Time to Fly

  A home? In Southern California?

  Tears spring to my eyes out of nowhere. Maggie looks at me in alarm. I shake my head at her, as if to insist I’m OK.

  “Well, it’s not a new house, actually,” Mom says with a laugh. “And it’s not huge, but it’s adorable, Zoe—just perfect for the two of us. Like one of the pictures you used to draw when you were little.”

  She remembers that? When I was little, Mom did all kinds of odd jobs while she was trying to get work as an actress, and we lived in a small fifth-floor walk-up apartment. At night she used to snuggle in bed with me and read me fairy tales. Then we’d talk about the little house we were going to live in one day. And sometimes I’d draw pictures of it, complete with a picket fence and a backyard with flowers and a dog. After she landed the role on the soap opera, we moved into a fancy high-rise with a doorman, and I guess I forgot about my pictures and our little fantasy home.

  But apparently this house is no fantasy.

  “It’s got high ceilings and a front porch and a sweet little garden in the back,” Mom continues, “so we can grow flowers and vegetables—”

  Excuse me, vegetables? Mom’s planning to grow vegetables? I’ve never seen her do gardening, not to mention cooking, in my life.

  “—and it’s in a terrific school district. You’ll be going to Beverly Hills High! Isn’t that wonderful?”

  I gulp. Isn’t that where those 902-whatever kids go?

  Maggie points frantically at my arm, and I realize I’ve been twisting the phone cord around my wrist and my hand is starting to turn blue.

  Slowly I untangle myself while Mom goes on and on. All about how there’s this wonderful deli within walking distance. How we’ll be so close to the beach. How maybe next year, if things go well, we could even put in a pool. “Practically everybody in L.A. has a pool, Zoe. You’ll love it here!” I know she must be excited, but doesn’t she realize I haven’t said a word?

  I should be as excited as Mom is. But I feel numb.

  I’m going home. But home is Manhattan. Or now I guess it’s Ambler, Pennsylvania.

  “Well, I have to run, sweetie,” Mom says hurriedly. “I’m due at the studio, and the traffic here is murder. Tomorrow I’m off for a few days, so I’ll talk to Gran about the arrangements then.”

  “The arrangements?”

  “Bye, honey! I love you!” She blows me a kiss over the phone, and then she’s gone. The dial tone hums in my ear.

  I hang up the phone and just stare at the floor.

  “Zoe?” Maggie says. “What’s going on?”

  I glance up at my cousin—a cousin I barely knew a year ago. A cousin who’s as different from me as a dog is from a cat. A cousin who’s …like the sister I never had.

  “Mom got a job,” I tell her. “I guess I’m going home.”

  Maggie’s mouth drops open. “You’re going back to New York?”

  I shake my head. “To L.A.”

  “L.A.?” she exclaims. “But that’s not your home! You stayed there for, what—five whole days at Christmas?” She kicks at the leg of the kitchen table with the scuffed toe of her sneaker.

  What’s she so mad about? I’m the one who has to go, not her.

  Maggie glares at the floor. “If any place is your home, it’s here with us.”

  She glances up at me, and a scared look passes between us. We’ve had our rough times. She had trouble sharing Gran with me when I first came, because Gran’s the only mom she’s ever known. But we’ve been through a lot together since then. Maggie’s problems with school…my trouble training Sneakers…sharing a bathroom (she says I’m prissy; I say she’s a slob). We cried together when Gran’s friend Jane lost her dog Yum-Yum to cancer. And we both understand what it’s like not to have a complete set of parents.

  “Come on,” she says roughly. “Let’s see if Gran has any news about those crazy parrots.” It’s like I can read her mind—she’s breaking up the scene before it gets too mushy.

  I follow Maggie into the clinic, but my thoughts are a thousand miles away. Three thousand miles, to be exact—the distance between Ambler and Los Angeles.

  A real home of our own… Mom and I have never had that. At least, we’ve never had a house. But isn’t a home more than that? Gradually I become aware of a dull, sad ache in my stomach. It’s like homesickness—the same sensation I had when I first arrived here. Except this time, it’s the thought of leaving here that hurts.

  Chapter Four

  We have no time to chat about the phone call. Gran has plans of her own. “We’re taking a little field trip,” she announces.

  “Yes!” David pumps his fist in the air. He loves animals—especially horses—but cleanup chores aren’t his favorite part of working at Dr. Mac’s Place.

  “Where are we going?” Sunita asks.

  “To the zoo,” Gran explains.

  Now we all cheer. A zoo trip beats chores any day.

  Dr. Gabe stays behind to see patients.

  “Keep an eye out for E.T.,” I tell him. “If you hear a parrot talking in the yard, that’s him. Try to get him to stay in the yard until I get back.”

  “Well, I’ll be pretty busy minding the clinic,” says Dr. Gabe, laughing. “But I’ll do my best, Zoe.”

  Brenna, David, Sunita, Maggie, and I pile into the van. “We’re going to visit a friend of mine who’s an expert on parrots,” Gran tells us. “Maybe she’ll have some ideas about the flock that’s taken over our oak tree.”

  When we get to the zoo, we head past the monkeys, past the lions and tigers, straight to the bird house. As we near the building, Gran calls out, “Tasha!”

  “J.J.!” A tall woman a little younger than Gran turns around and smiles at us. Her curly brown hair is touched by gray, and her green eyes are warm. She strides forward and gives Gran a hug. “It’s so good to see you.”

  Gran turns to us. “This is Dr. Tasha Timmons, a good friend of mine. She’s my brain trust when I’ve got bird questions.”

  We introduce ourselves, and then Dr. Timmons leads us into the aviary for a tour.

  First we go through a set of large double doors into an alcove. After those doors close, we pass through another set of double doors into a huge room with a glass ceiling. It’s like stepping into a jungle. We’re surrounded by lush tropical trees, vines, and flowers. There’s even a small waterfall. The air is so steamy and warm, I pull off my sweater and tie it around my waist. The zoo workers are better dressed for this tropical weather in uniforms of khaki shorts and green polo shirts.

  “Come on, this way,” Dr. Timmons says.

  We follow her along a path that winds around through the jungle. Colorful birds perch in trees above us, chirping and cawing and shrieking. The sound is wild and almost spooky. I’ve heard bird calls like this on nature programs, but here it’s the real thing.

  David ducks as a long-legged bird swoops across the path. “It sounds like a Tarzan movie in here,” he says. “Why are the birds making so much noise?”

  “Like most birds, parrots are very social, vocal animals,” Dr. Timmons explains. “They’re smart, too. As you probably know, with training some parrots can learn to say hundreds of words.”

  “One of the parrots in our wild flock speaks English,” I tell her. “I call him E.T. because he says ‘Phone home.’ We figure he’s an escaped pet.”

  “Or an abandoned one,” says Dr. Timmons.

  Sunita shakes her head. “Why would anybody just dump a pet parrot?”

  “Yeah, aren’t they expensive?” David asks.

  “They are. Even so, some people become smitten with the idea of having a pet parrot and buy one on impulse, without learning about the reality of parrot ownership first,” Dr. Timmons says. “Parrots tend to be feisty, and without daily attention they get bored and develop bad habits like biting. Their powerful beaks can bite hard enough to crack a nut, so a nippy parrot isn’t something you want around the house.” Dr. Timmons pauses to point out two large parrots high in a t
ree. “Scarlet macaws, a mating pair. The female is new to our zoo, so we’re delighted she’s already paired up with our male.”

  We crane our necks and gaze up at the majestic red-and-yellow birds. I think I saw one or two in the oak tree that looked similar to these.

  “As David noticed, parrots make a lot of noise, more than some people can tolerate,” Dr. Timmons continues. “And some parrots can live fifty years or more, so that’s a lot of squawking! Unfortunately, sometimes when people decide they don’t want their pet anymore, they just let it loose outside rather than making the effort to find it a new home.”

  “That’s so irresponsible!” Maggie snorts.

  “And cruel!” I add. We know it happens—all too often. We see plenty of abandoned pets at Dr. Mac’s Place. People often buy their kids or their friends pets as gifts at Christmas or Easter without thinking it through or finding out what kind of care the pet requires. Then the owners decide they don’t want the pet anymore. Some people even think it’s a kindness to set a pet free.

  “It is cruel,” Dr. Timmons agrees. “Virtually all pet parrots are hatched and raised in captivity, and in order to socialize them, they’re hand-fed by humans from day one. They don’t have survival skills, and their odds of surviving for very long in the wild are slim. I hope you can catch E.T. and find his owners, or at least find a good home for him.”

  With a glance at Gran, I nod solemnly at Dr. Timmons and make up my mind right then and there: no matter what, I’m going to find a way to capture E.T. and get him home, wherever that may be for him.

  After our walk through the aviary, Dr. Timmons treats us to a quick tour through the zoo’s veterinary hospital. It’s huge, a lot bigger than Gran’s clinic. The vets here have to take care of all kinds of animals, from gorillas and giraffes to tarantulas and naked mole rats, and everything in between.

  “Wouldn’t this be a cool place to work?” Maggie murmurs to me.

  I nod in agreement. It sure would! (Well, except for the tarantulas.)

  As Dr. Timmons takes us through some of the operating rooms, Gran brings up the parrot flock.

  “I wonder where they came from,” Dr. Timmons muses. She turns to me. “Do they all talk?”

  “No, not that I’ve heard,” I answer. “The ones in the flock act sort of wild compared to E.T. He looks right at me, but the parrots in the flock are more skittish and shy, like the birds you have here.”

  “They sound more like wild parrots, then,” says Dr. Timmons.

  “But why would wild parrots be flying around loose here in Ambler?” asks Brenna. “They’re certainly not native to this area!” Brenna’s parents are wildlife rehabilitators. They have a special license that allows them to care for wild animals that are injured or sick. Last winter her family even had an orphaned fawn recuperating in their backyard. Brenna knows a lot about wild animals. Of course, even I know that wild parrots don’t live in Pennsylvania. Or didn’t until now.

  “It’s possible these parrots escaped from a breeder,” says Dr. Timmons.

  Gran nods. “That thought occurred to me, too. I did place a call to the sheriff, just to see if anyone had reported a breakout of parrots. But he hadn’t heard anything. He said he’d call back if he did.”

  “Maybe the parrots were freed by animal rights people,” David suggests. Maggie rolls her eyes, like it’s a dumb thing to say, and swats David on the shoulder. “Well, they could have been! You don’t know!” David says indignantly, swatting her back.

  Ignoring their squabbling, I turn to Dr. Timmons. “Is there anything we can do to help the parrots?”

  “They’re probably better equipped to survive on their own than a tame, hand-fed bird,” she replies. “In fact, I’d say your E.T. is lucky he hooked up with them—they should be able to lead him to food and help him avoid predators. Being part of a flock is a protective measure for birds,” she adds. “Still, the parrots may need people to help provide food, especially in the winter, when everything’s dead and snow covered. Even if they’re able to keep warm, getting enough to eat will be a problem for them.”

  A zoo staffer calls Dr. Timmons into an office. She excuses herself as we thank her for the tour.

  On our way out, we pass a young man who is examining a big bird with a huge beak. It has to be a toucan. I realize with embarrassment that I recognize the bird from the box of Froot Loops cereal that Maggie eats! I can’t help pausing to watch. The toucan lies quietly on an examining table.

  “Is that toucan sedated?” I ask the man.

  “She is. Had to put that big beak out of commission long enough for me to treat her.” The veterinarian turns to me, and his face breaks into a smile. “Say, you look a little young to be a vet student, but you sound like you know your way around animals.”

  Gran nods proudly. “My granddaughter here is quite an animal lover. We might make a vet out of her yet.”

  Zoe Hopkins, D.V.M. That has a nice ring to it. I grin, imagining what Mom would say if I told her I wanted to be a vet like Gran. She’d probably faint.

  Mom. With all the excitement over the parrots, I’ve been able to avoid thinking about her phone call. Now it all comes rushing back—the thought of leaving Gran and Maggie and Dr. Mac’s Place, moving to California…My grin fades and I turn away, swallowing a stupid lump that suddenly swells in my throat.

  Gran lays a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Zoe? Are you all right?”

  I meet her gaze briefly. With her sharp blue eyes, she’s searching my face in a way that reminds me of how she studies her animal patients, looking for clues to their illness or injury. But the confusion I’m feeling isn’t something you can see with the eye, or even with an X-ray. It isn’t something you can solve with a splint or a shot or a pill. I shrug and look away again. Does Gran know what my mother is planning? Does she think it’s for the best?

  Gran drops the other kids off at their homes. As soon as we’re back at the clinic, I rush to the backyard to check on the parrots, but the oak tree is empty. Only a few cardinals take turns swooping down to Mr. Cowan’s feeders.

  I suppose it was silly of me to think the parrots would be waiting for us. Yet somehow I was hoping that they’d know we care about them, that this is a safe place.

  “They’re gone!” I shout, shoving through the back door into the kitchen.

  “Shhhh!” Maggie hisses, with the phone to her ear. “I’m ordering pizza!”

  “Pizza?” I ask Gran.

  Gran pretends to shrug helplessly. She’s been on an anti-takeout campaign lately, but it looks like Maggie won this round. “I made her promise to order at least one vegetable,” Gran says with a laugh.

  “Do olives count as a vegetable?” Maggie asks.

  Gran sighs. “How about green pepper—or even broccoli if they have it?”

  Maggie makes a face, then asks into the phone, “What else have you got in the vegetable department?”

  I laugh and pull open the refrigerator door. “I’ll make a salad.”

  “That would be lovely, Zoe,” Gran says. She opens a cupboard and sets out plates and salad bowls.

  I dig out the lettuce and an assortment of raw veggies. Before I came, most of the meals Gran and Maggie ate were canned, frozen, or delivered. Gran’s too busy to cook, and Maggie leans toward artificial colors and flavors, so she didn’t mind just opening a box for dinner.

  That’s one way my mom is like her mother: she never cooks. Luckily for me, Ethel loved to cook, and she taught me how. We even used to watch the food channel together…Don’t think about New York, or Ethel, or Mom right now.

  “Gran, do you think the parrots are OK?” I ask as we tear the romaine for salad. I think of the lush jungle in the aviary. “What if they can’t find enough to eat?”

  “You’d be surprised how tough these birds can be,” Gran replies. “There are flocks of parrots living wild in many parts of the U.S. There’s even a flock of Monk parakeets living wild in Chicago.”

  “Parakeets? Those cute
little birds you see in pet shops?”

  “No. The Monk, also known as the Quaker parakeet, is actually a type of small parrot. No relation to those little pet-store budgies, even though they’re both called parakeets,” Gran explains.

  “Isn’t Chicago even colder than Pennsylvania in the winter?” I ask, and Gran nods. “So what do the people there do about the Monk parakeets?”

  “As far as I know, the birds manage to survive more or less on their own.” Gran comes over to help me slice radishes. “Monk parakeets are unique among parrots because they build nests—huge ones—and that probably helps them keep warm through the winter,” she adds. “Some biologists and bird watchers are keeping track of the flock and trying to protect the Monks, which I’m afraid have a bad reputation. Monk parakeets are thought to cause crop damage in Argentina, where they’re native, so there’s been concern that the same thing might happen here in the U.S., too.”

  I frown. How could a measly little flock of parrots cause more crop damage than, say, a herd of deer, or even a big flock of crows? “Have wild parrots damaged any crops in the U.S.?” I ask Gran.

  “So far there’s no evidence of it,” Gran says.

  “Still, in many states—including Pennsylvania—it’s illegal to own a Monk parakeet for that very reason: the government is afraid that pet birds will get loose, naturalize into wild flocks, and then damage farm crops. If you’re caught owning a Monk, the law requires the bird to be euthanized—put to sleep.”

  The doorbell rings, and Gran and Maggie go to get the pizza. As I toss the salad, it occurs to me that maybe we could do the same thing right here in Ambler that the biologists in Chicago are doing. We could set up a network of people to keep track of how the parrots are doing and make sure nobody tries to hurt them. Sunita could even help me put up a Web site for people to post their sightings of the Ambler parrots, so we can find out where they’re roosting. We already know one of those places is Gran’s oak tree, but there’ve got to be others.

  My mind starts going a mile a minute, planning out a parrot-protection strategy. We could send some of Brenna’s photos to the Ambler Sentinel and see if they’ll send a journalist over to do a story on the parrots, to educate the public about them. In the fall, maybe we could get some pet stores to do promotions to encourage people to put out food for the parrots over the winter…