Sparrow Migrations by Cari Noga Read Free Book Online Page A

sorry.”
    “Thanks.” Deborah blinked against the tears.
    “He was probably pretty shaken up by the crash, right?”
    “I hope that’s all it is.” She sighed. “Now tell me what’s going on with you. What did you need to talk to me about so badly yesterday?” The phone’s low battery signal beeped. “Damn it. Helen, I’m about to lose you. I’ll call you again from home.”
    “OK.”
    “I’m sorry. I really wanted to see you and the girls.”
    “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine. I love you.”
    “I love you, too,” Deborah said bleakly, and the phone went dead.

FIVE
    T hey climbed the stairs from the West 81st Street station, Robby two steps ahead. At sidewalk level he wheeled around, searching for a street sign. Spotting one, he took off at a near-sprint, scattering a flock of pigeons foraging by a wastebasket. Linda panted, trying to keep up. “Is this the right way, Sam?”
    “I’m going to trust he knows what he’s looking for. Take your time. I’ll stay with him.”
    Sam trailed behind his son up the museum’s stone steps. The doors were locked. “Museum hours: ten a.m. to five forty-five p.m.,” Sam read. He glanced at his watch. “Rob, it’ll be open in another half hour. Let’s go get some breakfast first.”
    “Wanna wait here.” Robby plunked down on the steps. Linda caught up, breathless.
    “We’ve got a half hour before they open, and I’m pretty hungry,” Sam said. Linda nodded. They scanned the block, spotting a diner on the corner. “Come on, Robby, let’s go get something to eat. We’ll get you a doughnut,” Linda coaxed.
    Robby shook his head. “Gonna wait.”
    “Robby, don’t be difficult. It’s cold here. You’re not going to get in any sooner, and the birds will still be here if we go have some breakfast first.” Sam bent down and put his hand under Robby’s armpit, trying to lift him up. He was heavy, heavier than Sam expected.
    Robby jerked back his arm, shaking off his father and dropping his notebook. Off balance, Sam staggered back, stumbling down several steps. Ignoring him, Robby scooped up the notebook and tore up the remaining steps to the vestibule doors, yelling as he ran.
    “No, no, no, no! No breakfast. Staying here. Staying here!” At the locked doors he wedged himself into a corner, clamped his headphones on, jammed his hands into his pockets, and glared down at them.
    A dozen steps below, Sam punched the air. He swore, then looked guiltily at Linda. She shook her head and shrugged.
    “I’ll stay with him,” she said, resignation saddling each word. “You go eat. Bring me back a bagel or something.”
    Sam started to protest, then cut himself off. A half hour without Robby sounded pretty appealing right now. “OK. I’ll be back at ten.”
    Before he crossed the street to the diner, Sam glanced back at his wife and son. Linda had walked up to the step where Robby was bunkered but kept a good five-foot perimeter. She looked like a sentinel up there, a watchdog ready to chase away whatever might dare to disturb or unsettle the mind and body shrouded beneath the hooded sweatshirt and headphones. Not unlike any other mother, really. The problem was that simple routines of daily life were a constant bombardment to Robby’s hypersensitive sensory systems. His communication and social deficits further isolated him. Thus the mission never ended.
    And Sam was the only one who could relieve her.
    Robby watched his father’s back retreat. Down the steps. Down the sidewalk, to the corner. The dark-green diamonds of his quilted coat blended into the newsstand. The light changed. He crossed three lanes of yellow taxis and disappeared into the diner. Finally .
    Robby exhaled and wedged his body more firmly into his corner. He liked feeling the cool, solid stone wall behind him. Here, nothing could come up and surprise him. It felt safe. The safest place he’d found in New York. Better than the hotel with the stiff, scratchy sheets and bedspreads.