Little Bird

Dad used to say a bird always knows when it’s time to fly. I never understood what he meant until the Thanksgiving I finally drove toward my brother instead of away from him. The pettiness of how it all started is what makes the distance of time so heart-shattering.

My brother and I haven’t spoken in six years because of pride. It was a cool, rainy morning in Savannah, Georgia, and my baby brother, Tim, was getting married to the love of his life. I remember feeling a range of mixed emotions, because I didn’t like his wife-to-be, Kara.

Kara had the ability to insult you but make it look like a compliment.

“Wow, Olivia, you look great,” she’d say. “It’s amazing what a little contour can do for a nose like yours.”

We never clicked. I’m a laid-back, no-frills type of girl, and she is a high-maintenance monster. My brother loved her from the moment he looked into her crystal blue eyes. He pursued her, and a month later, she was pregnant. A year later, I was standing in a rented antique house in Savannah’s historic district, being introduced to all of her friends and family as “the photographer.” No one knew I was the sister-in-law, and her bridesmaids kept bossing me around like I hadn’t been a wedding photographer for the last five years.

“I want you to stand over here and take the photos, Olivia,” Bridezilla demanded as the makeup artist applied her eyeshadow.

The gorgeous wedding took place in Forsyth Park, in front of the famous white fountain, beneath live oaks dripping with Spanish moss. The smell of warm pralines drifted over from the candy shops downtown. A guitar player strummed a lovely melody. The gray clouds thinned, and the rain cleared for the vows. It was perfect, and I couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful setting for photographing a wedding. So I was caught completely off guard when, right after the pastor announced Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, Zilla marched straight to me with fury in her light blue eyes.

“You did that on purpose!” she yelled, jabbing a manicured finger into my chest. “You ruined my wedding day. How could you walk around drawing attention to yourself while I was getting married? All I could see was YOU, clicking away!”

There was a moment of shock before something in me snapped.

“Are you kidding me? I am the photographer, remember? It’s my job to take your photos, and that means moving around. You’re not paying me. You didn’t pay my way here. So I couldn’t afford to bring my usual staff, Zilla,” I shouted back, my breath coming in quick huffs. “Oh, and I recommend not laying hands on me again, because I am not above kicking your ass on your wedding day.”

“Liv, that’s enough,” my brother whisper-yelled, grabbing my arm to pull me back. His fingers dug into my bicep, and I winced. He looked furious with me.

After our dad died when we were teenagers, Tim tried to fill that role. He was a protector and caregiver, to a certain extent, and I happily let him fill that void in my life. He was always the one I ran to with boy problems or my harebrained ideas. I was a wild thing, happy to float on the wind like a bird. Dad always called me his little bird. New adventures kept me busy, and that never really stopped, even into adulthood. Tim was the exact opposite in so many ways. He liked structure and organization. He liked knowing what was coming next.

I didn’t want to lose him like we lost Dad, but that was the exact moment our bond snapped. It was a dagger to the chest. It was him running me over with a car. It was him choosing the side of this monster instead of his sister.

I walked away, followed by Mom’s shouts to come back. I haven’t spoken a word to Tim since that day in October. He had two children, built a great career, and kept on living his life. I’m still a wild thing, but even wild things need a place to call home. Tim and Mom are my home, and it’s been broken for six years.

It’s Thanksgiving, and Mom has demanded I show up for family dinner. There was mention of removing me from her will if I’m a no-show. I’ve also been ordered to pick up Aunt Fancy from the airport on my way into town. I’m filled with anxious energy as I drive, because I know Tim, Kara, and their littles will be staying with Mom over the next few days. Life keeps me busy, which has made it easy to push my feelings about my brother into a box. That box has stayed closed, for the most part, except when people mention his name. Then the anger bubbles to the surface like boiling water. Yet I find myself wanting to fix things between us, which means I need to fix things with Zilla, too.

It’s 10 a.m. on a Wednesday, and the chilly wind hits my face like needles. As I pull my hoodie closer, I look up into the stormy green eyes of my brother. In the last six years, he has lost his soft, boyish looks. His brown hair is threaded with gray. His freckled face is half-covered by a beard. He’s a man I hardly recognize, and my heart hurts a little, because he looks so much like Dad. Everything but the nose. Dad gave that one to me.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice frosty.

“I thought I was picking up Aunt Fancy,” I reply, looking away from the intensity of his gaze. I panic at the thought of seeing Zilla for the first time since the wedding. I’m not ready.

“Kara’s not here,” he says, catching me looking over his shoulder. “She’s driving up with the kids tomorrow morning.”

After wordlessly opening the trunk of my Jeep, I climb into the driver’s seat and pick at a loose thread on the steering wheel cover. My heart is pounding, and sweat is forming on my brow. There are a million things I want to say, but not one complete sentence forms in my mind.

The passenger door swings open and slams shut. Instead of looking his way, I check the rearview mirror for an opening to leave. The airport is packed with frenzied holiday travelers.

“Take the toll road. It’ll be faster,” he says, looking at his phone.

I drive off, bracing for the longest thirty minutes of my life. The tension is thick, and the road noise is deafening in the soft-top Jeep. It’s unbearable.

“So…” I finally say, at the exact moment he starts to say something too. We both end up laughing, and for a second it feels like the six years never happened.

“Liv, I’m sorry,” he whispers after we’ve both calmed down.

That is the last memory I have before waking up to the sound of constant beeping. White walls bleed into white floors that lead to a bed with white sheets. Other than a few scratches on my arms, I feel fine. As I stretch my arms and legs, I notice I feel weightless and pain-free. It must be the meds.

After an internal debate, I decide to walk around looking for someone familiar. I peek my head out the door and see nurses in teal scrubs walking down the hallway. A few doors down, Mom is talking to a gray-haired doctor in a white coat. She’s pushing her glasses farther up her nose, which is a sign that she’s worried. I strain to hear what they’re saying.

“…suffered significant damage to the brain, Mrs. Johnson,” the doctor says in a monotone sort of way. “We need to give it time to heal.”

“How long will that take?” Mom asks after a moment.

“We’ll know more in a few days,” he replies. “If there’s no improvement, your family will have a very tough decision to make. But we’re not there yet.”

Suddenly lightheaded, I return to the bed. The word that keeps running through my mind is time. All this time wasted on petty arguments. All this time I lost not telling my brother that I loved him. Time. As I lie down, I feel my consciousness slipping away.

When I wake, it’s dark, and the hall is quiet. In a foggy daze, I find my way to the room where Mom was standing with the doctor. Tim’s room.

He is unrecognizable. His face is wrapped in white gauze except for his nose, which peeks out. A large, clear tube hangs from his mouth as a machine behind him fills his chest with air. I can’t look at him another moment. This isn’t my brother. I take a seat in a small wooden chair at the foot of the bed. A light blue blanket covers his broken body, but I can see the outlines of his legs. As I place a hand on his leg, a flood of tears escapes me. Tears for every single stubborn day I wasted not being in his life, because I had too much pride to accept that my brother wasn’t going to be my rock anymore. I had to be my own rock. You can’t die, Timmy!

Footsteps stop at the door. It’s Kara. I freeze, then lay my head down on the blanket and keep my breathing slow and even. I am not ready to face the woman who has caused me so much turmoil. She doesn’t say a word to me. She walks straight past my chair, sits down beside the bed, and takes that limp, bandaged hand in hers.

“He never wanted the distance, Liv,” she whispers. “Tim missed you every day that you were gone. I encouraged him so many times to talk to you, but it was useless. You both are stubborn and hard-headed.”

Tim might have been hard-headed and stubborn, but he made a choice. I had punished him for that choice with my distance, but I punished myself, too.

“He was telling me last week that he was going to talk to you at Thanksgiving,” she continues. “He was going to apologize, because that was the right thing to do. But what I didn’t tell him was that it was really me who needed to apologize. I’m sorry, Liv. I’m so very sorry.”

As much as I might want to, I can’t force myself to face her. So I keep my head down and pretend to sleep while she holds that hand and weeps, apologizing for being so jealous, so unkind. The vise of hatred around my heart cracks at her words. If there is a time for honesty, it’s now.

After Kara leaves, the room is quiet except for the machine breathing in and out.

“You were my everything after Dad died,” I whisper. “No matter what I needed, I knew I could come to you and you’d find a way to help me. But as much as I needed someone to help me through life, you lost Dad too. You needed someone too. I should have accepted that when you found your rock in Kara. You weren’t going to abandon me.”

A warm hand covers mine, and I lift my head. Tim is sitting across from me in the dark. His face is bruised and his hands are scratched, but he is here, and I am utterly confused.

“We loved each other so hard, Liv. The problem is that I should have told you, out loud, how I felt. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you what you meant to me, but you should know that I love you so much, little bird.”

The warmth of a large hand gently touches my shoulder. When I look behind me, I see Dad’s smiling face. When I look back at the body on the bed, I realize it’s my nose, Dad’s nose, peeking out between the gauze. Instead of panic, I feel the weightlessness of forgiveness, warmth washing over me. It’s not Tim’s time. I’m thankful.

“You’ll always be my sister,” Tim says softly. “It’s okay to let go, Liv. It’s time to fly.”