She always seemed so kind, his mother said, in tones of profound sadness and betrayal, and Ethan understood then: a story had settled in his mother’s mind, and there was nothing he could do to rewrite it. In the weeks to come, Ethan’s parents did not call him, and when he and Bird moved to the dorm, he would not send them his forwarding address.
Then came the note. A scrap of paper from Bird’s teacher, Ms. Hernández, slipped surreptitiously into his bag. Dear Mr. and Mrs. Gardner, it read in her neat, looped cursive. Tall proud Ss. Upright and rigid-backed Ps. The school has received a call from Family Services. I have been summoned to speak with them Monday morning and they will likely wish to speak with you soon thereafter. And then: It seemed only fair to let you know.
A warning. A kindness, really.
She packed that night, a single bag. One she could carry on her back, small enough that she could walk as long as needed; a bedroll and all the cash they could gather. The bedroll had been Ethan’s originally. It’s warm, he said softly, pulling it from the back of the closet, and she could hear his voice snagging as they imagined all the nights to come when they would no longer be lying beside each other. She’d taken it and turned away quickly, bending over to buckle it to her bag, but in truth she couldn’t face the pain in his eyes, and wasn’t sure he could face the pain in hers. They’d agreed: she wouldn’t write, she wouldn’t call. Nothing that could be traced. She’d leave her phone behind. Any ties unsevered could unravel, so they would cut her, the traitorous PAO mother, out of their lives. They would give not even the slightest pretext to take Bird away. Whatever it takes, they agreed. Whatever needed to be done or said to keep him safe.
The next morning, she had tried to say goodbye. A Saturday, late October. The leaves just loosening from the trees. We’ll be fine, Ethan told her. Both of them understood he was reassuring himself as much as her. He buried his face in her hair, and Margaret burrowed against his chest, breathing him in, all the words she was not brave enough to speak trying desperately to escape her mouth. When they finally let each other go, neither could look at the other. Ethan hurriedly shut himself in the bedroom, because really, what else was there to say, and he couldn’t bear to watch her leave. Bird, oblivious, was kneeling on the living-room carpet, piecing together plastic brick after plastic brick. It was a house, and the roof kept falling in, the arch of it too high for his child’s hands.
Birdie, she said. Her voice splintering. Bird, I have to go.
She expected questions, as soon as he saw her backpack: a thing she never carried, which he certainly would notice. Why’re you carrying that? Where are you going? Can I come, too? But he didn’t turn. He hadn’t heard her at first, he was so absorbed in what he was doing, and she loved that about him, loved the way his attention focused, intense as summer heat, on the thing he wanted to understand.
Bird, she said again, louder this time. Birdie, my darling. I’m going now.
He did not turn around, and she was grateful for this: grateful not to see his eyes in this last moment, grateful that he did not run to her and press his face into her belly as he usually did, because how then could she ever hope to peel herself away.
Okay, he said, and she ached at his trust, how confident he was that she would be right back, as she always had. It was she who turned then, turned and hoisted her backpack on her shoulder and went straight out the door, before her heart could change her mind.
Two days later, when Family Services arrived, her things would already be piled on the curb. When they questioned him, Ethan would shake his head and his son’s heart would crack. No, he didn’t know where she’d gone. No, he didn’t share her views, not at all. Quite the opposite, to tell the truth. No, he couldn’t honestly say he was sorry. He’d tried to make things work for the sake of their son, but a man could only stand so much, right? Well—let’s just say he was relieved that she’d no longer be an influence. Yes, exactly. Much better off without.
Her books? Absolutely not. Seditious trash. He’d burned them all.
* * *
? ? ?
A bus to Philly, scarf pulled up, shielded by sunglasses. Eleven hundred dollars cash in her pocket, most of their savings. She did not have a plan just yet, only a hope: someone she thought might help, who might give her a place to pause and decide what to do next. But first, before she could pause, she needed to pay respects, to apologize. To atone. Slouched in her seat, she tugged her knit hat down nearly to the bridge of her nose, dug her chin into the collar of her coat. She refused to cry. Instead she watched the highway whir by in a blur of gray and white. Beside her, a man with a mustache snored, the roll of fat on his neck trembling with each breath.