My Name Is River Read online

  Ms. Grackle calls up Kristina and Louise next. They present their cake-decorating project and even brought in a giant, green turtle cake to share. They took step-by-step pictures of everything they did to make their turtle cake and taped their pictures to a display board, like me and Billy did. Their pictures turned out okay, but when they see ours, they’ll be wishing they had an Uncle Jay like we do.

  When Kristina and Louise hand out pieces of their turtle cake, I silently pray that Robert gets the tail. But then I feel guilty because I’m supposed to be a new creation (but since I’m new at this whole God thing, it’s probably going to take me a little more time to get it right).

  Ms. Grackle calls us next. Billy and I walk to the front of the room and lean our picture display against the chalkboard so everyone can see. We take turns sharing about our ecotone and how we made suet cakes and hummingbird nectar, and how Pastor Henry helped us make bluebird houses. We talk about the different kinds of plants the birds and butterflies like. We tell them about everyone who shared plants. We tell them everything—except for our pinky swear. When we’re done, Billy asks if anyone has a question. Mr. Sparrow raises his hand. “Can anyone go to the birding place?”

  Billy answers, “Yes. My parents own the land, and everyone’s welcome. River and I actually made the birding place for the whole community. We want everyone to enjoy it.”

  All of a sudden, Robert stands and walks right up to our display. He doesn’t bother to raise his hand. He gets real close and then points to the picture of a chickadee that’s eating seeds from the wooden bird feeder. “What are those shiny little round things all over your bird feeder?” he says. “If you ask me, they look like BBs.”

  My heart sinks, and it’s hard for me to breathe. Billy looks my way for a second, but for some reason he doesn’t seem flustered. He walks over to the picture and gets real close, just like Robert did. Then he says, “They’re probably little dots of paint. That feeder used to be in my dad’s workshop, so it could’ve accidently been splashed when he was painting.”

  Robert walks back to his half seat, sits down, and clenches his fists. Then he asks another question and still doesn’t bother to raise his hand. “So,” he says, “how long do birds live, anyways?”

  I look at Billy, not believing this is real. I’m so scared that all I can do is stand as still and motionless as a dead bird.

  Billy answers calmly, “We actually didn’t include information about the lifespan of birds in our project. But I do know that most small birds, like the ones that come to the birding place, live approximately one year.” Billy shrugs his right shoulder. “But then again,” he says, “if you’re asking about all birds, an albatross will often live longer than most humans.”

  Billy isn’t pale or shaky, but Robert’s face looks tight and red, and it doesn’t seem like he has any plans to stop. He asks another question, “Then tell me, when them small birds die, what do they die from?”

  “Good question,” Billy answers. “Most often they die from natural causes… like old age, sickness, or from extremes in temperature or weather.” Billy never says they die when some creep shoots them with a BB gun.

  Finally, Mr. Sparrow tells Robert he needs to give other students a chance. Robert squirms in his seat and can’t seem to hold still (I feel sorry for Angelina who’s on the other half of the seat).

  Mr. Sparrow’s class leaves after the last presentation, and Ms. Grackle waves goodbye to them. Then she smiles her shiny, purple-lipstick smile and says she has one more surprise for us. And since there’s no possible way it could be worse than her first surprise, I actually feel a bit of excitement (but then I’m not sure what to think since she wore that purple dress to school). Anything could happen.

  Ms. Grackle clicks her shimmering purple self over to the phone and calls Mr. Augur. “Bring it on down,” she says and then stands in the doorway all excited (like a kid waiting for Christmas) and leaves us hanging in suspense.

  Two minutes later Mr. Augur walks into the room carrying the biggest pizza box I’ve ever seen. The smell of pepperoni finds its way to my nose.

  Ms. Grackle clicks over to her desk, bends down, and pulls out a bag from underneath. I’m expecting her grape jelly dress to burst a seam, but she stands back up without disaster and places seven big bottles of soda next to the pizza. She arranges them in an arch like a rainbow—cherry-red, orange, lemon-yellow, lime-green, blue-berry, passion-fruit the color of indigo, and violet grape (she’s obviously been talking with Mr. Grebes, our science teacher who just finished teaching us about spectrums and Roy G. Biv). Sometimes teachers can be so weird.

  Ms. Grackle smiles and tells us again how proud she is of us, but I can’t keep myself from staring at her mouth. I think about telling her she has a hunk of green turtle frosting right in the corner, where her purple lips meet, but instead I sink my teeth into the best tasting pizza ever and take a nice long drink of the rainbow.

  Billy and I walk home from school together, but neither of us says a word about Robert. We kick a stone back and forth instead.

  Billy looks my way and asks, “Did you hear the weather report? It’s supposed to reach eighty-five degrees tomorrow. That’s even hotter than today. I’m definitely wearing shorts to school.” I imagine Billy wearing shorts with his pure white socks and brown leather shoes. The thought of it makes me smile. Only Billy could get away with that.

  As we turn the corner onto Meadowlark Lane, Billy asks if I can go to the birding place with him. “It’s pretty warm,” he says. “I’m sure everything’s dry. We should fill the birdbath and give the flowers a good soak.”

  “I wish I could,” I tell him, “but I promised Gram I’d go to physical therapy with her. I have to make sure she tells the therapist about her heart attack—if I’m not there, she’ll never tell. She’d probably even ask for more exercises, which could be bad for her heart.”

  “That’s okay. Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll take care of everything. See you tomorrow.”

  I turn into my driveway, and Billy heads to the birding place. He smiles and waves. I smile back.

  22

  The Color of a Bluebird

  Gram’s therapy place has all kind of neat things. There’s a ton of balls, all in different sizes, a set of wooden steps that don’t go anywhere but back down again, a row of weight machines, and one very big mirror.

  Gram’s therapist has her begin by balancing on her right foot while they play catch with a beach ball. Then he tells her to switch to her left foot, and they do the same thing. She’s actually doing pretty good and keeps her balance better than I thought. Maybe this guy does know what he’s doing.

  Next he tells Gram, “Stand up straight and put your heels together. Now point your toes out to the side. Good,” he says. “Now squat all the way to the floor and hold two… three… four. Now slowly rise back up.” I suddenly have flashbacks from when I was six when Gram dragged me off to ballet class. She made me go every week. She had some crazy idea that I’d transform into a graceful ballerina (I think you can say God changed the course on that one).

  So basically Gram’s doing grand pliés in first position like I used to do (but at least she doesn’t fall over).

  I imagine Gram wearing a fluffy white tutu that floats and drifts around her waist, like a big white inner tube. Then as I look at her entire body (including her bright orange tennis shoes and big bottom sticking out), I have a funny thought. She looks an awful lot like Paddles.

  The next thing the therapist tells Gram to do is run five miles on the treadmill. Obviously he doesn’t realize Gram is well over sixty. And since she hasn’t bothered to tell him about her heart attack, I do (which is exactly why I had to be here). Gram gives me one of her looks. “Oh fiddlesticks,” she says. “I’m stronger than ten workhorses tied together.”

  Gram’s physical therapist looks directly at her. “Mrs. Nuthatch, you failed to tell me very important information. Now listen,” he says. “You’re not to do any further
exercise until I talk with your doctor. You’re to go home and rest until you hear back from me. Do you understand?”

  Gram answers with a humph and then waddles out of the therapy room with a pout. After she pays her bill, we head to the parking lot where she decides to skip along the pavement like a skidder-bug on water, weaving in and out and between every row of cars she sees until she finds Tilly.

  I try so hard to keep her safe.

  When we get home, it’s already time for supper. Then out of the blue, Gram comes up with another crazy idea and says she’s going to teach me how to make chipped beef on toast. She says it’s high time I learn how to cook a decent meal. So, she sits down at the table and spits out orders like a drill sergeant. “Get your ingredients and line ’em up on the counter,” she says. “Come on, Sugar Pie, start marching. You’re gonna need that little package of chipped beef in the fridge, four pieces of bread, a half of a stick of butter, a quarter cup of flour, a few shakes of pepper, and two cups of milk.”

  I march around the kitchen doing exactly as she says. I tear open the package of chipped beef and break it into little pieces. I set it aside. Next, I melt the butter in a pan and stir in the flour along with a few shakes of pepper (one time when I was little, I sniffed pepper so hard I sneezed seventeen times in a row—that was one of the dumber things I’ve done). Then I slowly add the milk and stir until it gets real smooth and creamy. Finally I add the chipped beef. Then I let it simmer while I make the toast.

  Gram gets up to set the table (I swear she can’t sit still for more than three minutes). When everything’s done, I place two pieces of toast on each plate and then drop one big scoop of creamy chipped beef right in the middle.

  Gram takes the first bite. “Well, whizbang!” she shouts. “That’s the best tasting chipped beef on toast I’ve ever had!”

  And Gram never tells a lie.

  I clear and scrape the dishes while Gram washes. Tonight she doesn’t relevé, so I wonder if she’s feeling okay. As I wipe the table, there’s a knock on the door, and Pastor Henry pokes his head in. “Hello, River,” he says and then notices Gram, “and hello to you as well, Mrs. Nuthatch. I tried calling but forgot that your phone’s not working. So since it’s such a beautiful evening, I thought I’d walk over. I need to get Billy. His brothers and sisters are waiting for him. You know how much they love it when he reads their bedtime story.”

  For a minute I can’t do anything but stare at him. Then I get this awful feeling inside, kind of like someone’s sucked all the air out of me… like I know something terrible has happened. I look at Pastor Henry and shake my head while three small words come out of my mouth, “Billy’s not here.”

  Pastor Henry looks at me with an empty face. “What do you mean, ‘he’s not here’?”

  Even though it’s not what he wants to hear, I have to answer. “We walked home from school together, but then I went to physical therapy with Gram, and he went to the birding place.”

  Then Pastor Henry says, “Oh, God,” (not like a swear word—because pastors aren’t allowed to swear—but like he’s calling on God in a very big way) and he takes off running.

  I try catching up to him, but my feet are so heavy. They feel like they have big bags of birdseed tied to them. I run in slow motion. From behind I hear Gram huffing and puffing. I try running faster, but I can’t.

  Finally I reach the end of the trail when I see Pastor Henry looking over the edge of the riverbank—then he disappears down the bank. I run to the edge. Even though I don’t want to, I make myself look down. Pastor Henry picks up Billy, cradles him in his arms like a baby, and cries harder than I’ve ever heard anyone cry. And Billy’s not moving. His body is limp and lifeless, just like his dangling arm… and he’s the color of a bluebird.

  23

  Gather at the River

  Two days later, Gram and I put our dresses on. This is the first time I’ve been out of my pajamas since Billy died. Gram makes me carry a purse and tells me to put a handful of tissues in it. But since we never have any, I grab a string of toilet paper. She probably thinks I’m going to cry, but I’m not.

  We walk down our driveway and make our way along Meadowlark Lane to the birding place. Billy would be happy to know his service is at our special place, the place where we became friends, where we prayed for miracles, and where we learned about birds and butterflies and about sharing and keeping secrets… and even life and death.

  Scattered all over our ecotone are hundreds of people who’ve come to honor him. The sun’s shining, and the birds have come to sing for him. I try telling myself this is a bad dream, but even that isn’t helpful.

  Pastor Henry stands at the edge of the river, right in front of everyone like he does at church. He speaks loud so everyone can hear. I feel like this isn’t real, like I’m not even here. I want to jump on Gram’s big white inner tube and float down the river and never come back. She puts her arm on my shoulders so I don’t, and I put an arm around Mrs. Whippoorwill, who is so sad. I want to take her sadness away and make everything all right, like it used to be. And it would be if I’d gone with Billy instead of going with Gram. I should have helped him water the flowers. I could have grabbed him before he fell. I could have kept him safe. Why wasn’t I there for him? I was too busy trying to keep Gram safe. Why do I always have to keep everyone safe?

  This must be the hardest thing Pastor Henry has ever done. His voice is shaky, and he swallows a lot. “Billy knew where he was going. He confirmed his faith last Sunday. He just didn’t know when he was going. He didn’t realize it would be so soon. None of us know when our last day will be or when we’ll take our last breath. Life doesn’t come with a forecast or with details all wrapped up in a neat little package.”

  That makes me think about the package of chipped beef and how smooth and creamy the sauce was. Why am I thinking about chipped beef on toast when my best friend is dead and his father is telling everyone about life and death? I’m just so glad Billy came forward with me and Gram because now I know for sure he’s in heaven. I wonder if he can see us. I wonder if he wishes I was there to help him. I wonder what it felt like to die. Did he have to wait a long time all alone, or did he die right away? I hope he wasn’t scared. And then I feel happy because I know Billy would never have been scared. He was brave. He didn’t even let Robert scare him during our presentation. Billy would never be afraid to die.

  I look around the birding place at all the people from church, the kids from school, our teachers, and Mr. Augur, who must be sweating in his wool suit coat (it’s a good thing I’m not standing next to him because I wouldn’t want to be smelling mothballs when I’m trying to say goodbye to my best friend).

  I look up at one of the bluebird houses and see little pieces of blue yarn hanging from the hole. If that were Billy’s house, he’d have every last piece of blue yarn tucked neatly inside.

  Pastor Henry keeps talking. “We don’t know why things happen the way they do, but we need to trust God that he has a purpose for everything. We must trust him in our pain—even when we think we can’t.”

  Mrs. Bunting’s watching two hummingbirds sip nectar from her blue phlox. She wipes her eyes, and Mr. Bunting stands close beside her, holding her hand.

  Pastor Henry says, “There’s something very important that Billy would want every one of you here to know. He’d want you to know how easy God has made it for us to get to heaven.” So that’s what Pastor Henry does. He tells everyone about God’s sacrifice, about being a new creation, about forgiveness, and how we have a heavenly Father who loves us more than anyone ever could.

  The sorrowful cry of a mourning dove breaks the silence. “Wh’ hooo hoo hoo hooo,” he calls, looking for someone who’ll mourn with him.

  My heart cries back, “I will-will-will.”

  Pastor Henry asks everyone to join him in singing “Shall We Gather at the River.” We don’t have hymnals at the birding place, and I couldn’t sing anyway—the lump in my throat is too big. But eve
ryone else in Birdsong seems to know the words. I fiddle with my purse and pull out a piece of toilet paper. My eyes are only watery because the sun’s shining in them. I wipe them dry while everyone sings.

  Shall we gather at the river,

  Where bright angel feet have trod,

  With its crystal tide forever

  Flowing by the throne of God?

  Yes, we’ll gather at the river,

  The beautiful, the beautiful river;

  Gather with the saints at the river

  That flows by the throne of God.

  On the margin of the river,

  Washing up its silver spray,

  We will talk and worship ever,

  All the happy golden day.

  Ere we reach the shining river,

  Lay we ev’ry burden down;

  Grace our spirits will deliver,

  And provide a robe and crown.

  At the smiling of the river,

  Mirror of the Savior’s face,

  Saints, whom death will never sever,

  Lift their songs of saving grace.

  Soon we’ll reach the shining river,

  Soon our pilgrimage will cease;

  Soon our happy hearts will quiver

  With the melody of peace.

  Yes, we’ll gather at the river,

  The beautiful, the beautiful river;

  Gather with the saints at the river

  That flows by the throne of God.

  Pastor Henry looks out across our ecotone and thanks everyone for coming. “This couldn’t have been a better way to celebrate Billy’s life. Thanks for sharing it with us.” Then he takes a hanky from his back pocket and blows his nose. He honks louder than a Canada goose and scares a bluebird right out of its house. Billy would have laughed hysterically.

  Everyone else leaves because only Billy’s family is invited to the cemetery. Mrs. Whippoorwill reminds me and Gram that we’re family.