Page 3 of Ladybirds

Body tense in anticipation, waiting for a bird to startle, Roy offers an olive branch. “What classes are you taking this semester?”

"British Literature, Calculus, and Art Appreciation.”

Her father scoffs, casting her a bemused look. “British? What the hell’s wrong with American?”

“Nothing other than it being booked full.” Sometimes his disapproval is so predictable it’s painful, but she’s mostly just glad he didn’t decide to comment on her art class. When he still looks skeptical, she adds, “It counts towards General Ed, so who cares? I’m sure I’ll hate it just as much.”

Roy hesitates, seeming torn between offering (false) words of support and grudging acknowledgement. Sara hates English. Getting her through Catcher in the Rye in her junior year had been like trying to force a cat to swim—she kept her head above the water, but she came out soaked and thoroughly pissed off. Her unfortunate teacher at the time had struggled to hide her annoyance at Sara’s lack of enthusiasm. The parent-teacher meetings she had called her father into were one of the only times he had stepped foot onto her campus.

“And that boy of yours?”

Sara stiffens, sucking in a bracing breath. Talking to her father about David is like walking across a minefield. She’s learned from a young age to avoid the topic of love and marriage like it was the plague (probably because that’s exactly how her father treated it). “David is starting his internship in October.”

She makes a point of saying her boyfriend’s name as much as her father does to avoid it.

Roy makes a sound in the back of his throat; acknowledgement but not approval. Sara has had plenty of practice deciphering the difference, and she’s glad she insisted on coming up to visit with her father alone. He’s hated all of her boyfriends, but the disdain he holds for David has always gone deeper. Sara blames it on the seriousness of their relationship more than anything else. She had intended to break the news to him about the apartment she and David signed for, but the longer she visits the more excuses she finds to hold off. Sara wonders how many it takes before it qualifies as a justification.

Her father may have written off love as a fool’s errand, but she’s never let him convince her. In Oma’s bedroom is a wedding photo framed in tarnished brass; a candid moment between the bride and groom smiling and happy with a simple buttercream cake between them. When Sara was little, she caught Oma talking to the picture and pressing her lips to the glass in a goodnight kiss. Even as a child, she could sense the ritualistic nature of it. Sara has no doubts that her grandmother wished her departed husband goodnight, and good morning, every day.

The years have taught her that Oma and Dad are a study in opposites: love found and love failed, life lived and life tolerated. One leads to a house full of warmth and memories, the other a telltale chorus of glass and tin in the recycle can. Sara knows who she would rather take after.

A retort sits, hot on her tongue, but she swallows it down—feels it settle in her stomach like coal. No amount of arguing will change his mind (or hers) and she’s learned better than to waste her time.

“Sara!”

She looks over her shoulder, surprised to hear her name rolling over the soft, rustling grasses. In the distance, beside her father’s black F250, is a beat up Ford pickup with rust eating through the faded blue paint; its driver side door swung open. Sara recognizes it more easily than the man yelling in front of it.

Roy’s irritation is written in the heavy, controlled sigh through his nose and the flexing muscle of his jaw. “Damn it all. Gonna scare off my birds.” He shoos her off, already marching deeper into the fields, away from the racket her old classmate is causing. “Go on and see what he wants, then. I’ll see you back home.”

Sara can’t say she blames him. Austin’s a hunter himself—he should know better. Still, there’s an edge to his voice that makes her anxious, and she moves just a little faster. When she makes it within a yard from the parked trucks, she can easily make out his pallid face under the shadow of his baseball cap.

His brown eyes are blown wide, lip trembling and pale. Sara frowns, glancing at the cab of his truck and finding the passenger seat empty.

Her stomach drops.

Austin shouldn’t be alone. He’s supposed to be with David.

“The phones weren’t working,” he blurts, a bead of sweat running down his stubbled jaw. “I didn’t know what else to do, and—“

She cuts him off, eyes still pinned to the empty passenger seat. “Austin, where’s David?”

His chest heaves, anxiety pinching his face. “He’s—he’s at the hospital. There was an accident and—Sara, I’m so sorry. I told him it was a bad idea, I swear. You gotta believe me.”

Behind her, Sara hears the shotgun go off—her father’s short whoop—and envisions a hollow-boned body falling to the ground.

Sara thinks of doves.

CHAPTER TWO

Sara has never liked hospitals, but today she hates them.

The sickly green walls and the smell of bleach make the waiting feel endless. She’s been there for over three hours now, alternating between sitting in the stiff chairs and pacing the length of the waiting room. David’s mother sits with her, hands shaking and pale as she continues to wring them in her lap. Sara wishes her presence soothed her fear, but the truth is she only amplifies it. It’s not that they dislike each other, but there has always been a quietness to Mrs. Mclintock that sets her on edge. Sara suspects it has more to do with her own anxiety than the woman herself.

“What’s taking them so long?” Sara mutters, biting her thumbnail and staring at the emergency room doors. “Why haven’t they come back yet?” The last update they had told them little to nothing: internal bleeding, broken ribs, pierced lung, possible spine trauma… They said nothing about the outlook, only that they were still making every effort to stabilize him. Sara hates that word almost as much as the hospital. ‘Stabilize’ sounds too much like his life is hanging in the balance.

Mrs. Mclintock doesn’t answer right away. Her dark blue eyes dart to the clock, her hands moving in time with the second hand. “It’s ok,” she says, but the tremor in her small voice betrays her. “He’ll be fine.”

Sara wishes she could find comfort in the older woman’s fragile optimism, but it only makes her stomach twist. Nausea rises, hot and acidic, in her throat.

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