I used to have this roommate, this little beaten chick that winced if you looked at her too hard. Little personality, not person. She was one of those plus-sized girls, big through the hips but not bad looking. She was a great roommate as far as housekeeping was concerned. Kept the place spotless, doing dishes, vacuuming, scrubbin' the toilet, the little things that fall the wayside, otherwise. As far as that goes, I couldn't've asked for more in a roommate, unless I could've gotten someone to prepare my meals and do my laundry.
Anyway, this chick was okay to live with- quiet, withdrawn, respectful, clean- but kinda mopey, in this downtrodden, don't-hit-me-again kinda way. Got on my nerves, you know? So we didn't interact much Passed in the hallway, shared the kitchen waiting for the microwave, sometimes she'd read in the living room while I watched TV. Period. No real interaction of any kind, for almost the entire year we lived together. Until about a couple months before our lease was up. I don't know, it must've been early November. Anyway, I was sitting in my room, watching some TV show or another that I was crazy about, at the time- and I hear this hesitant voice from the hallway.
"Are you home?"
"Yeah. In here."
She peeked her head in through my door with this hopeful smile on her face, cradling some bundle she'd wrapped in one of her ratty flannel shirts.
"Sorry to bother you, but do you think you could give me a ride to an animal shelter if I find one open?"
"Uhh... sure, I guess."
"Thanks. I- I found this bird by the road. I think its wing is broken."
She unfolded the flannel to show me this bird she'd picked up off the ground. It was decent-sized, fully grown, with these deep blue feathers and ink brown eyes- I think it was a pigeon. I don't really know, but I think it was. Its head was kinda lolling to the side, leaning against her right breast. Until it saw me. As soon as she leaned int let me get a look at it, this bird threw a fit, floppin' around with its left wing, kickin' with its left foot, scrabblin' against her like I was waiting' with a knife and fork, or something'. She covered it with the flannel again, caressed its back through the cloth until it relaxed into her arm. She shrugged as she tucked her dishwater hair behind her left ear, apologizing, explaining.
"I think it must've glanced off of somebody's windshield. I didn't see any blood when I picked it up, but it's definitely hurt. It hasn't moved its right wing or leg since I found it."
"Ok.
Apparently she'd been walkin' home from the house of this kid she hung out with, starin' at the ground, no doubt, and she saw this thing floppin' around. She'd thought it was garbage, at first, some plastic bag somebody'd tossed, or maybe a newspaper. I don't know. So she was steppin' around it when she looked closer and it realized it was this bird. It was on its right side with its left wing strainin' up, like it was tryin' to fly with just the one, stretchin' it to its full length and kickin' with its left leg. And I remember thinkin' that that'd be somethin' she'd be drawn to, that stupid bird. So, bein' the chick that she was, she took off her over shirt and wrapped it up like some baby. I can see her doin' it in my head, even now- pushin' her hair back from her face, tuckin' it behind her ear while she's walkin' down the sidewalk with this precious cargo of hers. I don't know. She was a weird one, like that- sweet, but weird, tryin' to fix everything, make it alright.
Anyway, a few minutes later I wandered into the living room, and she was on the phone with some lady from a nearby museum, who did work with local wildlife. And that damned bird was still cradled in her left arm. She'd hugged the phone between her ear and her shoulder, while writing down the address with her right hand. When she hung up the phone, she gave me this look of desperate hope, like you'd imagine some starving kid giving you if you'd promised them a loaf of bread. Slightly glazed, maybe a little unsure, but unable to keep from hoping.
"Sorry it's taking so long. You still okay to take me?"
"Uh huh."
"Cool. Thank you so much. The lady said I shouldn't touch it any more than necessary so I just need a minute to track down a box and some clean cloth."
She eased the bird out of her elbow niche and settled it on the coffee table in front of the couch, before diving into the hallway closet. When she left the room, this bird just stared at me. It didn't make any noise, and so long as I kept my distance, it didn't move- just followed me with those dead brown eyes, its head still lolling to the side.
When she returned triumphantly with her box and cloth, she apologized again, and kept thanking me while she re-wrapped the bird and settled it into the box. As soon as the bird was inside, she looked a little beaten, again, like she'd taken some unapproved break and had to make up for it. I could tell it was killin' her not to hold it, too.
"Ready?"
"Sure. Let me grab my keys."
When we got down to my car, she eased herself into the passenger's seat, tryin' not to jostle the box, upset the bird, I guess. Once we set off, she was quiet again, like when we passed in the halls, just- sharin' the space. Every minute or so she'd peek in, dip her hand in to smooth its feathers, whisper to it. It took me a few minutes to notice, but she even held the box up from her lap, used her arms like shocks to keep the bouncing to a minimum. It was strange, like she needed this bird to be okay- not just okay, but comfortable and safe and I don't know- she was clinging to this bird.
It wasn't a long drive, couldn't've been more than ten or fifteen minutes to the museum. She eased herself out even more gently, left the box on the seat when she ran in to hunt down the woman who was going to take care of it. And it was just me and that bird, again. She'd left the lid off, a bit, and it was watchin' me. Animals don't usually make me feel guilty but that broken bird made me feel like shit sittin' in that car, like I should've been the one runnin' around tryin' to find help.
"Let's not forget who drove you here, okay?"
It just kept starin' out of those blank brown eyes, with a hint of blue lining. I don't know. I don't know. Anyway, she came out with the woman, this old lady from the museum, and handed the bird over to her. When the lady pulled the bird out, my roommate just barely failed to cover a flinch, like she wanted to take it back, drive it home and keep it, coddle it.
"Got herself banged up pretty good, didn't she? I'm not sure if I'll be able to help her, but I'll try. You did a good thing, you know, bringin' her here."
All my roommate did was nod.
When the museum lady walked off with the bird, she got back into the car and just watched after the lady until she was out of sight. And then she sank back into the seat, folded her hands and stared out the window. The ride home was silent. Not the quiet on the way there, this was a full-blown silence, the kind that makes your ears ring a little, ya know? I turned on the radio at some point, just so there'd be something in the car with me, since she'd obviously checked out. Without that bird to take care of, every bit of her seemed somehow resigned, meaningless.
By the time we got back to the apartment, I'd practically forgotten she was even there. But as soon as I turned off the engine, and the radio died, I could hear her crying. I don't know when she'd started, I'd quit payin' attention a while back. But she was crying in my car, these gentle, delicate sobs of someone who wants to stop but can't, so they try to keep them out of the way, minimize them. I just froze when I realized. What was I supposed to do? I didn't know this chick. We shared a bathroom, granted, but I'll be damned if I knew a single thing about her. And she was crying less than eight inches away from me.
"Are you okay?"
She gave this little shake of her head, no. It was a small motion, but it shattered her control. Her hands shot to her face, tryin' to hide her tear-streaked cheeks as she doubled over, shaking and crying, nearly silent.
"What's wrong?"
"The bird... I'm sorry, this is ridiculous... that bird, I couldn't... I'm so sorry, this isn't your problem, but the bird, I wanted to, to, to help, I wanted to help..."
"You took it to someone who could help. I just drove and I feel like I did a good deed, so why are you-"
"It's not enough!"
I'd never really heard her raise her voice before. She still wasn't yelling, but there was something harder in her voice that made me feel dirty for not understanding.
"It's not enough to just, just, just hand her over, to someone who doesn't know, doesn't know what it's like... I should've, should've held her, I should've held her longer, I should've helped, or soothed, or, or done something, anything... what if I, what if she dies alone? What if that's all I've given her- what if that's it for her, for, for no reason, because I was stupid, or lazy, or, or... it doesn't make a difference, not a bit of difference, to anyone, no matter what, no matter, it doesn't matter... I just don't understand why I can't, why I don't, I don't matter..."
She choked on her sobs then, just leaning forward, resting her head against the dashboard while I sat there watching. I hadn't signed on for this. This wasn't my problem, this chick breaking down in my car. That's what I thought then, anyway, when I patted her shoulder and got out. Maybe I didn't think anything of it when I left because she didn't look to me, didn't look after me hoping for me to return. I guess I thought we both understood our boundaries, and that she could expect this. I mean, I wouldn't've broken down like that to her. I had friends for that, a boyfriend on occasion. She was just a roommate.
So I let myself back into our apartment, and curled back up on my bed with that same TV show still running. And I sat there, watching TV, while this girl was downstairs crying in my car. Well over an hour must've passed before I heard her come in. She didn't say anything, didn't do anything other than walk to her room and close her door. I remember being irritated because I was so sure that she hadn't locked the doors when she got out. Not irritated enough to check right away, of course. It wasn't until later, when I was getting ready to go to bed, that I decided to check the car. It as locked, after all, looking neat and orderly, and not at all like some place where someone had fallen apart.
Before I went back to my room, some little bit of guilt made me stop at her door. I think it might have dawned on me that the fact that she had cried in my car, to me, might've meant she needed something, from me. Some little shred of humanity demanded expression loudly enough to make me knock on her door. It hadn't latched, apparently, so it swung open, giving me a narrow view of her bed. It was a plain bed, shoved into the far corner, un-decorated in any fashion. I'd never seen it before, and I haven't seen it since, but I remember exactly how her black comforter was bunched at the foot of the bed, the way her off-white sheet draped gently over her motionless torso, and that black garbage bag fitted over her head. It was some cheap kind I'd bought the week before when she'd forgotten to pick some up- a generic Hefty, or something.
I never actually saw her. Just the comforter, the sheet, the bag. When I walked back to my room to get my cell phone, I did so like I did to call information. 411. 911. Silently, indifferently. The next few hours flew by- paramedics, police, the coroner, eventually my boyfriend of the time. I spent the night with him, called the landlord the next day and cancelled the lease. I sent moving people to get my things, left her stuff for her family, friends, anybody else who wanted to claim it. The only thing of hers I checked on was the bird. After calling around for a while, I found the museum lady.
"Oh, right, right- the pigeon? Yeah, she'll be fine. Somebody must've glanced her with their windshield, broke her wing, shocked her real good. It'll be a month, or so, but she'll be heading back out, eventually. Are you the one that brought her in?"
"Yes."
"Well, that was real good of you, just so you know that. It wasn't a bad blow, but if she'd been left on the side of the road she'd be dead by now."
"Thanks."
"Alright, now, you have a good day, and thanks again, for bringin' her by."
I don't think that I hit her, or that it was a specific someone, at all. I think it might have been some collective windshield we were all behind. I don't know any of that, though. The only thing I do know is that I didn't pick her up. When I passed her straining to get up, with one broken wing, I did not take off my shirt or wrap her up like the precious cargo she thought that bird to be. I stepped to the side, told myself we should drive more carefully, and continued on.
I don't know how that makes me feel. Some part of me wants to sobbingly confess that I tear myself to pieces over it. But that's not true. There's no sobbing, no tearing to pieces. There's just this knowledge that I stepped to the side. And this image of her, holding that damn bird, when she peeked into my room that afternoon. She was so hopeful, so peaceful at the prospect of saving something. Maybe because she couldn't save herself. Or even help herself. Or anyone. I don't know. She was weird, you know, always trying to fix things, make it alright. I don't know.
No comments:
Post a Comment