And then it comes back to me: I may not even be here in the fall.
That night in bed, I can’t seem to fall asleep. Watching the curtains move in the warm spring breeze, I can smell spring. The narcissus bulbs we planted last fall by the clinic’s small parking lot are blooming like crazy; their smell perfumes the whole front yard and wafts up through my window. And I smell something else—the rich green smell of the earth coming back to life. New York never smelled like this at night. I wonder, what do L.A. nights smell like—car exhaust fumes? How can people there enjoy spring when they never have winter?
A scene from one of my favorite movies, The Wizard of Oz, pops into my head. Mom and I must have watched it a thousand times. It’s that scene where Dorothy closes her eyes, clicks her ruby slippers together, and murmurs over and over, “There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home,” as she waits for the magic to take her home where she belongs.
But where do I belong? Where’s my home? I don’t even know anymore.
As I drift off to sleep, an owl hoots in the distance, a lonely sound. And then I think I hear another sound, so far away I’m not even sure if it’s real or I’m dreaming: the distant squawk of a parrot. This place isn’t the parrots’ real home, either. But I want to help them feel at home here in Ambler—just as I do.
Chapter Five
Sunday morning I wake up late and stretch in the sunlight like a contented cat. Sneakers yaps when he hears me stirring and leaps onto my stomach.
“Sneakers!” I shriek, grabbing him as I sit up, glad he’s just a lightweight mutt and not a heavy husky or Saint Bernard. He licks my face like a lollipop, and I hug him tight, laughing.
After all the confusing thoughts swirling through my mind yesterday, I suddenly feel clearheaded. Maybe a good night’s sleep was all I needed.
I know what the acting business is like. One day you’re a star—and the next day you’re a waitress again. I’ve been there with Mom before. Sure, she sounded certain yesterday, but my mother’s a romantic, an eternal optimist. She looks for sunshine even when the weather station predicts rain. That’s one of the reasons we had so much fun all those years she was raising me alone.
I like to dream, too, but I also like to keep my feet on the ground. And right now, my feet are firmly planted here. I’m all settled into my life with Gran and Maggie and Sneakers and all the other animals that are part of our lives—which now includes a bunch of parrots who need my help.
I kiss Sneakers, dress, brush my hair, and fly downstairs.
At the kitchen table, Maggie is dribbling pink milk onto the sports pages as she slurps up her Froot Loops.
“So, what are we doing today?” I ask cheerfully. “Painting the clinic? Nailing on a new roof?”
Maggie glares at me. “Don’t give Gran any ideas.”
“Maggie, you’re drooling. Yuck! Don’t talk with your mouth full!”
“Who are you, my mother? Don’t tell me what to do.”
As she speaks, a spray of milk flies out of her mouth. We look at each other and giggle hysterically.
Just for fun I peer into her bowl of multicolored sugar and chemicals, and gasp. “I think I saw that cereal in yesterday’s newspaper!”
Maggie freezes with the spoon in her mouth. “Huh?”
“Yeah—the headline said, ‘Toxic Cereal Turns Seventh-Grade Girl’s Freckles Purple.’”
“Very funny,” Maggie retorts. “I’ll have you know this cereal is fortified with 10 essential vitamins and minerals.”
“Don’t you get it?” I counter. “If it had healthy ingredients in it in the first place, they wouldn’t have to fortify it.”
Maggie refuses to dignify my comment with a reply—or maybe she just can’t think of anything to say. Feeling smug, I set about making my own breakfast—sliced strawberries on yogurt, a toasted English muffin with honey, and orange juice.
Maggie’s lowered the volume on her slurping now that she’s lost in the sports pages. Sherlock and Sneakers sleep by our feet beneath the table. Socrates dozes in a patch of sunlight on the wide windowsill by the table. And I can hear some Mozart coming from the clinic—Gran enjoying her “morning off” by doing what she loves best, checking on her animals. Everything feels cozy and peaceful.
And I’m a part of it all. I work in the clinic, I help care for the animals, I cook and make sure Gran and Maggie don’t die of malnutrition. Sneakers and I even visit hospitals to cheer up the patients.
In New York I never felt needed. As much as Mom loves me, I sometimes got the feeling I was a burden to her. After all, without me she wouldn’t have had to hire Ethel, who must have been expensive. And I guess Mom sort of confirmed that feeling when she went off without me to pursue a Hollywood career.
But here, I’m needed and wanted—and that’s such a good feeling. Will I have that feeling living in Los Angeles with Mom? Or will I just feel like a burden again?
Maggie kicks me under the table.
I glance up. “What?”
Maggie stares at me like I’m a dope. “Hello! If you don’t get Sneakers outside, he’s going to pee.”
One look at my dog tells me Maggie is right. Sneakers is pacing back and forth by the back door, watching me with his I-have-to-go-now look. When he catches my eye, his tail wags hopefully.
“Oops,” I mutter, ignoring Maggie’s self-satisfied smirk, and scoot out the back door with Sneakers before he gives me something to clean up besides breakfast dishes.
While Sneakers relieves himself beside the oak tree, I search the branches. But the familiar morning bird song, unbroken by squawks or screeches, has already told me the parrots aren’t here.
A screen door slams and our next-door neighbor, Mr. Cowan, comes out carrying a tray.
“Hi, Mr. Cowan!” I call.
“Good morning, Zoe,” he says, coming over to the end of his deck. “Nice morning for bird-watching.”
“Did you see what we saw yesterday?” I ask.
“The parrots?” He nods. “Sure did. I’ve been checking the news to see if anybody’s figured out how they got here, but so far nobody seems to know.”
He rests his tray on the railing of his deck, and I notice what’s on it—oranges. Lots of oranges. Enough to feed a whole family for a week.
Mr. Cowan follows my gaze. “These are for the parrots, in case they come back. Birdseed isn’t really the best diet for parrots. They prefer fruit and vegetables.” He picks up a knife and begins slicing the oranges. “Want to help?”
“Sure. I’ll be right over.” I let Sneakers back inside, then join Mr. Cowan on his deck and start slicing up oranges while he spreads the slices on the railing of his deck. Mmm. The oranges smell sweet and sunny and make my mouth water.
“Go ahead, help yourself,” Mr. Cowan says with a smile. “The birds won’t miss a slice or two.”
Mr. Cowan is a retired university professor, a botanist, so I guess that makes him Dr. Cowan, but nobody calls him that. He’s the sweetest man you’ll ever meet, but I think he’s lonely. His wife died about two years ago, Gran told me. He loves to garden. Last summer he put in a little pond with lily pads and a fountain and these giant goldfish called koi in it. He has a small rose garden, a big vegetable garden, and about a dozen kinds of bird feeders all over his yard.
Maybe I can enlist Mr. Cowan to serve on the front lines of my parrot-protection program. He’s obviously a big-time bird lover, and he knows something about parrots to boot. I decided to feel him out. “Maybe with our help, the parrots will stay and make their home right here in Ambler.”
“They’re delightful creatures, indeed. But you know, Zoe, there’s more to think about than just the parrots’ survival.” He opens a large plastic tub and begins refilling the feeders on the deck with regular birdseed. “There’s also the impact on the local environment.”
“You mean like causing crop damage?”
“I mean any kind of impact. It’s always a risk when a foreign bird or animal or even pla
nt invades a new environment,” Mr. Cowan explains. “There’s no way to know for sure how the foreigner will affect native plants and animals. Foreign species can carry diseases and parasites that the native species have no defenses against.”
I nod, thinking of Pickles. Could he have infected other birds with his sickness before we took him into the clinic?
Mr. Cowan continues. “Sometimes foreign invaders simply out-compete the native species for food and habitat.” He clips the plastic cover back on the seed bin and eases himself into a chair, warming to his topic. I can just imagine him lecturing to a class. I’ll bet he was a good teacher. “Look at foreign species like the lamprey eel and the zebra mussel, which as a result of ocean ship traffic have moved into the Great Lakes. As their populations have grown, the native fish and shellfish populations have declined.”
“So you really think this parrot flock might grow and crowd out our native birds?” I look around at the chickadees and sparrows clustered at the feeders. They may not be as showy as the parrots, but I certainly wouldn’t want them to be driven away from their own food and nesting places.
He shrugs. “I’m not saying it’s likely to happen, but it’s a possibility that shouldn’t be ignored.” He pauses, then adds, “Still, now that they’re here, one feels a certain responsibility toward them. Almost as if they’re guests at our table.” He smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I can’t see just letting them go hungry.”
He stands up and takes the tray, and I wave good-bye as I head across the yard back to Gran’s, my head spinning. The more I learn about these parrots, the more complicated and confusing everything becomes.
In the kitchen, Gran has joined Maggie at the breakfast table. “Good news,” Gran says as I walk in the back door. “The lab just called to say that Pickles does not have psittacosis.”
That’s a relief, especially after what Mr. Cowan was saying. “So what does he have?”
“Probably just an upper-respiratory infection. I’ll keep him in quarantine for six more weeks to make sure he’s no longer contagious, and I’ll continue the antibiotics, too, in case he’s got a bacterial infection.”
“What about E.T.?” I ask. “Do you think he could have become infected with whatever Pickles has?”
“It’s possible. It certainly won’t hurt to keep an eye on him,” Gran says.
How can I keep an eye on him if he won’t stick around? What if E.T. gets as sick as Pickles while he’s somewhere else, and he dies because nobody is there to help him? “Gran, I think we should try to catch him.”
“Easier said than done, Zoe.” Gran takes a sip of her coffee.
“I know, but if he was someone’s pet, then he’s used to having someone take care of him.” I think about how E.T. spoke right to me. “In fact, I think he wants someone to take care of him.”
Someone like me, perhaps.
Sneakers is pawing his water bowl, so I take it to the sink to fill it. “Gran, could we keep him?”
“Keep who?” Maggie asks.
“E.T. He’s so smart—you should hear him talk. Maybe we could teach him to answer the phone: ‘Bwaack, Dr. Mac’s Place!’ Wouldn’t that be cute?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Gran says as she rises from the table. “Zoe, I appreciate your feelings, and I admire your desire to help E.T. But although I may know a little about treating sick birds, I am not experienced at owning parrots. And neither are you.”
“But Gran, everybody has to start somewhere!” I point out. “How am I supposed to get experienced?”
Gran shakes her head. “Zoe, we already have too many animals as it is. Besides,” she goes on, “how would you feel if he was your pet who was missing? Wouldn’t you want him back? Why don’t you check the classified ads in the newspaper and see if anyone’s looking for a missing parrot.”
Trying to think of an argument, I hoist up the bag of dog food to fill Sneakers’s bowl. It’s so annoying when Gran’s right all the time. Before I can think of a good reply, the front door swings open. When I see who’s standing there, I drop the entire bag of dog food on the floor. Sneakers bounds over and starts wolfing up the spilled food, but nobody scolds him. Even Gran and Maggie are speechless.
“Surprise!”
You can say that again.
It’s my mother.
Chapter Six
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I rush into my mother’s arms and do a little of both.
Mom drops her bags and hugs me. “Zoe, sweetheart! Oh my gosh, you’re almost as tall as I am.” She steps back and holds me at arm’s length, then squeezes me again. “You’re growing up so fast!”
With a sharp bark, Sneakers runs over to make sure this intruder isn’t hurting me. I guess he can tell I’m OK, more or less, because his tail starts wagging and he jumps up on Mom, getting her white pants muddy. Not a great start to their relationship.
I untangle myself from Mom and scoop Sneakers into my arms. “Chill,” I whisper in his ear. “She’s not an animal person.”
“Well, this is a surprise,” Gran says at last.
“What, not happy to see me?” Mom shoots back as she pulls Maggie into an awkward hug.
My usually sassy cousin is still speechless—a first for her. I guess she’s never seen a TV actress up close before.
“Oh, Rose, of course I am,” Gran says. “We just weren’t expecting you, that’s all. How’d you get here?”
“Well, I was so excited when I got off the phone with Zoe yesterday that as soon as our rehearsal was done, I jumped on a red-eye flight straight to Philadelphia,” she says, beaming at me.
She sure looks good for someone who slept in an airplane seat all night. In fact, she looks better than ever—and so much happier than when I saw her at Christmas. I guess life in the fast lane agrees with her.
“You should have called!” Gran says. “We could have met you at the airport.”
Mom waves that notion away as if it hadn’t occurred to her. “You know how impulsive I am, Ma.”
“That I do, Rose. Impulsive—and determined.” Gran gives Mom a quick hug.
I watch Mom and Gran carefully. I never thought they looked much alike, but now, seeing them together, I can spot the similarity in the way they hold themselves—with a certain inner poise and confidence, as if they know where they belong in the world.
I wish I did.
Suddenly the bell to the clinic rings. Clients have arrived.
Mom raises a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “On Sunday, Ma?”
Gran shrugs. “The world has changed since you were a girl, Rose,” Gran says. “The clinic is usually open all weekend and several nights a week.”
“Don’t you get tired ot it?”
“Do you get tired of acting?”
Mom grins sheepishly. “Touché. Need a hand?”
Gran hooks her arm through my mom’s and leads her toward the clinic door. “I can always use another pair of hands.”
I snort. “You help in the clinic? No offense, Mom, but you can’t even stand the smell of a sour washcloth. This place is filled with disgusting smells, trust me.”
Mom lifts her chin and gazes down her nose at me, looking like a younger version of Gran (except with more makeup and an expensive haircut). “You don’t think I know my way around a veterinary clinic?”
“No,” I fight to keep the smirk off my face.
“Hmph! You forgot one thing, Zoe—I grew up here. This was my home.” Mom unbuttons the cuffs of her black shirt and neatly rolls them up above her elbows. She glances down at her white pants, now soiled with doggy paw prints, courtesy of Sneakers. “Well, your dog must have known what was in store for me. No need for me to change at all—I’ll just wash everything tonight.” She turns to Gran. “Dr. MacKenzie, I am at your service. Again.”
Gran is the one laughing now—at me—as the three of us head into the clinic.
“Are you coming, Maggie?” I ask her.
“Um, I told David I?
??d go and shoot baskets with him,” she says, and escapes out the front door.
I shrug and follow Mom into the clinic. This I can’t miss.
Apparently people have been spotting the parrots all over town, and the clinic waiting room is abuzz.
“I saw them in the park behind the bank just yesterday!”
“Aren’t they colorful? And there’s so many of them. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes!”
“A flock of parrots, right here in Ambler. Imagine!”
Our clients seem almost as excited about the parrots as I am. If I printed up some flyers about what kinds of food the parrots like to eat, I’ll bet our clients would be glad to help out in my parrot-protection program.
In the Dolittle Room, I find Mom sitting on a high stool, talking to a teenage girl holding an adorable puppy with huge brown eyes and long, curly reddish fur. “I got Shirley at the Humane Society,” the girl is saying. “We think she’s a terrier-spaniel mix.”
Gran strokes the puppy’s curly coat. “Could be some poodle in there, too. She’s a cute little thing, whatever she is.” Gran checks her clipboard. “Looks like she had her shots before she left the Humane Society. What can we do for her today?”
“Could you just check her over, and then show me how to clip her nails?” the girl asks. “My dad says I can’t keep her unless she’s healthy and I can groom her myself.”
Gran smiles and nods. “Rose, why don’t you show Lauren how to clip Shirley’s nails. I’ll be back to do the physical in ten minutes,” Gran says.
I come to Mom’s rescue. “It’s all right, Gran. I’ll show her how to—”
Mom holds up her hand. “I’ll be glad to give your pup a pedicure, Lauren.” Mom takes the clippers from the drawer of the exam table and reaches for a paw. I bite my lip, hoping Mom knows what the heck she’s doing. She seems awfully confident—but then she’s a skilled actress, trained to play whatever part she finds herself in as if born to the role.