by Graham Murray
Weeks afterwards, she thought about something he had once told her. That his mother was convinced he could charm the birds out of the trees. She realized this was just a silly expression, and yet . . . perhaps his mother had recognized in him something that no one else had.
Her three-year old daughter had been tired all day and now lay sleeping on the sofa with her new Barbie backpack clutched tightly in her hand. He had taken a photograph of her wearing it the day she received it, almost as large as she was. Her first backpack.
They had laughed at the image of her attending her first day of school not too many years from now with the pack strapped to her back.
She drew up her legs tighter as she watched the small form in its slumber, took another sip of wine and for the first time in nearly a month, closed her eyes and allowed her mind to drift as the warm alcohol blanket began to comfort her.
She thought about the Birds. It was such a small and seemingly silly thing he had started. Perhaps because there was no longer anything left in his life, or perhaps because he saw them as the only living thing to which he could relate. Whatever his reasons, he had taken to feeding the birds outside every morning and they had become known as Daddy’s Birds.
The deck had no proper bird feeder, just an upturned piece of plastic upon which he poured the birdseed mixture, albeit sufficient to feed a thousand birds.
And they would come. Every day. In many different varieties. There were Blue Tits, Mouse birds, Bee Eaters, Northern cardinals, house sparrows and many others she did not even recognize. But among these twittering, flittering bursts of color and song, his favorite had been a simple common dove that, for reasons of its own, had taken to sitting on a branch of the nearby peach tree to wait for him.
He would amble onto the deck when he awoke from yet another night of pain and terror on the couch and fill the plastic tray with seeds. The small dove, which he maintained was a female, would perk up, its head bobbing and tail wagging when it heard the seeds being dispensed.
As soon as he closed the patio door, the dove would glide down and peck at the morning’s offering, looking up every now and then and bobbing its head, perhaps in gratitude.
Once the birds were eating, he could often open the patio door without too many of them fleeing. The dove, although a bit skittish, would not fly away unless approached.
He would stand and make small cooing sounds that the bird appeared to enjoy as it pecked at the seed, apparently aware that it was in no immediate danger.
And then there was the whistling. He would stand at the patio door for a while and whistle between his teeth, trying to mimic the sounds the birds made, before his legs turned numb and he was forced to hobble back to the sofa.
They responded to this strange man-made sound and would often chirp back at him. The dove’s head would bob back and forth more vigorously as its tail flashed up and down like a metronome. She wondered what he was saying to them or if they somehow understood.
After a few months, she had taken to buying special packs of wild birdseed so he always had a fresh supply. The dove particularly liked sunflower seeds, while the others would eventually pick up every scrap of millet offered.
If he were late on some mornings, perhaps delayed by pain or panic, a chorus of wild birds always greeted him. They lined up along the top of the deck as if waiting for their breakfast. They fluttered away when he went out with the cup of seed but returned immediately he went indoors again. He would watch them from the door, careful not to move the curtain and startle them away.
The last morning was like any other and she was preceded down the stairs as usual by their daughter, Kinsley, shouting, “Good morning, Daddy!” the newest addition to her rapidly expanding vocabulary.
The night before had been particularly hard on him. He had endured a massive pain attack and had lay on the floor, his face white with terror, his eyes a rheumy yellow green color as the pain gripped tighter in his spine and chest, threatening to squeeze the life out of him like a sponge.
She was not sure what he thought about at times like this, but when she looked into his eyes she often felt, and hoped, that he drifted away to some imaginary place where the pain could not reach him.
But she knew it was not really that way. She was merely consoling herself. He had not slept in their bed for almost two years. It was too painful for him. Instead, he preferred to stretch out on the long leather sofa in the lounge downstairs, tossing and turning until he found a position that would allow him to drift into an unfulfilling doze.
He never really slept properly. It was more of a respite from exhaustion and the powerful narcotics he took.
She had watched him fading away for almost three years. Watched as the pain attacks became more frequent, more vicious and more personal. Pain had relentlessly drained the life from him, dulled his eyes and stolen his personality and character; leaving behind a scared, withered shell of a man.
The pain medication worked, but not enough to offer any real relief, the word pain ‘killer’ being a misnomer. He lived with the shackles of pain constantly.
He had recently been prescribed a very powerful narcotic but was too scared to take it as several deaths had been ascribed to some of its irreversible side effects, notably that of respiratory failure. It was a drug intended for terminal cancer patients to control their breakthrough pain. Patients who received round-the-clock morphine and who no longer cared about the adverse effects of pain medication and who would welcome the oblivion such a drug might inadvertently bring them.
Etched into her mind was the look on Kinsley’s face that morning. She was standing beside her father with her hand on his arm and for the very first time, he had not acknowledged her enthusiastic morning greeting.
The air in the room was heavy and stale and she knew without looking that there would be no greeting. His hands were a pale blue color and as she slowly walked over to him, her heart filled with dread. Yet she had felt a certain relief when she saw his eyes were closed and if there were any justice in the world that he had simply gone to sleep.
Through searing tears she had said, “Let Daddy sleep a bit more, sweetie. He’s tired. Really tired.”
And then she made the inevitable phone call and things had moved quickly. Kinsley was taken next door to play with her little friend while arrangements were made at home. Before she left, Kinsley was told to kiss her daddy night-night and had remarked, “Brr. Daddy’s cold.”
And then with great care so as not to awaken him, she had pulled the blanket up a little more to keep her father warm.
The church service was short and personal with just one close friend and her sons in attendance. Kinsley had spent the morning asking where daddy was, which had made it almost unbearable. Her father had insisted on being cremated. Pain was not likely be interested in mere ashes.
The days drifted by and blurred into each other. The well-wisher’s calls and cards tapered off and the house felt bigger than ever, with Kinsley often asking where her daddy was and saying that she missed him, even though she meant that she loved him. But who knows? Perhaps she really did miss him, too.
This had produced the strongest tears and all she could do was explain that daddy had gone away to sleep and that they would just have to wait until they could see him again.
It had been a brighter-than-usual morning and Kinsley had remarked on the noise. Even from within the house, the sound of birds was quite loud, almost demanding attention.
Kinsley pulled aside the curtain and shouted, “Look, Mommy. Birds!”
And she had known immediately what her daughter was looking at. She opened the cupboard, took down the bag of birdseed and scooped up a full cup of the contents.
Taking Kinsley’s hand, she pulled aside the curtain on the patio and the sight that met her made her gasp.
Hundreds of birds of all sizes and shapes were lined on the top of the deck. There were birds in the jasmine vines, birds in the peach tree and even some on the ground. And among this assemblage, sitting in its usual spot, was the small dove⎯female he had said⎯watching her intently, its head and tail bobbing.
Some of the birds had flittered away when she walked out onto the deck, but most of them had simply watched her in silence through black, beady eyes as she emptied the cup into the plastic feeder.
She had felt as if she somehow offered them an explanation, but was not able to do the bird whistle he had done so well. Besides, what would she whistle to them?
She had barely made it back indoors before the birds descended and they had watched them, Kinsley rapt with fascination as they ate the seeds.
And then, with a final glance towards the door, they took to the sky in all directions.
The birds never did return, no matter how much seed was put out. A few squirrels dropped by and stole the peanuts that were often included in the feed, but the birds never came back.
Except one.
Some days, sitting in the peach tree as if waiting was the small dove. But it never again ate any of the seed. She had picked up a small gray and white feather that the bird had shed and placed it in his favorite book for keeping.
Sometimes when they were out shopping, a bird would fly by or they would see one sitting on a fence post. With great delight, Kinsley would shout, “Look, mommy! Daddy’s bird! Is Daddy still sleeping?”
The birds they saw may have been Daddy’s birds; she would never know. But she took some solace in the fact that no matter how many birds they saw, they all appeared to be happy and not in any pain at all.
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