We Were Birds

And so time passed, and eventually Winter melted into Spring.

The season seemed to affect the city; winter chilled everyone and left the streets nearly empty. Christmas had been a small affair for Fern and Quinn; the most money they spent was on the engagement ring. They had laid low for the duration of the Winter and had squirrelled away money for the day when they could leave the city and go on an even bigger adventure. Their future. Evenings at home were quiet and hushed. Days were spent apart. They were still happy.

When Spring arrived, the city burst into life and color. The grass turned green, the trees sprouted tiny buds and flowers bloomed on once-barren bushes. The dusting of snow melted for good and the harbor at sunset had a different glow about it than usual. Rowers from the local college teams started rowing again in the river and women started to run in the early mornings wearing nothing but shorts and sports bras. Tourists flocked and shopped on the expensive streets with all the chic stores.

Quinn and Fern soldiered on. They lived life the way they had for the entire winter. Sometimes one of them would do something surprising and unexpected for the other - like the morning when Quinn had made Fern the treasure map. They'd always gone on little adventures through the city together: getting lost on the endless avenues of expensive brownstones at 2 AM, scouting the best restaraunt for a good cup of coffee or tea (Quinn had been brought up by a coffee drinking father, Fern by a father who believed cultured people drank tea and now she simply couldn't stomach coffee). They found the best bookstores for near-priceless first editions and ventured into the more colorful avenues to see the sights of the city; for a city never sleeps. Their winter was quiet, but adventure was always peppered into the mix.

Spring brought a job promotion for Fern, which meant more money. Quinn had his eye on taking a few classes down at the culinary school - he was getting to be a better cook than Fern, something he knew he'd never had discovered about himself had he not run away - and Fern insisted Quinn go to school before she did. Quinn, of course, said that it was money out of Fern's paycheck and of course she was going to be a nurse before he was going to be a chef.

Spring brought a longing to see new horizons, but also the knowledge that they couldn't leave, not just yet. Quinn bought a National Geographic magazine that featured the Carolina coast, and he pinned up pictures of the beaches on their walls. "So when we look around, we get to see where we're goin'," he told her.

But Spring also brought one more thing. Spring brought the call.

Fern had been home from the hospital for a few hours and was starting on dinner. Quinn had written down a list of ingredients she'd need for the lasagna he was making and Fern was getting it ready for him. His newfound enthusiasm with food surprised and pleased her; they now had set their sights on something tangible that they both wished to accomplish in the future. In the small, makeshift kitchen, Fern chopped up tomatoes for the sauce and looked up to a cozy beach house in South Carolina. It was just one of the many pictures hanging up that Quinn had ripped out, and the photograph was a mess of dark pinks, purples, oranges and blues.

Closing her eyes for a moment, Fern saw the sunset they'd seen together that night when they'd made their plans. When they'd abandoned that project of finding the most beautiful thing in the world because Quinn had declared he'd already found it: her.

From the second-hand record player, Billie Holiday was singing the blues. The day was warm enough so the windows were thrust open and the air of a spring twilight was rushing in and out like a moon tide. The smells of the fresh basil that Fern had picked out at the store spiced the air and made her feel comfortable. She felt utterly safe here. Safe. Warm. Happy.

And then the phone rang. It was a telephone that had strangely come with the apartment, as had the phone line. Their phone hardly ever went off - usually it was one of the nurses asking if Fern could come in or one of Quinn's friends from the dock asking when he was available for the week. Sometimes it was one of their friends asking them out to dinner. They'd made quite a few friends in the city. It was unusual for the phone to ring, but not too unusual.

So Fern picked it up with a cheery: "Hello?" The other line was silent for a long moment and Fern frowned. "Hello?" she asked again, this time, curiosity was thicker in her voice.

A sharp inhale could be heard over the other end. "Fern?" The voice was male, older, gravely and unmistakably familiar. Fern's chest squeezed and suddenly an entire years worth of guilt rushed over her. Her hands trembled and she had to hold up the phone with both of them just to keep it steady against her ear.

"Father?" she breathed.

Another silence. "Yes, honey, it's me." Fern didn't say anything, didn't know what to say. "It's taken me quite awhile to find you...you slipped off for a long time, you know? Luckily one of my friends hurt his hand in the city and went to the hospital to get it checked out. I'm sure you didn't recognize him, but he recognized you."

"Oh." Fern's voice was a dead weight.

Her father sighed. "Oh Fern..." his voice was full of tears. "I'm sorry if you felt caged. I just didn't want to lose you like I'd lost your mother...but in the end, you did exactly what she did and now I am more alone than I have ever been in my entire life." Another stap of guilt ripped through Fern and she leaned against the wall next to the phone.

"Father, why did you call?" she questioned, her throat tight and constricted, as if someone had shoved a rock down there.

"I wanted to leave you alone, the way I left your mother alone after she left. But Fern, I'm sick. I'm dying. I'm all alone in the house and I'm scared. I want...no I need you by my side. I'm so sorry Fern, but I can't do this without you. Please come home to me. Please."

At first, Fern thought this might be a trick, might be some plot to get her back home, but then she realized that her father wasn't like that. More than that, his voice sounded thin and feeble, as if he really was sick, as if he really was dying. Fern let the phone slide to her shoulder and for a moment, thought she might cry. Her eyes were strangely dry, though, but it was as if her hands were weak. It took more strength than she thought to put the phone back to her ear, where her father was still persuading her to come home to help him.

"I'm so sorry Fern, but I just need you here. Will you please come home?" This was his final question.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. "I don't know." With that, she hung up the phone, placing it very carefully back on its hook. She turned from the wall as if it had been some trivial encounter with a co-worker and went back to the lasagna. Quinn's instructions on how to boil everything together to make the sauce are scratched out in his almost unreadable ledger. The recipe has been copied out of a cookbook, but what Quinn does is take different recipes and puts them together in ways that Fern could never imagine. She always could make the things her father had always taught her and her mother before him. She was a good cook. But she didn't have the careful patience Quinn had.

Fern chopped and stirred as if nothing was wrong. But her back curled over and her arms were tighter at her sides and her entire spirit seemed to sag. For Quinn, though, she would pull herself up. For Quinn, she would lie once more.

Quinn arrived home a little more than twenty minutes later and the smell of the sauce simmering on the stove instantly set a smile on his face. "Ferny, you did it again. Maybe I should just let you make the lasagna this time," he said and Fern turned around. She grinned, but there was something off in her eyes. Something that Quinn couldn't exactly put his finger on. "Are you all right?" he asked, out of habit. He had learned to pick up on the smallest of nuances that Fern made when she was upset.

Lifting an eyebrow, Fern turned to put napkins on the table. "Of course I'm all right," she said, in an odd voice. "And I'm not finishing the lasagna, I couldn't make it half as good as you can. You have to do it." When Quinn looked down, he saw that his fiancee was twirling her engagement ring on his finger. It still sent a shock of pleasure through him everytime he saw it. He'd read somewhere that in ancient cultures, men would tie up their wives after they were married. And when the wives finally understood that they were not going anywhere, the husbands would untie them, but tie a piece of rope around their finger, to remind them that they were their husbands.

For Quinn it was obviously different, but there was still a feeling of sort of primal pride that he felt seeing the ring. Like that she was really his and that she would be his legally, soon, and that meant nobody could take her away from him.

Using that same pride to push away the feeling that there was something wrong with Fern, Quinn went to the kitchen to put together the lasagna. While they waited for it to cook, they both read quietly at the table. When it was ready, they ate just as quietly. This wasn't unusual, but the feeling that there was something off came back. Quinn was about to say something when Fern spoke. "Do you ever miss home?" she asked.

"What do you mean?" Quinn laughed. "This is home."

Fern shook her head. "I mean...our old home. Do you ever miss that place?" she questioned.

It took awhile for Quinn to answer this. "You know, when we first left, I thought I would miss it. And I think no matter what, at the end, we're going to end up there. But I feel like there are too many ghosts there for me to really miss it. At first I thought I could never leave because I had so many ties to my house, to that sea, to my job where my father had worked...and I know by leaving I was running away, but now I think I'd feel almost scared to go back. More than that, though, I feel like Pa would have been happy I left to make something of my life." Fern was absolutely still and silent. "Is that what this is all about? You're worried I miss our old home?"

"Y-yes," Fern answered after a moment.

Quinn laughed. "Well stop worrying, darlin'. I'm fine, you're fine, we're both happy, and we're not leaving each other anytime soon. So just wipe that pretty little frown off of your pretty little face and let me see a smile." At that, Fern grinned in an over-the-top fashion, in such a way that Quinn barked a chuckle and turned back to his pasta. But he missed the look Fern sent him as he lowered his head once more to face his food.

That night, they turned the lights down low and turned on the record player to a jazz ensemble that played the sort of music that radio stations might play at midnight. The windows were still open and they could hear the sounds of the city at night as Quinn lay Fern down on their mattress on the floor as far away from the dining table as possible. Around them were the obvious touches that showed they'd lived their long enough - a clothes line held clothes Fern went to wash down at the local laundrymat. Two second-hand drawers held all of their clothes they could afford, and open suitcases told of days when they'd leave this place and start again. The bedclothes on the mattress were tangled and in need of a wash, but it didn't matter.

It was late and the stars shone out in the distance as Quinn kissed the space on her neck - the place he knew she liked the most to be kissed. He heard her sigh a sigh he'd never heard before. It was a content sigh that spoke of hushed secrets, secrets he didn't know but wanted to find out. Quinn pulled away and looked at Fern below him. "Are you sure...you're okay?" he asked.

At that, Fern put her arms around him and held him close. "I love you, Quinn Sutherland. I love you so much it aches. I love you so much it burns. I love you so much it makes me want to float right out of my skin. Please remember how much I love you. Even if I'm gone someday and you're left standing, I want you to remember how much I love you."

Quinn looked at her curiously but then smiled. "I love you too, Fern Sutherland." His last name sounded good with hers. Right, somehow. She pulled him down by the collar and kissed him fiercly on the lips. Quinn still felt that strange uncertainty within her. Those questions about missing home...the reassurance that she loved him...

No, he was being foolish. Quinn pushed those thoughts out of his head and pulled Fern's shirt over her head, like he had done so many times. And like so many times, she pulled his shirt away from him and soon they were lost in the music of the record player, of the night, of the city, of them. But somewhere in Quinn's head he was reminded of those first nights where they had been forcing themselves to do something that they weren't ready for.

Usually Fern was a labryinth that Quinn could walk and come to the other side of easily. Tonight, Fern was a maze of tangled vines.

When it was over, Quinn lay on the bed, fingering Fern's hair between his thumb and forefinger. He was half-looking at her, half dreaming about her. But she was watching him, awake. There were tears in her eyes. And when Quinn finally fell asleep, a feeling of restlessness took over his body.

In the morning, when Quinn woke up, Fern's side of the bed was empty and cold.

The pillow was still wet with her tears.

And Quinn knew she was gone.