A Mother's Reprieve

Perhaps the only thing Rory hated more than birds was people who thought she was an illogical person. It was a laughable yet persistent rumor that she just couldn’t shake, even here, in this town of strangers. Rory dropped a cigarette butt and stamped it with her foot. She sighed as she lit another cigarette. Things weren’t going to be the same once the menthol ban took effect, and she savored the cool taste with extra, albeit early, nostalgia.

Rory looked up at the brick wall looming above her head and blew the smoke upward toward the dark sky. A new moon denied any nighttime light that existed outside of dusty windows and the yellowed streetlights of the sleepy town. What a depressing place, Rory thought. But it was the depressing place that her sister had chosen to live in, which, Rory supposed, made it a little less depressing than other places.

Rory puffed again on her second to last menthol and stared at the woods across the yard. She wished the moon were out, she wished menthols would stay in gas stations forever, but most of all, she wished she was at least visiting her sister for more pleasant reasons.

Camille opened the back door and peered at her sister. Her hair hung loosely in her face, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes were puffy.

“You done with that shit yet?” Camille asked. The vodka behind her words cut through the cigarette smoke. Rory wrinkled her nose.

“You done giving me shit about it yet?” Rory replied. She turned her head and blew smoke in her sister’s direction. Camille pretended to gag, but she didn’t leave either. Rather, she closed the door behind her and deflated against the brick next to Rory. The two looked rather odd next to each other: Camille with her soft curls, soft eyes, soft curves; Rory with edges everywhere that edges could be.

“Am I a bad momma because I’m not out there looking for him?” Camille asked. Her eyes faced the woods but appeared too glazed over to actually see anything.

“You’ve been looking, Camille. For days. No one would fault you a night off,” Rory said. Camille swallowed and laced her fingers together. Rory decided not to mention how badly Camille’s hands were shaking.

“Have you eaten?” Rory asked. Camille only shook her head. Rory supposed her sister was entitled to her liquid dinner. Vodka could take an edge away like no friendly neighbor-baked casserole could. Camille’s hands ran over each other and twisted back together.

“But I am a bad momma,” Camille whispered, “because sometimes I think I don’t miss him that much.”

Rory’s shoulders stiffened. She tapped the ashes off the tip of her cigarette and stared at the embers on the patio.

“I know it’s a terrible thing to say…” Camille started, but her voice trailed.

“No, it’s… alright. These past few weeks have been extremely hard,” Rory attempted. Comfort did not arrive easily at her lips, and motherhood was a foreign experience that she had only witnessed from afar. In reality, Rory didn’t know if it was alright. She didn’t even know if saying it was alright made things better, worse, or left everything the same.

Camille’s son vanished in the woods two weeks ago. Noah had just mastered the toddler art of moving around faster than supervisory eyes could track. They were outside playing, then Camille said she found one of his toys at the edge of the woods, and that was it. There was no other clue to where the boy had run to when she had turned her back.

As the lone single mother in a small town of judgmental faces, Rory could only imagine the initial reactions Camille had received when she informed the police of Noah’s disappearance. On her first day in town, Rory could already pick up the caviling looks and hurried whispers that swirled in the presence of Camille. People were cruel.

As Rory’s sole nephew, Noah had a special place in her heart. He loved nature, and anyone who loved nature couldn’t be too bad of a person. Noah collected rocks and had a running pile of cool sticks. He caught bugs in his grubby hands and brought them inside to watch television with him (much to his mother’s horror). The damn boy even loved birds, and while Rory couldn’t relate, she took him to the park once to feed ducks. Rory handed the boy stale hot dog buns and kept her distance, but the boy laughed so much he still cracked a smile out of her.

Noah’s favorite bird was the owl. Despite his youth, he outpaced both Camille and Rory in naming species of owl. This is the barn owl. This is the horned owl. This is the screech owl. When Noah went missing, he was still wearing his owl shirt, a belated birthday gift from his grandmother.

Rory felt the heat from the cigarette come closer to her fingers. She was debating whether to let it go when she heard the first sob bubble up from her sister’s throat. By now, the sound of Camille crying was becoming familiar, but something about this hitching breath felt different. How much had Camille had to drink?

“Hey, now, it’s okay.” Rory pulled her sister into a half-embrace. Camille gripped Rory’s sleeve; she sounded like she was choking on her own breath.

“I am a bad momma,” Camille wailed.

“No, no… you’re not a bad momma,” Rory brought her chin over Camille’s head and patted her sister’s back.

“I am,” Camille continued, “because I told him there was an owl in the woods.”

“What?” Rory asked. She leaned back and held her sister’s arm.

“We were outside, and I just wanted a moment of quiet,” Camille muttered. “I told him to go look for the owl in the woods. But there wasn’t an owl, I just wanted a moment… I didn’t intend for anything to happen to him.” Camille’s eyes welled up with tears.

The cigarette was burning Rory’s fingers, but she stood, transfixed by her sister’s wide eyes and disheveled appearance. Rory wasn’t an illogical person. She understood that her sister was only human, and every human, mother or not, needed a reprieve. But something else gnawed at Rory, another, less logical series of emotions. Some jumble of pity, sadness, and maybe even anger.

“Camille,” Rory started, mustering that last slice of logical calmness. Tears streamed down Camille’s face, catching, only for a moment, on the roundness of her cheek.

“Camille, what happened to Noah?”