Indigo Bird

By Jane Viehl

Rainey Morgan, a single mom and commercial artist, wants a statue. Of herself. In the park. She wants to be great like the others in her family. Her dad, the design engineer. Her mom, the entomologist. Her sister, the PhD in Marine Biology.
You have to be some kind of hero, or saint, to get a statue, her friend Pete points out.
Rainey doesn’t care. Then one night her sister, Leah, calls, ands requests a favor.
Sure, she'd be happy to help, Rainey tells her.
Of course. No problem. What could go wrong?

About the Author
Jane Viehl and her husband live on one hundred acres of Oregon’s Willamette Valley. They lease half the land to a local rancher, and work in partnership with U.S. Fish and Wildlife toward habitat restoration and preservation on the riparian area of the land.
Viehl has an MFA in Writing from Warren Wilson’s graduate program. She also has an ebook published, The Blackest Crow.
For fun, Viehl works in the garden, minds her flock of three chickens, reads, and plays the banjo.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dorrance Publishing Company
• Release date: May 22, 2024
• ISBN: 9798892117937

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

I believe I remember everything about the night my sister Leah phoned, back when all I had to worry about were my own small miseries. I’d spent the evening struggling through an adult water-color class, painting the wretched self-portrait we’d been assigned. The instructor, Andre, summarized the flaws noted in my work by others in the class—babies, for the most part, or so they seemed to me, with their little spiky hair and tattoos. The painting was inchoate, Andre said, and proceeded to define the word for me. Unformed, that is, or unrealized. As if I hadn’t known. Which I hadn’t, exactly, but that was beside the point.

Inchoate? He might have been describing my life.

After class, stung by the criticism, and feeling too resentful to talk to anyone—in particular, that woman Julia, oozing sympathy as she was—I’d escaped to the fourth-floor restroom. I leaned back against the sink with nothing to do but study the graffiti and feel sorry for myself. Overhead, Oregon’s famous rain droned against the skylight. Fluorescent light stuttered on the gray tile walls. The wastebasket overflowed.

I ran cold water into the sink and splashed it on my face, dried my hands on the industrial-strength paper towels, and rubbed my face until my cheeks stung. Unable to help myself, I picked up the discarded towels from the floor and compressed them, along with my own, into the trash, and gathered myself to leave.

My parking space that evening was directly across the street, aligned with the statue of Teddy Roosevelt riding his bronze horse northward down Portland’s long tree-sheltered park blocks. Art supplies tucked beneath my coat, I ran through the rain, unlocked my car, got in, and started the engine.

Hello, Dr. Laura? said a voice on the radio. Good. I liked to listen to talk radio, to tap into the great American psychiatric self-help network. Maybe some time I should call old Dr. Laura myself. I turned on the headlights, windshield wipers, and pulled out onto the street.

Doctor, I’m having a problem with my kids, said the caller.

Of course you are, darling, I said. We all are.

They drink, the woman said. They smoke pot. Now last night, the boy didn’t even come home until this morning. My husband wants to throw him out. And then the girl? She’s only 13, but I’m pretty sure she’s sexually extenuated, if you know what I mean.

Whoa. Sexually extenuated? I wanted to laugh but couldn’t when I imagined the caller huddled in her dark kitchen, watching cars go by on the street outside as she whispered to the radio psychologist. It’ll be all right, I told the woman. It’ll be okay.

I also have a daughter. Shiloh.

Who was just fine, she told me, when I called to check in with her. Homework was done, yes, math too, and no, she wasn’t hungry. Shiloh was not a baby, she informed me, she was practically thirteen, and she certainly didn’t care if I wanted to go have a late dinner with my boyfriend, as she stayed home alone all the time. But if we were going to the Phoenix, would I bring back an order of pot stickers for her?

Pete and I were meeting at the Golden Phoenix. The restaurant, up a flight of stairs, is in the long hall of one of those shopping arcades created back in the previous century from the remains of an extinct warehouse. Inside, nothing has changed since then. Pots of tea steam on pink plastic tablecloths, a haze of ginger and garlic and chili oil thickens the air.

Led to our favorite table, next to the tank of tropical fish, I ordered beer, the usual Kung Pao Chicken and Mu Shu Pork, and pot stickers to go for Shiloh. Across the room a woman, sitting alone, folded her hands and said grace, out loud, before she began to eat. I looked at my own hands and saw paint underneath my nails. I thought about Pete.

Good old Pete. When I first met him several years ago, he’d been a bit frumpy. Comfortable, and funny, and I was surprised to learn he was an accountant. Since then, however, he’s been sending his shirts to the cleaners instead of trying to iron them himself. Wearing expensive-looking neckties. I’m not sure why the change, but it’s clear he’s heading for a handsome middle age.

He arrived a few minutes later, and I watched him make his way over to me. He’s too big for this place, and no matter how carefully he may move, his foot will stub a chair or his knee will knock the leg of the table when he sits down. Not tonight, however.

I already ordered, I told him.

Thanks, he said. I’m starving. God. What a day. How about you? How was class?

I’m feeling a little bruised, I said. "Under-appreciated. That reminds me. You know what some publisher told Darwin when he submitted Origin of the Species? I just read this. He told Darwin he should write a book on pigeons instead. He said people were very interested in pigeons."

I see. You and Darwin.

Yes. Me and Darwin. Under-appreciated. Darwin and I.

The waiter arrived with our food. I picked a piece of chicken off the platter with my fingers and waved it in the air for a moment to cool it. Everybody said my painting sucked tonight. Even the instructor. And since it was a self-portrait…

Pete poured his beer into his glass at the exact pace to create a head but not overflow. Cheers, he said and took a long drink.

Pete! Hey. You were supposed to say they’re all fools. Or, I don’t know, you’re sure my painting was wonderful.

Pete sighed. I’m not good at that.

I pulled my hair back away from my face. I have got to get a haircut, I said. I’m starting to scare people. Maybe that was the whole problem with my portrait tonight.

Your hair is as lovely as the finest silk spun by Chinese virgins for, um…important Chinese people, Pete said. God damn it! He lifted his tie and looked mournfully at the Hoisin sauce that had already dribbled onto it from his first forkful.

I had to smile. Pete grew up in a small Iowa town. Meat and potatoes and maybe kill a chicken for Sunday dinner. I’d guess there wasn’t much experience with Hoisin sauce back in little Panora, Iowa.

The woman across the room stood and put on her coat. She buttoned it with slow concentration, as if she had never before buttoned a coat alone. I wondered what she had prayed for earlier. She blotted her pale lips on her napkin, reached into a coin purse for some change, which she put on the table for a tip. I could hear the lonely click as the purse snapped closed and the woman placed it back in her bag.

On her way to the door, she stopped at our table, pulled a packet of cards secured with a rubber band from her coat pocket, handed one to me, and left.

Jesus, Pete said. What was that all about?

I have no idea. I turned the card to the printed side: THIS IS THE DAY THE LORD HAS MADE. REJOICE. I saw her praying earlier. Kind of weird. I don’t know. Maybe I get a wish.

You know what I’d wish? Pete said. I’d wish I was rich. I’d buy a big honking motorcycle and just blast out of here and ride to the edge of some desert. No, I would. I’d take off my shirt and shoes and sit on the hot sand and the sun would beat down. I’d well…Arizona.

I turned the woman’s card over and over, a bit ashamed. I had no idea Pete dreamed of such a thing. It was hard to imagine him blasting down the road on a Harley, his expensive tie, ironed shirt, polished shoes strewn behind him.

Really? I said. I mean, that’s great. I’m speechless. Seriously?

You could come with me.

Who’d take care of Shiloh? Can she come too?

Sure. Or how about if I come over to your house and give you a back rub instead?

Oh, Pete, I’m just frustrated. You know? I mean, I love painting. Tonight, in school, I felt like this is exactly where I’m meant to be. Then I painted this God-awful thing, and I thought how could I be so bad? See, my day is supposed to come. Where is my day?

My day, which my parents continue to assure me will come. I’m not without modest skills. I can sew, bake, make pickles, and wire a lamp. I can change the oil in my car and recite the Pledge of Allegiance backwards, with or without God under.

Then, of course, I draw houses, which I do for what passes as a living. My work is on display in the realtor handout pamphlets in front of coffee shops and pasted on the windows of boutiques down in Cannon Beach and Seaside. Don’t misunderstand. The real, actual living gets accomplished by the income from the trust my husband’s grandfather set up for Shiloh and me when my husband, Kevin died ten years ago now. I do count my houses as one of my skills, but although my basement and attic are filled with hundreds of my drawings stacked in piles and falling out of notebooks, that evening it seemed clear to me that my day would yet be a long time coming.

I don’t want to be ordinary, I told Pete. I want to be really good at something. I want to be great, like everybody else in my family.

I didn’t know everybody else in your family was so great, Pete said.

Well, they are.

You’re a great mother.

Thank you, but that’s not the kind of great I mean. I want a statue. In the park. That’s what I mean.

Rainey, you have to get burned at the stake or something if you want a statue.

Don’t, Pete. I got up and went to him and kissed him on the mouth. His lips were cool and tasted of beer. After that, there didn’t seem to be much to say, so we smiled at one another, remarked that the chicken seemed better than the pork, that we were both eager to go skiing on Spring Break, that neither of us particularly like green beans.

The waiter delivered Shiloh’s pot stickers, and Pete picked up the check. My turn. But let me come over. We could hold hands and watch the news like an old married couple.

The house was dark when I drove up. I let myself in, left the door ajar for Pete, and went upstairs to check on Shiloh, who was asleep. I stood a moment, looking. I hope I am, at least, a good mother.

You have any of that Remy left? Pete asked when I came back down. He’d put the pot stickers into the refrigerator.

In the cupboard over the sink. I turned on the television and kicked off my shoes.

Pete found the brandy and some glasses and handed me one. With his free hand he unfastened the first button of my blouse and kissed my neck.

You said we were going to watch the news.

The news isn’t on yet.

I took a drink of brandy. I didn’t want to make love. Maybe I’m sexually extenuated.

Later, when Pete left for home, I went upstairs. While I brushed my teeth, I looked out the bathroom window. Portland State University students, two girls and a boy, live in a boarding house across the street and down one, and I like to watch what little I can see of their lives. They grow a flower garden, no doubt including pot among the botanicals. They wear edgy Urban Outfitter clothes but are polite and call me ma’am to keep me in my place.

I don’t know why I slept with Pete that night, though of course, sleeping with him was the one thing I didn’t do. Had sex with him, then. I like it well enough, usually, like Pete well enough. But this time, I hadn’t wanted to, said yes anyway, then spent the time thinking about that self-portrait from class. Not generosity, that was dishonesty.

As I lay in bed with the window open, cool night air smelling of rain flowed across me. A loud bang came from somewhere down by the river. I have never learned the source of these nocturnal crashes, the sound, I suppose, of cranes loading ships on the docks, of freight cars coupling.

It was midnight, though I wasn’t yet asleep, when my phone rang. I reached for it and saw the caller ID.

Leah.

I sat up against my pillow, watching leaf shadows cast by the streetlight move across the ceiling.

…and it’s not like I’m going to spend the rest of my life studying fish mortality in Puget Sound, Leah said.

I held the phone away from my ear as if I could see my sister’s voice. Who said you were supposed to? I asked. Do whatever you want. And I’m fine, thanks, hon.

Did I forget to ask you how were or something? Leah said. You’re fine? Wonderful. Anyway, it’s a task force to study climate change. Based in Hamburg. The organization’s called …are you listening to me or…what time is it, anyway?

‘The organization’s called’…of course I’m listening. It’s around midnight, but it’s okay, I’m awake. So are you applying?

Did. Just got my acceptance. It’s the Global Environment Initiative, only the most important privately funded…well, you might not have heard of them. But I’m hoping you can keep Caleb for me while I’m away. I have to leave next month, on the fourth.

Caleb, Leah’s son, is seven years old. While not many kids of seven years would want to hang out with a bunch of scientists sitting around Germany brooding over the planet, Caleb just might. According to his mother, he’d learned to read when he was three and hasn’t looked back since.

Why don’t you take him along? I asked. Think of the enrichment.

Is that your way of saying no? It’s okay, I can ask Mom and Dad.

By all means. Ask Mom and Dad. That’s brilliant. We had dinner down there last weekend, and Mom made sweet and sour calf’s liver. Swear to God. But organ meat is ‘brain food,’ she says, and she wants to ‘enhance Shiloh’s potential,’ as she put it to me while we did dishes afterwards.

Jesus. Poor Shiloh. Did she eat it?

Of course not.

Damn. So she’s still stupid as ever?

I laughed. I guess he can sleep in the attic bedroom. You’re leaving on the fourth? For how long? Can you fly out of Portland?

CHAPTER TWO

That was my mom, Rainey Morgan. I’m Shiloh. I think we have a pretty good relationship, even though I don’t tell her everything. It’s been just the two of us ever since my dad died, who I don’t remember, because I was pretty young when that happened. So we are used to each other. She has boyfriends sometimes, if you call it that, but I don’t think it’s very serious, because I think she’s still in love with my dad. But that’s the kind of thing I don’t tell her.

Anyway, about my cousin, Caleb, coming to stay with us, she didn’t check with me before she said yes, which is totally against our rules. I would have told her that Caleb should stay with my grandma and grandpa. They are always trying to improve me, while in my opinion, Caleb is the one who needs improvement. But it turned out to be okay after all.

I was doing really bad in school, even though my grades were all right, because I got very good at cheating. I don’t call it cheating, though, more like survival. Math is fine because I can do it, but I was worried about Comp Cultures. The teacher, Mr. Becker, is very unfair, and judgmental. The thing is I have accommodative disfunction with my eyes, which makes reading hard. I am not dyslectic, though, and I have exercises which are supposed to help so I do not need special attention.

And what’s more, Amity, which is my best friend, told this other girl, Selina, that if she gets on Seventh Grade Court she wants to ask Logan to be her escort while everybody knows I’m the one who likes Logan.

At least I’m pretty good at soccer and am the only seventh grader on the school team. But that’s okay because there’s this one eighth grader on the team that is my friend, named Kayla, who is super nice. We have practice four nights a week after school.

The thing is that all my relatives on my mom’s side are super smart, especially Caleb, and I’m afraid my mom will start wanting me to be like him. I finally told her that the night before Caleb and Leah came, and she said don’t be ridiculous. But that is the kind of thing mothers have to say even if they don’t mean it.

Leah stood on my front porch that next night, illuminated by the hazy streetlight. Caleb leaned sleepily against her side while the taxi driver carted the suitcases up the stairs. She appeared to have a tattoo on the side of her face. A rose. Or something.

Come on in, you two! Hi Caleb, buddy. You’re so big! Leah, let me see. A rose? It’s gorgeous, but… I stopped talking and we held each other in a long, hungry hug.

Relax, Leah said. It’s a goodbye gift from a friend. I think it’s amazing, although I could sense a certain disapproval from my fellow passengers on the plane. Don’t worry. It’s just henna. Washes right off. Shiloh! You little beauty! Look at your gorgeous hair! Soon as I unload the boy, we have to talk. Is your mother treating you well? Okay, out of my way, folks. On to the attic, which is just fine. Perfect.

I opened a bottle of wine, Viognier, my new favorite, lit some candles, and sat on the sofa to wait for her. It’s complicated. Whenever I saw my sister after a period of time, it was a shock. She, in looking like me, had stolen my singularity. In the family constellation, I had been the replacement child for the one who died. Daniel. It was Leah’s job to move the needle. To become more. Smarter. Greater. The big question became, then, would I trade places with her? I mean, didn’t I just say I wanted to be great?

Shiloh asked me to French Braid her hair before she went to bed, which I’d done countless times before she became too mature for braids, and I was happy to weave the patterns again into her beautiful, thick hair. The color of bright pennies, her hair, a gift from her father.

Of course I wouldn’t trade places with my sister.

Hey, Rain, Leah called down the stairs. We’re exhausted. Can we just crash, and we’ll catch up tomorrow?

I drank a glass of my new favorite wine and blew out the candles.

The following morning, I smelled coffee when I woke. In the kitchen, I found my sister reading the newspaper, coffee cup in hand. The painted rose was gone. A baroque gold cross hung from her neck.  Black polish shone on her toenails. Wearing boxers and a rumpled T-shirt she didn’t look much like the genius marine biologist off on a Scientific Mission of Great Importance. Barista/church lady? Cool, or just confused? Me, there I was, looking like an AARP initiate in my little blue and white striped jammies and rabbit-ear slippers. Jesus.

Morning, baby sister, I said. Sleep well? I was just going to go rattle Shiloh’s cage. Want me to get Caleb up, too?

Leah said that would be lovely, and did I realize that 72 percent of this newspaper, what, the Oregonian? was pure advertising crap?

Upstairs, under the roof-slope of the attic bedroom, the knotty pine walls reflected buttery light from the Roy Rogers lamp on the dresser. I sat on the edge of Caleb’s bed, watched the small rise and fall of his chest, the curl of his fingers, open as if he cradled something fragile there. Maybe all little boys smell like that, like certain weeds pulled from the garden. Pungent, like dandelion milk.

Caleb? I said. Rise and shine. Greet the happy morn.

His eyes startled open. Blue eyes, unfocused and confused. He groaned, kicked unseeing at the old red-plaid flannel blanket that tangled his legs. One of his feet caught me hard on my hip.

Hey! It’s okay, honey. I grabbed his ankles and held on until he was still. It’s okay. I straightened the blanket.

He looked at me. Closed his eyes.

You’re at my house, remember? A dried wasps nest lay sideways on the bookshelf. A clutter of books. I’d have to chisel open the paint-stuck windows, get some air in there. But I’d have time. Turned out, the night before, that a few weeks would be thirteen.

I traced his pale eyebrows with my finger. Five minutes, sleepyhead, but then you have to get up. I sat on his bed another moment.

Going down the narrow attic stairs, I ran my knuckles along the bead-board paneling, making a muted, rackety sound. The door to Shiloh’s room was open a precise one-half inch; she still depends on the hall light, on me. I pushed the door open past the complaint of the hinge.

Time, sweet pea, I said. Remember, Grandma and Grandpa are coming over. Scrambled eggs this morning.

Shiloh sleeps in a sleeping bag on top of her bed. As do her best friends, Amity and Selena. It’s more environmental than sheets, Shiloh explains. Mom, what’s wrong with Caleb? she asked in her drowsy morning voice. Is he psycho?

No, honey. Of course not. Whatever gives you that idea? I rubbed my hip with my thumb. Caleb wasn’t psycho, just a bit unusual.

I’m going to be nice to him, Shiloh said. Families are important. She plumped her pillow, folded it, and sat back against it. I used to want a sister, she said. I remember I used to explain that to God, back when I was little.

You never told me that. I crossed my arms and leaned against the door jam.

I know, she laughed. "I didn’t know you couldn’t have babies when there wasn’t a father, so I made all the sacrifices I figured out to do about it. Not chewing