Sparrow Migrations by Cari Noga Page B

work. With the play and all.”
    “I don’t want you to go, either,” Amanda said abruptly. “You just got back from a trip, practically.”
    “It’s just for two nights. I’ll be back Friday.”
    “The last trip was supposed to be just two nights. Then it was three.”
    “Just two this time. I promise.”
    “Then a plane crashed.”
    “Oh, Amanda. That was a flukey, crazy, thing. A one-in-a-million chance. I’ll be fine.”
    “But I’m not!” Amanda’s words burst out of her mouth, hanging in the space in between them, like in a comic strip bubble , Brett thought. She stared at her daughter, silenced.
    Abby’s horn honked. Startled, Brett started chattering, as madly as the sparrows gathering at the replenished feeder. “There’s Abby. Now please don’t worry. Everything’s going to be fine. I’ll call you tonight, and I’ll see you on Friday. Love you.”
    Ushered out the door, Amanda tried to quell her uncertainty and fear. To shut it away in a mental vault and barricade the door. To listen to Abby, who picked up the chatter where her mom left off. To believe that everything was fine. That it was no big deal to offer an omelette for breakfast—when most people ate them, after all—when it felt like her mother was trying to make up for something.
    But she couldn’t quash the feeling that everything wasn’t fine, that something was in fact very wrong, something she couldn’t name or describe or explain except that it started the day her mom didn’t come home from New York.

    Christopher consulted the Moosewood cookbook one more time, then closed it, satisfied. He’d followed the recipe to the letter. He’d prep the salad for his Valentine’s Day dinner now. It would all be ready when Deborah got home from work.
    He piled the salad ingredients on the counter and began slicing, soothed by the rhythmic motion of the knife. He was jumpier than he remembered being during either of the other two-week waits. Deborah seemed nervous, too.
    It was only reasonable, he supposed. The course of their lives would alter one way or the other, in seven days. And permanently. There were no embryos H or beyond.
    But having a ready explanation didn’t make it any easier to weather this last limbo period. So Christopher turned to something he could control—cooking. His classes had ended early that day, and restaurants would be jammed on Valentine’s Day. Plus it felt like he owed Deborah. They’d had date nights every week since New York, and actually talked about the things they used to: current events, politics, campus gossip. Over one of the dinners, Michael Adams had texted that they got the grant. They’d toasted—she with sparkling water, he with a celebratory second beer—and he felt almost like the last two years had never happened. His wife was back to her old self. His professional life was peaking. And there was the possibility of fatherhood, too. That still felt surreal. Yet in an idle moment here and there, he’d caught himself imagining hiking with a child through Sapsucker Woods, the sanctuary that surrounded the Lab, teaching him how to observe and identify the flora and fauna, how to leave no trace.
    For now, though, he needed fresh Parmesan for the salad. Where was the grater? The phone rang.
    “Christopher? Hi. It’s Matt.”
    “Matt.” Christopher hesitated a half second before he placed the voice as his brother-in-law’s. He could count on one hand the number of times they’d talked unattended by Deborah and Helen. “Good to hear from you. How’s life in Seattle?”
    “We’re doing all right. As good as you can expect, I guess. The girls have been really pitching in. We’ve got another appointment at the university next week. I just hope Helen’s not too tired to keep it.”
    “Mmm-hhhm.” Christopher mulled Matt’s statement idly. The university. Could Deborah’s nieces be old enough now to be making college visits? He hadn’t thought so, but he didn’t keep close