Read Online Darren Effect by Libby Creelman - Free Book Online Page A

Mandy and her mother had raced to the door, pretending to fight over who would answer it and have the first look. Heather was in her bedroom, fresh from the bath, and until that moment, delighted with herself. But she could hear their giggles and scuffling.
    He wore the same blue trousers every day. They were short and disfigured where the hem had been reworked too often. He was standing there at her door, in those same trousers, when Heather came down the hallway. Her mother and sister were in control of themselves by then, but the awkwardness had already set in. At the store he was always confident and inscrutable, but now he stood clumsy, uncertain.
    They told her later they weren’t making fun of her, or him. Sure, it was only a bit of foolishness. But Heather had gone and stayed with her father, refusing to speak to either her mother or sister for weeks.
    It was the type of incident to occur in the years immediately following her parents’ divorce, as though the divorce had corrupted the family unit, not only by removing one parent from the household, but by triggering a fundamental transformation in the other. Heather did not want a mother who was approachable and silly. She wanted one who was distant and aloof. There was an essential
parent-ness
that her mother no longer exhibited, that she seemed to have cast away, but without which Heather did not feel as safe in the world. Later, when Heather was at university, she was able to step outside her own experience and see that her mother had been doing her best to cope. For a while, at least, her mother had not wanted daughters, she had wanted friends.
    *
    Heather wondered in what ways the woods had changed with the warmer, longer days. When she closed her eyes, she saw the red crossbills dangling upside down in the trees.
    She had sent Mandy to the library for more field guides and sometimes fell asleep at night with them open — on her chest, her belly, the pillow beside her head — the way other people slept with pets. She began to dream of birds, species of her own imagination who were intimate and benevolent, with human voices.
    She read about the red crossbill — a monumental example of specialization. The scissor-like bill allowed the birds the luxury of getting at the seeds before the cones fully ripened and unlocked. As a result, Heather read, red crossbills evolved a flexible reproductive physiology, nesting any time of year, in dry hot August or wet slushy February, in areas where — and as long as — there is adequate food. She imagined the fearless olive-green females sitting on their four eggs: pale blue spotted with light brown and lavender. It starts to snow, and gradually, through the night, the small birds are blanketed. Who decided this was flexible? Heather wondered. Wouldn’t
accommodating
be more fitting? To be ready, at any time, for the business of a rushed courtship? Wouldn’t it be more satisfactory to have a life like everyone else?
    Heather froze. Half a dozen birds had arrived at her feeder. Though she knew what they were, she reached for her field guide and flipped through the pages, just for the pleasure of being certain.
    Conspicuous white outer tail feathers. Slate-grey hood, like an executioner’s. Juncos.
    Heather heard someone enter the house. She put her book down and waited.
    Her mother hesitated in the doorway, glancing around the bedroom, avoiding eye contact with Heather. In one hand she held an unlit cigarette. She crossed the room to peer out thewindow at the feeder and several of the juncos flew off. “I don’t remember any bird feeder.”
    â€œYou’re not going to light that in this room, are you?”
    â€œOf course not. I’d never dream of such a thing.” When she turned to examine her daughter, the outdoor light fell across her face, revealing foundation the colour of caramel. It nearly matched her hair. “How long have you been in that