Page 80 of Burn Bright
“Did I kill him, Ben?” She’s no longer sobbing or hiccupping and that concerns me even more. “I-I gave him water. I fed him. He ate sliced apple out of my hand. We were learning how to play a fun ring toss game together. We werebonding.”
I lift my shirt and wipe my entire face with the damp fabric. Maybe he ate an apple seed. Which is highly poisonous.
“H-hemustbe sleeping. He must be.”
“He might be,” I console, exhaling a few times. “Go get Mom or Dad, or I’ll hang up and call them myself.”
I hear the thud of her footsteps, and while I wait, I stare at my reddening eyes in the gold-framed mirror.
I made another mistake. Giving Audrey my bird. I thought it’d be agoodthing for her to have a reminder of me when I’m gone. Something she could hang on to. The average lifespan of a cockatiel is fifteen to twenty-five years, some living to thirty, so why would I be worried he’d pass away anytime soon? Let alonetwoweeks after I gave him to her.
I shake my head slowly to myself.
Life isn’t full of loops and repeats. It’s not cyclical. Audrey wasn’t meant to have Theodore because Eliot and Tom had once gifted him to me. Isn’t this proof enough of that? Fatedoesn’texist.
Life is a swerving, unpredictable line of falling dominos. There are reactions to every action. Consequences.
Some brutal. Some eviscerating.
I’m just hanging on to the slimmest chance that he might be alive. Maybe his breaths are weak. Maybe he’s ill.
“Audrey? What’s wrong, ma petite?” I hear my dad’s calming voice.
They both grow more muffled. I wonder if Audrey is cupping the phone to protect me from the news.
Seconds later, I hear, “Ben?”
“Mom?” I ask. “What’s going on?”
“Hold on, I’m putting you on video call.”
In the background, Audrey wails, “Wait! Please don’t show him!”
“I’m just talking to him,” she assures.
Emerging on the video, my mom pushes glossy brown hair off her shoulder. Her collarbones are strict, lips pursed, and eyes flamed. Her black silk robe contrasts the glittering strand of diamonds at her neck. She is the antithesis of soft, maternal warmth. She is cold, sharp battlement. And I’ve rarely, in all my life, wanted or needed for anything else, not from her.
Her hugs might be steel, but they’ve always been loving.
It’s a comfort when she appears. I take a breath. “Is he okay?” I ask.
“We don’t know.” Her tone is icy. My mom frames the screen so I can only see her face. Likewise, she only sees mine. Based on her iron-willed expression—like she’s ready to murder my sorrow, so even sadness can’t hurt me—I know he’s dead.
I know he’s gone.
I internally nod to myself, trying to accept this without buckling.Trying.It’s easier to just focus on my little sister. I want her to be okay.
In the background, I hear my dad tell Audrey, “He’s not breathing.”
“Give him CPR,” she insists.
“Rigor mortis is setting in, Audrey. He’s been dead for too long.”
“There must be something we can do,” she cries.
“Outside of pretending he’s alive, there is nothing.”
“Richard,” Mom glares over at him.
