“You’re the guys for that parrot, right?” Becky spoke, her eyes downcast, unable to meet ours. If I had to describe the tone, it was likely riddled with guilt, though someone with more compassion might misinterpret it as apology. However, I couldn’t help but notice that her voice wasn’t as deep as Darpana and that unfortunate man seemed to imagine.

“Your voice isn’t deep at all.” Mitch apparently had the same thought, though clearly he lacked the subtlety to hide it.

“Anyway, what he meant to say was, can you give us the parrot? Sorry to bother you at this late hour, but, you know how it is.”

“That’s the thing, I’d like to speak to you about that parrot,” she said. Oh, of course it isn’t going to be so simple.

“No, I’d rather you just give us the parrot, so we can be on our way.”

“No, no, this is really something you have to see. Come in, guys.” I could not possibly have imagined what was in store for us, but all of the worst possible scenarios raced through my head. It had to be dead. Oh, or if not, it was on the verge of dying. What could be worse? I have to pay for damages caused by its death throes.

“There’s something wrong with your parrot.” I waited for what came next, and she continued, “Listen to this.”

She tapped the space bar on her laptop and the screen lit up instantly. On the screen appeared to be a music synthesizer, or some sort of visualizer. It was full of audio graphs and dials, buttons with indicators I had no business trying to understand. Suddenly, a sound blared from the speaker systems, “Rest of your life, I’ll take you to paradise.”

That was the parrot, and it sounded like it was singing…

“Guys, what the hell was that parrot saying? I decided to record it just for fun, and when I did, that’s what it said…” Mitch started yet again with his mischievous cackling.

“That was me, I played a bunch of my old songs on loop and the parrot picked it up.”

“But that’s all it would say. And when I took a look at the spectrum mode… This came up.” This graphs were replaced with a fuzzy, absurdly colorful image. “Do you see it?”

And there it was… a face. It was clearly a human face. Some of the features were a bit of a stretch of the imagination, but it was undeniable. I felt a cold shiver run the length of my entire body, leaving behind a tepid nervousness. Mitch was speechless. Speechless.

“I’ve never seen anything like that before, and it’s freaking me out, guys.”

All of us remained quiet, staring back and forth between the various paraphernalia in the room and that eerie visage on the screen. “Where is it now?”

“I let it go. It… it wouldn’t stop saying that line, and whenever it did, the image of that face would just appear in my head, so I started going a little, tiny-bit crazy, like I thought it was some kind of sinister… something. Which is why I got rid of it… Let it out through the door, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, I wish I could help you find it, but that thing… There’s something off about it.” I understood now, in a brief instant of insight. She wasn’t feeling guilty or apologetic. She was genuinely scared of what kind of people might have a parrot that could produce such an insidious image, but she invited us in… why? Perhaps because, she needed to have shared this with somebody else to know that she isn’t going crazy, or maybe a certain security or comfort in company. My mind could turn to thoughts such as these because there is no possible way we could find the parrot, now that it’s out in the city. So this was the feeling of hopelessness.

“Well, no use crying over spilled milk then. Let’s go, Mitch.”

“You sure about this, man? Shouldn’t you be a bit more worried about it?”

Becky chimed in, “I’ll help you look for it!  I feel so bad about your parrot, I won’t be able to sleep at night, you know?”

“Don’t worry about it… Things like this happen,” Bitterness. “You know?” I shouldn’t have said that last bit with the acidity I did. I’m sure I made her feel much worse, which was twisted of me. I felt worse having said it. “I’m sorry for intruding. We’ll show ourselves out.”

“No.” What? Is she trying to stop us from leaving? “I… your parrot… I’ll pay damages for it…” I could barely hear her. “I’ll pay… if you won’t let me look for it… How much do you want?” She sounded like she was on the verge of tears. “I said how much do you want?”

Mitch must have slipped out ahead. It was just Becky and me.

“I said it’s alright. Please forget this ever happened.”

“I’m sorry… I was stupid to think that money is enough to cover for a mistake like this! I’m so, so sorry…!” As she muttered this, her voice started to crack. The atmosphere of the room grew tense and unbearably heavy. I felt a physical pressure to leave at once.

“Why do you care so much about it when I already said it’s okay?”

“Because it isn’t okay. I understand how awful it feels to lose someone close to you, and you feel like you can’t ever forgive the person who caused it. Like you could hold that grudge until the world ended. Even if the world ended.” She might have understood, but I didn’t understand what she was referring to.

“It’s just a bird.” It felt painful to say. A twinge of guilt ran down my spine. It wasn’t just a bird after all, was it? It was the last memento my grandmother entrusted me with.

She fell silent. I did the same. We both awkwardly stared at our feet for a brief moment before I turned again to leave. “You’re right. What do I care if somebody I don’t know hates me.”

I didn’t respond.

Our pens would be unceasing, our minds could not rest.

How could it be, when visions are lovely

As yours fills our eyes and the hearts in our chest.

So I wrote this poem, no limits, unfettered,

To you, our precious sisters, as radiant as the sun,

But how exactly does one even begin to measure,

Those who are worth more than a golden metric ton.

Behold, our muses, more than nine, but more divine.

Can inspire fear, confidence, or gentle adoration.

Can drive a man to sing and write of things sublime.

Indeed, they ought receive a night of appreciation.

So touched by your grace, and your kindness, and beauty,

We wish to humbly say, “We love you…” …Platonically.

The truth eluded her no matter how deeply she meditated. Who was she? Was she real? Can I expect her to return? Veronica stood up, patting off the dust from her skirt. As she looked up to head towards the exit, she saw something. A shadow of a shadow. The faintest outline of a human figure. Her heart jumped and her eyes peeled open, a yell poised to burst from her lungs. Unlike last time, it was in celebration. It moved slowly, like a specter, tracing the same path as the night before and the many times before that, becoming more and more corporeal as it walked. The darkness enveloped her like a cloth, slowly unfurling, revealing a beautiful doll-like figure, clad in a fashion she had only seen close-up once. She stopped as soon as she stepped out of the greenhouse and into the night air. She turned towards the window, expectantly. “Veronica,” the voice called out distantly.

“Oh, yes, yes, I’m here! I’m here!” she said hurriedly, running up to the woman surrounded in blue. “You came back for me!”

“Who are you?” The tone shifted like a whiplash. It was abrasive and direct, nothing like she was yesterday, and Veronica noticed, but she did not speak. Her mind was perhaps overwhelmed to the point of speechlessness. “Have you met me before at some point? What year is this? Where am I? Although the question I suppose I should be asking is ‘why am I?’, as in why am I here? Ah, well, no matter. This looks to be a greenhouse, and that looks to be a… very big house. Ah, you must be the daughter of a wealthy family, and judging by your clothes I would say… mid-19th century? No… no, no house had architecture like that back then… early 20th! Ah, good enough. Judging from your accent, I am in… America… in the… South. … South America! Aha, now comes the question of who you are, you strange little thing.”

“My name is Veronica, this is 1998, you’re in South Carolina, and this is Mrs. Halliday’s house.” She spoke efficiently and robotically, like a schoolchild listing off her multiplication tables, but nevertheless held a feeling of apprehension. “And you… visited me yesterday and,” she paused, considering whether to say the whole truth, “we talked.”

“Ah, it’s all catching up to me. The effect of running across time, you see.”

“Like in a time machine! So you must be from the future!” Veronica gaped, amazed, jumping to her imagination’s foregone conclusion.

“No no! I’m from nowhere and nowhen! And a time machine? Such a device doesn’t exist in this clump of existence.”

“Are you a ghost?”

“Ghosts don’t exist,” she denied smoothly.

“Are you an angel?”

“Angels don’t ex- …In a sense I am, but in a sense I’m not,” she replied cryptically. The sides of her lips sagged noticeably.

“Are you from another planet?”

“Sentient life outside of this planet… doesn’t exist in this clump,” she noted with melancholy.

“Then who are you? What’s your name?”

“A name? A name is given to that which needs be remembered. A name is a method by which to attribute immortality to that which is transient. I have no need of such formalities as I do not possess any of the requirements to receive one.” she assumed a didactic air as she recited this, apparently from a vague half-memory, or a distant script. “…Is what I think I should say… Yes, something like that. I must perform my duty and leave, undetected, unknown, unobserved… or something like that. Except, why should I have this programmed in if I shouldn’t ever be talking to anyone? Curious, so curious. Oh, you look very confused. I don’t like that at all. Would you like me to explain?”

“I get it!”

“You do? Wonderful, saves me a lot of trouble.”

“You’re my imaginary friend!” She declared adamantly. Or perhaps it was with amusement.

“No,” A wide smile flashed for the briefest instant. “I’m quite real this time. What happened before, I just remembered, was a quantum echo. You see, the reason why it affects me on such a scale is because of the amount of energy involved in the alignment… Oh, hm, talking to a child. Ahh, to put it simply, my… selves will appear for a few days before and after I do for real. Then we all catch up on what we’ve been doing together.”

“Since you’re my imaginary friend, and you don’t have a name, can I give you one?” Veronica apparently ignored her, and the woman caught on this fact instantly.

“Hmm, how do I- Oh! Mrs. Halliday. She didn’t believe you yesterday, so today, we’ll make her believe. Come, come, follow me. There is a power in proof.”

And she did. They rounded the house under that cloudy sky towards the front door, as Veronica held on tight to the hand that led her. It’s real, she thought. You can feel it, you can touch it, and touches back at you. This couldn’t possibly be some ghost or image! This was proof enough! The hand was cool, like it had been in water before she grabbed it, but of course she didn’t mind. It was enough that she could show everyone inside. Maybe she’d finally have someone who would adopt her, so everyone could smile as they gave her their best wishes, secretly burning with an unwelcome envy, the color brown. They would feel as she had felt. These subconscious emotions swelled and she couldn’t help but feel a little shameful and dirty.

The woman knocked on the front door like a drum, as quickly as she could. “Watch, Veronica.”

“Now, who could that be at this ghastly hour?! Do you have the slightest idea what time it is?!” came that recognizable voice from beyond the door. “Please stop knocking! I’m at the door now!” She flung open the door vigorously, impressive for a woman of her age.

“Mrs. Halliday! A pleasure to meet you. I’m here for Veronica. Just letting you know. Curious, isn’t it?” The woman turned to leave after her concise greeting.

“Who are you? What is this? Where do you think you are taking Veronica?!” The orphanage director was obviously very suspicious of this oddly dressed woman about to abduct one of her wards at half-passed midnight.

“Haven’t the time to chat, but maybe some other time? See, Veronica? Perfectly un-imaginary.”

“It’s my imaginary friend, Mrs. Halliday!” Veronica grew animated, glad that could rub it in her face, though not entirely conscious of it. “But she’s not imaginary at all!”

“I never was.”

“Veronica, who is this?” It was clear Mrs. Halliday couldn’t accept something as outlandish as that. No normal human being could. Veronica frowned upon understanding the intent.

“I told you, it’s the woman I saw in the garden! And again in our room! She exists!”

The woman flinched, “Ooh, that’ll be hard to explain.” Those words were enough for the bewildered and overwhelmed Mrs. Halliday.

“I should say! I’m calling the police! Veronica, get inside, dear!”

The uninvited guest muttered, “Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.” Veronica looked into her eyes worryingly, begging her once more to do something. A flash of insight jumped through her head. “Say,  do you believe in angels?”

“Excuse me?”

And in a brilliant light, the two disappeared. Mrs. Halliday stumbled back into the anteroom, baffled. That couldn’t have been…

Veronica was taken away… by an angel?

An in another space, and another time, in a point and moment far removed from the familiar, Veronica and the woman reappeared.

“Who are you…?” Stunned, frightened, not unlike the poor woman who was left behind, she put up her guard, creating a safe distance between her and this mysterious woman. She certainly didn’t fit the description of an angel. They were beautiful people with robes and wings and gold all around, but this person was just normal. Like herself.

“Don’t be so worried, Veronica. I’m an ordinary time traveler.” Her blueness vanished. She didn’t appear as any color, which had never happened before. Everyone has a color, even if it changes; it’s how Veronica knows how they are feeling. This woman completely perplexed her.

“You can travel through time?”

“Yes! I am not imaginary at all, so please don’t call me that! Do you remember how you saw me nights before I appeared tonight? Well, those are the effects of time travel. It’s the quantum echo effect, and it’s outrageous. Like I explained before, I remember everything my other selves learn. Outrageous, right?”

“Outrageous.” She echoed.

“Well, come along then. I do recall that we have adopted each other that night, so we don’t have a moment to waste. You see, I’m an investigator trying to learn the truth about a certain catastrophe that occurs in 1999 AD.”

“Next year? Why? What happens?” Within the next instant, a massive green swallowed the both of them. The world repainted itself around them revealing a dark jungle underbrush, and the sounds that followed. The smell, the touch, the taste, everything surged into existence like an explosion, and nearly overwhelmed the poor little girl.

“A mistake. A fatal and untimely mistake, although technically right now it’s about three millenia later. It was a bit tougher to pinpoint, but we’ve taken a small backwards hop along this reality! Wow, Veronica, looks like you’re a time traveler now!” The woman gave a polite applause in commendation.

“I can’t believe it… Are we going to go explore the jungle? Will we see tigers?”

“We already have. Convenient, right? You should be hearing the echoes already.”

Veronica waited and listened. When she least expected it, she was knocked off balance by a noise, nothing like an echo. That noise was… memories, streaming from her many parallel selves, their net experiences accumulating and storing themselves inside her head. And in the next bat of an eyelash, she could remember. This jungle seemed so familiar to her, after all, she had already explored most of it. “Wow, I saw tigers.”

“Fortunately, the tigers didn’t see you. Now, since we’re here, let us go meet our friend. I’m sure he’s been waiting very long to see us.”

That was when she appeared. The gliding woman, a ghost, she thought. She had seen her a few times before, always in the garden, always around this time. She wanted to call out, but she didn’t want to draw attention to herself. So she was left clumsily staring at the garden, anxious, and sleepless. She had such a nice shade of blue though, like the moon.

What could she be? She was as mysterious as the moon itself, that glowing, shifting orb gliding through the skies. Her hair was cut short, nothing like my own, she thought, as she felt her own curly hair. She moves so elegantly, if I could just walk like her, she thought. Tomorrow, I shall meet her. I shall go down to the garden and meet her, she thought. As this ran through her puzzled little head, the woman exited the garden. Why, that’s never happened before! The ghost would glide from one end to the other and disappear, but today was different. She grew excited and afraid at the same time. Nothing with such an aura of blue has ever harmed her before, so why would now be any different? But this thought could not calm her beating heart. It was so loud she was afraid the noise might awake her brothers and sisters sleeping nearby. She kept watch, fixated on the woman once in the garden below.

The woman turned her head to face her. Their eyes were locked. The woman mouthed the words, “You can see me.”

“AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!” She let out a shrill cry. The other children all bolted upwards, some frightened cold, some half-asleep. The lights went on during that flurry of bedsheets and pillows.

“What?! What is it?! Veronica! What’s the matter?” It was Simon, the oldest orphan, and the leader of the room. He always slept next to the door, and was the first to reach for the lights.

“I saw a ghost!” Veronica gasped. “A real live ghost! There, out there!” She pointed frantically, at the ghost down below. Simon cocked an eyebrow as the other children fearlessly clamored to see the supernatural phenomenon themselves, as children do. He took an aura of responsibility and lectured, “There is no such thing as a ghost.”

The children soon found Simon to be right.

Huh? Veronica looked back to see the woman was no longer there. But I…

“Everyone, back to bed, no grumbling. We all have nightmares sometimes.” Simon rallied the sheep back into their pens. He started shouting at the less than cooperative Thomas, but Veronica didn’t take notice.

She was more focused on that woman in the garden. She didn’t know what to think. Maybe it was a nightmare, but she certainly didn’t feel asleep. In all of her nine years, she had never seen anything like that. She kept vigil, wondering if that ghost might appear again. If only she would appear again…

“Veronica is your name, is it?” She heard a woman’s voice. She woke up with a jolt. When had she fallen asleep? There was the ghost sitting on her bedside, exuding that aura of blue. “How curious, so curious…”

“Hello.” She replied, determined to look as adult as possible when speaking to one. That is what Mrs. Halliday taught, after all. Back straight, voice clear, calm and behaved. “My name is Veronica.”

“Yes.” The woman smirked. “I know.”

“Are you a ghost?” Veronica asked in the most well-mannered tone she could muster.

The woman’s smile quickly became enigmatic. “Not really, but it is a curiosity. Why can you see me?”

Veronica leaned in, as if to tell her a secret, and the woman followed suit. Veronica whispered, “…Are you imaginary?”

“PFFTHAHAHAHA!” She exploded, and Veronica fell back into her bed in shock. She turned to check if Simon was still asleep, and he was. They must not be able to hear her either, she thought.

“Aren’t you adorable? Well, go back to sleep then, you strange little thing. It is a wonder, indeed, I can be seen, by a child no less. Ahahahahaha.”

“Wait,” Veronica muttered,  “you aren’t… here to adopt me?” It came out meek and half-formed.

“Excuse me?”

“I thought… I thought when an adult takes a liking to one of us, they can adopt us, and…” She trailed off again. “You’re just a not-ghost, so…” She didn’t want to get sad again, she didn’t like it at all. “Nevermind…” Veronica buried her face into her pillow, trying to force herself asleep.

“You thought I could-” The woman took another look at Veronica, that tiny, tiny little girl with curly brown hair. “Oh, no… It’s different. I can’t adopt you…” Veronica hugged her pillow tighter. She had already come to accept this fact, but the words still cut into her fragile soul. The woman took a moment to herself, and sighed.

“You’ll be adopting me instead.” What? Veronica turned back around. Had the woman just said that? “Come then, I’ll be needing you to come with me.”

“I’m terribly confused.”

“Don’t think about it. We’ll be adopting each other, so you have to come with me now.” The woman stood up and began walking towards the door. “Don’t pack anything, just wear your most comfortable clothes and come, come.”

Veronica hastily fell out of bed and scrambled for her clothes. She only had two sets, one was stiff and irritating, but Mrs. Halliday said adults like it best. The other was a little bit dirtier, but it was a whole lot more comfortable. Simon was the first to notice Veronica on the floor, putting on her socks.

“Again? What are you doing?” He rubbed his eyes.

“I have to go! I’m getting adopted!”

“You’re what?!” Simon’s yell awoke the entire room, and possibly the room across from theirs.

“Quickly, Veronica!” The woman was at the door, holding her hand out. Veronica finished up and started running towards her. She, too, felt like she was gliding.

Simon tackled her. “Stop! No one is adopting you at 3 in the morning! Mrs. Halliday isn’t even awake!”

“No, no! She’s right there! She’s reaching out for me!” Simon glanced to where Veronica’s outstretched hand was pointing. His worst fears were affirmed.

“Stop it! There’s no one there! There’s no one there, Veronica!” He held her light body back. “It was just a dream, Veronica!”

“Why can’t you see her?! She’s standing at the door, waiting for me! Please, help me!” She pleaded with the woman, who had a look of sadness on her face. Her blue aura turned purple. Sadness.

“Veronica! Stop it!” Simon pleaded. “This isn’t funny!” The other children had taken notice of what was happening. Veronica started wailing and crying and kicking, but Simon didn’t let go.

“No! No! I need to go!”

“Veronica!” Simon understood her pain. He understood her loneliness. He understood her frenzy. Tears involuntarily came to his eyes.

“What’s wrong, Veronica? What’re you doing?” These sorts of questions filled the room as the children awoke, one by one.

“Let me go, Simon! Let me get out of here!” She struggled and sobbed, but Simon held on tightly, halfway crying.

The woman shook her head and spoke softly. “You strange little thing.” Her words were tinged with purple, and she turned, and walked away.

Veronica fell limp, like a doll. She certainly looked like one, dressed in her fanciest, uncomfortable clothing, the tiny, tiny girl. Her emotions didn’t subside, however. She gasped and hiccuped in Simon’s arms.

“It must have escaped.”

“Indeed. Do you think it is still inside the library?”

“Someone could have seen it, maybe.” We were at the very top floor of a five story building, so the traffic in and out was understandably low.

“Excuse me…,” toned a tiny voice devoid of confidence. Was that an… Indian accent? “Was that parrot yours?” It came from behind the bookshelf on 17th century English poets. Anybody with functioning ears could tell that was the voice of a woman, although the  bell-like clarity would suggest perhaps the voice of a girl instead.

“You bet.” Mitch picked up on her shyness immediately and seemed to be practically boasting to balance it. “Do you have it?”

“No.” Came the ding. “Someone else took it.” Came the dong. “But… how did you train it to speak like that…?”

“It’s a long story.” I decided to speak this time. I couldn’t help but notice how flat I seemed to sound in comparison to Mitch and this mystery person. “Would you happen to know who took it then?”

“It was like the parrot was speaking to me…” The words jingled from behind the bookcase. She didn’t appear to be listening. “Exclusively to me…” Uhm…

“I would really appreciate it if you could provide an answer to the question,” I asked. Mitch had already snuck around to the other side to see who it was we were speaking to. As he peeked his curious head over, I added, “Ms…?”

“I’m- Oh!” She must have noticed him. “I’m Darpana.” Judging from the name and her accent, she was most likely Hindu?

“I think I recognize you. You were in my English class freshman year. The Indian girl who sat by the door?” Woah, I had not expected Mitch to be able to remember something like that. “Darpana Rangarajan, right?” I was at a complete loss for words.

“Oh, we didn’t really talk… at all. How do you know my name?” Good question. Mitch led her around to where I was standing. She was short, petite, and her face looked about as young as I imagined it. How could she have been in Mitch’s English class? She looked like a freshman now.

“I’m a beast.” Mitch shrugged with false humility, his body language a stark contrast to his English language. On the other hand, Darpana felt bad that she couldn’t seem to remember his name in return. I was the only one to notice.

“That’s Mitch, and I’m Jack.”

“Mitch Shimamoto, remember me now?”

“Yes, I do!” She seemed relieved. “Was that your pet parrot, Mitch?”

“My friend Jack’s parrot, actually. Do you know where it flew off to?”

“I… I’m sorry. I was curious what was thrashing around inside your bag.” As she spoke, she mimicked the “thrashing” by waving her hands. “So I let it out, and what a surprise!” Her hands were extended from her face, as if to illustrate her surprise.

“Where is it now?”

“The library staff took him away. But… I’m very curious still about that bird. How did you teach it to speak like that?”

Mitch stifled a laugh, leaking a chortle in the process. “What’d it say?”

“It told me ‘thank you,’ and then told me to have more confidence in myself.” Whichever god is out there, strike me down now. I couldn’t resist taking a stabbing glance at Mitch who would not stop grinning. We wasted enough time as it is. “It was kind of amazing, because I was practicing for a presentation I have to give next week… and I could not concentrate because of my worries.” She was much more energetic in her speech now than when we first met her. I guess she felt more comfortable now that she was talking to someone she met before. “And to think I had to have a bird tell me that it was all going to be okay. It was very humorous!”

“I’m glad everything worked out.” Mitch nodded his head, genuinely happy.

“Do you know who it was that took it away?” We didn’t have time to spare, as so very interesting as her story might have been.

“It was a volunteer. When I said I had just found it here, she said she’d take it to the library lost and found.” Before I could speak, she answered my question intuitively. “Tall, brunette, and glasses, with wavy hair.” Her hands made a downward sine-wave motion at the last bit. “Oh! And she had a deep voice for a girl… ” And her bell-like voice seemed to fall off sharply, as if she had trouble remembering it.

“Well, our next objective appears to be fairly self-evident.”

“To the lost-and-found then. See ya later, Dar.”

“Yes, see you!”

And we made our exit. Darpana returned to the nearby entrenchment that is her workplace, a veritable castle of books.

Neither of us spoke as we hurdled down the staircases towards the front desk, unaware of anything. Well, I should clarify that Mitch was the one hurdling; I was embarrassingly unable to keep up. When I finally caught up, he was leaning on a handrail, sending a text message on his phone, acting nonchalant.

“Oh, you took so long I forgot what we were doing.”

“You’re an asshole, Mitch.” My speech tends to turn coarse when I’m exasperated, I’m afraid. Mitch, well aware that this meant he was getting a rise out of me, acted as though he won. I wordlessly brushed past him.

As I led our search party, Mitch followed behind, still engrossed in his texting. What if the parrot wasn’t there? Where would we go next? I began formulating potential paths of investigation. A tree of possible futures seemed to lay itself out before me. My brother, and later on the parrot, had taught me that imagining the future is often times the first step to making it come true. Well, to be more specific-

“I’m sorry, we just closed shop for today, fellas.” I had noticed we arrived at the front desk.

“We just need to ask you one thing. Was a green parrot brought into the lost and found today?” Something like that was bound to attract attention with a job as boring as his. There’s no way he would have missed something like that.

“Nope. No parrot. There’s no way I would have missed something like that.” My mind raced between the branches of possible futures. If this happened then…

“Do you know the name of the tall, brunette volunteer who was working earlier today at around 5 PM?” He seemed to look confused. “She has a deep voice,” I made sure to add.

“Deep voice…” Was that perhaps her most defining feature? “Becky? Yeah, why? What’s she got to do with a parrot?”

“We believe she is in possession of my parrot, do you have any way we could contact her?”

“Sure, she comes in every Saturday afternoon. You could always leave a message and we coul-”

“Call her now.” Mitch interrupted him forcefully. His voice took on an air of authority, like that of an absolute ruler charmed with natural charisma. The man behind the desk stuttered slightly before regaining his composure. Mitch did not falter, “That parrot escaped from the bio lab, so Becky might be exposed to the bird flu strain we’ve been studying.” Mitch held up a few feathers from his pocket. This full bombardment of instant pressure was convincing enough for him, and he began searching through his contacts in a panic, muttering “Oh god, oh god.”

I tried to cover for Mitch’s outrageous bluff. Damage control of sorts. “Uhh, not to worry, the strain hasn’t jumped the species barrier…”

“…Yet.” Mitch finished, as he crossed his arms and squinted.

“Hello? Becky? These two guys are looking for a parrot- You- …What?!” My worst fears realized. “Becky? Hello??” He looked at his cell phone in disbelief. “She hung up. We should call the police.” He seemed perfectly convinced with our- no, Mitch’s story.

“No, no, no, there’s no need to get the police involved. If you could give us her phone number we’ll try contacting her ourselves.”

“No way, we have to call the proper authorities. I don’t want a bird flu epidemic on campus because you guys wanted to save your reputations.” The worst possible backfire. I had made a plan instantly in case something like this happened. All we have to do is explain that this has all been a joke and-

SLAM! I cringed at the sound. It was like a baseball bat to a wooden plank. When I noticed what happened, I couldn’t speak. Mitch had just now… bashed that man’s skull into the desk. “I am so sorry, guy.” I was stunned into inaction. What was he doing? “Okay, I got the number, let’s go before the security dudes get here. Come on, don’t worry about him,” I felt a tugging at my arm. “I just got him in the temples. He’ll be fine in an hour. Let’s go!” I listlessly followed in his general direction. I didn’t realize it at the time, but this was the beginning of a very long night.

He was only 28. This was a lot to handle even for his age. He did agree to at least hire some extra people to take care of some of those things for him. He was a lot like my grandmother, and far closer to her than she was with me. With that in mind, he must have picked up some of her business tricks, as well as her personality. He preferred to take care of everything on his own, and, much like my grandmother, seemed to find a limitless amount of time to do it. It always amazed me just how much he could learn, or read, or eat, in such short amounts of time. He finished college in three years, got married at 25, and already has a daughter. Since I could remember, he always had such an image of cool composure, which I must have picked up from him. So to see him in such a frazzled state was more than a little jarring.

10:03 PM, close enough. I knocked on Mitch’s door. No response. No matter, I called his cell phone.

“Hello?”

“Mitch, where are y-”

“Just kidding, I’m not here right now. Leave a message.”

…I can’t say that I didn’t hate him right now. No matter how much I tell him to change that voice mail message… I did not stay dumbstruck for long. In times like these, other people panic, but I will find him without such unnecessary bursts of emotion. As I thought this, my own phone rang. It was Mitch.

“Hey, hey, sorry I didn’t pick up, I’m kinda with somebody right now.”

“What? Where is my parrot? Aren’t you at home?”

“I… No. I… I’m with somebody right now, so I’ll call you back later.”

“Where is my parrot, Mitch? You didn’t take him out, did you?”

“Your parr- Oh… oh… crap.”

“What?!” He hung up. In times like these, other people panic. I’m not like other people. Don’t panic.

Was this a practical joke of his? Of course not, and did I have time to lose? If he lost the parrot, is there any sensible way of getting it back? What is the best course of action to take right now?

I called Mitch one more time. What else could I have done? He picked up immediately this time.

“Dude, I am so sorry, man.” He was panting, as if he was out of breath. I heard the sound of wind and the most rapid footsteps I’ve ever heard. My mind was beginning to go blank.

“Tell me what happened.” I replied as calmly as I could. I knew exactly what he was going to say next. I had no hopes that he was fooling around.

“The parrot is gone.”

“Where did it go?”

“I dunno.”

“When did you lose it?”

“Maybe around 5 PM.” Five hours. The parrot was lost for five hours. “…Which means it could still be inside the library!” Usually, when normal people hear this, they would think “Oh good, my troubles might be over.” I was realistic: odds are, it was never inside the library. Pets, birds no less, were forbidden entrance, in other words, security would have stopped him immediately. With this in consideration, the probability that the parrot was inside the library was zero.

“It’s not inside the library, where else were you at 5?”

“No, no, it’s totally gotta be there. I took it inside and I don’t remember taking it back out.” You can’t be serious.

“How in the world did you take it inside?” And why?

“I snuck him in my backpack.” The parrot hates dark, enclosed spaces. I can’t believe it didn’t make any fuss at all. “Where are you now? I’ll pick you up and we’ll go to the library together.”

“I’m at your place, where are you?”

“Oh good, so am I,” Mitch magically appeared before me, gasping for air, slouched against the wall of the hallway. “I left my car keys in my room.” Wearing out someone of Mitch’s athleticism is no small matter. He must have run all the way from wherever he was, and… up a dozen flights of stairs.

“Where did you come from?” I half-expected him to ignore me. As he brushed passed and opened the door, he murmured about gamma tau something. Wait, if he came from the area where the fraternities are clustered, he had sprinted about a mile in less than 4 minutes. That averages to approximately 7 meters per second… Wait, he didn’t even have to unlock the door. Suddenly, Mitch’s reliability rating plummeted to subterranean levels.

As he came back out, he jingled the keys and motioned for me to hurry. We were apparently going to take his car to the library, which, like most campus locales, remains open 24/7. He chose to take the elevator this time, possibly for my sake, most likely because he was tired.

“I need to know everything that has happened since 10 AM to 10 PM.”

“I met the girl of my dreams, is what happened.”

“You, what?”

“At the library. It’s probably the reason I forgot about the parrot. But I’m telling you, man. She’s perfect in every way. I can’t give this one up.” We were at the parking lot, we both ran to Mitch’s BMW, which by a stroke of fortune was parked close to the elevator.

“Mitch, you sacrificed my parrot for a girl?”

“Yes.” He didn’t skip a beat. It was said as confidently as ever. He was nearly boasting about it. “But you don’t understand. She’s totally perfect.” The engine roared to life.

“Who the hell is she?” The flow of the conversation led to this question, I suppose.

“Kaori Nishimiya.” What? A Japanese girl? Coming from the guy who can’t even stand to hear the word “sushi,” or hold a pair of chopsticks? “Do you believe in love at first sight? I didn’t.”

“Focus, Mitch. Tell me where you were between 4 and 6.”

“I was at the library at 4, and left at 5 with Kaori, like I said.”

“When did you say that?” Whatever. “So you left at 5 then? And the parrot is still at the library suffocating inside of your bag?”

“It has air-holes; I’m not stupid. You are freaking out way more than usual about this bird. I thought you didn’t like it very much.”

“You know it’s a gift from my grandmother. It’s the last thing I have to remember her by.” We stopped, already at our destination.

“That’s awfully sentimental of you, you of all people.” I noticed he was right. Since when did I care so much for the parrot? If it was lost, normally I would put up a few posters indicating there is a lost parrot, and calmly wait for a reply. If there is no reply, then there’s nothing else I could do about it. It is a loss, but one I would have to accept. I would think, considering it is a live animal, the likelihood of escape is moderately high anyway. In this case, since we already know where it is, the problem is solved, and if not, then we continue as far as we can, until it is no longer realistically feasible. And yet, I feel an indescribable anxiety.

“I can assure you that I have no such power.”

“Wild, bro. Then what’s it doing on your shoulder?”

“Same reason my bag is slung over my back.”

“I don’t get it.”

Mercifully, the elevator doors revealed our destination. “Take care, stranger.” I was in no rush, but clearly this conversation was not going to go in any direction of worth to me.

“Later, Birdman!”

“Bye, bye, dear!” The bird shouted in response. I could hear a raucous laughter bouncing off the hallways behind me peppered with an ”Oh, man!” or two. I chose not to dally around. “Bright and sunny day,” it responded as I walked into the open sunlight. Luckily, today was a weekend, meaning I didn’t have to go into lecture with this bird. I often drew stares, but I sat in the back, and the parrot nested on my lap, so there weren’t any tangible problems. I fed it almonds, and it stayed quiet, keeping me company as I took notes. Why? Well, the bird gets really lonely. It enjoys the company of humans, so in that regard, it is a needy fellow, but I didn’t mind too terribly. I guess deep down inside, I was the same way.

“Aren’t people just so fascinating, poodle?” The parrot grows more excited and increasingly animated in bigger crowds of people. I shut him up with an almond. The people on the campus bus took turns staring. I’m not anti-social or anything like that, so being the center of attention wasn’t uncomfortable, but it grew a little tedious.

And right on schedule, the murmuring begins. “I thought it was just a Facebook joke…” I’m being talked about on Facebook of all places? ”Can’t believe he just takes a parrot around with him.” Neither can I. ”It’s kinda cute, right?” Well… ”Poodle?” Long story.

I got off at Fifth Street, where Michiru “Mitch” Shimamoto lived. Since I had to go grocery shopping and meet some people off campus, it wouldn’t just be unwise but outright dangerous to take it along with me.

“What’s up?” Mitch lived on the other side of the campus. He was a strange guy, probably stranger than me. Ethnically, he’s Japanese, but culturally, about as American as they come. He absolutely abhors anything to do with Japan and hates his heritage. I never bothered asking, but he’s a reliable guy, so it doesn’t make a difference.

“Why are you in a pirate costume?” Why was he in a pirate costume?

“I’m taking care of your parrot, right?” That doesn’t answer my question, but he said it as if he believed it did.

“Yeah, for the day, but,” Did I really have to ask again? “Why are you in a pirate costume?”

“Am I not taking care of your parrot?!” Mitch had the tendency to grow irrationally angry. He’s kind of a bad ass, in that regard. Luckily, he had the build to back it up. He was as tall and fit as an Olympian, being somewhat obsessed with athletics. Last time I checked he was in the process of dominating the amateur ping pong leagues, after having trained for and participating in a triathlon. He was a strange guy.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Unlike him, I kept my cool. The first one to lose his cool, loses, after all. Loses what? That’s not important.

“Motherfucker, I am about to go out on the town in full pirate garb with a parrot on my shoulder, need I say more?!” The parrot grew excited from the loud noises, unintentionally hitting its wings against my head. Mitch grinned; he must have thought this meant the parrot agreed. Or he was amused because the parrot was slapping my head.

“You can’t take it out. That’s the whole reason I’m having you watch over it.”

“But it’s almost Halloween, man. In like, three days.” I had forgotten about that. It was October 29th, so Mitch was still slightly off.

“What? That doesn’t matter. I can’t have the parrot escaping into outside.”

“Don’t you let it ride around on your shoulder? What’s stopping it from escaping now?” An imaginary training montage flitted through my head. I shook it away. Grandmother’s training was no doubt part of the reason why.

“If you can’t tell, there’s a string attached to its leg.” It was true. I make sure to keep it on a leash just in case such a situation should arise. Better safe than sorry.

“Then what’s the big deal? I’ll keep it on the string.”

“I’d rather not risk it, Mitch. You said you were staying home all day today right? To do homework?”

“Yeah, but… Whatever, fine, gimme the stupid bird. What’s its name?”

Name? Name…? I never did give the bird a name. In the three months that I’ve had it, it never really crossed my mind. What would I call it? What would it respond to?

“It’s name is…” It hit me like a truck. “…Poodle.”

“Poodle the Parrot?” His left eyebrow bolted upwards at a speed I have never witnessed.

“Yes.” A good poker face is the key to a good bluff.

“…” And did it work? I didn’t want to look foolish and say that I had just been calling it “parrot” or “bird” this entire time. “Dude, that’s a retarded name. This is like the time you named your dog Mark.”

“What’s wrong with Mark? Mark is a perfectly legitimate name.” Why am I arguing? This means he believed it, right?

“For a person, yeah. Besides, you called it Mark because it had a mark on its belly. That is stupid as hell.” Mitch cackled as viciously as possible. At least it worked. He often did things like this purely to get a response out of me. “Hey, Poodle, your owner is pretty uncreative, huh?”

“Treat people with love and compassion, poodle.” The parrot spoke directly to Mitch, as if in response to what he said. Was this bird sentient? Or was it triggered by being talked to with the word Poodle? Usually it would only speak to me, and at random, often inconvenient, intervals.

“What the hell do you teach this bird?”

“I’ll tell you when I get back. Just watch him for five hours, that’s all I ask.”

“Yeah, yeah, fine. I’ll try and teach him some cool phrases while you’re out.” He was no doubt going to try and make the bird pick up creepy phrases that could never be uttered in public, making life more difficult for me. Though I have faith in grandmother’s abilities, I wasn’t sure if she installed a read-only feature on Poodle, I mean… the parrot.

I bid my farewells and left his apartment. Though there was a no-pet policy for the on-campus apartments, I was friends with my resident advisor, so I sorted that out fairly easily. As for Mitch, he insisted that he could take care of any potential hassle.

Now that I think about it, maybe I do know the reason why he hates his own culture so much. He once told me a story, fueled by five shots of Jaegermeister and about half a liter of Absolut. When he was ten years old, he had still lived in Japan, with his parents and his conservative grandmother. Apparently, he was forced to study and attend after-school tutoring courses even at that early age, to become a successful doctor like his father. His grandmother, however, was a bitter, angry woman, descended from a line of fallen nobility, and she was an advocate of corporal punishment. She would beat him for the slightest offense, for the slightest misstep, until one day. Struck by innocent, youthful love, he had invited his elementary school sweetheart over to play at his house. She was, however, from a less than reputable family. His grandmother cruelly banished her from the house, and declared that he must never associate with such a girl. She then punished him by thrashing his legs with a bamboo sword until he admitted he had done something wrong. The ten year old Michiru Shimamoto would not falter. His anger silently boiled within himself, as he adamantly defied her until she grew weary of hitting him. He told me that she kept screaming “Kneel! And apologize! Apologize for your mistake!” He did not. Ultimately, his mother tore him away from his grandmother. There was some internal family drama, and the result was that he and his mother moved to the United States. It was a vivid story, one that could trigger goosebumps to appear on my skin. I imagined this young boy, his face covered in tears, and yet his eyes showing a fiercer determination than what most grown men could muster, fighting for pride, fighting for love, fighting for dignity. Mitch was kind of a bad ass.

As I had these thoughts, I noticed I had already finished my grocery shopping for the week.

This parrot would have me believe otherwise. It was a well-intended gift from my late grandmother. Although they say the road to Hell is paved with good intentions… But I shouldn’t say that. That would be disrespectful, and that is the last thing I wish to be. Allow me to explain. I suppose by most accounts, I could be construed as a pessimist. My atomic family: mother, father, and older brother, all call me a pessimist. This, shall I say, rumor spread beyond our cozy walls to my lovely grandmother, an overbearing woman who has known nothing but hard work and success in her long life. My mother says she is the whole reason I am able to afford, nay, attend college now. So for that, I am truly thankful. No, really, I mean no acridity or sarcasm. She has been a financial blessing and boon my entire life, and I, for one, know how rare it is to find such thoughtfulness and compassion in this world of ours. Whatever God may be out there, rest her soul.

Her most remarkable trait, however, was perhaps her ingenuity. Allow me to explain, again. This parrot was a gift from my late grandmother, who, quite contrary to my own personality, was ever the optimist. She believed that life was an inherently happy and good thing. Though I never had enough opportunities to jot down her beliefs and philosophies, I could understand at least that much from our limited encounters. New Years, Easter, Thanksgiving, Christmas, she would deliver with that grandmotherly tone you would only expect to hear in movies or holiday commercials those proverbs rife with pithy optimism. She was as stubborn as a block of cement, this is what I’ve come to expect from her, and, much like sleeping pills, something I’ve built a tolerance for.

So perhaps now you’ve come to understand what I don’t need to say. The parrot was a gift from my late grandmother. For what reason? Oh, the devious woman must be laughing in her heaven. According to her will, she had been training it for nearly ten years already, raised it from the moment it struggled and clawed out of the egg. A bright green Amazon Parrot, the bird did manage to make an impression on me with its intelligence. It looks expensive, and though it is most likely attributable entirely to my imagination, it appears to be prideful. Aware of its own worth, aware of how much better it is than the average pet store parrot. It is like it knows it was bred from superior stock, destined for greatness. Though it is most likely entirely my imagination.

“Wake up, poodle!” The bird cooed. Every morning, I was greeted by that grandmotherly tone. The bird speaks to me. This is perhaps what is most disturbing about it. My grandmother, rest her devious soul, must have taught it to speak by pretending to speak to me. “Another bright and sunny day, hm, poodle?” Funniest thing. The dratted bird knew what to say depending on the weather. Whenever it was cloudy, it would say something like “Keep yourself dry, poodle~” or something.

According to the brief instructions that came with the parrot, it was housebroken, and did not like being caged up. Since I didn’t want the bird perching on the shelves or scratching the counter tops, I just let it ride around on my shoulder. It was practical, and I get the feeling it liked it. Thank goodness it was housebroken, but honestly I wasn’t sure if that was even possible. Two words that encapsulated my grandmother: work and success.

I stared at myself in the mirror. Were I a lesser man, I might have wanted to pretend to be a pirate, but I wasn’t one for such whimsy. The parrot steadied itself, cocking its head back and forth as I brushed my teeth. “You always did take such good care of your teeth.” This parrot was beginning to creep me out. “Another bright and sunny day?” It bugged me enough that my grandmother called me poodle, even in public, such as high school graduation, but to see the bird mimicking her style of speech is a tad unsettling. The story goes my brother and I pretended to be dogs when I was too young to know embarrassment. When my grandmother asked what kind of dogs we were, my brother was a German shepherd. I, the reasoning I could not begin to reconstruct today, decided to be a poodle. And thus the legend was conceived.

“Aren’t you such a handsome man.” I am average at best, grandmother. It was grooming itself over my desk chair as I got into a change of clothes. “Today is another opportunity, poodle~” And so was yesterday, grandmother. I clicked my tongue and the parrot glided onto my shoulder. As annoying as this flying Hallmark card might have been, it was a good companion. I grabbed an almond from a bag on my bookshelf and tossed it into the air, and almost like clockwork, it landed smoothly into the parrot’s beak. It ruffled its feathers, but otherwise did not make a single noise. Another remarkable trait, it rarely makes any normal squawking sounds. Actually, I would prefer the bird calls to the grandmother from beyond the grave.

Her best friend, Jean, was mourning the loss of her beloved mother on this windy March day. The grave was splendid and ornate, covered in flowers like an altar. The low angle of the sun flooded the scene with a warm orange. Breathtaking even in solemnity.

The funeral was long over, and it was a beautiful affair, relatives and acquaintances, all arriving dressed in their best attire, paying their respects. Jean hated all of it. Her father had done something so unnecessary, she believed. It trivialized her death, so that once the funeral was over, it was just time to move on and forget. Would any of those attendees remember her mother, Carol, after the funeral was over? Perhaps only when she’s brought up in casual conversation like some weekly topic of gossip. The very thought made her want to vomit.

Her throat was sore. She was often told by her mother what a wonderful child she was, one who brought nothing but joy to her life. Carol would tell the story to anyone she met with such a silly sense of maternal pride: Jean had never cried once as a baby. When she fell and badly scraped her knee in kindergarten, the teacher said found her laughing and playing, with the bottom half of her skirt drenched in blood. When she broke up with her first middle school sweetheart, she laughed it off within the hour. But now, she was choking on the first tears of her life. Even after her pet puppy was killed, she smiled the entire time as she gently buried the body and promised she would see him again in heaven. That was a more innocent time.

“My voice hurts…”

Andrea looked up in surprise. They were the first words Jean said all day. She smiled weakly, trying to lighten the air, “Stupid, voices can’t hurt.”

“…Every part of me hurts so much, Andrea.” It was a very weak rasp. “…I don’t want to go back right now.” Her light frame shook violently, trying to hold back another wave. “I don’t want to go home.”

“You can stay at my house, if you want. There’s no way my… uhh… parents… um, could say no.” She tip-toed her way around her words. A few seconds of awkward silence… “Hey, we can have a sleepover tonight. Just like way back then. What do you say?” She helped Jean up by the arm gently. The daughter never took her eyes off her mother’s grave.

“I’d really like that.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Five days before the funeral, Andrea went searching for Jean, who hadn’t showed up at school that day.

Andrea was greeted at the doorstep by Martin Labanch, Jean’s father. “Hi, Mr. Labanch. Is Jean here? She wasn’t at school today, and she isn’t picking up or anything.”

“Oh, I- Andrea. You should probably come back tomorrow, Jean isn’t feeling well.”

“Is she alright? She’s not hurt or anything, right?”

Jean appeared from behind the door. “Who’s that? Is that you, Andrea? Couldn’t take a day without me, huh?” She appeared to be in high spirits, but something was amiss.

“What happened? Are you sick? You’re not just skipping school for fun, right?”

“Dad, I’m going to go out for a bit with Andrea, okay?”

He nodded wordlessly. As Jean left, her father escorted the two girls to the sidewalk outside of the apartment building. Andrea noticed that the two Labanch seemed very quiet; which was nearly the complete opposite of how they typically act around her. They were a very loud family, but it was heartwarming, in a way. Andrea could recall being completely overwhelmed the first time she was invited over for dinner with them.

“Is everything okay? You aren’t acting very normal.”

“Oh, am I being abnormal? Maybe you’re the abnormal one.” Jean forced a chuckle, coming off as noticeably phony and weighted.

“Don’t make me repeat myself; are you feeling okay?” Andrea asked again. She wasn’t going to let something this obvious slide.

Jean grew quiet. The two of them continued walking down the sidewalk, passing by various shops and venues. They covered three blocks before finally, “My mom is dead.”

“…” Andrea’s head spun, mouth slightly ajar, to face her friend, who she found to be staring at her feet. In reality, Jean was watching the ground for the entire walk. “…I…Woah, I’m so sorry. Umm… wow, so, how are you then? Are you-?”

“I’m fine. She killed herself, you know? I can’t believe this could happen. But I don’t hate her for it. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t…”

“I believe you, but, are you really okay? I mean… can I ask what happened then?”

“I’d rather not talk about it right now, Andrea.” The ever-gregarious Jean was reduced to this state of uncharacteristic meekness. Andrea felt uncomfortable, like a subtle discomfort one feels when sleeping in another person’s bedroom. “I don’t even know what I’m doing out here. Let’s go back.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

On the past New Years Day, two girls were sitting on a park bench musing about resolutions.

“Well, it’s not just a New Years resolution. I’m definitely going to do this for real.”

“What’s going on in that head of yours now?”

“I’m joining the Peace Corps after high school, only for a year. I think it’ll be a lot of fun!”

“No way, that sounds like a waste of time.”

“I know you secretly want to tag along, come on!”

“Peace Corps? Helping, like, tribal villagers and stuff? Nah. Way too much work for me. No thanks.”

“…I was sorta looking forward to both of us going together. It won’t be as much fun if I go alone, Andrea.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Moments after the funeral, the recently widowed Mr. Labanch approached Andrea; his face showed no emotion. Creepy, she thought.

“She hasn’t been the same lately, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“Yeah… she’s taking it really hard…” Andrea replied back. She didn’t often talk to her best friend’s dad, but she felt as if she was obligated to, or something.

“I know I don’t need to ask this of you, but I feel like there’s little else I can do.”

“Mr. Labanch?”

“My daughter… Jean… I’m worried sick for her but I’m completely powerless here, I’m sure you understand.”

“Yeah, sure, but what is it you want me to do?”

“Jean needs you, Andrea, now more than ever. As her father, I understand the role I play here, and it’s not what Jean needs.” He appeared to become smaller and smaller as he spoke. His shoulders sagged and his chest shrunk in.

“I don’t quite get what you’re saying…” She matched his movements, leaning in slightly.

“Jean was very close to her mother, a thousand times more so than with me. I understand I’m not the person she goes to for emotional security, and I also understand that she’s in a very fragile state right now, which is why I ask you to just watch out for her.” Andrea finally understood what it was he looked like: a cornered man with no hope of escape. A man so sure of his death that panic was unnecessary.

“If you’re asking me to be her friend, you don’t have to worry.”

“Not just a friend — much more than that. I want you to be like a sister to her… I’m sorry for pushing all of this on you, Andrea, I just don’t have the confidence that I could do it myself. For Jeanie’s sake…”

“Oh, you don’t have to ask. You’re not pushing anything at all.”

“That’s good, I knew I could rely on you.” He seemed relieved, now a man who has already accepted his death. The imagery was a bit morbid, she thought. He slunk away towards his car, Actually, he had caught her at the gate about to leave. She felt it’d be hypocritical to just abandon Jean as soon as the conversation ended. She went back.

Andrea realized it too late, and wished she could have told Mr. Labanch before they parted ways. It was pretty amazing how sympathetic he was to his daughter, and yet he felt he could not have helped her. He was far too humble; he probably understood everything and yet… why didn’t he have the confidence…?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Did you know? Those brownies my mom taught us to make…”

“I remember those! They sure weren’t normal brownies…”

“She called them ‘Atom Bombs.’”

“My mouth didn’t stop burning for an hour, I swear.”

“Hahaha, she thought you loved them, so she would make them all the time.”

“It wasn’t just cinnamon was it?”

“She put in cayenne pepper, and other stuff. She always said spicy things makes your stomach stronger.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Just like the time she showed up at school and bought everyone in class lunch.”

“It was only cafeteria food. Weren’t you even a little bit embarrassed?”

“No way, besides, that was my 5th grade birthday party. How could I be embarrassed at my own party?”

“You amaze me sometimes, Jean. I don’t know if that’s over-awareness or under-awareness.”

“Nobody in the world would do that for me but her…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Mom and Dad met in the Peace Corps.”

“I don’t think you ever told me that. Is that why you want to go so badly?”

“To find a boyfriend? No no no, I wanted to go because it’s something I want to do.”

“Wanted? Do you not want to any more?”

“I still want to go, but at the same time not really.”

“Huh?”

“It’s a weird feeling. I’m afraid if I go all I’ll think about is my parents.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a long night. They talked about a lot of things, but somehow the conversation always turned to Jean’s mother. Andrea was curled up on the couch with a fluffy blanket, and Jean was on the nearby recliner in the same position with a blanket of her own. They were watching television, but neither girl was paying attention.

“Do you want to know how she died?” Jean murmured, her face partially covered by her knees.

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“No, I want to. This is me being selfish, so just listen, okay?”

“Okay…” Andrea felt that same discomfort. She shifted and fidgeted into the couch.

“I said it was suicide before right? It’s a bit more complicated than that. She sort of developed a drinking problem, recently.”

“No way, I never noticed…” She was genuinely surprised at this. Although she hadn’t been to Jean’s house or met her mother for a few months, she wouldn’t have dreamed that Mrs. Labanch would be a drinker. Jean stayed quiet, as if expecting more.

“I know you’re curious, and you aren’t asking out of etiquette, so I’ll tell you anyway. It was apparently a big issue for her when she was in college and high school. She quit and then met my dad afterward. But lately she slipped back into it, and then one night… that night… there was an accident. It was really late, and I think she wanted to throw up, so she opened the window…” Her voice cracked as she spoke.

“You can stop, Jean. Please, just stop.”

“I heard her scream. I never heard such a bone-chilling sound in my entire life. I could imagine the sequence in my head, you know: she opens the window, manages to open the screen, she leans over to vomit, but she leans over just a bit too much, she screams, and I lie in bed, half-asleep…” Every so often she would pause for a short gasp. Her face was fully buried into the blanket, perhaps in some vain attempt to shelter herself from her own sorrow.

“Stop talking! I don’t want to hear it, Jean!” Andrea felt like she was about to cry, too.

“I want you to hear it, Andrea! I want you to hear how I could have saved her if I was just a little bit faster! I did nothing but shuffle into the room rubbing my eyes! I saw her, Andrea! I saw her as she tipped over the edge! Do you know what the last word was out of her mouth before she fell fifteen stories?!” Andrea looked up to meet her gaze. Her face was contorted in a way she had never seen before. She placed the words for it: burning, acidic guilt. It probably ate away at her until she felt like a powerless, empty husk. Like a specter that haunted her. She wanted to tell somebody, anybody, what she was feeling, but was afraid to confront the thought herself.

“No, Jean, please…”

“It was my name.”

“I-I don’t know what to say.”

“Tell me it wasn’t my fault, Andrea. Tell me there was nothing I could do… Tell me that… tell me that she wasn’t expecting me to save her at the very end…”

“There’s nobody you can blame for this, not your mother or yourself… She loved you, that’s why she called out your name.”

Neither girl spoke. The television continued, unconcerned with the drama playing out before it. Did I say the right thing?, she wondered.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Though I am trapped in glass abyss:

Cruel prison of self-imposition.

Mind oblivion, and spiral focus,

Notice non-linear oscillations.

Is it all deterministic?

(I see chaos, and disorder)

Is it all probabilistic?

(Random, random, thoughts asunder!)

Chaos! It the theme, the rhyme! The trumpet!

Acolytes will preach the song

Of invisible mechanics!

Warcry of the soul, they march furlongs

For knowledge! Wealth and glory!

Men driven to understand, divine

Unknowable oracle prophecies.

When driven sane, just what is it that drives?

Within the madness is a structure –

Built requirement of imposition.

Artifact intangible: unsure

Is man’s desire for that attribution.

He declares atop the hill, alive,

Aflare, of cries illumination:

“We can see a path in time!

Trajectories are sensitive

To the initial conditions!”

A hush, no murmur, lifeless silence,

Yes, the mass beheld this without speech.

His words were heard with no amazement,

Not with questions, nor with heed.

What is it that they felt, could feel?

Besides confusion, for the salience,

Lost on liberal arts students.