brainworms, the likes of which you've never seen from me before
you were twelve years old when you first met your grandmother.
mom hadn't wanted to take you at all, but in the dead of summer your regular babysitters were all on vacation with their families or working other jobs at the local summer camp that your family couldn't afford.
"i don't want her to see... all of that." your mother had told your dad, voice just loud enough to slip through the crack in their bedroom door. you lingered, frozen by curiosity, small dixie cup of water in your hand, listening for what could be so bad about this grandmother you never met.
"she's old enough now, i think she can process what's going on." your dad countered. "besides, your mom's getting up there. it'd be good for her to have at least a few memories with your mom before she passes."
"i just think-"
"besides, she needs to know what's coming."
it had been a shock to realize that your grandmother only lived a half hour drive away, tucked into the far corner of the next town over. your whole life you'd been made to believe she was entirely inaccessible, that seeing her was impossible, so you'd let the matter slide, opting instead to focus on more important things like your math homework and whether or not the shoes you'd gotten during the back-to-school sale at k-mart would be cool enough for tina mccormack, the most popular girl in school.
it was visible long before your father swung the family sedan around the corner onto your grandmother's street- a swirling black column of birds, circling high overhead in a rather tight spiral. it wasn't just crows- starlings, blackbirds, juncos, and even a handful of ravens orbited your grandmother's home in a living pillar that reached to the sky.
"mom?" you asked from the backseat, voice shaking, but she didn't respond to you. lips pressed to a tight line, she stared out the windshield, taking deep, calming breaths- the same kind she had to do when balancing the checkbook or dealing with the neighbors.
"it's okay, kiddo," your dad called back over his shoulder from behind the steering wheel. "they're just birds. you like birds, don't you?"
unease coagulated into a heavy molten ball in the pit of your stomach when he put the car in park right in front of the bird-plagued house. they were everywhere- bundles of feathers and wings roosting on the roof, covering every square inch of the yard, lined up on the luggage racks of an old shit-caked subaru out front. the telephone lines running to her house seemed to sag more than most, pulled down by the weight of at least fifty birds of varying sizes.
it wasn't until you got out of the car that the eeriness truly sank in- after all, it's very weird to have what seemed to be hundreds, if not thousands of birds all in one place, with not one of them making a single sound. no chirp, no caw, no tweet, no screech. stone silent, save for the flapping of wings.
you startled when your mother bent down to hold you by the shoulders, ensuring that you were looking her in the eyes and paying attention.
"they won't hurt you." you mother said, but it sounded less like a reassurance and a vow she was making. "just do what i say, stay behind me, and we'll get through this. together."
in her eyes was a determination you couldn't trust, like she was trying to convince herself more than she was trying to convince you. still, you nodded your head, taking her offered hand, and following her to the front gate of the house.
it was a run down old place, paint peeling, windows caked in dust, with no lawn to speak of- or at least, not one visible under the writhing, feathered mass of birds currently roosting there. the three of you made a formation of sorts- your mother positioned at the front and your dad solidly behind you, both ready to protect you if need be as you all approached the gate.
as soon as your mother's finger grazed the gate a flurry of birds vaulted into the air, leaving a bare path to the front door. the concrete walkway is a mess, with deep cracks and dying grass poking through, caked in mud and bird shit. the three of you quickly traversed up to the porch, eyes wide in a mix of fear and wonder, and before your mom even had a chance to knock, the door swung open.
"there she is!" a familiar-faced old woman crowed joyfully, clutching to one handle of her walker with one arm while throwing the other open wide, clearly looking for a hug.
your mom didn't oblige her, so you felt the need to.
"grandma?" you asked tentatively, stepping in to give her an embrace. it was easier with having had seen her- she had your mom's face, albeit with more wrinkles around her eyes and forehead, and when she smiled at you, it looked just like how your mom did it.
"oh my goodness, look how big you've gotten!" she said, pulling you in for a gentle hug. for the rest of your life, you remembered the hug as the perfect 'grandma hug'- gentle and warm, full of affection and lightly scented like rose.
"mom. you're looking better than i was led to believe." your mother said, tone flat and irritated, and your dad elbowed her gently.
"no picking fights." he murmured, clearly echoing a private conversation from earlier, still loud enough to be heard.
"how can i not be feeling better when i get to see my grandbaby again! come in, come in, i'll put on some tea." your grandmother replied pleasantly, choosing not to engage with your mother's foul mood. her living room is all a dusty rose color, velvet couches with cream colored doilies draped over the arms. it would all be very idyllic looking, if not for the large planks of wood stretching across her fireplace, nailed into the walls on either side of the brickwork.
the rest of the afternoon is a pleasant enough blur in your memory- a lemony tea paired with sweet sugar cookies, pleasant conversation about the weather and how school was going, all the while with your mother stone-silent in the corner.
"grandma, what's with all the birds outside? is your roof made of bird seed or something?" you asked, watching in the periphery as your mother's already rigid posture went somehow even more stick-straight. your grandmother laughed- but it was a bitter, unpleasant sound that shocked you to your core, making you feel guilt for even asking.
"did you really think that keeping her in the dark would protect her?" she asks your mother, tone incredulous but not cruel.
"that's it- we're leaving-" your mother shot to her feet, reaching to grab your arm and yank you towards the door-
-and freezing when her own mother enunciates every syllable in her full government name.
"don't be cruel." each word landed heavily, disappointment dripping from each one. "you did not bring your daughter here to show her the birds and then tell her nothing about them. you have enough information that if you choose to bury your head in the sand that you have the right- but do not do her the disservice of not allowing her to prepare for what's next."
the pause that followed is burned into your memory; your mother's hand still hovering in the air above your shoulder, your grandmother's smiling face suddenly stern, the way your dad kept glancing out the windows at the birds that were peering in with their little boba-black eyes.
"fine." your mother spit out after what felt like ages, sullenly dropping into her seat again like a moody teenager.
"i'm sorry." it's all you can think to say- after all, it's your fault, right? you asked about the elephant in the room, you're the one who made everyone upset and ruined this perfectly nice afternoon with the grandmother you'd only just gotten to know-
"oh, honey, no, you're all right." your grandmother cooed, leaning over to pat your knee with a weathered hand. "i'd be worried if you hadn't been curious enough to ask about my little 'guests' outside."
the birds, she'd explained, were given to her by her mother, and given to her mother by her grandmother- something passed mother to daughter, for generations. she couldn't say exactly how far back it went, centuries at least, the origins of it all muddied by time and misinformation. the story she'd heard as a little girl was that an ancestor of yours crossed paths with a witch, but the details of why and how were long forgotten.
"the how and why isn't the important part anyway," she'd told you, voice soft and loving. "the important part is what you'll do when the time comes that they become your birds."
"not happening." your mother snapped, earning her a sad look from your grandmother.
"we both know that none of us has a choice in this." she replied softly, and your mother's lip wobbled, eyes glistening with tears she was too stubborn to shed in front of you. she shot out of her chair, your dad following her out with a soft 'just a sec' when she ran to the bathroom, her sobbing muted but still audible through the shut door.
"so... mom's gonna get the birds one day?" you asked carefully, staring down into your empty teacup. there were only a few leaves at the bottom, and you hated your own mind for thinking they looked like a crow.
"yes."
"and i'll get them after her?"
"yes." your grandmother responded gently. "it will seem like a terrible burden at first, but i promise, it isn't so bad. in fact, i asked you all here today so i could give you something that will make it all easier."
with a little grunt (and a fart you pretended not to hear), she lifted herself from her plush pink armchair, toddling along behind her walker as she fetched a leather-bound book. it was old, by the looks of it, paper yellowed along the edges, and she pressed it into your hands with a reverence you knew even at twelve years old that you shouldn't take lightly.
"my mother lived with the birds for twenty years, and i have had them for almost fifty. both of us have written down everything we know about living with them. travel will be difficult, so take as many trips by plane as you can while you can- and save up for a home in the country if at all possible. my neighbors are not at all pleased with the state of things, and i imagine having some distance from them would help our relationships. as it is, terrible things happen to the neighborhood cats that try to hunt in my garden, awful and gruesome things. things that i've been blamed for." her face scrunched up at a memory she didn't share with you, and patted your hand where it lay cradled in hers. "your mom may not like me saying this, but in the future, it might be best to adopt if you truly want children. this thing- we cannot escape it and cannot help passing it along, but you're young enough that you have the power to choose to end this before it's too late."
before you could even ask what she mean, your mother burst from the bathroom, dad looking nervous behind her.
"mom, it's been good to see you, but we have to go now." she said, tone flat as she headed straight for the door- no hug, no kiss goodbye, nothing.
"of course, dear. lovely seeing you again, even if it was just a quick visit." she called to your mother's back before turning her attention back to you. "and you, dear. i hope i see you again soon."
"of course, grandma," you said, with no real power to make it happen. mom seemed too raw and upset to broach the topic of regular visits at the moment, but as your hugged your grandmother goodbye, you resolved to ask about it at the end of next week. you wanted to see her again, to sit in her rosy living room, to hear more about the birds.
with your book tucked carefully under your arm, you followed your dad through the parted sea of black feathers and unblinking eyes back to the car where your mother was waiting impatiently, arms crossed over her chest and foot tapping on the concrete.
you remember clear as day what happened next- the way your mom's tapping foot went still, her eyes went wide, and how the look of horror contorted her normally pretty face into a grotesque mask of agony. unbeknownst to you, a small grackle was following behind you, hop hop hopping in your footsteps, trailing you from the garden to the street. it seemed to set your mother alight, sending her running at you with a fury that made your poor, confused father flinch back in his uncertainty.
"no, no, no, no! get away from her! go away! leave my baby alone, you can't have her!" she'd screamed at the bird trying to kick it away from you with all of her might. it merely bobbed out of the way, only taking flight when she cocked her leg back for another try.
"i won't let you do this to her! i won't! do you hear me? you can't have her!" she'd screamed as tears flowed down her face, teeth grit and bared as she cursed up a storm at the birds circling overhead, falling bodily to her knees as the terror and despair turned her screams into sobs.
faces peered out from neighboring windows, sympathetic and sad expressions watching your father help scoop your mom back to her feet and guiding her back to the car, leaving the blood from her scraped knees on the pavement as the only evidence she'd ever been there.
the ride home was completely silent. nobody talked about the trip to your grandmother's in the days after that. you knew better than to ask mom, and dad just said he didn't know any more than you did, and implored you to not bother your mother about it.
"maybe grandma just won't give her the birds? maybe she'll just keep them forever?" you'd suggested to him, and he pulled you in for a hug, hand running up and down your back.
"i don't think it works that way, kiddo." he murmured against your hair, but refused to elaborate.
the only answers you were able to get were in your grandmother's book- her loopy cursive handwriting mixed with her mother's slanty printing. there's no mention of how the birds are passed from one person to the next, or even theories as to how to stop it. instead, it's a step by step guide to living with them in a way that mitigates the harm they are capable of.
"keep windows and chimney flues closed at all times." wrote your great-grandmother, followed by the loopy annotation that 'screen doors aren't strong enough to keep them out'.
"avoid airports at all costs."
"if you linger in one place too long, they will roost."
"poison, cats, and traps will not diminish their numbers- but will make them angry. food is not necessary, but will keep them docile."
"if you feed the corvids they sometimes bring gifts."
each sentence felt like a commandment, and you engrave each one into your mind as you read through the book late at night, flashlight tucked between your cheek and shoulder as the air under your blanket gets stuffy.
five days after your meeting with your grandmother, everything in your life changed.
you'd been sitting on the front steps, watching the sun set at you devoured a popsicle, the warm summer wind caressing your face when you saw it- a large, black cloud hovering in the air, writhing as if alive. it moved at a decent clip, zigging and zagging back and forth in the air, slowly making it's way closer and closer to your block.
it's not until it was nearly on top of you that you saw what it truly was- a murmuration, made up of black birds of all sorts of sizes. for the briefest of moments you wondered if your grandmother had decided to pay you a visit- until your mom's car pulled up, bringing hundreds of black birds with her. a silky flycatcher landed on the step next to you, it's gaze focused on your sobbing mother, who tumbled out of the car with her makeup running down her cheeks as she called your dad's name.
"what- oh no." he watched helplessly as your mom ran inside, urging you to join them with a sterner than usual 'kiddo, get in the house' that left no room for argument.
you watched through the windows as the birds roosted outside, occupying every inch of fence, power line, and garden as they could, the excess left to circle above your roof. neighbors came out to stare, passing cars crawled by with curious faces nearly pressed to the windows, and several hours later a representative from animal welfare came strolling up to the yard, only to be chased away by a few angry and determined chimney swifts.
it took your mom three hours of crying before she was coherent enough to confirm what you'd guessed: your grandmother had died, and now the birds have come to roost with her.
"but i won't do this to you." she'd said, solemn as a vow and holding you close as she pressed her tear-soaked cheek against your head. "i won't make you grow up the way i did."
beady unblinking eyes peer through your window as your mom talks about her childhood for the first time in your life- about how the birds were always there since before she was born. children at school spread rumors that she and her mom were witches, that she didn't have a dad because the birds ate him, that if they got too close, the birds would eat them, too. she was ostracized, secluded, and openly feared by her peers her whole life until she was able to move out at seventeen, graduating early and running for the first out of state university that would accept her.
it was only because of the distance from her mother that she could have a normal life, make friends, meet your dad and get married, she explained. nobody knew her as the 'bird girl', and she was free to live her life any way she saw fit.
after spending years out of contact with her mom, the doubt had settled in and transformed to pure disbelief. she didn't believe in witches or their curses, had grown to think that her mother's story about the birds coming to roost on her house when your great-grandmother had killed herself was just dramatic nonsense. she'd chalked it all up to your grandmother needing attention or being eccentric, and had wanted to keep you far, far away from that nonsense as much as possible.
"i know you'll be mad at me for this, but when you're older you'll understand." she murmured against your hair, arms locking around you when you tried to pull back to look at her. "there's a boarding school- no, listen to me- it's out of state, really nice. you'll make plenty of new friends there, ones who won't know. you can't ever let them know. the way they'd treat you- please, honey, i'm trying to help you. i don't want you to have what i had-"
the two of you sobbed in each others arms, her with fear and guilt, you with sadness and anger, your poor father left lingering in the doorway, entirely uncertain how to even address the levels of pain and guilt and grief his two favorite girls were experiencing.
within one week all of your belongings were packed, and within three you were miles away from home, wearing a starchy school uniform, surrounded by rich strangers who didn't seem to give two shits why you were there so long as you played nice and kept your head down.
so you did.
every letter from home reminded you that it was all for the best, that you should make the most of your time out at shattuck-st. mary's, that you deserve a normal life and that your mom was doing everything she could to give it to you.
she does not mention what she is doing or what's happening at home, instead simply responding to what you'd told her and sending her love and good wishes for you.
you can feel your mother's desperation in her letters, her drive to put an end to this thing so her family can be back together. she tells you in every letter how much she misses you, and how hard she's working to make it so you can come back home. in return, you make copies of your grandmother's book on the library xerox machine and mail it to her, hoping that the advice found in it's pages will help alleviate some of her suffering.
you were made to stay at school over the winter breaks, and summer holidays you were shunted to summer camp after summer camp. letters from your mom were postmarked with different zip codes, with no explanation why. mentions of your dad grew scarcer and scarcer until they stopped completely. your family was dissolving, slipping through your fingers like sand, and there was nothing at all you could do about it.
so you buried yourself in your studies, trying your damndest to make friends with girls who already thought you were too quiet, too weird, too desperate for friendship. any and all chances of you being accepted were thoroughly dashed sophomore year when you burst into inconsolable tears at their showing of alfred hitchcock's the birds, dooming you to a lonely and miserable rest of your high school education.
(you'd thought you could handle it, you really did- but you hadn't expected tippi hendren's horrified expression to look so much like your mothers when that small bird had tried to follow you to the car)
it wasn't until graduation that you saw your dad again. he looked much older than he should've- bags beneath his eyes, hair mostly grey, wearing a scruffy beard that didn't quite suit him- and murmured his praises and apologies into your shoulder as he held you tight.
"so proud of you, kiddo. i'm so sorry i wasn't here for it. i'm sorry i didn't write more, even after the divorce." if he noticed you go rigid with shock at the news, he didn't say anything. "your mom had all kinds of rules about what i can and can't tell you- bullshit ones, in my opinion, pardon my french- and i just... didn't know what to say."
"you're here now." you replied, voice wobbling with emotion. "that's enough."
when the ceremony was over, the two of you caught up. he told you about the fines from the homeowner's association, the complaints from neighbors, the bird attacks on postmen and delivery drivers putting them on a blacklist for most pizza places and the post office. he spared you no details about his bout with cryptococcosis, how that was the last straw for him, that he couldn't live under the shadow of all those damn birds.
he squeezed your hand when he told you he still loved your mom, but it was just too hard to be with her anymore. you pretended to understand, but it just made you hate him more knowing that he'd left her all alone to fend for herself.
still, you aren't in a position to burn bridges, so you play nice, and in exchange he gets you two tickets for a cross-continent train trip through europe as a graduation gift.
"for you and a friend." he'd said, blissfully unaware that you don't have any. even without all the added weirdness of your mother's curse being in your life, it turns out that being extremely jumpy around crows and grackles at a private school will still get you known as 'the bird girl'.
after finagling a cash refund for the extra ticket, you set off for your trip, mentally toasting your grandmother on your flight over. it was a beautiful six weeks, a blur of sights and sounds, good food and music, all making you feel like a fuller, more complete person. when it was time to go home, you'd already made up your mind about what you wanted your future to look like. sat in the airport, you filled out as many applications to foreign universities as you could.
you didn't dare admit to yourself that you secretly thought that perhaps being an ocean apart would keep the birds from one day coming for you.
university kept you busy, and you found you thrived more in university than you had back at your private school. after all, this campus, these professors, these courses- they weren't forced onto you 'for your own good'. you chose this. it's a liberating feeling, as if you've managed to wrestle back control of your destiny.
you don't think about your mum or the curse she's bearing very much, too busy studying, writing, and partying. slowly but surely you stop associating any black birds with her, and you're able to look at a magpie or a crow without thinking of her at all.
it's impossible not to get swept up in the feeling of invincibility that being 20 years old and on your own in a beautiful place will give you- and you started to feel the same way your mother did, that maybe the curse isn't real, that it's something else, that it's something your mother is or isn't doing that's doomed her to a lifetime of freakdom.
so you stopped responding to letters. stopped picking up phone calls. when you moved out to scotland for work a few weeks ago, you didn't even bother sending her your forwarding address.
it's a cold, grey afternoon, rain pattering on the windows as you sip your tea. it's quiet in your little flat, and it's been the perfect lazy sunday as you finished your second draft of the manuscript your publisher has been on you about.
you scan the words on the screen, smiling contentedly to yourself. it's fantastic work, if you do say so yourself, and if you had any nearby friends you'd call them over to celebrate tonight. instead, you decide you'll have a night in with some chinese takeout, wine, and a mini marathon of love island.
your smugness is put on pause as you hear a rhythmic tapping, and your eyes flick up over the edge of your screen to see where it's coming from.
a crow, one eye cloudy from either injury or age, is pecking earnestly at your window. he's flanked on either side by a line of silent, eerily still magpies, rooks, jackdaws, and choughs.
"no." you breathe the word, an involuntary prayer from the lips of a lapsed believer. slowly you stand, and you can get a better view of the hundreds of black birds surrounding your flat. your feet move on their own, taking you window to window only to show you the same thing- a sea of black feathers. surrounding you from all sides.
through the wall you can hear your neighbor call out to his flatmate, a bewildered "kyle, look outside! yer no' gonnae believe this!" muffled by your shared wall.
your phone rings and vibrates in your pocket as you dazedly slink back to the kitchen, and without looking, you already know it's your dad calling. if you recall correctly, he's living in montana now, remarried to a very sweet woman named pooja, with a handful of labradors keeping them both busy. you do some mental math, and realize it must be 4am where he is.
"hey dad." a murmuration passes by your window, so thick it's nearly opaque. a dog barks outside, and you hear an untinelligible string of very surprised sounding curses in a deep-voiced brogue booming from the sidewalk below.
"hey, kiddo. um, are you somewhere you can talk? i've got some bad news."
"i am." you say, emotionless, feeling like you're outside of your own body, watching as a spectator as a crow continues to peck at your window, beak pinging against the pane of glass that separates you, begging to be let in. you wonder idly where your grandmother's book is- somewhere in the boxes of shit you still haven't unpacked since moving in a few weeks ago, more than likely.
"there was an accident this morning, and, um." you can hear a shaky breath over the line- he's trying his best to hold it together, to be brave for you. "your mom didn't make it."
the crow outside your window caws loudly enough that you're sure dad can hear it.
"i know."
