The Accidental Siren (21 page)

I didn’t realize that Mara’s light was on
until it flicked off. I snatched my camera, forgot about the
makeshift ladder, and bolted inside.

* * *

Mara and I scampered side-by-side up the
spiral staircase. Mom waddled across the ballroom, apron around her
waist, with a ladle in her right hand and Fantasia in her left. Her
sliver of smile said,
“I love my husband, but thank the birds
it’s over!”

Dad’s head poked over the balcony ledge. His
binoculars smacked the rail but he didn’t care. “Where’s Livy? Get
Livy! And hurry up!”

Before Mom could respond, Dad was back inside
the tower, whooping and hollering as if Barry Sanders had just
scored a touchdown.

Mara touched the top step a split second
before me. Panting, she smacked my chest and said with a grin,
“Beat ya!”

The tower smelled like salted urine thanks to
the open can of artichoke hearts beside Dad’s chair. He was
standing at the floor-to-ceiling window, binoculars in hand,
pointing to the lake like a toddler who just learned to say the
word “airplane.” “Two of them,” he said. “Male and female.”

Mara and I stood between Dad and the window
and pressed our noses against the glass. In the distance, two
specks hung motionless between lamb-tail clouds and the placid
lake.

“Kinda small,” I said.

Mara didn’t speak. On the window, a vapored
imprint developed around her hand.

Mom finally arrived with the baby and used
the ladle to brush a curl of hair from her eye. “Whew,” she said,
then used her foot to slide the can of artichoke juice toward the
stairs. She took her place beside her husband and squinted.

“They’re magnificent,” he said.

“I don’t see ‘em,” she said.

I pressed my finger against the glass. “See
those tiny specks? That’s them.”

“They’re kinda small,” she said.

Dad sighed.

“Mr. Parker,” Mara said. “Can I try the
glasses?”

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.