And the smell. Every night, rising at him out of the cellar below him. A terrible stink. Worse than any bathroom stink. “Oh, oh, no,” said the parrot. “Oh. God. No.” Dad changed rooms with Rillibee. Days went by and Rillibee never really saw her after that. He lay there in Dad’s bed at night, trying to remember what she had looked like. He couldn’t remember. He wanted to see the picture of her, the one over the fireplace.
In the living room, he turned on one lamp and looked up at the picture. She smiled down at him, out of the paint, her shiny hair falling over her forehead, her lips curved.
“Let me die,” whispered the parrot. “Oh, please, please, let me die.”
“Shut up,” Rillibee screamed at it silently, the words pushing out of him like huge, burning pieces of vomit. “Shut up, shut up.”
He told himself he wouldn’t go in there anymore. He wouldn’t listen to that bird anymore. He ate in the kitchen. He did his school-work. He didn’t ask any questions. He didn’t talk about Mom.
“That must have been hard,” said Brother Mainoa. “Oh, that must have been hard.”
“I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I couldn’t. Her face would come into my mind, but then it would turn gray at the edges, starting to curl, like a picture burning, and I couldn’t see what she looked like, couldn’t remember what she looked like. I stood it as long as I could, and then went into the living room once more to look at the painting of her.
“The parrot said, ‘Kill me. Please, please, kill me.’”
It was the day after that, Rillibee’s twelfth birthday, that he woke up knowing it had all been a dream. The sun poured through his window, heartbreak gold. He got up and dressed and plunged out into the living room. The parrot was walking up and down its perch saying, “Thank God. Thank God. Thank God.”
Song was already there, sitting at the table. There was a package wrapped at his place. He sat down and grinned at it, turning it over and over, shaking it to guess what was inside.
“Happy birthday, Rillibee,” Dad said from the kitchen door. “I’m making pancakes.” His voice sounded funny, but the words were all right.
“Happy birthday, Rillibee,” said Song. She sounded like a recording.
Dad came in with a pitcher of juice and leaned over the table to pour it.
There was a sore on the side of Dad’s neck, toward the back. Little. The size of a peanut. Like the sore had been on Mom’s arm. When Dad went back to the kitchen, Rillibee tried to tell Song, but Song just sat there, frozen, not saying anything at all. Then he noticed the bandage on her hand and wondered how long it had been there without his seeing it.
He got up without opening the package and went out of the house, through the orchard to the groves, and down through all of them, the trees getting tinier and tiner the farther he went, until he came to the place where there was nothing growing at all….
“Did you ever see them again?” asked Brother Mainoa. There was a long silence. Rillibee was staring out the window, mouth slightly open, tears washing his face. “I went crazy in school and started yelling something. That night when I got home, there was no one there, just the man from Sanctity, who said to come along with him. I was going to be an acolyte, he said. They never said anything about Miriam or Joshua or Song. When I asked, they told me my people had died a long time ago, that I’d just forgotten. They never even asked if my family was Sanctity. We weren’t. I’m still not.” Brother Mainoa sipped at his own broth, occasionally slapping at a control button that kept threatening to disengage itself. “Brother Lourai—how does that sound?”
“How should it sound?”
“Well, the I sound is for patience, and thersound is for perseverance. I thought you could use a little of that.”
“What does themsound in Mainoa mean?” Rillibee asked tiredly. “And the n?”