A Christmas Road Trip

On a Tuesday morning, I’m tying on my bathrobe when my phone buzzes with a new text message.

There’s only one person it’s likely to be at 6:43 in the morning.

It’s Chase Park. You out of the shower yet?

Yes. On every workday, my alarm goes off at 6:27. After turning it off, I give myself three minutes to wake up before I force my feet to hit the floor. My morning showers take between eight and eighteen minutes, depending on if I need to wash my hair or do extra shaving.

Today is a non-hair-washing and non-shaving day, so the shower I just finished was less than ten minutes.

I wait for Chase’s response to come through as I stand in the middle of my bedroom. I’m at your door.

After processing the words, I shake my head at my phone and laugh. I’ve known Chase since elementary school, and he’s always unpredictable. Checking the tie to my robe, I walk down the hall of my three-bedroom Craftsman house and open the front door.

Chase is on my porch, holding out a big coconut donut in a clear pastry bag. He’s smiling only with his eyes.

I open the screen door and reach for the donut. “Thank you!” It’s from the bakery downtown and my favorite. “Why are you out and about so early?”

He lifts his right arm, on which are hooked two grocery bags. “Grandma ran out of orange juice. While I’m here, can I get some cooking oil?”

“Sure.” I step out of the way so he can come in. “Why didn’t you buy oil at the store?”

He follows me into the kitchen and puts down his shopping bags on my counter while I pull open the cabinet where I keep my oil. “Didn’t know I needed it.”

“What kind? Olive? Vegetable? I’ve got some fancy stuff.”

“Something cheap. Don’t waste anything good.” He’s wearing faded jeans and a threadbare gray sweatshirt from our high school basketball team. He’s clearly not taken a shower yet. His hair is always too long, and currently it’s a rumpled mess, pieces of it sticking out in all directions.

I hand him the bottle. “Why do you need it?”

“Minor crisis outside.”

Confused, I follow him as he carries the oil out of the house and down my front walk. I’m only wearing my bathrobe and slippers, but the robe is heavy and fleece and covers me as much as regular clothes. At the end near the sidewalk is a small bird with its feet and the tip of one wing stuck to a glue board—the kind used by pest control to catch bugs or mice.

The bird is a female cardinal. She was staying still until we approached, but now she’s flapping and struggling against the sticky board, desperate to escape.

“Oh no! Poor little thing. Where did that thing come from?”

“I don’t know. Maybe someone had it in a garage or carport.” Chase is leaning over, reaching for the edge of the board where it’s not sticky so he can hold it steady. “She was probably going after the bugs on it and got stuck.”

“Will the oil get her off?” No matter how hard the poor bird flails, she can’t free herself of the board.

“I don’t know. Figure it’s worth a try.” He pours some of the oil on the sticky surface and rubs it around before very gently pulling the bird’s foot free.

I’m scared and horrified for the small creature, bending over to watch. I make a whimpering sound when the bird reacts frantically to being touched.

“I’m sorry, girl,” Chase murmurs as he works. “Hold on just a second and I’ll get you loose.”

To my relief, he frees the other foot and then works on the wing. As soon as he’s pulled the feathers from the stickiness, the bird flaps away in a panic.

“Oh, thank goodness.” I watch the bird as she lands in a nearby tree. “Poor baby. That must have been a nightmare for her.”

Chase scowls slightly as he folds up the board so the sticky side is no longer accessible. “Yeah. Glad we could rescue her.” He hands me back my bottle of oil and walks to the side of the house to throw the board away in my outside trash can.

I’m wide-awake as we go back inside and wash our hands. I wipe down the oil bottle with a disinfectant wipe just to be safe before putting it back in the cabinet.

“Thanks for helping the little bird,” I tell him as he’s drying his hands.

“It was your oil.”

“But you’re the one who saw her and knew what to use to free her. It was your rescue mission, not mine.”

I pick up the pot of coffee that brews every morning at six forty-five and hold it up to him in a wordless question. When he nods, I pour him a cup in addition to mine.

He drinks his black. I like just a little half-and-half.

“And thank you for the donut.”

“Got one for Grandma too.”

“Oh yeah? What kind?” I lean over to check the grocery bags.

He clears his throat, and it sounds significant, so I glance up at him. He’s staring fixedly at a spot over my head.

“What’s wrong with you?” I ask.

“You’re coming loose.” He gestures vaguely toward my robe.