Wild Bird

  “Why are you shaking?” Hannah asks.

  I’m staring at the griddle, spatula in hand, terrified.

  “Are you okay?”

  So I tell her about Mother’s Day. I don’t mean to. It just comes out.

  “Well, let’s get you over that,” she says, then guides my hand through flipping a pancake. “See?” she says. “Easy.” She guides me through a second one, then cuts me loose. By the fifth one, I’m a pro.

  John comes over to check on us. “You two ready to open a diner?” I noticed him across camp with Dvorka and Michelle, talking. From the way they kept glancing over, it seemed to be about us.

  Hannah laughs. “Just about!” Then she asks, “Can I make peach topping?”

  He gestures at the community food stash. “Go for it.”

  So while I do the next batch of pancakes, Hannah works at a kettle next to me, talking me through how to make a topping out of canned peaches, cinnamon, cornstarch, and sugar. By the time we’re done, the inmates and the jailers are standing in a line, plates in hand, drooling. Felicia and the Elks even say thanks as we serve them.

  “So,” Hannah says as we finally sit down to eat, “want to open a diner?”

  “The Grizzly Girl Café?”

  “Perfect!” she says, and the other Coyotes swear they’ll come eat there if we do.

  Then, at the side of camp, a bird calls.

  “The warbler!” Hannah cries through a mouthful of food.

  John smiles over at her. “Very good!”

  From farther away another warbler twitters. I hold up my finger, hold in my breath, and listen as the birds sing back and forth.

  It makes me happier than I can explain.

  Tara-the-Therapist appears as we’re finishing up breakfast. She saunters into camp wearing a light daypack and carrying a walking stick. “Good morning, all,” she greets us, her carrot hair bouncy clean, a smile on her freckled face.

  I’m instantly suspicious. Something about her looking like she’s just returned from a leisurely walkabout doesn’t make sense. We arrived exhausted, blistered and dirty, and here she is all Aussie-licious?

  I look at the sun, divide up the sky. If sunrise was at about seven, it’s still before nine. Maybe only eight-thirty. What this adds up to is there must be a drop-off point not too far from here. Like, a road, not too far from here. And unless she started driving when it was still dark, she came from somewhere not too far from here.

  It makes me wonder—where are we? How much stupid extra walking did we do yesterday? Are they running us in circles?

  I’m a little tweaked about it, but I’m still feeling good about the pancakes, so I’m actually more just jealous of her clean hair. I would give a lot right now to be able to wash my hair.

  After some small talk about it being a gorgeous day, Tara joins us around the campfire and says, “So? How are you?”

  There’s general shrugging and looking away, so she says, “Felicia? Let’s start with you. How do you feel about going home? It’ll be time before you know it.”

  I lean closer to Hannah and whisper, “She expects us to do this in front of everyone?”

  “You’ll get used to it,” she whispers back. “This is group. She does the one-on-one after.”

  Felicia tells Tara that she’s worried about going home. Worried about losing the control she’s found out here in the desert. Worried that old triggers will defeat her. Worried that everything she’s learned out here where it’s quiet will be drowned out by the noise of what she’s known for so long.

  She sounds so smart. And serious. And more than just a little afraid to go home.

  We move around the circle to the Elks and then the Coyotes. Everyone shares something, which I swear is because of Tara’s voice. Low and sweet and musical, it floats through the air, luring the truth to sing along.

  A lot of what the Grizzlies say has to do with their letters from home. For most of them, home is a place they miss…and also dread going back to. They have hope that things will be different…and worry that they just won’t be. Tara encourages them to consider a transitional program, which sounds like a halfway house for people not ready to go home.

  And then it’s my turn.

  “Wren?” Tara says. “How are you?”

  “Dirty and sore and full of blisters,” I hear myself say. And then out of my mouth comes, “But weirdly happy.”

  Everyone laughs, even Felicia.

  I hurry to add, “I made pancakes this morning.” As if that explains everything.

  Tara gives me a smile that says she gets me, even though she’s clueless. “It’s easy to see you’ve come a long way since I saw you last,” she says.

  I don’t like her words. They’re therapy words. They’re adult-who-thinks-she’s-smarter-than-me words. But they’re wrapped in a swirl of Aussie gauze and it softens them somehow.

  “And letters?” she asks. “How were they?”

  “I’m not allowed to say.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because there’ll be consequences in the field if I do.”

  The jailers all chuckle, and it ripples through the Grizzlies as they get what I mean.

  “Well,” Tara says, “I think everyone agrees that it’s not so much surviving out here that’s the challenge—it’s surviving back home.”

  I snort. “Easy for you to say, with your washed hair and clean clothes.”

  “She really has come to life, hasn’t she?” Tara asks the jailers.

  John looks at me and says, “Tara’s right, though. Conquering the wild is nothing compared to fixing the cracks in your heart.” He turns to the group. “All of you have been hurt. All of you need to learn how to cope. Once you figure out the basics for survival in the wild, you have to figure out how to survive your issues.”

  Tara picks up the talk, saying, “And that’s what today’s about. It’ll be a quiet day, writing letters home. Everyone needs to convey their thoughts to at least one person back home. Find a way to express your feelings without resorting to name-calling or”—she sends a smile my way—“language that would have consequences in the field. I’ll cycle through and we can talk one on one. You may not feel like writing a letter, but it’s the only way your family will understand who you are and what you’re dealing with.”

  Everyone stands like there was some magic signal that meant go to your tents. So I go to my tent. I take out my notebook. I find a pen. I sit cross-legged and stare at a page, trying to figure out how to talk to my parents. The blue lines on the page start to blur together. I don’t know what to write. What am I supposed to say? They don’t care, not really. They just want me to behave, to be their little bird again.

  I fling the notebook aside.

  I’m not writing them.

  I’m just not.

  Therapy sessions have always felt like a sick game of cat and bird to me, where the therapist is the cat and I’m the one trapped in a cage. They sit looking at me, the tip of their tail twitching. “What do you want to talk about today?” they purr.

  I usually look down and shrug, but what’s always screaming in my head is Nothing, you moron!

  Twitch, twitch. “How was your week?”

  Awesome, and you’re the cherry on top.

  Twitch, twitch. “I care, you know, Wren. I’m here to help you.”

  How stupid do you think I am?

  Twitch, twitch. Twitch, twitch. “How about those exercises we went over last time? Were you able to employ any of them?”

  I’m not doing your freak exercises!

  Twitch. “Did you bring them with you? Why don’t we role-play?”

  Because they’re lame, you dork! And in the trash!

  A claw reaches through the cage bars, straining in my direction. “We can’t make progress if you don’t open up.”

  Again, how stupid do you think I am?

  “Look, Wren,” the cat says, giving up. “I’m here to help you.”

  That’s a crock, and we both k
now it.

  “So why don’t you tell me about your day? Let’s start with that.”

  At this point I might chirp out a little sob story. I make it up—the people, what they said, what they did…everything. I do this because I’m playing with the cat. I’m perched on their head and they don’t even know it.

  I also have a little bet going on what their first question will be when I finally shut up. My story ends, and then…“How does that make you feel?” mews from the cat’s mouth.

  Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding! Like I just outplayed you, you stupid machine.

  My parents didn’t send me to an official therapist until eighth grade, when I was trying to kick my Meadow habit. It took until I was fighting to turn things around for Mom to notice me, and what she decided was that I was depressed. “I really think it would help you to talk to somebody,” she said, sitting on the edge of my bed. “I would love it if you would talk to me—I miss you, Wren. But if you’re not comfortable with that…?”

  In that moment I was tempted, so tempted, to tell her about Meadow. Not the details. Not about the weed. Just that Meadow had lied to me and…and that I was really trying to make new friends. But my mom doesn’t do quiet. She doesn’t know how to wait. So before I could float a balloon to see where it went, she popped it and filled the airspace. “I’m at a loss, Wren, I really am. You’re like a stranger to all of us, and I don’t know how to break through.”

  I was instantly glad I hadn’t told her anything. She was looking so intense now, crowding me. I wanted to kick her off the bed, make her leave. And the fastest way I knew to do that was to say I’d go to therapy.

  I started that week, and after the first session Mom didn’t waste her precious time off from work in the waiting room. Instead, she “ran errands.” It didn’t take me long to figure out that what she was really doing was spending the time with Anabella, getting frozen yogurt or doing some power shopping. It really tweaked me, and all I could think about during my sessions was how Anabella and Mom were out together laughing and shopping and eating yogurt. With sprinkles. And Reese’s bits.

  Therapy became a nightmare.

  “Don’t you like Dr. Ramirez?” Mom asked after about a dozen sessions. “She seems so…centered.”

  “I’m supposed to call her Libby,” I said. At this point I was back with Meadow and needed to get out of going to therapy. “She has me play with dolls.”

  “Dolls?”

  The hook was in. I just had to tug. “Are you sure she has a license?” I asked. “She spends a lot of time talking about creepy stuff.”

  “Creepy stuff? Like, what sort of creepy stuff?”

  I opened my mouth like I was going to tell her, then stopped short.

  “Wren?”

  “She stressed confidentiality?” I said, giving her a concerned look. “Some law?”

  “That’s to protect you, not her!”

  I shrugged, she fumed, and that was the end of my sessions with Libby.

  It was easy to stay off Mom’s radar over summer, especially since she needed me to take care of my brother after his sports camp while she was at work. Anabella, of course, was too focused on her meet-ups and camps and friends to help much, but Meadow and I had no problem “watching” him.

  Then high school started, my grades were a disaster, and Mom was at it again. First it was just going to my school counselor, Mr. Miki. I actually kinda liked him. He’d ask me questions like “What are your academic goals?” and “Have you thought about what sort of career you might like?” and “Where do you see yourself after high school?” They were easy to BS, and he didn’t once ask me to explore my feelings.

  But my grades didn’t change, and parent-teacher conferences at school ended with my mom yelling at me on the way home, which made me quit pretending and start flame-throwing, which got me put back into therapy.

  First there was Dr. Yalsen—an old lady with a weird accent who, of course, wanted me to talk about my feelings.

  Then there was Pia Boyd—a skinny woman who must’ve spent three hours every morning flat-ironing her waterfall of shiny black hair. She had a nose like a crow’s and liked to wear black, so the overall package made me want to caw.

  Then came Dr. Goth. When I heard his name, I pictured dark clothes and maybe some eyeliner and black nail polish, but instead he looked like a bar of soap in a crooked brown wig. He even foamed at the mouth when he couldn’t get me to talk.

  I hated all of them, and they hated me. But where I was honest about it, they pretended to be interested, or concerned, or sympathetic.

  There is nothing grosser than fake sympathy.

  And from a foaming bar of soap?

  Please, hate me instead.

  My parents started getting into full-blown fights about me. I could hear them through doors and walls, across the house. Anabella would come out and scream at me about them screaming at each other. I screamed right back and threw whatever I could grab. My brother hid in his closet.

  All therapy did was make me dig in deeper. All therapy did was make me hate everyone, everything, even harder.

  So being at a wilderness camp would be one thing. But this is a wilderness therapy camp, and that’s a problem. I’ll do the endless hiking, I’ll sleep in the dirt, I’ll squat over a hole, but I’m not talking about, not writing about, my feelings.

  I’m just not.

  I’m curled up on my sleeping bag, half asleep, when Hannah’s head pops in. “Hey,” she whispers. “You awake?”

  “Yeah,” I manage. “Kind of.”

  “You’re not writing?” She scoots in a little farther. “You’ve got to have something to show Tara when she comes around.”

  “I’m not doing a letter.” It comes out a growl. Like I’m mad at her. So I prop up on an elbow and say, “Sorry. I just can’t. I was going blind, staring at the page.”

  “You want to take your notebook and go for a walk?”

  “We’re allowed to do that?”

  “Sure. As long as we’re visible from camp.” She points off to the right. “There’s some trees up on that crest. I’m thinking there might be better than here. My tent’s kinda stuffy.”

  Now that she’s mentioned it, I realize that mine is, too. Even with it being open on both ends, it’s steamy inside. And smells like hot tarp. “Sure,” I tell her, and gather my things.

  We tell Michelle what we’re doing, then go up to the crest and settle in the shade with our notebooks. There is a slight breeze, but it’s not enough to clear the sticky web of anger from my mind. I stare at the page, but I don’t put a single sentence on paper. One angry thought leads me to another until my brain is tacky and tangled and I’m ready to scream.

  Even if I wanted to write, why bother? Anything I say won’t be heard. My parents will just shore up their argument, their point of view, their wall of disappointment. Writing them a letter won’t change anything, so why bother?

  Next to me, ink is flowing out of Hannah’s pen like a flash flood across the desert. I have never seen a person write so much so fast. “Who are you writing to?” I finally ask.

  “My mother,” she says, looking up briefly before diving back in. “I’m letting her have it.”

  I want to ask her what good she thinks that’ll do. Does she really think her alcoholic mom is going to read it with an open mind? Feel bad for the way she’s messed up her daughter’s life? Is it going to change anything?

  “I don’t care if she reads it,” Hannah says, being telepathic. “I need to get this out.” She glances my way. “You should try this. It feels good.”

  But the thought of doing what she’s doing doesn’t feel good. It feels…futile. Like shouting underwater. Or doing CPR on a mannequin. Or drinking cough syrup to cure cancer.

  After another minute, Hannah comes to the bottom of her page. She sees me sitting like petrified wood. “You have to write something. She reads them, you know.”

  “Who does?”

  “Tara! And then you discuss. I
t’s the process.” She flips to a new page to pick up where she left off. “Why don’t you write a note to your brother? Just to get you started?”

  I like her idea. Technically I’ll be writing a letter home, but I won’t have to deal with my parents. And by the time Tara rotates around to me, she’ll be needing to get back to her magic ride out of here and it’ll be too late to write anything else.

  “You are brilliant,” I tell Hannah, which earns me a big smile from her. And for as mentally blocked as I am about writing to my parents, I suddenly know exactly what I want to write to my brother.

  Dear Mowgli, I begin. Boy, do I have a story to tell you!

  I think a minute, then make a title in the middle of the page:

  DESERT BONES

  I’m not sure exactly why I make this the title, other than it sounds good and I know my brother will like it.

  Next, I add a subtitle:

  A Cross-My-Heart, Hope-to-NOT-Die True Story

  And after a minute of thinking about the Jungle Book stories I’ve read to him in his old bunk-bed fort, I start scribbling.

  In the setting sun of the Utah desert, Wren Clemmens crouches over a piece of sagewood, determined to make fire. Not with a match, but with simple scraps of wood, a bootlace, and the unbending will to turn friction into fire.

  Then it just flows out. From starting my first fire to finding water to hiking through the desert with the tarp stretcher to digging the latrine to making peach pancakes over a fire, I turn it all into an exciting adventure where bones dry to chalk in the desert heat and danger lurks around every pinyon.

  My brother loves when there are pictures in a book, so I draw what I can—a bow-drill setup, a tarp tent, a fire, a shovel with a roll of waving toilet paper on the handle jammed into a mound of dirt beside a big hole, and a stretcher on the shoulders of four hikers. The pictures take a while because I’m not very good at drawing, but I do my best.

  Everyone else breaks for lunch, but I eat trail mix and keep writing. I don’t notice the sun shifting in the sky, or that Hannah is gone with Tara for as long as she is. Then Hannah’s back, with swollen eyes and a quivering voice telling me she’ll see me at dinner.