One morning, sometime before I woke up, Rachel transformed into a flock of birds, though flock might not be appropriate, since each of them is completely unique. There's a woodpecker, a falconet, a barn swallow, a pelican, a crane, two turtle-doves, and a red cardinal. It's the jovial cardinal, that little scamp, that I thank for getting me out of bed that first day without her. That morning I awoke to the sound of flapping wings, like dozens of sheets shaken out, and looked over to find a flurry of activity under the covers. I threw them back, and the birds flew out, making themselves at home on the floor lamp and bookshelf. I strained my ears for the sounds of Rachel around the house. She was the early riser; she liked to pace around as she drank her coffee, and for a moment I thought I heard her pattering into the room. I readied myself for her, curious if she'd be pleased with the birds, but it was just the crane peeking its head in to see if we had finally woken up.
And that crane might've had to watch me lay in bed all day long, but the little cardinal flew right up to my face, even as I tried to hide under the covers. He found his way inside, and in the dim, blanket-filtered light, I saw the shock of red feathers bursting from his head, and a glint in his little, polished-pebble eyes. It was the glint Rachel got when she would pounce on me, trying to get me in a full nelson. I recognized it from our dinners out, too. When, by candle-light, she would spur me into debate, somehow inspiring total belief in a cause and then maneuvering me to argue against myself, all before desert. Rachel wasn't just a fighter, she was a winner, and even when her victories were over me she found a way to share the glory. I had only been dead an hour before the cardinal gave me some of her fire, and with that small spark, I set out to do what I could for the birds.
After some cursory research I returned from the Nature Shop and ate lunch with my birds. The falconet had been hunting in the backyard since I left and seemed to have her fill, but the rest of them were peckish. I splurged on the deluxe seed blend, which the cardinal, swallow, turtle-doves, woodpecker, and crane all ate with gusto. But the pelican, with its cavernous pouch, needed fish, and it was clear after it gobbled my reserve of frozen salmon filets that we would head to the ocean.
The pelican seemed to understand my intentions as soon as I put on my shoes, as she walked right at my heels out the door. We were followed by everyone else except the crane, who instead lounged in a sunbeam in the living room. The early riser needs her afternoon nap, I thought, picturing Rachel curled up on the couch, sleeping soundly with her shoes still on.
The pelican rode shotgun, while the turtle-doves squatted in the cupholders, and the swallow perched on my shoulder. The cardinal and falconet engaged in some competition in the backseat.
It was a bright winter day, and the pelican's white wings were almost painful to look at as she circled the sea. While the pelican looked for fish, the falconet dug for sand fleas. Rachel loved to sit in the surf and dig her hands in as the tide left. She would hold a chunk of sand and pick out all the fleas, looking at each of them as if they were a new discovery, and then she'd drop them and watch as they burrowed back down. She could do this for hours, said she'd been doing it all her life, but she never even knew they were called sand fleas until I told her.
I sat on the sand, watching the turtle doves running from the waves on their skinny pink legs. All the birds were out playing or hunting, but the little swallow sat right in front of me. She played in the loose sand, dipping her head down and then bringing it up, the grains rolling off her feathers like little droplets of water.
A smacking sound brought my attention back to the sea, and to the absence of the pelican in the air. I knew that she must've dived, that diving was the goal of circling, but the waves appeared rocky and threatening. A few moments passed, and the pelican remained gone from my sight. I sprang up and ran to the shore. A choking panic took hold of me, frothing up like seafoam. The image of her body snapped apart, her bony wings fractured to pieces, flashed through my mind as I hurdled into the surf. Just as the cold began to buckle my knees, I saw her emerge from the sea. She waited for me on the shore, water spilling out of her gullet, taking in my sopping, rigid khakis. She eyed me as if to say, You can get yourself so worked up. I heard it like Rachel was standing right behind me.
The pelican slept in the car, her big, awkward head rolling against the window, and when we arrived back home she awoke to the sight of the house without a trace of surprise. Once inside, the birds gathered in the bathroom. The smallest of them perched by the sink, while the crane and pelican stood in the tub. I turned both faucets on, and the birds washed themselves, dipping under the running water or dunking their heads in the growing pools. All at once, it seemed, they finished and flapped themselves dry. A flurry of water, like rain from all sides, flew around the bathroom. The sudden chaos took me by surprise, and I found myself laughing, delighted. My delight continued as the birds waddled out of the bathroom, each gait displaying so much of the personality already made apparent to me; the cardinal's saunter, the woodpecker's hop, the cranes' silken stride.
Once the rest of them had left, and my laughing had dissolved into a vacant smile, the little swallow came up to me, dripping, with expectant eyes. Is that you? I thought, Did you choose the humble swallow? I waited for an answer, but the swallow had no words, and she shuttered, looking cold. I grabbed a towel, held it out, and she fluttered in. As softly as I could, I dried her off. I laid the towel down, revealing a downy ball, twittering away.
Soon all the birds had found places to roost, and I was alone in bed. In the dark, silence spread over the house, a silence only possible in Rachel's absence, as she was just the noisiest sleeper. She would turn over constantly, the friction of her pajama shirt making all kinds of color noise on the sheet and comforter. She claimed she never snored, but conceded that her open-mouthed breathing could be heard from just down the hall. And when, for one reason or another, we spent a night apart, I would tease her about her noise, about how well I'd slept without her. I wished I could tell her I didn't mean it, that I needed to hear her next to me, but how could I have known? How could I have known about the birds?
In the darkness, I heard a rustling. The curtains were drawn back, exposing our big window, featuring a cloudless night. The crane stepped into the center of the frame, spreading her wings to their full size, spanning the entire window. The silhouette of her long neck curved, a crescent framed by moonlight.
Rachel was gone, and much too soon, but my birds are the prettiest I've ever known.