THE OLD WOMAN AND THE BIRDS by Casie Bazay

THE OLD WOMAN AND THE BIRDS by Casie Bazay

Frances’ favorite day of the week was Friday, not because it set off the weekend (each day was like the next anymore), but rather, because it was the day her sister, Margaret, called for their weekly chat. The phone had yet to ring this morning, but Frances wasn’t overly concerned. Margaret probably got tied up with something else, maybe another phone call. Lord, how that woman loved to talk.

In the meantime, Frances sat on her back porch, where she’d begun taking her coffee every morning, at least since watching that NOVA documentary that said nature was good for serotonin levels or something of the sort. Though Frances hadn’t been convinced in the beginning, in time, the fresh air changed her mind, leading her to conclude it was, indeed, a good way to start the day. The rising sun, yellow-red like a ripening tomato. Black coffee. And birds. For some reason, her small lawn attracted them by the dozens.

Frances pulled her phone from the pocket of her house dress, checking to make sure the ringer was on and mumbling to herself about Margaret’s tardiness. When she looked back up, she was surprised to find that a bird had hopped quite close to the porch. So close, in fact, that Frances could stick a leg out and touch it with the toe of her house shoe if she so chose. She didn’t, of course. Instead, she sipped her coffee and scrutinized the small creature. It had a full, yellow breast with grayish-brown feathers covering the rest of its body. It was rather plump for a bird. Maybe what some would call cute.

“Hello, little birdie. Whatcha doing there?”

Almost as if it understood her words, the bird looked up at Frances, cocked its head to one side, and opened and closed its beak like it wanted to say something. But the fact that a bird had taken interest in her at all sent an uncomfortable ripple through her gut. She clapped one hand on her leg, sending it away. The bird lapped her yard once, landing in the far corner, next to a sickly young tree Frances never bothered to water. A Mother’s Day gift from her middle daughter two years ago.

As Frances continued to drink her coffee, her gaze followed the yellow-breasted bird. She was fairly sure she’d never seen it until today. The other birds were solid gray or black. She made a mental note to check out a bird book from the library, that way she could at least identify the ones in her yard.

Eight o’clock came and still no call from Margaret. Frances grumbled with annoyance but went inside to cook some porridge and eat. When nine o’clock came around and Margaret still hadn’t called, an inkling of concern settled in. Frances decided she’d give her sister another fifteen minutes. Then, she was going to place the call herself.

Frances had picked up the phone to do just that when a loud ring emitted from the device, startling her. She touched the large green button and pressed it to her ear.

“Hello, Margaret?”

“Hi Aunt Frances. It’s Melanie.” Something in her niece’s voice was off.

“Oh, hello, Melanie.”

“Are you sitting down, Aunt Frances?”

“Yes, why?” Frances felt a sudden tightening in her throat. Like someone was trying to squeeze the breath out of her.

“It’s Mom. She . . . ” Melanie’s voice broke off in a sob, and it took a full thirty seconds for her to recover. By that time, Frances had long since figured it out though a voice in her head screamed, NO, NO, NO! How could Margaret—her only sister and last living sibling—be gone?

The rest of the day passed in a haze. Each of her three daughters, as well as several other relatives, called, offering to drive or fly with her from Kansas to Pennsylvania. Frances turned them all down. She and Margaret had long ago agreed they wouldn’t attend the other’s funeral—whichever of them left this earth first. Funerals were something they spoke of often, in fact. They’d each attended their fair share; it happened when you got old. And they both thought it best to remember the other as she’d been the last time they’d seen each other. Just over a year ago, at Easter, in this case.

Frances would also remember Margaret the way she looked in the photo across the room on her bookshelf. The one where they were lanky teenagers with windswept hair and matching smiles. Frances recalled that day as if it had been only months ago, not decades and decades. She and Margaret had just arrived home from a bicycle ride around Lake Shawnee where they’d talked to boys and eaten ten cent hot dogs on the boardwalk. Their father always said they looked more like twins in that photo and maybe that was the reason Frances had it framed. She’d looked up to her older sister so much, especially back then.

The following morning, Frances didn’t want coffee or nature or much of anything for that matter. But Margaret’s sing-song voice played in her mind. Don’t be a such a gloom, Frances. There’s still plenty of things to look forward to.

But what did Frances really have to look forward to? The same old house? Same old TV shows? Same old food? Her daughters’ constant nagging about taking better care of herself. The great-grandkids coming over to visit, but mainly ignoring her as they stared and swiped at their phones.

Frances sat on her bed, pitying the pathetic state of her life. Why couldn’t she have died first? She’d certainly wanted to after her husband, Pete, had gone eight years ago. But here she was at eighty-nine, still kicking. And now, she was not only a widower, but an only, orphaned child as well.

In time, Frances forced herself to get dressed. The sun was up and there was no use wallowing in her room all day. She made coffee out of habit, if nothing else, and headed out to the back porch where she was surprised to find the birds still hopping about, even at this late hour. She searched for the bright-colored one from the day before, but it was nowhere to be found.

Frances sighed and slumped in her chair. When she took a drink, the coffee burned her tongue. The corn on her left big toe ached like the dickens. Somewhere in the neighborhood, a horn honked, sending the birds away in a blur of speckled darkness. Frances dumped her coffee on the lawn and wept.

She went back to bed and stayed there for the rest of the day. Frances fully intended to lie there until she, too, died, but her eldest daughter interrupted the process by showing up the next morning.

“Mom,” Katrina called, having let herself in with the key Frances regretted ever giving her. “You okay? Where are you?”

“In here,” Frances called. There was no use trying to pretend she was anywhere other than where she was.

Footsteps sounded on the tiled floor, and Trina’s head appeared in the doorway. “Mom! What are you doing? It’s past nine! I’ve tried to call you several times this morning.” Trina came to the bedside. “Get up. Come on. I’m taking you out for brunch.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Get up, Mom.” Trina had inherited her mother’s rather strong stubborn streak, so there was really no use arguing. Frances didn’t have the energy anyway. She dressed in gray slacks and a navy blouse while Trina waited in the living room.

“Don’t you have anything clean?” Trina asked when Frances emerged from her bedroom. “Your clothes look like they’ve been laying in a heap on the floor.”

“I forgot to do laundry.”

Trina shook her head, looking exasperated. “Mom, you have more clothes than those same three or four outfits you always wear. Why don’t you put on something else?”

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t you want to at least brush your hair?”

Frances combed her fingers through the wispy strands. “There.”

Trina sighed, but then went to fetch her mother’s purse. They ate at Hanover’s, which Frances normally liked, but today, the syrup was too sweet and the pancakes too mushy.

“Mom, Jim and I are going to the funeral. Why don’t you come with us? I’ll get you a plane ticket. We’re leaving in the morning.”

“No thanks.” Frances took another dejected bite.

“Mom. This is ridiculous. She’s your sister. Your best friend.”

Frances sipped her water. “Mom?”

“I said no and that’s what I meant. Don’t ask me again.”

Trina’s lips drew into a tight line and her neck got splotchy like it always did when she was angry or upset. They didn’t talk for the rest of their meal.

Trina didn’t break the silence until they were back in her car. “I’m worried about you, Mom. Jim and I have been talking. How about if you move in with us? I really think you should be with other people. I know you don’t want to go to a retirement home but you could come live with us. We have . . .”

Frances cut her off. “I’m perfectly fine where I am.”

“Mom . . . why do you always have to be so difficult?”

“I’m not being difficult. You’re being difficult. I told you my answer and you just don’t like it.” Frances stared straight out the windshield, refusing to look at her daughter, whose eyes continued to bore into her. “Watch the road, why don’t you? You’re liable to get us into a wreck.”

Trina grunted.

When they made it back to Frances’ house, Trina went to check the pantry. “I’m going to get you some groceries. I don’t want you to run out while we’re gone.”

“They always deliver on Mondays.”

“I know that. But I’m still getting you some. You can just have extra.”

“Suit yourself.”

An hour later, Trina returned with two bags of food, which she put into the pantry and fridge. The Great British Baking Show played on the television, and Frances pretended to watch. A few moments later, she felt Trina’s presence behind her.

“Mom, are you okay?” Her daughter’s voice was soft and sad.

No, I’m not okay, Frances thought. “My sister died.” Saying the words aloud proved more painful than merely thinking them. “But that’s what happens when we get old. We die. Move on to whatever’s next.” Or maybe nothing at all. “It’s depressing, Trina.”

Trina was quiet for a long while. Her hands found Frances’ shoulders. “I’m sorry, Mom. I wish life didn’t hurt like this.” Frances gave her daughter’s hand a pat. “I also wish you’d go with us to the funeral. You probably need the closure.”

Frances drew her hand away. “I don’t need closure. I know good and well she’s gone.”

Trina sniffled and walked away. “I’ll call to check on you tomorrow,” she said before closing the front door. The way she said it made Frances feel like a burden. Like she was a job her kids had never signed up for.

Frances did a lot of thinking that afternoon. About Margaret. About Pete. About her own lonely life. She concluded she was tired of living. She was just plain tired, in general. The television played all her usual shows, but she couldn’t say what any of them were about.

At five-thirty, Frances made one of the microwaveable dinners Trina had bought. It was Fettuccine Alfredo with chicken and broccoli, something different for a change. But that didn’t mean Frances enjoyed it. She went to bed at eight on the dot and once again, hoped she wouldn’t wake up in the morning.

But awaken she did, all thanks to the bright sunlight filtering in through her blinds and the sound of chirping birds. “Shut up!” she wanted to yell, but it would be of no use.

Frances stared at the white ceiling for a long while, imagining herself getting smaller and smaller, until she became nothing but a tiny speck. But the thought wouldn’t hold. The stiff joints in her regular-sized body demanded movement. With a huff, she got out of bed and pulled on her house dress. She hobbled into the kitchen and made coffee. When she ventured onto the back porch, she found several dozen birds gathered on the glistening lawn. It must have rained during the night though Frances hadn’t heard a thing.

She eased into her chair and blew on the coffee. Ran a hand through her limp hair. It was due for a wash. Probably a cut, too. She supposed she’d ask one of her daughters to take her to the salon when they returned from the funeral.

The funeral.

It’s not that Frances had forgotten, but it hadn’t been at the forefront of her thoughts until just now.

Regret tugged hard inside her chest. Maybe she should have listened to Trina and gone despite the promise she and Margaret had made one another. The rest of the family would no doubt think she was a terrible sister for refusing to attend. Or then again, maybe they’d think she was starting to lose her marbles.

Frances was sinking into another spiral of self deprecation when the yellow-breasted bird appeared in front of her again. Just as it had before, it looked right into the old woman’s eyes. Instead of scaring it away, this time, she examined the bird with curiosity. It was almost as if they were having a staring contest, this strange bird and her.

“What do you think you're doing?” she finally asked.

The bird hopped closer, then onto the porch itself.

Frances sucked in a breath. She’d never seen a bird behave so boldly. Or strangely, for that matter. Again, the small creature opened and closed its beak.

Frances narrowed her eyes. “What’s the matter with you?”

The bird chirped.

Frances leaned forward in her chair, keeping a careful grip on her mug.

Chirrrrrp.

She glanced around her yard, wondering what on earth was going on. Maybe she was losing her marbles. The bird fluttered its wings and whistled a three-note song.

“You are the strangest bird I ever did see!”

When the bird trilled again, an image appeared in Frances’ mind: Margaret in a high-waisted yellow dress, singing Somewhere Over the Rainbow at the school talent show. Everyone in the audience had been rapt, Frances included. She’d wanted to perform, too, with the magic tricks she’d practiced. But come tryout day, Frances had lost her nerve. Even when Margaret won first prize, she hadn’t been jealous. Not one bit. On the contrary, Frances had bragged to everyone within hearing distance that her big sister sang just like a bird.

Frances blinked and stared at the creature again. Only now, it seemed to have lost interest in her as it worked to preen its feathers. Seconds later, it hopped off the porch, joining in with the mix of more ordinary birds.

Frances shook her head, a strange sensation welling inside her. Tears pricked her eyes, and she wiped them away.

When the group of birds seemingly had their fill of goodies from Frances’ lawn, they flew away in a rush, leaving her yard lonely and bare.

Though her coffee cup was empty, Frances didn’t go inside. Instead, she remained in her chair, ruminating. She recalled a conversation with Margaret from several years ago, one where her sister tried to convince her to move to Pennsylvania and live at the same retirement community. Frances had scoffed at the idea, saying she needed to stay in Kansas. The truth was, as much as she loved her sister, she couldn’t bear the thought of being so far from her girls.

Frances thought of Trina’s invitation again. Did she really want to spend the rest of her life all alone?

Eventually, she retreated to the house, mind still wavering. She picked up the small pile of clothes from her bedroom floor, depositing it into the washing machine. Swept the tiled floors and then mopped them until they gleamed. Dusted every piece of furniture she owned. Hours later and spine aching, she found herself standing at the back door again. Her gaze trailed to the drooping little tree in the corner. It probably wouldn’t last much longer, but Frances couldn’t be bothered to mourn for anything else right now.

Her fingers touched the glass, and she blew out a sigh. “Okay, Trina. You win.”

Her daughter’s back yard was spacious and wooded, after all. The bird-watching there was sure to be spectacular.

Casie Bazay is the author of the YA novel, Not Our Summer (Running Press Teens, 2021) and has a short story appearing in As We Convene: An Anthology of Time and Place from Inked in Gray Press (May, 2024). After leaving the teaching profession nearly 13 years ago, Casie has worked mainly as a freelance writer, specializing in equine health and care. She has hundreds of articles and blog posts published with various companies and publications such as The Horse, Country Extra, Natural Horse Magazine, Oklahoma Horses and more. Casie’s other full-time job is mothering two wonderful but headstrong children and many (less headstrong) four-legged pets.