Preservation Response

The chick crouches in the back of the nesting box, head bowed, facing the wooden panel furthest from the opening. Eyes closed, its tiny body sways amidst a cacophony of chirping. Siblings vie for top spot in the race to receive regurgitated seed, care of Mum and Dad. The budgerigar is three weeks old when I notice its parents ignoring it. I scoop it into my palms, place it in a box furnished with hot water bottle, towel, some Kleenex. When I look at it, sparse covering of grey plumage, I see a pigeon. I drip feed it warm filtered water. I settle on a name. I call the chick, Pidge.

Pidge sits upright on match-stick legs, taking in liquid like he won’t get another opportunity. The turn-around sees me sprint to the kitchen where I put water on to boil, grab a chopping board, prepare a sweet potato mash the way I used to for Frankie and Ollie. The urgency I feel reminds me of the terror that accompanied the realisation that with the birth of my daughter, came the responsibility to keep someone other than myself alive. I add spirulina to the mix and let it cool.

Pidge chirps, demands tiny amounts of green from a dropper. He doesn’t care where the dropper came from, only that it’s pointed at his beak. Hope splinters in my stomach. Convinced it’s malnourishment, I clean, comfort the baby bird.

Pidge chirps, demands tiny amounts of green from a dropper. He doesn’t care where the dropper came from, only that it’s pointed at his beak. Hope splinters in my stomach. Convinced it’s malnourishment, I clean, comfort the baby bird. After smoothing his feathers, Pidge nestles against the side of a shoebox. I stroke a bald patch on his head. He will spend the night in his makeshift nest in an open drawer in the spare bedroom. I brush my teeth, reassure myself; with me sleeping in the spare room I’ll hear him if he cries.

The river boat sheds light, changes sheer curtains from white to blue, the sound of a ferry motor scarcely audible above the ka-ka-ka of geckos. Ollie stirs then turns in sleep. The stars were absent, sky black when I turned out the living room lights. Not two minutes had passed when Ollie knocked on the door asking if he could sleep with Mummy. I relish the knowledge he still wants to sleep beside me. Before he drifted off, we talked stars, planets, galaxies. I learned I’m not the only one getting asked the same question. The Planetary Society, an American organisation involved in space exploration, is constantly interrogated as to why some nights it’s impossible to see stars. The answer I give Ollie is that stars are. Only sometimes, like last chances, they’re too faint to show themselves.

Paul, my ex-partner, Frankie and Ollie’s father, sleeps soundly in the bedroom above me. We’ve been estranged, if the term extends to former partners who live together, for two years. Together, alone. Unable to fall asleep I consider going upstairs to Frankie’s room to pinch her lavender oil. I talk myself out of it, insist instead on counting sheep. When that doesn’t work, I picture my daughter reading herself into dreams of The Milky Way. Her father’s an ophthalmologist who spends his days looking into people’s eyes, but instead of searching for stars he seeks snags, blind spots, evidence of snow. A regular Doctor Fix-It with a huge fan club. It no longer surprises me it took him so long to see our boat was sinking. He has everything he wants in work; everything he needs in our children. I used my spare time to visualise how to plug holes in leaky walls, but was unable to keep out what was determined to get in.

There are geckos living in the air-conditioning unit. They’re cute but leave droppings everywhere. Attracted to the heat generated by the motor, they short-circuit the electrical board. They can’t be eradicated, because there are no registered substances available to pest control companies, not that I’ve considered it. The only other option involves setting glue traps. The damage to the unit is costly, but imagining their tiny transparent bodies stuck in place while they starve to death distresses me. I wake every two hours to unsee what geckos look like once they’ve fried themselves in attempts to get warm. Pidge appears to sleep soundly until dawn. Eventually, I give up on sleep. It’s 5:15 A.M. when I check whether the chick is still breathing.

It felt strange at first, sleeping elsewhere. I’d been sleeping away from Paul, either with Ollie or with Frankie, for months before the separation, but it didn’t prepare me for how I’d feel. It was stupid to expect it could.

I prepare for the worst, hold my breath while I watch Pidge’s chest rise then fall. I ask myself: how bad can it be? I’ve already thrown thousands at a family law firm whose approach was more The First Wives Club as opposed to It’s Complicated—the only thing to do was part ways before I was asked to part with my life savings. I stand over the open drawer where Pidge crouches in his box. Startled, my patient protests. I apologise. When I realise how I must look, standing in the dark saying sorry to a drawer, I stop talking, back away. Ollie sleeps on, oblivious.

I take Pidge from the drawer, send the dog out to pee. I boil the kettle, refill the hot water bottle, warm some leftovers. Thirty minutes later Pidge is sated, toileted, clean. Archie, the family Moodle, is all hair and tongue lashings. I’ve always talked to animals. Though he’s small, Archie has a sizeable vocabulary, most of which he communicates via looks, licks. We talk about how Pidge seems stronger today compared to yesterday. Archie laps at his water bowl then rubs his face over the rug. Pidge attempts to preen the few feathers he has. I can’t chase the smile from my face.

A constant I never paid attention to before is the spare room Paul and I kept made up for his brother. Built with us in mind, Paul said we’d move into it when we could no longer climb the stairs. I keep the door shut because the dog pees on the curtains when I’m not looking. Now the spare room houses my belongings. It felt strange at first, sleeping elsewhere. I’d been sleeping away from Paul, either with Ollie or with Frankie, for months before the separation, but it didn’t prepare me for how I’d feel. It was stupid to expect it could. How does anyone prepare for the dizzying mix of liberation, shame, regret that comes with saying goodbye to a fourteen-year relationship? The spare provided a way to abort ship without leaving. I knew I couldn’t save us, but I would try anyway.

Geckos are another animal that take stupidity to bottomless depths. They party all night, lay eggs everywhere. Dozens of tiny, white, oblong shapes can be found almost anywhere if you know what you’re looking for. Where I don’t expect to find eggs, however, is in the tracks of the sliding door in my study. Archie sleeps on a bed under the desk where he can see me. He lifts his head, lowers it again onto his cushion. He can’t relax unless he knows I’m nearby. When I greet him of a morning, he’s forgotten we said goodnight. He closes his eyes and within minutes is dreaming, his yelp-yelp-yelp something I remind myself I must video. Pidge naps in his faux nest on a chair. I ponder the simplicity of my pets’ lives, wonder how it is people can get love so wrong.

That afternoon, while I try to psychoanalyse James Joyce’s The Sisters, as part of my unit on Literary Theory, Pidge sleeps. My literary analysis is broken only by standing to stretch my legs, to check the tiny ailing parrot at twenty-minute intervals for the six hours between school drop off and pick up. I can understand Lacan. He took someone else’s ideas, ran with them. Freud, though, he’s another animal altogether. Embracing his theory requires a leap of intellectual faith I may never make. Yet, anything goes if it’s argued well enough. My relationship has taught me well. Pidge takes lunch in the kitchen while Archie grinds on a chicken wing in the backyard. For a moment, no sound can be heard on the river. I sit on the outdoor lounge, tilt my face toward the sun. Quiet and warmth consume me.

The second night with Pidge is much like the first. Frankie helps me clean and prepare the feeding utensils. I get an old towel to throw over what is now understood by all to be the feeding chair. Ollie helps to dropper-feed Pidge. Earlier in the day I picked up a parrot feeding formula from my local pet store. Pidge takes to it better than any of us could have hoped. It’s a family affair, caring for this budgerigar that is showing us it wants to live. For the time being, we fight a winning battle.

When the email from the family lawyer arrives, it seems unexpected. The time lapses between correspondence are huge and the separation is, for the most part, amicable. Since Paul and I decided we can be separated and live together, I’ve downplayed myriad irks, convinced myself I can live with most things. For the same reasons, I’ve considered calling the whole thing off. It sounds easier to overlook grievances, put aside differences, pretend to care about the same things. Maybe, I think, there really is such a thing as a compassionate capitalist.

How are things at home? the lawyer writes.

Good, I find myself writing back. No issues. I almost write, Unless you count the geckos. But my lawyer isn’t one for jokes. I’m left feeling like an ass when I make attempts at humour.

When I hear nothing back from her, I forget, again, about the state of my relationship. Frankie and Ollie go to school, I go to work on theory. This week, my fellow undergraduates and I are looking at Derrida as well as Freud and Lacan. Little has changed since yesterday. Derrida and Deconstruction, I can grasp. Decentering what we take to be normal and natural is where my head and heart are at. Psychoanalysis, on the other hand…

I find a way in when I come across Lacan’s children, the toilet, the train station. I apply his reasoning about the signifier changing the signified and voilà. Depending on sex, outlook, the way we are each brought up to get along in the world—the same boys and girls who cannot see eye to eye become the same men and women who can only fake uniformity. Pidge flaps his tiny wings and squawks at me. I close my laptop and things start to fall into place.

It’s after disposing of a gecko I find squished inside the front gate, on the third day of nursing Pidge, I notice the change. He’s quieter, dimmer, less hungry. He’s no longer interested in his surroundings. My stomach lurches, looking for an exit from the truth. I want to retreat into the silent space of denial. Anywhere but reality. It’s not malnutrition. Poor little beggar couldn’t fight his way to the food, true, but it’s something more sinister responsible for Pidge’s decline. The two people I want to be honest with are Frankie and Ollie. They’ve lost a bird each in the past twelve months and I won’t get their hopes up.

‘Is Pidge going to be alright?’ Ollie says.

His shins are caked in mud after a soccer match and his tanned face is contorted. I know he’s betting on my assurance. He’s close to tears, wants what I can’t give him. The irony of this recurring theme in my life is not lost on me.

‘I’m not sure, Baby,’ I say, unable to admit the truth.

The heaving feeling returns. To distract us both, I cajole Ollie into giving me a hand to prepare for lunch. I have to cash in one of the vouchers Ollie gave me for my birthday, but we’re both okay with that.

The heaving feeling returns. To distract us both, I cajole Ollie into giving me a hand to prepare for lunch. I have to cash in one of the vouchers Ollie gave me for my birthday, but we’re okay with that. I choose ‘Empty the Dishwasher for Mummy’ and put him to work. His sister is chatting with school friends, and I decide it’s best to wait before saying anything. I leave her collaborating or conspiring, play things by ear. Besides, there’s still hope. I might be proven wrong. Things tend to work out for the best.

The aircon guy arrives to replace the circuit boards. He says he can go to work outside without bothering me. I make a coffee and head upstairs to construct a psychoanalytic analysis of Perrault’s Cinderella. By the time I’ve discovered Cinder and the Prince are doomed, given their socialisation in Capitalism’s Western patriarchal society, the aircon man has rung the doorbell three times. On the third buzz, he delivers the blow.

‘It seems the motor’s gone,’ he says, holding his cap over his groin. I can only think of Archie skulking away with his tail between his legs when I’ve scolded him for taking a piddle on the living room floor.

‘So, what does that mean?’ I say.

‘Do you have insurance?’ he says.

Stirring vegetable stock into lentil soup, I remember a quote I read by Jean Rhys. It was something about having two longings, one always doing battle with the other. She wanted to be loved, yet alone. I’ve thought a lot about these kinds of longings. No wonder our love took a nose-dive. For a long time, I busied myself pointing out our differences, but Paul and I both failed to accept the truth. No relationship can expect to endure the degree of neglect ours has and survive. Neither of us saw how we were the same: Love me, but do it from over there. And, while you’re at it, do it how I want, as opposed to the only way you know how.

Pidge consumes next to no formula. He is slow to move and eerily quiet. I do my best to act normal, but my heart knocks, deliberate, heavy from inside my ribcage. Frankie prepares the hot water bottle. Ollie organises a fresh towel. We get Pidge comfortable for the night and I place his box in his drawer. I text Paul to ask him if we have insurance. I could just walk upstairs, but this way, the job is done, and I don’t have to remember to ask one of the children to remind me to phone or to ask Paul to phone the aircon guy with a yes, we do, or a no, we don’t. I say a quick prayer to whatever it is I know I somehow believe in, asking for Pidge to wake up better. I climb into bed, try to sleep.

Sometime during the night, a scratching noise wakes me. Pidge is moving around inside his box. Or maybe I’m dreaming. I’m tired. I don’t get up. Later, I’m left to face the guilt and shame that accompany inaction when I check on Pidge only to discover him head down, bum up, caught between the hot water bottle and the towel. Regret feels like a winter coat dripping cold water from the inside. I start to shiver, grab the box, make for the kitchen, whispering sorry over and over.

Sunday. I’m in the dining room reading Barbara Johnson. She’s talking about teaching deconstructively and what it means to break down ideas so as to build them up again, but differently, so they’re better. Pidge is in a blanket on my lap when Paul passes by, sucking on a water bottle on his way out the door.

‘Did you get my message about the AC?’ I say.

‘Yeah.’

‘Do we have fusion insurance?’

‘No idea,’ he says.

While he’s out I set the children reading tasks and go to work in my study trying to get the recurring vision of electrocuted geckos lit up like disco lights off my mind. Still, struggling to keep his eyes open, Pidge sits on a blanket, nestled within a bunch of Kleenex in his box on the desk. For a while, he sleeps peacefully and I study. Everything seems okay.

Later, Pidge starts chirping. It’s not the happy, upbeat, sweet kind of twitter that makes me smile. This is a loud, frantic, I-can’t-handle-this kind of tweet. I feel panic surge but manage to reassure myself. It’s a public holiday so the clinics are closed, but I have contacts. Ollie’s friend’s dad is a vet. I bring up his number, send a text about my probably sick, but hopefully not dying, baby budgerigar. I take a video of the strange dance Pidge is doing and attach it to the message. It’s a long wait until I get the call back. I can no longer focus on what I’m doing. Ollie and Frankie take turns holding, talking to Pidge. When he’s not throwing himself about, miniature wings and tiny neck flailing, I kiss him, hoping he understands he is loved. Hold on or let go—whatever will ease your suffering, little one.

Dr Sam phones me, moves to assure me I’ve done all the right things. By removing Pidge from the nest, warming him, feeding him, caring for him, I’ve done what I can. It’s just the way it is with birds. Being prey animals they have a built-in mechanism to fake wellness until they’re so sick they can’t pretend a minute longer. When that happens, they drop the charade and die.

‘Try sugar syrup,’ Sam says.

It’s a last-ditch effort. We both know it.

Pidge is not into sickly sweet water. He regurgitates syrup onto his towel. When he quietens down, looks as if he’s settling in for a nap, I let him rest in his box on the dining room table. I open Facebook and am chatting about him with a friend in Wisconsin when Pidge slips away. Ollie is kicking a ball with his dad in the park. Frankie is working on an assignment in the kitchen. It’s a quick, silent death of no consequence. Not even a gecko sounds a ka-ka-ka. I looked away for two minutes. I want to throw something and sob at the same time.

Scientists call it a preservation response—the way birds refuse to show signs of illness until it’s too late to ask for help. Things go wrong. They carry on pretending, refusing to acknowledge how wrong things actually are. I sit silently in the living room and though it doesn’t stop, time slows down. I can hear Frankie tapping away at her keyboard, Ollie and Paul making their way through the street gate from park to front door. I stroke Pidge’s tiny back, his outstretched semi-feathered wings, his tiny half-bald head. He is so small.

‘Everything okay?’ Paul says.

I manage a nod. Without checking the box, Paul knows. He does the thing he does where he looks at me in that way that says he’s sorry, he knows I feel deeply, without having to say the words. I both love and abhor that he can still make me care when any closeness between us has long since disappeared. He walks toward me, reaches for my shoulder. Despite the distance between us, I hesitate before I change my mind, pull away. To accept tenderness now feels like anathema.

There’s a spot for Pidge beside the egg that failed the fertilisation test. Ollie dropped the other one, so we had no choice but to bin it, yoke, shell and all. I’m not thinking straight as I pick up the box, walk it outside to the middle section of the garden where we laid Plum and Titch to rest. Between the money tree and some other kind of succulent whose name I forgot, I dig. Suddenly they are with me – Frankie, Ollie, Archie. Paul rests against the loungeroom door, opens his arms to Frankie. Ollie stands beside me with his head bowed and drags the back of a hand across his eyes. It’s a shallow hole but provides more than enough space. I place Pidge’s soft body in the dirt and we each take turns to cover him and say our goodbyes.

Later, curled in a semi-circle on the lounge by the pool, I sip chamomile tea while Archie licks a paw at my feet. Paul is in the kitchen putting together a talk he’ll deliver to a room of optometrists. The children are asleep. There’s a crescent moon in the sky behind a blanket of haze and though I can’t see them I know there are stars upon stars upon stars. I see Pidge poke his head out from behind a cloud, squawking for spirulina. Separation seems final, but like the geckos, the cosmos, the question of theory and my peculiar yet lovely family of hybrids, my chick remains, even when there is nothing left to hold onto.