Chapter 5 #2
“My cockatoo is not talking to me,” I say, and I’m thankfully staring straight at Doris, so I know her mouth—beak!—isn’t moving when the next words are spoken.
“Well, yes and no,” the voice says tiredly. “Your cockatoo is now your grandmother, and it seems you can hear me. So I guess that’s our introduction. This was not supposed to happen.” Doris ruffles up her feathers and flares out her tail like she always does when she’s annoyed.
“Not what was supposed to happen?”
“I wasn’t supposed to die this early, and you’re not supposed to be here at all,” she snaps. “The trust only goes to next of kin in case of catastrophe. Which is what’s happened. It’s all gone wrong. I worked too hard to see everything go to waste.”
That raises my dander. “Your granddaughter inheriting your estate is a waste?”
“Yes!”
“Well, I’m so sorry to disappoint. Since it seems like you don’t want me around, shall I open the window so you can go do your own thing? Maybe find a flock of pigeons to infiltrate?”
The voice in my head huffs a sigh.
“Look, honey, I’m mad, but I’m not mad at you. I was supposed to come back as my cat and help Diana—” The voice cuts off. “But Diana is gone.” She makes a few weird gerk-gluck noises before saying, with some surprise, “Huh. Birds can’t cry. This body is going to take a lot of getting used to.”
I can’t currently trust this bird, so I buckle the backpack into the passenger seat instead of letting Doris—or whoever she is now—sit on her car seat perch.
“Nope,” I say, putting the car in reverse and backing out of the space. “Nope, my dead grandmother is not a talking cockatoo. I will get to a safe place and shower and put on dry clothes and drink a glass of water, and then I’ll figure out why I’m hallucinating.”
I’m on the road now, headed up toward the main street. Doris flaps her wings, and I hear the thump of her landing in the bottom of the backpack.
“Oh, lordy!” the voice says. “This is harder than it looks.”
My cockatoo ward, who should definitely not be talking with the voice of a seventy-year-old Southern woman, makes a ruckus as I drive. I think she’s struggling to get back up on the rope perch.
“Balance is all off,” the voice mutters. “What are these creepy chicken feet? Ridiculous things. Couldn’t you have a pet with a little grace? It’s like wearing flip-flops with thumbs.”
“I’m not hearing that,” I say, leaning forward as I hunt for the alley that contains my promised parking spaces.
I find a turn-in behind the row of buildings, a road wide enough for a delivery truck with parallel parking spaces running alongside, and one sad dumpster.
All the parking spots are taken except one, which has a sign that reads Maggie Kirkwood. Don’t Even Think about It.
I think about it. I pull in.
Or, I try to.
I’m not good at parallel parking. Getting the car passably close to the curb takes me five nervous minutes, which are not made any easier by the running commentary of a disembodied voice fussing in my head.
“This is easier when they respect the second space, but I reckon the moment I keeled over, Marla decided she could park there. You’re gonna have to put up another sign. Oh! Maybe a bit less sharp braking. Hard to hold on for dear life when you don’t have hands.”
I try to ignore the voice and fail, but at least I don’t argue with it.
Because that would be giving in to lunacy.
Once I’m mostly in the space, I hop out and snag the backpack. Surely it is a coincidence that the voice says, “Whoop! Well, that’s a fine how-do-you-do!”
The alley is silent and shadowy, and smells vaguely of chocolate. I pull out the new key ring and head up a set of sturdy wooden stairs to a second-story balcony above the video store. There’s a worn welcome mat and a concrete statue of a cat, and the door is painted purple.
“Which key?” I mutter to myself, because, honestly, when you’re losing your mind, sometimes you’re the only person worth talking to.
“The round silver one with purple nail polish,” the voice says, and I ignore the fact that Doris is pressed up against the mesh of the backpack, watching me closely.
I can be stubborn and work through the keys my way, or I can do what the mysterious voice says and possibly be showering off human cremains and stepping into a dry pair of pants five minutes faster, so I try the round silver key with a swash of purple and am almost disappointed that it works.
The door creaks open on a kitchen/living room combo, but I barely register that as I hurry back out to the car, grab the roller bag I packed with my most immediate needs, and drag my suitcase up the steps with the bird backpack in my other hand.
“What’s it called, that thing where a bird’s body moves but its head doesn’t?” the disembodied voice asks.
“Insanity,” I growl.
“No, that’s not it. There’s a specific sciencey term.”
At the top of the stairs, I nudge open the door and get my first glimpse of who my grandmother must’ve been.
And to tell you the truth, it’s a total shock.