Page 40 of Other Birds
“Fig,” Mac said. “Short for Figaro. Because she talks so much she’s downright operatic.”
“She’s lovely.” Her tragic beauty made Charlotte want to cry. “Of course I won’t say anything. I’m sorry. I’ve put you in an uncomfortable position. Thank you for that remarkable dinner tonight, andthank you for getting me the trolley job. You’ve done enough for me already. I shouldn’t have bothered you.” She turned to go, but Mac caught her by the arm.
“Didn’t Zoey say she thought someone was coming into Lizbeth’s place at night?”
Charlotte nodded.
“Then you should stay the night here. The couch is yours. Tomorrow we’ll tell Frasier that the gate needs a keypad, or at least a lock.”
“I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I’m not usually like this.” Which wasn’t true. She was exactly like this, deep down. More cracks were showing.
“Only two letters separate ‘usual’ and ‘unusual.’ They’re more similar than not. Especially on this island.” He smiled as he dropped his hand from her arm. “The woman who raised me used to say that.”
“Camille?” she asked, and he looked surprised that she knew. “She was mentioned in that framed article about you at Popcorn.”
He pointed to a photo on the wall behind her. “That’s her.”
Charlotte turned. Mac was in a high school cap and gown, standing beside an elderly Black woman in a dress suit and hat. He was stooped down, and both his arms were around her like he was afraid she would slip away from him like water. Something about the old woman seemed familiar. It radiated so strongly that Charlotte could feel an actual warmth coming from the photo.Home.“How did you come to be raised by her?”
“My mother left one day when I was eight, and never came back.” He shrugged. “She was always restless. Someplace else was always better than where she was. I was used to her disappearing for days at a time. She would leave me with a ton of food. But this time, weeks passed. We’d just moved into a new neighborhood,so I didn’t know anyone and I didn’t know what to do. But every morning I would see an old woman down the road hand out plates of food to kids, so I started showing up. It was Camille. She took me in when it became clear my mother wasn’t coming back, though I don’t think I gave her much choice. I attached myself to her like a barnacle.”
She would never have suspected that Mac had survived a dysfunctional childhood. He seemed so composed. Solid. Put-together. “Where’s your mother now?” Charlotte asked.
“I don’t know. Probably dead.”
Charlotte paused before asking, “What would you do if she showed up?”
“She won’t,” he said.
“How do you know?”
“Because she’s always known where to find me.” He went to the living room closet and lifted a throw from a high shelf. He handed it to her and said, “We’ll talk to Frasier first thing in the morning, okay?”
She nodded.
“Feel free to watch television. And help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge.”
She nodded again.
He said good night and walked to his bedroom, closing the door behind him. Charlotte stood there clutching the throw as Fig stared at her, blinking slowly.
Why had she let Zoey get into her head? Zoey was a teenager. It was obvious Macwasn’tattracted to her. Which was good, she told herself. It was one less thing to worry about, one less connection to untangle before she eventually left again. She should feel relieved.
So why did she feel so bereft?
She turned back to the photo of Camille.
How on earth could she miss something that hadn’t been there in the first place?
Mac rested his forehead against his closed bedroom door, then he turned the lock quietly so Charlotte wouldn’t hear. She was here in his condo, a beautiful, wide-eyed fairy asking for help, and the best he could do was to leave her alone in his living room with his cat because he couldn’t fall asleep anywhere near her.
It was an easy enough thing to say he rarely thought of his mother. He didn’t remember her much as a person. She’d had red hair and a crooked front tooth. She’d smoked Salem cigarettes. And she’d always used the phrase “How’s it hanging?” when greeting people on the street, her eyes darting around, looking for that next new opportunity. But he didn’t know her. He didn’t understand her. All he knew was what she should have been. And that concept alone defined her and, to a certain extent, him. She should have cared for him. She should have stayed. And because she didn’t, and because he didn’t know why, he would always wonder if it was because he hadn’t held on to her strong enough.
He remembered asking Camille once, after living with her for about a year, if she was ever going to leave him. She’d said, “I’m yours and you’re mine, Macbaby. Nothing’s going to change that. But this is an earthly world, and no one gets to stay forever.”
And yet Mac was still holding on to her. He didn’t want to say goodbye. She had been the source of all that was good in his life. Had she known that? Was part of his holding on proving to her how much he loved her, because he hadn’t said it enough? Or wasit because he secretly believed no one could ever lovehimbut her? He didn’t know.
He just knew that her presence now didn’t come without a price. It made him even more scared of rejection, because who would ever believe in a loneliness so overwhelming that you called upon a ghost to alleviate it?
