The Pretty Bird in My Grandma's Kitchen

When I was a child, my grandma owned a scarlet macaw. I would gaze up at the bird between the sturdy steel bars that kept her locked away. She returned my stare with beady, golden eyes. Her face and neck were covered in vibrant red feathers that faded to yellow to green to blue as they fanned out behind her in a lengthy cobalt tail. Her white-and-black beak plunged down her face into a sharp point I was told could pierce my flesh if I stuck my fingers through the bars.

She was tucked away, not so subtly, in the corner of the kitchen so all of grandma's guests could see her when they visited. If they were really lucky, she’d catch a moment of their conversation and repeat it like an audio recorder. They would all giggle with delight as my grandma dove into her story about how she saved the macaw from certain death during her vacation in Peru. The bird sat solemnly on her perch, her disapproval palpable if they would only care enough to pay attention. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized my grandma brought the bird into the states illegally.

As a young girl, though, I was utterly bewitched.

“Why can’t she come out? I want to hold her,” I’d plead to my grandma, my eyes still locked on the macaw’s brilliant orbs.

“Because, Maggie, we don’t want her to fly away. Do we?” My grandma would chuckle, then coax me away into the living room, where I would color while she watched old westerns on her ancient television.

But me, a little thing with stubby, ginger braids tied in yellow ribbons, thought, “Would it be so bad if she did fly away?” My grandma never played with her anyway. I imagined her colorful wings against the blue of the evening sky, her silhouette casting a shadow on the ground as she flew somewhere beautiful.

That was a long time ago. My grandma didn’t have the macaw anymore. For some reason, I couldn’t remember what happened to the bird. Zacharina was her name, I think; that part of the memory was fuzzy too.

“Maggie?” My teacher prodded, snapping me out of my stupor. I’d been daydreaming in class again.

“What?” I was completely dazed. I’d felt only half awake all day.

“It’s your turn,” he responded, his quizzical eyes surveying me. I was usually one of three students to pay attention during class, but recently focusing had become nearly impossible for me. I wondered if he could tell I was skinnier from skipping meals, or if he could see I had bags under my eyes, a consequence of my consistent lack of sleep. On a daily basis, I was either up all night working on homework, or I just couldn’t stop my mind from racing. I had so many things to do with so little time.

This is why my presentation, a three-minute long PowerPoint on deforestation in Central America, was disorderly, awkward, and frankly subpar. I stuttered through the whole thing and read straight from the slides, which were riddled with spelling errors. Coincidentally, the scarlet macaw was mentioned in one slide discussing endangered species.

“The northern subspecies of the scarlet macaw, for example, has now been listed as endangered partially due to … uhm… habitat loss and partially due to… sorry… due to illegal pet trade and poaching.” I stumbled through the slide, absentmindedly scratching the skin covering my scapulae, which started itching so badly it practically burned. Why was it so itchy?

When I finally finished my presentation, I asked Mr. Riordan if I could go to the restroom. I raced into the ladies’ room and tore my shirt up and over my head. I was horrified to see red welts forming on each side of my upper back, right by the scapulae where I’d been scratching. Was it an allergic reaction? Add that to the list of things I needed to worry about.

I pulled my shirt back on and took out my phone. I was typing out a text to my mother, asking if she’d started using a new laundry detergent, when an incoming text from her popped up in my messages.

Working late tonight. I made a protein shake for you to drink with dinner. Drink it BEFORE you go to the gym, pls! Don’t forget to pick up your brother! Xoxo

I sighed and started massaging my temples. I didn’t want to go to the gym at all, let alone swim at the meet this Saturday. My mother added protein shakes into my diet recently, and I hated them. They were thick and gritty, like I was drinking sugary mud. She knew I wouldn’t drink it unless she told me to, and I’d fainted at the gym last week, so she was particularly attentive to my eating habits lately.

I returned to class just before the lunch bell rang. Mr. Riordan called me over to his desk and waited for everyone else to leave.

“Are you alright?” He asked.

“I’m fine,” I said, my tone already defensive.

“That wasn’t your best.”

“I’m sorry,” I shrugged. I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want to listen to him tell me I needed to do better when I had nothing left to give. He watched me thoughtfully.

“I know you’ve got a busy schedule. If you need help, let me know. We’ll work something out, okay?” Mr. Riordan was my favorite teacher, and he was always kind to me. I felt a pang of guilt at my short, cold behavior.

“Thank you. I’m just tired, that's all… I’ll do better next time, I swear.”

I walked to the quad wiping tears off my cheeks. I sat down in the grass with my friends as we ate lunch. It was a sunny, warm day that seemed to energize the entire student body. They buzzed with excitement as they peeled off their sweatshirts and cardigans. There was a group of boys tossing a Frisbee around off to our right.

Yet, somehow, I still felt lethargic.

“Earth to Maggie?” My best friend, Paola, was waving her hand in front of my face.

“Sorry, what did you say?”

“I asked if you were coming to my party this weekend? Did you get any sleep last night? You look horrible.” She remarked, concern riddled in her expression.

“Gee, thanks,” I laughed. “I didn’t, actually. I stayed up until two in the morning working on my project for Riordan.”

“Oh man! That sucks. At least it’s over with, right?” She was trying to comfort me, which I appreciated.

“I guess. I can’t come to your party this weekend. I have that swim meet on Saturday,” I slumped against the tree behind me. Just saying those words was exhausting.

“Well, can you hangout on Sunday?” She knew my swim schedule was non-negotiable.

“Can’t. I volunteer in the morning, then shadow at the hospital in the evening.” Was I going to start crying again?

“Oh… maybe next weekend, then,” Paola said in a small, butt-hurt voice. I could tell she was pouting, but I didn’t have the energy to apologize or console her. I was too busy trying to console myself. Eventually, she and my other friends carried on, talking about their weekend plans, which mostly consisted of Paola’s party. It sounded like it was going to be fun, truthfully. There was going to be a water slide, karaoke, even a bounce house. I sat in silence, picking at the skin around my nails while they chattered excitedly.

I noticed then that the proximal portion of my fingernails, right by the cuticle, was turning black. I blinked a few times, expecting the blackness to disappear. I even moved my contact lenses around on my corneas, hoping my eyes were just playing tricks on me. Maybe it’s ink from my pen? I thought. I tried wiping away the darkness with hand sanitizer. The darkness stayed.

I considered going to the nurse when I remembered I had a midterm seventh period that I couldn’t miss. I spent the remainder of the day with my hands shoved in my pockets.

Although difficult, I felt like I performed moderately well on my midterm, especially since the itching began to spread along my entire back and kept distracting me. As soon as the final bell rang, I whipped out my phone.

K. Did you buy new detergent or something? I’ve been itching all day! I think I have hives!!!

I sent the text to my mom, trying to ignore that my nails were almost completely black now, then made my way to the gym. As I put my hand on the door to the locker room, a memory I didn’t know I had drifted up from the depths of my mind.

I’d opened Zacharina’s cage while my grandma was napping all those years ago.

“Come on, girl. Come out,” I tried to persuade her. The beautiful creature inched away from me to the far end of her cage. She nipped at my fingers as I reached for her. She started flapping around in agitation. I backed away from her, leaving an opening through which she flew out of her cage and onto the kitchen floor. I took one look at the sliding glass door, and without a second thought, heaved it open. She fluttered around the kitchen for a moment, confused, until she reached the open door and made her escape into the backyard. She took off over the back fence. We never saw her again.

My grandma had been angry with me for a week or two. Even now she had an unspoken preference for my brother. But eventually, we both moved on, and the pretty bird in my grandma’s kitchen became a relic of my childhood.

There was a pang in my stomach. I clutched my abdomen and curled over in pain. Something felt wrong.

I decided I would go on a walk and try to collect myself before going to swim practice. Coach wouldn’t be too upset if I showed up five minutes late. I stumbled to the back of the gym, which was on the apex of a hill so we could look down on the suburbia that was our town. Although beautiful, few students had the presence of mind to go back there, so it was a good place to be alone.

I sat down on a rock, hunched my stomach over my knees, and tried to convince myself not to puke. I felt rage pierce through me. Rage at my stomach for hurting so much. Rage at the skin on my back for feeling like it was on fire. Rage that my teachers piled on homework assignments without any consideration of students’ mental well-being. Rage at my mother, for making me protein shakes and driving me to every activity instead of seeing the toll it was taking and making it all stop. Rage that I was always giving everything I had, yet somehow always falling short. Rage at swimming, the one thing I used to enjoy more than anything else. Even rage at my grandma, for stealing Zacharina’s freedom and hating me when I gave it back to her.

The burning, itching sensation was spreading from my back and down my arms. I lurched forward, my right arm catching my fall in the dirt.

My black nails had elongated into glossy talons. My skin had taken on a textural appearance, almost like something was growing underneath. I adjusted my weight onto my knees so I could analyze my arms. I saw a little red spine poking out of my forearm. I grasped the spine and pulled with everything I had, groaning in pain until it released.

My mouth fell agape. It was a scarlet feather. At that moment pain wracked my body. I fell forward again, clutching fistfuls of silt as the feathers under my skin broke through the surface. Enormous wings tore from my back and unfurled around me. Their edges were a vibrant cobalt blue. I was gasping for air, trying and failing to think through the pain. I clenched my eyes shut.

When I opened them, there was a beautiful scarlet macaw standing in front of me. She observed me with those keen, golden eyes I’d seen somewhere before.

“Zacharina?” I asked breathlessly. “What’s happening to me?” She stood there a few more seconds, then turned away from me and took flight. I swore if a bird could smile, she would have. Her body soared through the warm air. She circled around the sky above before landing in front of me once again. She gazed at me with a shrewd expression. She knew a caged bird when she saw one.

My grandma’s voice echoed in my head. “We don’t want her to fly away, do we?”

That was exactly what I wanted. I wanted to fly away.

I took a deep breath and accepted my transformation. Painlessly, my feathers thickened, my pointy black-and-white beak grew, and I could feel my troubles drift off into the distance of some other, unreachable life.

We took flight together, then, and headed towards the horizon; toward a new world I prayed was completely unlike the one I already knew.