In one fluid motion, Dad unhooked the binoculars from his neck as Mara raised her hand to accept them. She pinned them between the window and her brow, then peered inside.
I remembered the camera at my side and turned it on. “Think they’ll come closer?” I asked.
“Shh,” Mara said.
I scowled playfully, but she didn’t see. Her eyes were enamored with the binoculars. “What are they called?” she asked my father.
“They’re Bald Eagles,” he said, matching her revenant tone.
“I mean... what are they really called?”
Dad cleared his throat. “Haliaeetus leucocephalus.”
“Haly-aytus luco-cefalis...” Mara’s voice disappeared into whispered awe. “They’re magnificent.”
Mom bounced Fantasia and blew a bubble in the baby’s tummy.
I twisted the zoom and focused on the specks a hundred miles away. I respected the creatures; they were graceful, majestic and a neat symbol for our country. But despite my patience–despite my twelve-year-old need to operate on the same level as my father–I never felt the joy that held him captive for days at a time in that tower.
For ten minutes we watched the animals soar. When the excitement waned, I lowered my camera and turned my attention to Dad. He wasn’t watching the eagles, but the intensity in Mara’s eyes.
Mom rubbed his back. “The baby’s getting fussy,” she said and pecked his cheek. “I’m proud of you.”
He kissed her forehead. “Take care of Fantasia. I’ll make lunch for the kids.”
When Mom was gone, Mara gave the binoculars back to Dad. “Thanks, Mr. Parker,” she said, her finger twirling a thread on her loose-fitting tee. “That made my day.”
“Mine too, sweetheart.” Dad slipped the binoculars into their sheath, then turned around and squinted through the rear window and into the woods.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Looks like we have some fellow birdwatchers.”
My heart sunk between my stomach and bowels. I closed my eyes and prayed to all things sacred that the kids were A.J. or Trent or Danny or Ryan; somebody who was already obsessed; somebody I could manage.
I took the binoculars, held them to my eyes, and sifted the view through the timber and green. Sure enough, three boys stood frozen beside that bastard tree. They weren’t bullies. They were new.
“Woohoo!” It was Livy. Her exhilaration shook the tower’s foundation.
Mara and I exchanged a confused glance. She shrugged.
“Yeehaw!” Livy cried again from the base of the ballroom stairs. “Guess who’s got a boyfriend!”
* * *
I once stared for an hour at Dad’s humming-bird feeders, watching the tiny creatures zip from bottle to bottle, tree to tree, never stopping for more than a millisecond before fluttering away.
“When I gave him the note, he wasn’t ready for a relationship.” Livy zipped to her bedroom, dropped her duffle on the mattress, then fluttered back through the parlor with an armful of dirty clothes. “But that was three months ago and now he totally changed his mind!”
Mara swiveled on the piano stool. I leaned against the keys with a clatter of high-pitched tones.
Livy blew past us and into the kitchen. She opened the dumbwaiter door and shoved her laundry into the pit (a basket would catch her clothes at the bottom). “I knew it,” she said as she skipped back to her room. “That day in the library; I was putting his makeup on and he looked at me and said, ‘This is so cool.’ He was talking about the house, but the way he said it... it was like he was telling me that I was cool.” She was practically dancing as she gathered her second armful of clothes. “Haley’s totally wiggin’ out. She was all, ‘You’re like a black Kim Bassinger and Ryan’s like Alec Baldwin.’”
Mom slunk from her bedroom and quietly closed the door. “How that baby gets a wink of sleep in this house, I’ll never know.” She came up behind me and brushed the part in my hair. “Are Ryan and Livy ‘a thing’ now?”
I was too livid to respond; too busy ruminating about Mara’s internal dialogue as my sister gloated about their mutual crush.
Livy ignored Mom’s presence and used her feet to sort a pile of shirts in her doorway. “Do you think he’ll be embarrassed ‘cause I’m younger? Will it be weird for him to tell his friends that he’s dating an eighth-grader?” She found a suitable shirt and stepped behind her door. “I mean, it’s not weird for me. At school I’ll be all like, ‘No, my boyfriend doesn’t go here; he’s in high school.’ Eeee!” She reemerged in the new tee, tucked the hem in her purple shorts, and bounded across the parlor to Mara. “I need a makeover, Mara Lynn. And you’re my gal!” Livy searched for a smile in her friend’s petrified expression. Then she remembered. “Aww, man,” she said. “I’m such a jerk.” She knelt down and smoothed Mara’s hair. “How’ve you been feelin’?”
“I’ve been fine, silly,” Mara said. “I’m so excited for you.”
Livy touched Mara’s chin. “Remember what I told you, hon. Focus on your new family and never forget they love you. And take it from me: amazing adoptive parents are better than crappy biological parents any day of the week.”
The next series of interactions played out in slow motion. Mara touched Livy’s wrist. Her lip raised just enough to suggest a half-hearted thank you, then returned to complacency. She braced her hand on the piano’s ledge and inadvertently pressed a low “D” that reverberated as she stood. “I forgot to clean Dorothy’s litter box,” she said.
Livy looked at Mom.
Mara turned and walked downstairs.
“What was that all about?”
Mom hugged Livy in the folds of her marinara-stained apron. “Give her time, sweetheart,” she said. “And tell me all about your special friend.”
Within minutes, Livy had resumed her animated rant. Dad joined us moments later. The giddiness from the eagle sighting was still evident in his stride. He made a crack about his princess being “all grown up,” then questioned her about the intentions of her “evil prince.”
As my sister assured her inquisitors she was old enough to date, I wandered to the mirror between Livy’s room and my own. I studied my physique through a frame of etched roses, quietly scrutinizing flat moles that peppered my neck and eyes that would never be so blue.
“Ryan and his dad are practicing parallel parking tonight,” Livy said. “They’re gonna stop by to say ‘hi.’”
I watched my parent’s skepticism through the mirror. With any luck, they’d figure out that Ryan Brosh was a villain and file an immediate restraining order.
“I have a boyfriend with a learner’s permit!” Livy said. “The girls are gonna freak!” She stopped dancing and met my gaze through the looking glass. “Oh, and James?”
“What.”
“I’m supposed to tell you that if you ever need help editing your movie, Ryan would love to give you a hand!”
Before I could feign gratitude, the doorbell rang.
“What now?” Dad asked.
A woman’s voice crooned from below. “Yoo hoo!”
In the master bedroom, Fantasia cried.
“Not a moment’s peace in the Parker home,” Mom said and the bell rang again.
Dad veered toward the kitchen. “Who’s ready for lunch?”
Livy bounced to the bedroom to check the baby. Mom took the stairs to the foyer and answered the door.
I ran to the top step and sat where they couldn’t see me. Mom’s voice was muffled, though I could hear every word from the trio of ladies.
“Good morning, dear!” said the first.
“Oh,” said another. “What a lovely home!”
“You must be Mrs. Parker,” said the third. “My name is Betsy Hamilton–”
“We call her Hammy for short.”
“And this is Sara Louise–”
“Lovely to meet you, Mrs. Parker.”
“–and this is Samantha Fitzgerald.”
“You can call me Sammy. Sammy and Hammy!
What names for a coupla geezers, eh?”
I could only hear the cordial tone of my mother’s reply.
“We heard–”
“–through the grapevine–”
“That a lovely young lady was... what’s the word?”
“Transferred.”
“Transferred to your home after that witch lost custody.”
Son of a bitch, I thought.
“Is the pretty young thing at home? We made her favorite scones!”
Mom’s voice was sympathetic with a touch of condescension.
“Oh, but we’ll only stay a moment!”
“We have ideas–”
“So many ideas!”
“–to help little Mara pursue her gifts.”
“Our church choir traveled to Paris, you know.”
“We already spoke with Pastor Stevenson and he loves the idea!”
“Chuck Masterson... do you know Chuck? He has a friend in the recording business. Says that if we get started now, we can produce a Christmas album in time for the holidays.”
“Talented young people are so hard to find these days.”
I scooted a step closer and lowered my head, but Mom’s words were impossible to decipher.
“Heavens!” replied one of the women.
“Lydia Grisham was a... what’s that word?”
“Psychopath.”
“That’s right, a psychopath. She was controlling and sadistic–”
“–and disrespectful to that child.”
“But we can’t let the mistakes of a loon ruin it for the rest of us. Mara must be shared! Not just with some old church-ladies, but with the world!”
Mom’s next reply was loud and clear. “I’m sorry, ladies, but today is not a good day for a visit.”
“Perhaps a later date then; to babysit, perhaps!”
“Betsy was a foster parent too, you know.”
“Only three years, but enough to empathize with your situation.”
“She did it for the kids.”
“I did it for the kids.”
The door creaked. Mom replied with controlled etiquette. “I’ll be glad to tell Mara that you stopped by, but I’m afraid–”
“Tell her that Sara Louise is here. That’ll get her out of her hole!”
“We made her favorite scones!”
“If she could just sing for us, we’ll be outta your hair in a jiff. Just one song.”
“One verse!”
“Even a stanza or two!”
Mom’s discomfort was apparent in her voice. “I’m sorry ladies–”
“How much would it cost to persuade you to open this door?”
“We have sixty-five dollars between us.”
“Daniel!” Mom yelled. “Daniel!”
Dad poked his head from the kitchen. “Somebody calling me?”
I gasped, stood, nodded furiously, then pointed to the foyer.
A thump. A slam. “James!” Mom yelled again. “Get your father!”
Dad bolted across the parlor and ran down the steps.
I followed halfway, heard another crash, and watched through the rail as a tapestry of wrinkled flesh and purple hats spilled across the foyer floor.
“Call the police,” Dad said and helped one of the woman off the ground. Scones littered the ground.
“We’re leaving,” said one woman.
“You’ll hafta forgive Sammy,” said another. “She can be a bit pushy–”
“Out,” said my father.
“But–”
He growled. “Get out of my home.”
And when they were gone, he slammed the door behind them.
* * *
What if real life doesn’t follow comic-book rules? This new concept struck me hard as I assembled my mission in the cave, arranging the walkie-talkie and baby monitor on the cardboard box that served as my command center.
There was no doubt that Mara’s superhuman power had real stakes in my life, but in the back of my mind, had I been treating our misadventures like a kid’s movie? The Goonies, Back to the Future, Big, The Neverending Story, films where kids live as undercover spies, superheroes, time travelers, or the sole link to alien life. In these flicks, parents rarely discover the truth about their children’s secret world. They’re oblivious at best; bumbling villains at worst. Not only do they represent logic, reason, and a total lack of imagination, they serve as a direct link to cops, courts and the faceless scientists who tried to hurt E.T.
The only adults who share the plight of children are crazy old people: Doc Brown, Kesuke Miyagi, Scatman Crothers from The Shining... or Ms. Grisham and her cronies.
I pressed the Indiglo button on my watch and my wrist blossomed with teal light. It was 7:39; six minutes before Ryan Brosh would swoop in to woo my sister with his parallel-parking abilities.
He wouldn’t stay in the car, not when he could rub his brilliant scheme in my face. But I had a plan.
I double-checked the baby monitor. The other half was hiding in the basement beside the unfinished guest room where Mara spent quality time with Dorothy. I could hear her through the speaker, playing with her cat and softly anticipating Ryan’s arrival.
I adjusted the volume on the monitor, then set it down and picked up the walkie-talkie. The other headset was stuffed inside the floral arrangement on the dining-room table. For now, I could only hear the TV as my father relaxed in the living room and my sister paced the kitchen.
So far, the movie conventions were holding true in real life. Responsible adults were too busy consuming the drama of O.J. Simpson’s bloody glove, debating the proclamation of “Read my lips!,” or shedding tears for Rwanda. But what if adults did infiltrate our story? They wouldn’t see Mara as The Prettiest Girl in the World, but as a potential rape victim, a serial killer’s skin pajamas, a science project about the existence of pheromones, or undeniable proof of God. They wouldn’t hurt her the way children might with sticks and stones and playground chants, they would dissect her with the unlimited power of “grownup.” Their intent would not be to love her, but to protect her, to use her, to distill her magic into age-defying makeup or the perfect highway billboard. Experiments would not consist of torn yearbook photos or lake-side interviews, but of scientific methods, straightjackets, and insanely long needles. Instead of a little Mexican boy crossing himself at the utterance of her name, grownups were crusaders awaiting their Helen of Troy. Religious leaders would argue about which god bestowed in Mara the power of infinite beauty.
Could the most beautiful girl in the world stay hidden forever? What if Mara’s secret identity didn’t stay a secret? What if the grownups found out?
I was working on my twenty-fifth sit-up when the doorbell rang and the walkie-talkie exploded with Livy’s “Eeee!” The excitement tapered as Mom and Dad followed her down the stairs and out the front door... but Mara stayed in the guest room with Dorothy.
Why didn’t she race outside to see Ryan? Did she have another plan? Mara knew she needn’t feign interest in automobiles to win the heart of Ryan Brosh; perhaps she was letting Livy believe–for as long as possible–that her boyfriend was real.
Although I longed to tear Ryan’s eyes from their soft sockets, I knew a confrontation would make me look stupid in front of Mara. So when the show in the driveway concluded and the pretty-boy ferret was upstairs with my sister, I clenched the walkie-talkie to my ear and stayed put.
Livy wasn’t allowed in the bedroom with a boy. Like I suspected, she and Ryan settled in the dining room as Mom and Dad made their presence known in the kitchen with the exaggerated clanking of pans.
I placed bets with myself on how long it would take Ryan to ask about Mara. It wouldn’t be his first question (that would be too obvious), but the itch would grow quickly.
The walkie-talkie crackled like torn cellophane, but Ryan’s voice slid clearly through the transmission. “Where’s your little brother?” he asked.
Livy was slow to reply. I imagined her leaning back in
the dining-room chair, balancing on the hind legs, dumbstruck by that cute conniver, doing her best to stay cool. “James is in bed,” she replied. “Said he wasn’t feeling well.”
Ryan gave a sympathetic groan. “Poor guy. I was hoping he’d show me a cut of the movie.”
“You did an awesome job driving tonight,” Livy said.
“My instructor says I’m a defensive driver. I told him it’s ‘cause I play basketball.”
The phone rang and created a momentary rift in the conversation. Mom must have picked up, because it didn’t ring again.
“Where are the twins?” Ryan asked.
Clever. He was asking about the rest of the family first so it wouldn’t look suspicious when he finally asked about Mara.
“With a new family,” Livy replied, then lowered her voice until it was barely audible. “Mom had them transferred after Bobby pulled out his... you know what.”
“Whoa,” Ryan said. “Strict parents! I thought little boys are always whipping out their dongs.”
Livy giggled. “Guess it was the last straw.”
In the silence that followed, I pictured my sister leaning forward, quietly implying to Ryan that a quick kiss on the cheek would go unnoticed by our hovering parents. I pictured Ryan too, tapping his foot against the table, itching to find the girl he actually came to see.
“So...” Livy said, “your dad is cool with waiting in the car?”
“He’s fine.” Ryan said. “I sent him to Walmart to kill time. Where’s Mara?”
And blastoff!
“M-Mara...?” The static did little to hide the pain in my sister’s voice. “I’m not sure. She’s been spending a lot of time in the basement.”
“How’s she been? With her parents dying and all...”
“They died a long time ago, silly.”
“Right. But it’s still sad. She’s taking it well?”
“She’s... fine. Great even. It’s kinda weird.”
“We should all go out sometime. Bowling, maybe shoot some hoops.”
“Yeah.”
“After all, I need to show off my...” he lowered his voice for dramatic effect, “new girlfriend!”
Just as Ryan had planned, Livy’s excitement at the word “girlfriend” distracted her from the implications of his next question: “Can I use the restroom?”
* * *
Unlike the discrete walkie-talkie, the baby monitor had to be tethered to a wall socket for power. I pictured the device tucked inside the exercise basket outside the unfinished guest room, and prayed to Mara’s saints that the little red light was hidden from view.