• • •
Later that day, Patrick drops Birdie and me at the library before bringing Uncle Carl home so he can shower and change and plug his phone in. Birdie has the damaged Alexander McQueen book in his backpack.
As we walk to the entrance, Birdie stops and asks, “Am I the only one like me?”
“I don’t know,” I answer truthfully. “Janet doesn’t think so. Don’t you trust her?”
“With my hair, sure.” He smiles a little, but then furrows his brow. “I think Patrick still doesn’t get it.”
“Listen. You get to decide who you are. Not me. Not anyone else. And you let me know if someone ever calls you names, okay? I will be here no matter what. And I think Patrick will be too. You are so brave, Birdie.” Then I give him a hug and he’s kind of stiff like a mummy, but I hold on tight until he hugs back. “And if you want to know if there is anyone else like you, then I’ll help you find out. And in turn, you can help me.”
He pulls back a little. “Help you with what?”
“Everything. Doing my clothes and hair right. Being unique and amazing, which you’re so good at. I mean, I’m not looking to start wearing dresses or anything, but I think I’m going to need your help once I hit high school. Maybe by then I’ll be ready for something new.”
“I hope so,” he says, looking me up and down and then cracking up. “I’ll whip you into shape.”
I wrap my arm around his neck and rub my knuckles into his head. He squeals and twists away and then we walk into the library.
Ms. Perkins spots us right away and when we show her the book, she is not happy. She’s got her hands on her wide lady hips.
“This was an expensive book,” she says. “Full-color photographs, et cetera.”
Birdie and me don’t say a thing.
“There is a replacement fee and a nonrefundable five-dollar processing fee. The replacement fee is the price of the book. Let me look it up.” She starts typing on the computer and then she says, “Haven’t seen you two at the library for a while.”
Birdie glances over at me, I guess maybe wondering what to say.
I clear my throat. “We were dealing with some . . . family stuff.”
She looks at us with an eyebrow raised and then goes back to the computer screen. “Well, looks like you’re in luck. The fees were paid a couple days ago.”
Birdie and me look at each other and then back at Ms. Perkins. “Don’t look at me,” she says. “I’m just reading what I see on the screen.”
“Who paid the fees?”
She makes a couple of clicks and says, “Patrick Royland.”
Birdie and me look at each other. “Our uncle?”
She nods. “Looks like it.” Then she closes the book and slides it back across the counter.
Patrick paid the fees?
“But what will happen to the book? Will you fix it?” asks Birdie.
“Birdie, this book has been irreparably damaged. Have you looked at it with seeing eyes? I can’t have a book with wrinkled, torn, and stained pages on a library shelf. Not here.”
“So you’re just going to throw it away?” Birdie’s voice is a click higher than normal.
“Don’t get in a panic inside this library. What you do with the book is your business.” She moves from around the counter to straighten a few books on her display. “The fees have been paid. The book is yours now.”
Birdie stands there frozen and I take the book from the counter.
Then he runs up and gives her a big hug. She doesn’t exactly hug him back, but pats him on the shoulder and says, “This library and its books are for all kinds of people who respect knowledge. I think there is knowledge in that book for you. And others too. You take good care of it.”
Birdie carries the book in his arms the whole walk home and despite the overcast sky that looks like it’s going to rain, his face is bright bright bright like the sun.
• • •
That afternoon, we continue sorting through boxes and bags while eating lunch, and Patrick comes in through the front door. In his arms is a bag of organic fertilizer and three old pillowcases. “I’ll be out back planting for a while before the rain.” He shuffles the bags in his hands, trying to get a better grip. “So, if you want to help, you can. I’ll also be doing the roses next weekend.”
By now I know that there are flower bulbs in those old pillowcases. He dug them out of our garden back home, along with a few clippings of Mama’s rosebushes, and brought them here. Mama’s tulip, daffodil, and hyacinth bulbs, to be exact.
But I wonder if Patrick would rather work alone.
Planting Mama’s bulbs in the new garden seems like one of those important but maybe private things to do. A grieving kind of thing.
He looks around at the piles of books and boxes of dishes and bags of clothing and everything else crowding the living room. “Maybe Carl is right,” he says gruffly. “Maybe the house needs a little life again.”
Patrick heads to the backyard, and a moment later, Birdie suddenly stands up. He holds Mama’s gold-and-blue sequined purse above his head. “Yes! Found it!”
“Have you been looking for that the entire time?”
“I’ve been looking for everything,” says Birdie. “But this one makes me really happy.” He hugs the purse and I wonder if Patrick is really ready for all this stuff to be here.
But then I realize maybe Patrick wasn’t talking about all the things bringing life into the house. Maybe he was talking about the people.
• • •
That night, I pace around my room, trying to memorize Elizabeth Bishop’s poem “The Fish.” Krysten called me earlier and said that this coming week we should decide which poem to recite so that way we have enough time to practice it. I’d like to surprise her by reciting some of this one at school tomorrow.
