Somehow he looked too old to be Mama’s brother. Mama had never talked about him and I never saw any family photos with him. She had three pictures of Uncle Carl, but she didn’t keep them on display like she did with ones of us or her friends.
We’d actually met Uncle Carl four years before when him and his then-girlfriend rode up to Oregon on his motorcycle. Mama was not expecting to see him. He gave us all big hugs and gummy bears and two Honey Bunny Buns each, even Mama. I don’t remember his girlfriend’s name, but she didn’t have a full right leg. The part below the knee was prosthetic and we could see how it connected with her real leg since her leather skirt was so short. Her entire thigh was covered by a tattoo of a giant red lobster, which seemed to glow against her light skin. The next morning Uncle Carl gave me a short ride around the block on his motorcycle and I remember thinking how lucky his girlfriend was to ride it all day long. Mama wouldn’t let Birdie ride, though, since he was so small.
So anyway, Birdie and me were sitting quietly like Mrs. Spater told us to when she answered the door.
“I’m Patrick. Beth’s brother.” Patrick’s voice was a quiet mountain rumble. At first, I couldn’t think who Beth was exactly—I didn’t make the connection
