"A Nest in the Embers"

She reaches across the table for her Owls, fumbling one from the pack and bringing it to her lips for a light. “I’m gonna quit,” she lies to herself. “These things are killing me...” a wry smile crosses her lips, the cigarette dangling apprehensively, “just not soon enough.” She glares at the malevolent bird on the front of the pack. Owl. Owltruistic. Owlmighty. Owltism. The word twists in her mind, falling over itself again and again until it becomes a jumbled, ugly heap of sharp edges with no discernible meaning.

Ever since they’d gotten the diagnosis she’d been unable to think of anything else. Their second son, a perfect blonde boy of summer: their second chance, their redemption, now summarily categorized and placed appropriately in one of many discard piles. The institutional megaphone voice rang crisply in her head. “Autism, line up to the left, please. ADHD to the right. Single file, keep it moving. Please disregard any hopes and dreams of carefree childhood.”

She’d been here before, with their first child, Ian. She knew the drill - the sleepless nights of wondering where they had gone wrong; the endless phone calls, interventions, medication check-ups and follow-ups and behavioral modification therapies; the many heart-to-hearts filled with promises to do better and tearful wondering why he never could.

The first time they’d had absolutely no clue. No warning, no signposts of danger up ahead. Ian’s early childhood had gone beautifully; he had been happy, engaged, bright; full of promise. Problems started soon enough with the elementary school years. Over time the few tentative friends he made gradually drifted away as his symptoms progressed: the more desperately Ian needed friends, clung to them, the harder they were to find. ADHD was insidious in its tenacity, deceptive in its ubiquitousness. He’d been exceptionally bright: an unusual mind, he “marched to the beat of his own drum.” They’d heard this particular refrain so many times it brought the taste of bile to her mouth; an off-key theme song that just wouldn’t quit.

She and her husband had watched helplessly as their friendships, their family, their love for one another slowly crumbled and then collapsed under the unyielding weight - the inexorable struggle to keep Ian buoyed, engaged, alive. It was a battle they’d lost 10 years ago. He’d sunk even deeper into himself, pulled the blanket of depression over his head, and jumped into his personal abyss headfirst. They hadn’t even known he’d had the gun.

That’s when she’d started smoking, really. Yes, she used to bum them in college, in her younger days. She’d liked to be seen with Camel nonfilters; they’d fit her carefully promulgated image of carefree-rebel-meets-casual-sophisticate, a cabernet sauvignon in one hand and a ciggie in the other. Once Ian went to school and she had some hours of solitude, smoking became an occasional refuge, a solace. She'd first come upon the Owl brand in the Mini Mart one day. The beautifully drawn image of the barn owl on the front of the pack had made her stop in her tracks. With a sharp intake of breath she'd remembered the day she’d first seen one in real life. They had gone canoeing down the Potomac. She’d been 19 and in love, free as a bird, her future as blinding as the sunlight glinting on the river. With each pull of her oar she’d felt herself gliding into her new world. All of life lay ahead of her, resplendent in its promise.

In a purple dusk they’d decided to row ashore to camp for the evening. As her canoe had nosed the bank she’d happened to look up and there they were. A nest practically bursting with five fuzzy owlets rested in the fork of branches right above her head. As she sat wishing for invisibility- her heart pounding, holding her breath - the mother barn owl descended from the tree canopy. Her wingspan was immense, her talons curved and smooth as horn. She landed almost soundlessly: a whisper of feathers, footfalls on moss. As she watched the mother feed her young, she was faced with the most intimate portrait of love she had ever beheld. She was embarrassed to be so near; her cheeks flushed at the intrusion. It was at this moment she knew that motherhood was her most profound desire - it was the culmination of all she was and was ever meant to be.

He proposed the next morning, as the sun crested the woods that hugged the shore. Their return trip was laced with shimmering plans for the future they would build together; plans for a home with a vegetable garden, towheaded children giggling as they ran along its neat rows. There would be a dog of course, and laughter. So much laughter.

She’d immediately quit smoking upon news of her first pregnancy, trading in her beloved Camels for packs of vitamins, her cabernet for kombucha. She’d begun yoga and meditation, and even continued canoeing for as long as she could. As their little one grew, she fell more and more in love; in love with the baby, with her husband, with the path they were forging. The whole winsome package was just too damn perfect.

And so life had evened things out, as it has a way of doing just when we’ve gotten the lay of the land. Her little boy grew sad, then sullen, obstinate, withdrawn. No amount of love seemed enough. No courses of therapy, medication, support groups, and positive visualization seemed effective over time. There was no more time for canoeing. Her yoga fell by the wayside, kombucha gave way to whiskey. Then came The Day - that Dark Day; the Day everything changed forever. He was gone, and nothing would be the same ever again.

She rediscovered her guilty pleasure in cigarettes: that instantaneous release. Any brand would do; whichever was cheapest, if you please. There were bills to pay - no room for luxuries. And once again in the Mini Mart, there they were, nestled between the lighters and the Hubba Bubba: Owl brand cigarettes, their logo designed by a long-dead famous ornithologist. One look at the beautiful drawing and her mind took her back, unbidden, to that day on the river, when she had discovered her true calling - her reason for being.

The scornful owl on the pack glowers back at her, reproaching. She laughs ruefully. Her paragon of motherhood is on a cigarette pack, and still she comes up wanting.