Where the Sweet Bird Sings

by Ella Joy Olsen

Genres: Family Life; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

In this provocative new novel, the author of Root, Petal, Thorn offers a powerful story of resilience, hope, and the secrets that, no matter how deeply hidden, can shape and ultimately unite a family. What connects us to one another? Is it shared history? Is it ancestry? Is it blood? Or is it love? People respond to tragedy in different ways. Some try to move on. Some don't move at all. A year after her young son's death due to a rare genetic disease, Emma Hazelton is still frozen by grief, unable and unwilling to consider her husband Noah's suggestion that they try to have another child. As the future Emma once imagined crumbles, her family's past comes into sharp relief. Searching for the roots of her son's disease, Emma tries to fit together the pieces in her genealogical puzzle. Hidden within an old wedding photograph of her great-grandparents is an unusual truth Emma never guessed at - a window into all the ways that love can be surprising, generous, and fiercely brave...and a discovery that may help her find her own way forward at last.

Release date: September 1, 2017

Publisher: Audible Studios

Print pages: 320

Sample

Grass clung like a dearly beloved to the color of winter. On this day, enormous swaths of olive-drab blades stretched forever, still flattened from the pressing snow of an especially bitter season in the Wasatch Mountains. I squinted, hoping to see pinpricks of brave green on hills that faced the southern sun, but in the exaggerated distance of the cemetery, the dun lawn seemed to roll eternally, ending only at the horizon.

The bright springtime branches of the forsythia were the one exception. A twiggy bush glowing with explosions of gold, it burst through the dreariness of March, heralding the end of winter. I focused on those cheerful branches because I didn’t want to look at the casket, the family assembled, or my mom. And I didn’t want to see if they were looking at me.

The forsythia in question was the size of a small car hovering like a lesser sun near one of the narrow roadways threading through the Salt Lake City Cemetery. These paths meandered around thousands of headstones and the occasional twenty-foot obelisk marking the burial site of one important founder of the city or another, rising from the ground like a skyscraper in a small town.

The largest of these monuments were reserved for prophets from the Mormon Church, as this was the oldest cemetery in Salt Lake City, but here and there a local tycoon, one who’d made a mint in mining or some other gentile pursuit, purchased a stone memorial large enough to stand toe-to-toe with the powerful men of the priesthood.

My grandpa Joe would be buried in the shadow of one of these monoliths. His last name, Barlow, was common here in the older part of the cemetery. Today I noted close to a dozen headstones surrounding his, all bearing the same surname. However, these distant family members were no one I knew. Most had passed a century earlier, meaning this historic plat was sparsely adorned. A few graves sported bouquets of faded silk standing sentinel a season or two, but this section of the cemetery didn’t see a parade of regular visitors. For the most part, loved ones of the deceased were deceased themselves.

My grandparents’ side-by-side graves would be the exception.

I let my focus slip from the safety of the golden branches and followed the concrete walkway with my eyes, past the low sandstone wall built at the base of the hill, and continued up the stairs. It was one hundred yards. Maybe two. I’d visited this cemetery almost daily and hadn’t realized the proximity of my grandma Ginny’s grave (and now my grandpa’s) in relation to my son’s.

A light breeze lifted my hair, the edges frosted with the remnants of winter, and I shivered. Noah pulled me against his side, his large palm warm against my waist. It was all so similar—the brown lawn, the thin sunlight, my dress, his hand, the forsythia. I shook again, and this time my teeth chattered. Noah touched the back of my neck, running his hand the length of my hair. I leaned into his shoulder and closed my eyes.

A familiar voice drifted through the crowd as we watched the casket being lowered into the ground. “It seems like we were just here, doesn’t it? Same type of day. Same place. Where is she anyway?”

“Shhh. Over there by the tree. In the sunglasses.”

I knew at once who was speaking: my cousin Becca. She and her brother Doug had flown in for the service. Becca’s voice was one of those that carried. Easter egg hunts and birthday parties when we were children, family party murmur switched to circus tent megaphone whenever she entered the room.

“Was it this time last year? Or was it two years ago?” Doug asked.

“Last year. Hold on. What’s today?”

“Second to last day in March.”

“I think—” This time Becca lowered to a stage whisper. “I think it’s possible they were buried on the same day. Oh my God, do you think she realizes?”

I felt Doug’s eyes find me as he processed this information, and I was happy for the reflective lenses of my sunglasses.

“Mom told me she’s not doing so great. Hasn’t gone back to work, stays in the house most of the time. . . .”

I backed away from their words, pulling myself from Noah, hoping to hide behind a nearby tree. Though barren of leaves, the width of the trunk would be my shield. Several mourning doves that were perched in the highest branches startled as I ducked out of sight, their swooping descent draped like low-hung party streamers over the gathering. The tips of their feathers vibrated at their retreat, whistling, and my cousins glanced skyward. This welcome distraction allowed me to tuck myself deeper into shadow.

Of course, I would have spoken with my childhood playmates after the service in other circumstances, in the manner of grieving family members at a somber occasion. Smiles without teeth, a quivering chin. But it was nothing I was capable of today. If I uttered a sound, if I made eye contact, it would be the end of the masquerade.

Pressed against the gnarled willow, I watched the crowd disperse and planned my solitary escape. It wouldn’t be easy, because my brother, Ethan, was also in town for the funeral. On most visits the two of us couldn’t be separated, and though it made me ache to ignore him, today I avoided him like I had all the others. Once or twice during the service he attempted to approach me, and I grasped at Noah’s arm with frozen fingers. Noah must have glared him away, because Ethan’s girlfriend, Anusha, kept a tight grip on my brother’s arm, giving me the space I needed.

No one else sought my company for the remainder of the gathering—or maybe no one dared—until only a handful of close relatives remained. My mom and my aunt Marsha stood together by their father’s grave, arm in arm, their scarves and sweaters billowing flags of windblown fabric. Then, as if they’d coordinated the movement in advance, they turned away. My mom’s scarf fell, and as she draped it over her elbow it was clear the strands that tied them to childhood had been severed.

Not long afterward, my mom found me. “Emma?” She took off her sunglasses in an attempt to get me to follow suit, to judge my emotional state without a disguise. I shook my head, denying her unspoken request. Noah had resumed his place at my side, his arm over my shoulders feeling more like a weight than a comfort. It was too much. I needed to get away. With a pivot I extricated myself, lurching away from both of them. Noah followed me for several paces.

“Please, can I have a few minutes?” I begged him without turning around. I wouldn’t cry.

“If you’re going to see him, I’d like to come with you.”

“Would it be okay if I went alone?” I touched his outstretched arm, trailing my fingers from his elbow to wrist as I stepped away, out of his grasp. “I need to say good-bye to Grandpa.”

“Noah, you can ride to the luncheon with me.” My mom stopped him from following me with her hand. “Leave her the keys. Maybe a little chat with Grandpa Joe is just what she needs. Really, I think she’ll be fine.”

“Will she?” Doubt filled his voice as, resigned, they made their slow retreat.

“His death would have been hard at any time, but . . .” My mom’s words faded as they departed, choked with her own emotion.

I stood with my shoulders squared and rigid until the car doors slammed in the distance. My husband and mother idled near me for several seconds, giving me a moment to reconsider, and I waved them on without looking away from the patchy lawn. I would be fine. Wouldn’t I?

A man from the mortuary lingered at a respectable distance, but I knew he wouldn’t approach my grandpa’s resting place until I walked away. I’d done this type of thing before. On a different day I’d stayed near a tiny grave for hours because storm clouds were approaching and I couldn’t bear to leave my son alone in the rain.

I inched my way to the side of the open grave. “Grandpa?”

If I concentrated on the memory, I could almost hear him reply. Emma. My girl.

“Will you keep watch over him?” The casket blurred as I spoke. “He’s just so tiny.” My grandpa had never visited Joey’s grave. By the time we buried my son, Grandpa Joe was no longer mobile. A series of strokes had left him bedridden, though still alert, for two years.

“You’re neighbors now.” I assumed a childlike tone as I spoke to the most important man of my childhood.

Count your steps, Emma. You’ll see it’s not too far. He said these words when I complained about the distance from his house to my elementary school. I made the seemingly endless trudge every day when my mom went back to work full time, leaving me on school mornings at my grandparents’ house.

Not too far. I would find Joey’s grave from where I stood and I would count. I’d never approached it from this direction. Most days, I would drive as near his grave as possible. For practical reasons, I wouldn’t have quite so far to carry flowers, carved pumpkins, or my library bag bulging with a collection of thick-paged children’s books. But in reality I couldn’t bear to meander, to consider that each stone in this cemetery was a monument dedicated to pain. I could barely hold my own.

I kept a whisper-count each time my foot touched the ground (my intent to report back to my grandpa), but as I had anticipated, my attention drifted to the names and dates on the burial plots I passed. Unlike Joey, whose early death was an unusual circumstance, a rare thing defying statistical odds, a mother at the turn of the century would likely bury many of her children. After wandering for several minutes, I stopped in front of one headstone reading The Snow Children. One marker for how many? I circled the stone. Five:


A woman named Marguerite Snow was buried next to her children. Beloved Mother. Her title was etched in granite, her role lasting forever. I leaned close to the grave, darkening her name with my shadow. This woman lived to be over fifty. Even without her children she went on. The enormity of this mother’s loss dwarfed my own, five children to my solitary child. At the same time, witnessing the carved-stone evidence of grief, I knew sadness wasn’t a shield against more of the same.

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered. Swallowing several times to clear the lump threatening to stop my breath, I spoke again, louder this time. “What a stupid response. I’m so sorry? Sorry is what people say when they don’t understand. I understand. And this—” I touched the stone bearing the names of her dead children with the tip of my satin flat. With only a moment of hesitation, I kicked it so hard that the knuckle on my big toe popped and flamed red-hot in the flimsy shoe. “This is so damn unfair.”

A couple of long yards past the Snow gravesite, up a short stairway onto a plat terraced by modern machinery, lay my son. In this newer section, the headstones were placed horizontal to the earth (easier to mow over), traffic was steady, burials often, and the graves continually refreshed with seasonal decorations. People mourned those buried here. Emotions were still raw.

From a distance I saw that someone had arranged flowers on Joey’s grave, recently too. A handful of sticks covered in bright yellow blossoms were a cheerful bonfire on his headstone. Forsythia. A note wrinkled with spring rain lay on his grave, kept in place by a rock.

Noah. I knelt next to the headstone and touched the paper. The damp ground soaked the knees of my nylons, and blades of dead grass pressed like a bed of nails into my legs. One year.

My grandpa and my son were bound in name: Joseph. The name was intended to honor the most significant man in my childhood, my grandpa Joe. And now my grandpa and my son shared something else. They were bound in death. They were buried on the same day. One year apart.

Like an old woman easing her frail body into bed, I lowered myself to the ground and imagined Joey sleeping cocooned next to me. Near the end I couldn’t bear to be separated from my son. What if he took his last breath and I was doing something as mundane as the dishes? So I never left his side. We slept like this every night. We napped like this every day. But it didn’t matter. Despite my vigilance, my hands holding his, he still managed to slip away.

The engraved letters on his headstone pressed solidly against my cheek. Though I loved my grandfather with the adoration of a child, if I’d known what story lay behind this particular name, and if it would have made any difference in what happened to Joey, would I have chosen another for my son? Absolutely.

“Emma? Where are you?”

I’d been home from the cemetery for over an hour when Noah arrived. Before I could respond, he pushed open the partially closed door leading to Joey’s room and found me sitting in the gliding rocker. Instantly his face relaxed. I raised my hand in greeting, unable to smile. Like mine, his eyes were worn, the whites shot with red, the corner creases deeper than usual.

“Long day, huh?”

“It was.” Inside the room the sheer curtain blocked the sharpest rays of the evening sun illuminating the space with washed light. Everything lay outside this room—the whole world beyond the door—but inside lay nothing. Together Noah and I had assembled the perfect nursery: purchasing a crib that could be converted into a toddler bed, painting the walls a soft gray so they wouldn’t be too baby-like when Joey got a little older. But Joey never graduated to the toddler bed. And now he was gone.

“How was the luncheon?”

“Everyone asked about you. They’re worried. They want to know how you’re doing.”

“And what did you tell them?”

“I said it was a hard day but that you’re doing better. Overall.” Noah pressed his forehead to the doorjamb. “Are you? Doing better?”

We were both quiet for several minutes, the gliding movement of the chair the only activity in the room. “I don’t know.”

I shoved my toe into the thick carpeting and the rocker responded by hitting the wall with a thud. Noah stepped toward me and placed a hand on each wooden armrest, stopping the erratic motion. Once the chair was still, he sat at my knees and laid his head on my legs. The weight on my lap felt like I was cradling Joey, and I closed my eyes to imagine rocking my son to sleep while the night-light combined our shadows into an indecipherable and inseparable form.

Loosening my grip on the chair, I placed my hands on Noah’s head, smoothing the coppery brown strands of his hair. Slowly I traced his cheekbone to the bridge of his nose and back again, until he opened his eyes, beloved, deep brown, surrounded by a thick fringe of lashes. Joey’s eyes. I couldn’t bear to look at them and yet I couldn’t look away.

“I’m sorry you had to make up excuses for your crazy wife today. I can’t believe I couldn’t hold it together long enough to make it through Grandpa Joe’s funeral.”

“Everyone understands. I understand. There were other things on your mind.”

Other things.

“Will I ever be the same?” I asked myself, but Noah raised his head at my question, searching my face to see if I had the answer. “Will we?” I whispered, but I already knew.

It had been months since the two of us were on the same team. Every single day we forced kindness on one another. We tried to create a normal routine, but there was always an undercurrent of anger, or expectation, or something. I expected him to fix everything and he wanted the same from me, and instead of coming together we ricocheted like errant pinballs until we were more broken than before.

Noah answered for me. “We won’t be the same, Emma. How could we? But we could be happy again.” He hesitated, wary of his next statement. “You know, we could still have a family. We don’t have to stay like this forever.”

“A family?” And there was the crux of it, the one truth. Noah and I could never have children together because of the disease that had claimed our son. We would never have a family.

“Emma?” I must have recoiled because Noah’s voice reverberated against the walls of the abandoned nursery, panicked. He caressed my chin, pulling me toward him. “What are you thinking about? Your face . . .” He touched the corner of my mouth. “Talk to me, please.”

I gently pushed his hand from my cheek and stood. “Should we go to bed?”

Noah followed me into the bathroom. He smeared toothpaste onto his brush as I took out my contacts. Together, going through the regular routine of our evenings, tucked into the tiny room, we could dwell in close proximity without actually facing each other. Our connection flickered in the mirror, both of us concentrating on an unfocused point in our future, wondering if we could come together somewhere in the distance.

Even this was too much. I rubbed a washcloth over my face, taking extra time with my mascara, hiding my expression.

“I was just thinking . . .” I said after a couple of minutes. My jaw was rigid as I spoke, my words compressed by the pressure of my teeth. I covered the quivering in my chin with the cloth, but I found him with my eyes. The bond between us was forced, but it loosened the lines of worry between his brows. “I was just thinking how much I love you. You’re the best man I know, and I’m so lucky you’ve been mine.”

“And you’re mine,” he whispered, his declaration in the present tense. Mine, I realized, in the past. He rinsed the brush, flicking the water into the sink, where the drops slid into the drain like tears. He pulled me to him, leading me to the bedroom. And because I was susceptible to his touch, I let him.

After unzipping my black funeral dress, he dropped it to the floor and like a layer of dark sorrow, it puddled at my feet. As we joined and loved, I clung to him, touching him everywhere, memorizing him: the stubble on his chin, the mole below his collarbone, the fleshy lobe of his ear. We sunk into each other, and I willed myself to absorb this perfect moment. Forever.

Noah’s breathing deepened after we parted. He always descended into slumber first, midsentence sometimes. I would wait for the familiar cadence, audible proof of safety and calm, before I could allow my own consciousness to blur at the edges.

Minutes passed, and as I drifted, his voice found me in a fog. “Do you remember the night we conceived Joey?”

I rolled from him, believing his voice part of a dream, but the familiar inhale and exhale were gone.

“It was a new moon, remember?” he continued, his voice filling the still room. “Dark enough to throw a blanket in the yard without the neighbors seeing what we were up to. We’d been trying for three months and you’d heard some wives’ tale at the studio that women are most fertile during the new moon. And, of course, I was willing.” He chuckled at his joke, and I recoiled.

“Four months,” I whispered into my pillow. He didn’t hear me. We’d been trying for four months.

“And so there you are—” His voice fell into the well-worn rhythm of a story told often. “Lying on that denim quilt in the yard, in what was it? Goddess Pose? Flat on your back, naked as a jaybird, legs splayed open to increase pelvic flexibility. And the sprinklers came on.”

He snorted, now fully involved in this beloved memory we hadn’t repeated since Joey’s diagnosis. It was the story recounted to Noah’s buddies as they clapped him on the back the evening we publically announced the pregnancy. It was the tale that brought my brother to mirthful tears in the retelling.

“And you just lay there, icy water soaking you.” He touched my shoulder in the dark, and I reflexively pulled from him. “What did you say next?”

I was silent.

“Come on, Emma. What did you say as the sprinklers rained down on you, after I’d bolted to the porch?”

“I think this one is going to stick.” My throat closed at the words.

“And he did.”

“Joey,” I whispered.

“I’ve never been happier than those months, when you grew roly-poly, like you carried a watermelon in your shirt. And then we held our boy. We knew right away he had a dimple in his chin, just like you.”

And he had your eyes, I thought, but I couldn’t speak.

Noah rested his hand between my pelvic bones, lightly, barely enough pressure through the sheet to sense his touch, but the imprint of his hand burned like a branding iron.

“Are you forgetting how this story ends?” My voice was as soft as his fingers on my skin, but he heard.

“It seems like we’ve been in this awful place for so long, Emma. I’m just—” Noah’s voice caught on the word. “I’m just trying to remind you of the good times.”

Movement came from his side, a leaning pressure, and I could sense he’d rolled toward me, searching for my silhouette in the dark. The pressure from his hand increased, and he inhaled deeply. He had more to say. “Don’t you think we should try again?”

I sat up like I’d been catapulted from the mattress and picked up his hand with two fingers, as if it were a dead sparrow delivered to our mat by the neighbor cat, bloody and mauled. I flung it back toward him and his palm smacked against his chest, but he was undaunted.

“I know it’s a risk.”

“But you’re a risk taker. I’ve heard that before. Noah, this isn’t a game. Don’t you remember what came next?”

“I know it’s not a game.”

“You’re right. It’s a gamble.”

“But it could be okay.”

“It’s a bet no gambler would make.”

Silence filled the room after I spoke. I listened desperately for his sleep-breathing to tell me this conversation was over. I lay flat on my back, as rigid as a knife, my knees locked. Waiting.

“I would,” he whispered. “I’d roll the dice, because the odds are—”

My fingers curled around the edge of the mattress. “I wouldn’t.” I cut through his declaration with the serrated edge of my voice. Then in a weaker tone, on the verge of tears, I added, “I couldn’t.”

Silence. Longer this time. So long that I thought he may have left our darkened room. Then he shifted, sheets crinkling under his weight, and I purposefully lengthened my breath, feigning sleep.

“So what do we do now?” His voice was hollow. His question was to himself.

I didn’t respond, timing my inhale, faking it, until his exhale matched mine. Deep and rhythmic. Cocooned in the warmth of our night bedroom, I finally relaxed, but instead of sleeping I sobbed.

The phone rang at seven the next morning, and I jolted at the shrill sound. For months I’d waited for an ill-timed call like this as my grandpa’s condition worsened, but now that he was gone, who would call at this hour?

It was my mom. She’d suffered through Grandpa Joe’s funeral the day before, like I had, perhaps not spending so much time in the cemetery, but I expected I wouldn’t hear from her for days. “Emma.” She was chipper, and I held the phone from my ear. I felt hungover, forehead and eye sockets pounding with the residual ache of spent tears. “I need your assistance today. I’d love it if you’d help me move some things out of Grandpa’s house.”

“Today?” I lay back on the pillows. Noah had left for work before I woke, which was not uncommon. A construction manager at a large local firm, he often began near dawn. I touched his pillow, the indentation where he’d slept a lingering shadow of his presence.

“We need to get the place cleared out. I’d like to put it on the market before the end of the summer. Aunt Marsha said she’d like her portion of the sale money sooner rather than later. Apparently Becca’s planning quite a wedding.”

“Today?” I sat up in b. . .