Survivor Patience

Hope Hermann

by Emma Lydon

My nose is pressed up against the glass door in grandpa’s apartment, my breath clouding the view to the courtyard. I peer outside, searching for a tiny nest amid the long, graceful branches of the birch. The light plays on the leaves, lighting the fresh dew like a thousand diamonds. Voices bounce from the cramped kitchen into the dining room, where I fidget, stretching my neck and tapping my fingers against the glass.

“Come on, Em!” my brother shouts as he bounds down the stairs in his swim trunks, “Judith’s gonna take us to the pool,” and my grandma follows him to the door, her hands filled with tubes of sunscreen, brightly colored towels, and trashy novels.

“Nah,” I tell them. “I’m staying to watch the hummingbird nest a little longer.”

“You sure?” my mom asks as she follows them out, but she doesn’t wait for an answer, letting the door slam loudly behind them as Gabe runs onto the grass.

I return to gazing at the nest, ignoring the voices of my father, grandpa, and great-aunt Bev in the kitchen. I pick up my new purple waterproof camera, an early Christmas present from Bev. It doesn’t have any film in it, but as I click the perfect photo of the hummingbird nest I pretend to be a famous photographer, like the ones in grandpa’s fancy books.

“That one’s a masterpiece,” I whisper to myself, as I imagine what I could buy with the royalties. A pet monkey, I decide, like Curious George. Boy, would Gabe be jealous!

I’m called back from my daydreams as I spot a flurry of feathers falling from the tree out of the corner of my eye. Confused, I set down my camera to get a closer look.

“Daddy?” I call out uncertainly, my voice breaking at the end. “Come here. Dad?”

“Hold on a minute, sweetie,” he says.

“Oh for God’s sake, Matt,” I hear Bev snap, “It could be important. What is it hon?” she asks me.

“I think one of the baby hummingbirds fell out of the tree,” I cry.

I hear a scuffle of chairs and footsteps as they all hurry to join me at the window. Bev’s silk and velvet swish in my ear, and her soft cool hand finds my shoulder.

“Yikes,” my grandfather exclaims. “How’d that happen?”

“I dunno,” I respond defensively, feeling derelict in my duty to watch the babies. “Maybe the big one pushed the little one out.”

“Larry!” Bev says. “How’d you expect Emma to know a thing like that? The girl’s only eight!”

Behind me I feel my dad’s shoulders shaking with laughter. “Well, what do we do?” my dad asks once he’s got his amusement under control.

Everyone stands there for a minute, looking puzzled. Apparently no one in the group has taken Baby Hummingbird Rescue 101.

“We certainly can’t leave it there,” says Bev. “Right now we should get some tissues and put it in a shoe box.”

“I’ll go get it,” I say, already halfway up the stairs. I navigate Judith’s closet with confidence, going past the long fancy dress-up clothes to the shoe rack. I dump out a pair of black heels, making a mental note to put them on the rack later.

“Here,” I pant, seconds later, shoving the box into my dad’s hands.

“Nice job,” Bev tells me. While I was gone she’s gotten oven mitts from the kitchen.

“What are you going to do?” I ask.

“You can come with me,” she tells me. “Just be careful.”

The glass door lets out a high pitched whine as Bev yanks it open, and grandpa follows us out onto the patio. The bird looks small against the red bricks, with its feet all tangled. It lets out a pathetic cheep which echoes in the silence, as Bev slowly kneels down beside it. Its eyes are only half open, and it shows no alarm at the congregation which has collected beside it. My breath comes out in nervous gasps as Bev gently scoops it up with the oven mitt, and places it on the fluffy cotton balls in the shoe box. The bird, surprised by the quick change of location, tweets happily and settles in, pecking and pulling at the bits of cotton.

“Nice,” my dad says in approval.

“Can we keep it?” I direct my question at Bev, after weighing which adult will be most likely to respond favorably. She sadly shakes her head no, and pulls a butterscotch out of her faux-fur and velvet purse, handing it to me and winking.

“We should call the vet,” dad says firmly, and my grandpa nods his approval.

“The vet?” says Bev. “What could they possibly know about hummingbirds?” I imagine dozens of retorts running through my father’s head as she continues, “No. Let’s call 411 and get the number for the hummingbird hospital.”

“There’s a hummingbird hospital?” I ask in awe, imagining hundreds of tiny hummingbirds tucked into rows of hospital beds with starched, white sheets. Behind Bev I see my dad shake his head no, just as she assures me, “Of course there is!”

“Hand me the phone, please” she says to grandpa, and hands me the box with the bird. I blow on its stomach, seeing the feathers flutter, as Bev dials 4-1-1 and sets it to speakerphone.

One ring, two rings, and then a voice says, “411. What city?”

“Los Angeles.” A long pause.

“How may I help you?” The voice is back. It is young, high pitched.

“Yes, I need the number for a hummingbird rescue agency,” Bev says.

“I’m sorry,” the voice hesitates, “You need what?”

“A hummingbird rescue agency,” Bev tells them again, her nails drumming against grandpa’s glass table. The bird stirs at the sound, its delicate eyelids fluttering.

“I’ll look it up,” the voice says slowly. A minute later, she’s back. “I’m sorry. I don’t think there is one.”

“There has to be.” Bev says. “We have a baby hummingbird that’s been pushed out of its nest, and we need to find someone to care for it.” Bev explains our plight, convinced the anonymous voice will be sympathetic. “Can you please check the neighboring towns? Santa Monica, Beverly Hills, Pacific Palisades.” Bev waits. Her dialogue with the information operator continues on and one, city after city. Grandpa has begun cooking jelly omelets, and I color napkins with my markers, making “quilts” for the bird.

Finally, the voice exclaims, “I found one!”

“Really?” my father asks incredulously, speaking for the first time since the phone call began.

“It’s in San Pedro,” the voice continues, ignoring my father’s outburst.

After getting the number, Bev calls and finds an automated answering machine message, giving its address, and urging the public to “come at anytime if there is a hummingbird emergency.” The automated message plays as my grandpa and dad exchange glances of total shock, and Bev smiles to herself. I sit stroking the hummingbird’s stomach. It breathes gently, delicate feathers fluttering ever so slightly. Its claws have ripped through the colorful tissues, and the cotton balls lie in hundreds of pieces scattered about the box.

“Alright,” Bev says abruptly, knocking me back to earth. “Let’s go!”

Grandpa hesitates. “It’s an hour long drive,” he complains. “Can it wait until after lunch?” I can tell my dad agrees with grandpa, but the look in Bev’s eye prevents him from joining the conversation.

“Wait?” Bev says slowly, as if the idea never crossed her mind. “Let’s see. We have a two week old hummingbird that just fell ten feet onto bricks, and you want to wait until we’ve eaten to take it in? Really, Larry?”

Dad jumps in, in an effort to maintain civility. “Umm, how about this?” He says hesitantly, not wanting Bev to direct her anger at him, “We can get drive-through. Em, how does McDonalds sound?”

“McDonald’s?” Bev asks derisively.

“Or Taco Bell.” I say, giving Bev a big smile. “They have really good tacos, but you have to use the spicy sauce.”

“You eat that?” Bev asks me.

“Yeah, sure,” I tell her, “on my way to soccer practice and stuff. It’s good. And quick.”

“It is quick,” my dad agrees seriously, but winks in my direction when Bev looks away.

“I guess Taco Bell it is,” she says with a grin.

Grandpa comes back from the pool with my grandma Judith in tow. “Oh, let me see the baby,” she exclaims, “Oh look what a good job you’ve done taking care of it Emma!”

I blush from the praise. “It wasn’t hard,” I assure her in my most self-sacrificing voice, “I just want to make sure it’s okay.”

Judith smiles at me and turns to the rest of the group, “Alright, I’ll stay here and hold down the fort, but you guys should get going.”

“We’re gone,” my Dad assures her, as he grabs my purple swirly coat and steers me towards the door.

“Bye,” I call as I totter out to grandpa’s car, trying not to jiggle the hummingbird box.

“I’ll drive,” says Bev, and walks past grandpa’s car to her own red Lexus. My grandpa gives an agreeable shrug and climbs in shotgun. I get in back with my dad, and start playing ‘I Spy’.

Bev takes off down the street, driving well over fifty. “Jeez Bev,” my dad says, as I let out an involuntary squeal of terror and delight, “in a hurry?”

“Sorry Matt,” she tells him as she takes her foot off the gas.

“This should be fun,” I hear my grandpa mumble under his breath.

After five minutes of listening to my dad talk about work, “The kids are doing great, but our math scores are down…” I see it, the Holy Grail.

“Taco Bell!” I shout, accidentally jolting the hummingbird and sending Bev slamming on the brakes. My grandpa snorts, and my dad grabs the hummingbird box before it goes flying. We pull through the drive-through. “Eight Tacos,” Bev tells the attendant. “Extra hot sauce please,” I add from the back.

“Wow,” Bev tells me as we sit in the parking lot eating, “This is really good. What’s in it?”

“You don’t want to know,” I assure her seriously.

“Fair enough,” she responds with a laugh. “How’s our little buddy doing?”

“Okay,” I inform her. “He’s still breathing and everything.”

“Have you come up with a name yet?”

“A name?” I say. “Am I allowed?”

“Yeah, sure. I mean, you did rescue him.” She tells me.

“Wow, I’ll have to think about that.” I consider this task for a moment. “How long do I have?”

“It’s about an hour away,” she tells me. “Plenty of time,”

My grandpa and dad return from the bathroom, itching to hit the road. “Have any of us ever been to San Pedro?” my dad asks after about half an hour. No one responds.

When we pull off the road, it’s not the cute suburb I imagined. The streets are deserted and the smog is thick. “Uck, they raise the hummingbirds here?” I ask in horror. “There aren’t even any trees!” No one answers.

After passing miles of old warehouses I give up looking out the window, and go back to playing with the hummingbird’s feet. The Music Man plays faintly in the background, and I ponder a good name for the hummingbird.

“I’ve got it!” I finally exclaim. “The perfect name,”

Grandpa and dad look confused, but Bev asks me, “What is it, sweetheart?”

“Patience Survivor Hope Hermann,” I tell them confidently. “It’s a boy so it got daddy’s last name.”

“That sounds perfect to me,” Bev assures me.

“Well, look at that,” my dad says, “We’re here.”

“Whoa,” I say. “It’s beautiful!” Sometime after I stopped looking out the window we left the warehouses behind, and ended up on a sunny street. I swear I can hear a bubbling brook somewhere in the background.

Dad reads something off of a piece of paper and sticks it back in his pocket. “Number 28. This is it,” he tells us as he knocks on the door.

Moments later a woman appears at the door. She looks to be about my parents’ age, but her hair has gone prematurely grey, and her eyes are too focused, noticing everything. She wears jeans with unidentifiable stains, and her fingernails are bitten down to the cuticle. She sizes us up, peering intently at the little shoe box. “Oh, you brought me another one, did you,” she says casually, but when she laughs it has a note of hysteria. “Well? Come in, come in.”

The house is disgusting. In the living room rest what look like five incubators. Four of them hold tiny hummingbirds, about the same size as our Survivor. She lifts him carefully from the box, and lays him on the soft bed, under a bright warm light. We follow her into her kitchen, which looks like it might have once been pretty except for the huge cages that cover every surface. Inside the sink coffee cups, plates with toast rinds, and empty cans spill over onto the counter. The smell of birds is slightly suffocating, and the hummingbird lady yanks open a window so covered in grime it’s impossible to see the outside. “Please excuse the mess,” she says apologetically, “I wasn’t expecting company.”

The hummingbirds in these cages are slightly bigger and more active. “I had to split them up by species,” she explains, “They kept trying to kill each other. But don’t worry,” she assures us as she serves tea. “I’ll take good care of your little guy.”

“This is quite the business you’re running,” my dad comments with a note of amusement.

“Well, yes,” she responds slowly, “It really takes up my whole life. I’m a trained veterinarian, you know. But I had to quit that after people kept bringing me their hummingbirds. They need to be fed every three hours.”

“But how do you sleep?” I ask.

“I don’t, usually. Little naps. I haven’t been on vacation in five years. But it’s really okay.” She assures us, after seeing our horrified expressions.

“Why don’t you stop?” my grandpa asks.

“Well, someone has to do it,” she tells him with a sigh.

An hour later, as we climb into the car, grandpa comments, “That woman is off her rocker.”

“No,” Bev tells him, “Just really dedicated.”

I turn to my dad, “I’m glad we didn’t take Survivor Patience Hope home.”

“You are?” he asks me, surprised.

“Yeah,” I tell him, “I don’t like little naps.”

********

Six months later I get a phone call from Bev. “Hey Hon,” she says. “How’s it going?”

“Okay,” I tell her. “I was just reading Harry Potter.”

“Oh, well I’ll let you get back to it,” she says. “I just wanted to let you know that the hummingbird lady called me to say that they’ve successfully released Survivor Patience Hope into the wild. And the hummingbird lady found someone to take care of the birds for a week, so she’s going on vacation!”