Where the Forest Meets the Stars(34)

He held up his hand and let Ursa high-five him. He was pretending he felt better than he did. He’d put down his burger before he’d eaten half of it, and while Jo and Ursa finished eating, he picked at his salad to have something to do. “How’s the research going?” he asked.
“Better than expected for my first field season.”
“How many more will you have?”
“At least one more.”
“You’ll be living here next summer?”
“That’s the plan.”
He looked down at the fork he was poking in his salad before he returned his gaze to hers. “Why are you studying buntings?”
“I’m doing a nesting study, and bunting nests are plentiful and easy to find. Historically, they nested in forests that were disturbed by fire and floods. These days, they’re attracted to the edges of our roads and crop fields, and those habitats aren’t so good for them. Lots of birds that nest in those shrubby kinds of landscapes are declining.”
“Interesting,” he said.
“So I’m comparing nesting success between habitats created by natural and human disturbances.”
He nodded. “What brought you into the world of birds in the first place?”
“I’d have to say my parents,” she said. “My dad was a geologist, and my mother was a botanist. When I was a kid, my family camped and hiked all over the United States. That was when I learned my first birds, mostly with my mom.”
“Jo’s mom and dad are dead,” Ursa announced.
Gabe didn’t look especially surprised when Jo had used past tense to describe her parents. But unlike most people, he didn’t ask what had happened to them.
“My dad did research in the Andes,” Jo said. “He was in an airplane that crashed into a mountain when I was fifteen. Two other geologists and the Peruvian pilot died with him.”
“Jesus. How old was he?”
“Forty-one.”
“Was your mom there, doing research with him?”
“No, she was home with my brother and me. She never finished her botany PhD after my brother was born. My dad went on long research trips, and she didn’t want to put my brother in day care while she finished her degree.”
“Jo’s mom died from breast cancer,” Ursa said. “She saved Jo’s life.”
“As you can see,” Jo said, “Ursa has been very curious about my family.” Looking at Ursa, she added, “I wish she’d tell me as much as I’ve told her.”
“You wouldn’t understand if I told you about my Hetrayeh family,” Ursa said.
“I would. You know I would.”
“Tell Gabe about how your mom saved your life.”
“Changing the subject won’t help anything,” Jo said.
“You changed it,” Ursa said, “because you didn’t want to talk about your mom.” She pushed out her chair and left the table to go to the bathroom.
“Outsmarted again,” Jo said.
He smiled.
She slid away her empty plate. “You’re probably wondering what Ursa meant about my mother saving my life.”
“I’m guessing her cancer led to the discovery of yours.”
Jo nodded.
“How long ago did that happen?”
“About two years ago. She died this past winter.”
“And all the while you were dealing with your own cancer. Were you a graduate student yet when you were diagnosed?”
“I was, but I lost two years—between helping my mom and my treatments and surgeries.”
“More than one surgery?”
Her lack of breasts was obvious, but she hadn’t intended to mention the oophorectomy. Especially to a man her age. But she had to get over all of that.
“They found my cancer at an early stage,” she said, “but I still had a full mastectomy and my ovaries removed—because I was at high risk for recurring breast cancer and ovarian cancer.”
He leaned toward her, his face washed in candlelight.
“You don’t have to say anything.”
He sat back in his chair. “I won’t. As always, words fail when you most want to say the right thing.”
“People think they have to say something, and it never makes me feel better.”
“I know. I’ve decided language isn’t as advanced as we think it is. We’re still apes trying to express our thoughts with grunts while most of what we want to communicate stays locked in our brains.”
“This from the son of a literature professor?”
“Maybe I didn’t get the literary gene from him.”
Jo rose to collect plates so he wouldn’t feel obligated to eat what he couldn’t finish. He helped, stacking his dish on top of Ursa’s.
“What is your mother’s field of work?” she asked.
“She was an elementary school teacher for a while, but she did what your mom did: she quit when Lacey was born. She’s also a poet,” he said, following Jo into the kitchen. “She has two books of poetry published.”
“Really? Does she still write?”
“She can’t. The Parkinson’s makes her hands shake too much to write or type.”
“She could recite it while you write it down for her.”
“I suggested that, but she says that would ruin the creative process.”
“I guess I can see that.”
“The Parkinson’s is probably wiping out the poetry anyway.”
“That’s sad.”
“Yeah.”
Ursa already had the marshmallow bag in her hand.
“Don’t you ever get tired of marshmallows?” Jo said.