Where the Birds Play

A spoiler free, emotionally charged excerpt from page 161, nearing the climax of the story…

A conversation between Matt, the troubled protagonist, and Seasick Sarah, his bellicose yet tender underworld navigator.

As promised, fireworks of victory cracked in the sky. I drew open the blinds to see colors reminiscent of the best pharmaceuticals rain down. Sarah and I knelt on the back of the couch and watched the children play in the parking lot. No flipped cars here. I thought of Trevor and said a quick prayer that he stays away from Center City. ‘If you go to Center City tonight, be careful.’ I hit send and looked at my track marks, thinking of the hypocrite I was until another bottle rocket popped in my ear.

I grabbed Sarah gently by the wrist. “Let’s go outside and enjoy this.”

She slapped my hand away softly. “I can’t let kids see me like this.”

“What?” I asked, mystified, “since when do you care what people think?”

“I usually don’t… It’s the little kids, that’s all. I don’t know why… I just can’t do it.”

I looked into her eyes and couldn't find her pupils anywhere. Her green eyes were like being lost in a beautiful ocean with no land nearby. They were tender and aimless, without the promise of a shore to anchor on. Staying seasick, until death, on breathtakingly vivid hues and an ever-fleeting euphoria with no lighthouse to guide her home. I saw her entire life in her eyes.

The elated children and their parents saw us watching from the window and waved for us to come outside and join them. Instead, we just smiled and waved. I pointed to my Eagles T-Shirt as the children came over to the window. We put our hands up to the glass and gave them high fives and fist bumps. The sky again lit up in phosphorescence. Mom came out with ice pops and the kids scattered away from the window and back across the lot. I looked at Sarah as she began to cry. 

“Hey, what’s going on?”

“Nothing—”

“No—come on, this is unlike you.”

“No, it isn’t! It’s not unlike me at all! You don’t even know me.”

“I know you enough to know you don’t cry easy.”

She shook off her tears as though I reminded her of that. I approached Eddie's record player with a sense of purpose, sifting through his collection until my fingers found what they sought. 1963. Ellington and Coltrane. ‘In a Sentimental Mood.’ I dropped the needle, as Eddie would say, and a piano so silky smooth you could pour it in a glass and drink it took over the airwaves of the apartment. The fireworks faded into the night, replaced by the hushed stillness of children at bedtime. I extended my arms towards her. With a hint of apprehension, she rested her hands around my neck, upon my shoulders. We danced. Around the apartment we glided, her head finding serenity nuzzled in my chest. My hands on the small of her back.

“It’s the kids that kill me,” she whispered.

“Tell me what you mean.”

“Swing sets…Juice boxes... the Fourth of July...”

She pushed away, still holding onto my shoulders, looked at me and said, “would you reproduce…if you looked like…if you were me?”

“Sarah—”

“If this was your life experience, how could you possibly bring a precious baby into the world? A baby that didn’t ask for it. I would never pass my genes on to a child! It would be so cruel.”

The sky was black now. We continued to dance as she continued to talk, her heart bleeding.

“What kind of person would I be, if I, of all women, had a baby?”

“If I learned anything in the last 60 days, it’s to never talk about yourself like that. You’re very young, you’re very smart when you apply it to the right things. It's way too early in the game to be counting all the regrets. The Sarah I know doesn’t feel that way…”

“I don’t have a fucking foot, Matt.”

“No offense, but that’s the least of your problems…” 

She came closer and grabbed me tighter. A combination of laughing and crying wet my shirt.

“I break down when I see families like that. I can’t help it. Knowing I can’t have one. I stole away my own chance at motherhood.”

“I know you mean this, but a lot can happen between now and forever.”

“You just said you know me, Matt. Do you really think I have forever?”

“I think it remains to be seen.” I said, overcoming the harsh lump of reality stuck in my throat. In that instant, that flash moment of sentimental moods, I believe I meant it. 

She rubbed her hands through the back of my hair and kissed me on the cheek.

“Do you want to talk about your mother?” She asked.

Despite the emotion in the room, despite the disarming nature of our conversation, the answer, as it will and forever will, remained— “No.”

“Do you want to tell me about yours?”

“No, I don’t talk about that…”

“Me neither, Sarah… Me neither.”

 We rocked back and forth, enjoying the spell the song had us in. When it ended, she took the opportunity to shuffle over to the couch to grab her things. I think Sarah had enough for one night. I knew I did. 

We met by the door and hugged one last time.

“If it’s what you want, in the nicest way possible, I hope I never see you again.” She joked.

“I hope you’re not a stranger. Either way,” I said. 

“Oh honey,” she said to me, caressing my cheek. “Of course you do.”

“Take care of yourself.”

My phone vibrated. Eddie was on the train home. ‘Taking a taxi from the station. Get some sleep. Eagle emoji.’  

“Eddie’s going to be home soon. I have to clean before he gets back. My life depends on it.” 

We hugged again. This time, really the last time.   

“Goodbye Sarah.” 

“Goodbye Matt.” 

Sarah skipped out of the house disappearing into a lot with no lights. I lingered at the doorway, until her silhouette was swallowed by the night’s embrace, and she was gone.  

 Sometime later Eddie came in. I wasn’t asleep yet, but I pretended to be when he peeked his head in to check on me. When he closed his bedroom door and I knew I cleaned sufficiently, I could finally surrender to rest. It was a rare sensation, knowing that sleep would find me tonight. Not the other way around. In the quiet of the night, in hypnagogia, the weight of my actions bore down upon me with startling clarity. It woke me a bit. I had relapsed. Strangely, there was no anger or self-recrimination typically heard about in the rooms of recovery. I wasn’t really mad at myself. A part of me, perhaps always, will harbor a desire for that chemical escape. That chemical romance. It was a delicate dance… A part of me is always going to want that. Balance…attainable?…pipe dream?…no dreams…zzz…

Where the Birds Play is 97k words and manuscript editions are for sale in the shop for 19.99