The Rescuer

Annabelle discovers magic in her storage space and in herself.

    Annabelle woke up early. She had to so she could warm up her legs. So every night, she set her alarm clock for ten minutes earlier than when her mom would wake her up. She’d rise to the aggravating beeps and instinctively find the OFF button with one swift motion of her hand. After she wiped the sleep from her eyes, she’d flip open the covers and massage the ragged limbs she had to walk on all day. She never could remember what the doctors called it, there was a big fancy name they’d told her once after lots of tests and questions. But she always called it Funny Feet.
    After she massaged them and warmed them up, she could swing them over her bed and pop out upright. She loved that first step of the day, when it was still new and not yet painful, not like the dull throbbing she endured night after night from the same simple motions all the other kids went about doing.
    Today, Annabelle was eight years old. She set her alarm for a whole fifteen minutes early this morning, because she knew her mother would be especially quick to wake her up and smother her with love and worry. She switched off the alarm, and as the world came to her in fuzzy images and fading dreams, she mechanically threw off the covers and went to work.
    Her left leg was the worst. There her bones stood out more obvious, with little muscle tissue that had ever formed, leaving it looking like a deformed bird leg. Her right had a bit more strength and muscle, but didn’t look much better. She hated her legs. She hated how all the people outside in the world looked at her, either in disgust or pity, and did it whether they meant to or not. Annabelle much preferred the company of animals, and begged her mother desperately to let her have a kitten. But she was told “We’ll wait and see” which was code for, “No”. She massaged the rotten tissue starting from her left upper thigh, at the edge of her Bugs Bunny night shirt, and slowly moved down to the knee and calf. She could feel the warmth spread slowly like thick molasses in her limbs, and after repeating the process on the other leg, she swung out of bed and started to get dressed for school.
        
    Annabelle was a very self reliant girl, despite her rickety legs, but made more so due to her mother’s worrywart ways.
    Her mother was in the kitchen, trying to get the layer of pink frosting on her daughter’s cupcake just right, but every time she swirled it around the top, a little trail of it would pull off when she removed the knife, and leave the cupcake looking lopsided. She’d been swirling for about ten minutes now.
    She had a big ’8’ candle that was glittering and waiting to go atop the cupcake, if only she would finish.
    She finally gave in, and left it a little lopsided, “Just like my girl”, she thought and then cursed herself immensely. She stuck the candle on top, lit it with a match, and then took a deep breath as she headed upstairs to Annabelle’s room.
    She hated having her up the whole flight of stairs, and always begged her to take the small spare room on the first floor, but Annabelle always refused. She said she liked looking out from the higher window over the whole town. She reached her door and gave a soft knock, hearing Annabelle’s squeaky voice reply, “Come in Mom.”
    After an awkward birthday breakfast with mom, Annabelle high tailed it to school. She insisted to her mother that she wanted to walk.
    “It’s only a few block down the road, and my legs are only getting stronger.” She would tell her, lying.
    She walked with an unusual gait, slightly hooking her left leg around as she brought it back up to step, and sometimes had to stick her arm out to steady herself better. But outside, she had her iron curtain of armor on, and insults or dirty stares would roll off her like oil and water. Mostly.
    She liked school, or at least she like learning, and today had been a good day. Only teased at recess and lunch, not too bad. And the walk home in the crisp air of autumn made her feel alive. She whistled while she walked, one leg swinging slightly, and she watched carefully for cracks in the sidewalk to step away from. About a block from home, she found a small baby bird that had fallen from an unknown nest. She stopped in her tracks and stared at it for a moment, before reaching down and picking it up. She looked at the poor thing in her hands, eyes closed, limp neck, and she knew with a cold, adult certainty that it was dead.
    I’ll bury him, she thought. I’ll give him a nice box full of toys and flowers and I’ll bury him in the backyard.
    She was resolved to do so, and hurried home.
    
    She was digging around in the storage unit under the stairwell, old boxes filled with questionable knick knacks and strong musty smells, when she came across the perfect box.     
    It was very old, she could see that by the faded golden trim painted along its edges. It was an old wooden jewelry box. It had a soft felt bottom, and a little gold chain to keep the lid from opening completely over on itself. Annabelle loved it, and thought it a perfect coffin. She placed the bird in the box, and put the box in her backpack, and casually climbed up the stairs, her joints screaming with each step.
    Her eyes were wide and watchful for her mother, but from the sounds of it she was washing dishes too vigorously to be bothered.
    Once she reached the safety of her room, she removed the box from her pack, and slid it under her bed, paranoia creeping over her, as though she had a rare treasure and everyone in the whole world knew about it.     
    Relived she had stashed it, she changed and went down to the kitchen.

    Her mother insisted they go out to dinner. It was, after all, Annabelle’s birthday. Though she herself didn’t have much interest, she faked enthusiasm for her mother, if only to make her worry less.
    But all night at the ‘Fun Place’, a video game, tickets-for-prizes infested screaming pit of kids, Annabelle could only think of the poor baby bird, and how it needed to be put to rest. She would have to do it first thing in the morning, she thought. Tomorrow was Saturday, and she could get up early and find a nice spot in the back yard.
    After much pizza, soda, and Annabelle becoming strongly addicted to Skee-Ball, they went home.
    
    Annabelle went right to sleep as her mother laid her down on her bed. She dreamt of Skee-Ball, and the baby bird happily flying around her while she bowled the balls along the ramp and tried for the bull’s-eye. She woke up smiling.

    She loved Saturday mornings. She would sleep in as late as her body would let her, until the aches in her legs were too much and she’d have to get up to work them. She loved laying there in bed and looking through the crack of her blanket fortress to see the branches of the tree outside her window, waving and swaying with the silent wind. Best of all, she loved not having to hear the obnoxious sound of her beeping alarm.
    Except, on this Saturday, when she first opened her eyes, she hear beeping.
    She was confused, and still heavy with sleep, but she could see that her clock wasn’t set to go off. She listened hard, and realized it wasn’t beeping, but a faint chirp.
    It was coming from under the bed.
    Her heart picked up its pace, and she swung her still stiff limbs over the edge and dropped to the floor. She winced as her knees bent, but ignored it as she reached for the box. She heard it again as she moved it across the floorboards.
    Chirp chirp.
    Her eyes now wide and focused, she flipped open the lid and looked inside.
    The bird was staring at her.
    It was standing upright on its legs, fluttering its fuzz feather wings about, and strutting in the box. It was full of life, and as Annabelle opened the box, it jumped onto the lip and seemed to talk to her.
    Chirp! Chirp, chirp!
    She was stunned, but not frightened.
    “Hi there!” She tweeted back, holding out her hand and letting the bird hop into it. She nuzzled it as it chirped at her.
    Annabelle’s thoughts raced through her mind.
    Was the bird really dead? Did the box bring him back to life? Did I bring him back to life?
    She cared less for the cause and more for the effect, and petted the fuzzy head of the little creature. An idea struck her instantly. She hurried to put on her clothes and shoes, and while cradling the bird and trying to keep him quiet, she snuck out of the house.
    
    It took almost two hours, but Annabelle finally found what she was looking for.
    She’d been scouring the neighborhood for another small creature to test the box on. Her fuzzy companion tweeted to her incessantly as they searched. It was outside the abandoned firehouse, condemned a year earlier, where she found the small body of a dead mouse. She looked around to see if anyone had seen her, and slowly took a small handkerchief from her coat pocket, and bundled the corpse in its tiny shroud. She hurried home, the baby bird clinging on as she stumble-ran on her Funny Feet, and rushed inside and up the stairs.
    She fumbled to the floor and pulled the box back out, eagerly placing the mouse inside. Her body was almost vibrating with excitement at the prospect of bringing another animal back. But after she placed the limp body inside the box, and had stared at it for a few minutes, her singing energy dulled.
    “Maybe it has to be overnight.” She said, and the baby bird chirped at her.
    She nodded, secure in her logic, closed the lid and slid the box back under her bed.
     She looked over at the bird.
    “You must be hungry!” she said, her voice squeaking.
    The bird hopped and beat its wings.     
    She placed him on the bed and went down to the kitchen.
    Her mother was reading the newspaper and drinking coffee, two things Annabelle had no interest in. She was still on her first sip, and gave her daughter a drowsy wave.
    Annabelle went to the cupboard and over casually took a pack of Pop-Tarts from a box, slowly walking past her mother and out the kitchen doorway, not saying anything to her to start a conversation.
    She quickly struggled up the stairs and back to her room, where she immediately tore open the silver back and broke a piece of the pastry off.
    She put it on the bedspread in front of the bird, but it only momentarily sniffed it and pecked before looking back up and chirping.     
    Annabelle was befuddled.
    Then the slow realization dawned on her that where she had found the bird, there must have been a nest. And that meant there must be a family, a momma bird, and the momma bird would know better than anyone how to feed and take care of the bird. And though Annabelle was sullen, she also realized that it was now her job to reunite them.
    She actually perked up at the thought of bringing the family back together again.

    It was hard sneaking the bird past her mother, but that had been the least of Annabelle’s troubles. When she had made it back to the spot where she’d found the bird, she could see the edge of the nest, poking out from a high branch on a Cottonwood tree three blocks from home. She was determined, and her face hardened as she looked up the long, rough trunk. She straightened sweater, zipped up her coat, and put the baby bird carefully inside her soft pocket. It took her three good jumps to grab the lowest growing branch, and each one felt like fire in her legs. Using all the strength she could muster, she pulled herself up onto it, and swung one useless leg over to wrap around and haul herself over it.
    She let out a deep sigh, and looked up, focusing hard on the task at hand. With her arms wrapped tightly around the trunk, and being careful not to squish the baby bird, she slowly ascended towards the nest. She almost lost her grip when she was only a few feet from it, but she squeezed and flexed and stayed on, finally getting to a branch she could stand and balance on within view of the nest.
    There were two other baby birds in it, chirping away, and in the distance, Annabelle could hear a similar, louder chirp. It was the momma. She was circling the tree and chirping angrily at Annabelle.
    “Better hurry up before I’m bird food.” She said, and reached into her pocket.
    What had been almost inaudible chirps in her pocket were now as loud as those emanating from the nest as she handed the baby bird up to its siblings. It hopped and caught the edge of the nest, pulling itself in by the beak to the welcoming cries of the others. The mother was now bombing through the branches and squawking at Annabelle.
    “It’s okay, I’m going!” She said calmly as the mother bird came inches from her hair and face. She dropped down, branch by branch, and let herself fall to the ground.
    Her legs were throbbing, but she felt elated. She looked up, and could see the mother bird feeding the babies, the returned one included. Smiling, she stood up and went home.
    
    It was all she could do to stay out of her room and away from the box for the rest of the day. She busied herself in the backyard, playing in the soft dirt of their small garden patch. She stayed outside until it was almost completely dark, until her mother finally called to her that , “This time I mean it!” and then quickly she hurried inside, swinging her leg.
    She laid in bed awake for a long time, before all her thinking and tossing around finally knocked her out. She wrestled with her sleep.

    With her first blinks then next morning, and the first seconds she was awake, her eyes popped open and she dove off the bed, scrambling for the box.
    She pulled it towards her, and gently opened the lid, biting her lip with anticipation. Inside, the handkerchief was bundled, but the mouse was gingerly cleaning itself in the center of the pile. When she tipped the lid, it stood on its back legs and sniffed at her, then went back to cleaning itself.
    Annabelle’s heart was pounding. She had never been so happy. She knew she couldn’t keep the mouse, but was happy to have brought it back to life, to give him a second chance. She bundled the mouse in the handkerchief, and hurried out to the back yard, forgoing her shoes or coat. She wobbled on bare feet to the flower garden, and let the mouse go there, amongst the rich black soil and leafy things to hide under. She said a silent goodbye, and stood up to go back inside, feeling saintly.
    She got back to her room and sat down on the floor with her legs on either side of the box, examining it. There was nothing unusual about it, just an ordinary wooden box. But she knew there was magic in it. She had seen it. And as she sat and stared at it, a thought passed by that she held onto for a fleeting moment. Slowly, as if to test reality, she lifted one mangled leg and placed it on top of the open box. She slowly touched the lid, but it wouldn’t close, of course it wouldn’t close, her legs were much to big for the box. She frowned as her eyes filled with tears, and pushed down hard on the lid, forcing two bright red lines onto her thigh as she wished as hard as she could. But to no avail. Slowly, she moved her leg off of it, and closed the lid.
    Right then, for the first time in Annabelle’s young life, she had a startling epiphany. Her legs weren’t broken, they weren’t mangled or deformed like everyone her whole life had told her. They were simply hers. This was how she was made, this was how she would live. And no magic box could change that. There was nothing for her to be ashamed of, nothing for her to feel angry about, because it was the rest of the world that was broken when they looked at her, it was their deformities that became clear. She sat looking over her legs, her beautiful weakling legs, and thought it all over. Soon, she smiled and stood up, the pain almost seeming to disappear from her joints and she made her way down the stairwell. She turned on a dime, and gracefully opened the door to the storage unit, tiptoeing inside, and quietly, gently, with great resolve, she put the box away to be forgotten about, and would never need another reminder again.

Reviews

[Sammie]

I couldn't stop reading this, though I haven't been able to stop anything you've written. You definitely have a talent. Are you working on anything bigger? If not then I think you should give it some thought.

[Brittany]

Was very intrigued by this. There are so many little elements in here that piece together so nicely. The child curiousity, innocence, and wonder. The cruelty of the outside world, the mockery of children. I love the life/death aspect to this and the 'magical box'. The ending was great- so well worded and deep in tones of morality and mortality. I really like these new pieces you're coming up with Timmy, makes me kind of jealous. :)

[DavidRyanM]

Brilliant, man. I dig this a whole helluva lot. I love the line about how she is how she is and it's other people's deformities that were brought to light when looking at her. Started reading this as soon as I woke up so I was dealing with the drowsy, blurred vision, but it cleared up quickly and I couldn't stop reading. I'm definitely a huge fan of how you're going about these stories and the messages that aren't clear until the very end.