“According to our mother, the physical signs of injury included bleeding from the eyes and nose, hypoxia, and temporary clouding of the irises,” Evie continued.
I snapped around, staring at my sister. “What?” Mom had never told me about the damage to my irises. My eyes had always looked perfectly normal to me.
But that wasn’t entirely true, was it? During the first few months, when I’d walked in a cloud of hazy disorientation, the whole world had been cloudy around the edges. I’d attributed it to my bruised brain. What if some of it had been due to other physical causes?
How many things about my own health had my parents concealed for my own good?
“Mom thought they might be cataracts at first, until she realized they were receding as you got better,” said Evie, apologetic discomfort rolling off her in waves. “The damage to the eyes seems to be tied to excessive telepathic ‘pushing.’”
“You’re saying this cuckoo hurt herself the same way Sarah did, by pushing things into Artie’s brain?” demanded Jane.
“No,” I said numbly. “No, she’s saying this cuckoo killed herself that way. I just don’t understand . . . I don’t understand why hurting us would have been worth dying.”
“I don’t think it was about hurting Artie at all,” said Evie. “We’ve dealt with ordinary cuckoos before. They don’t consider humans or Lilu worth their time. She killed herself to hurt you.”
“But all I did was hit her with my backpack,” I objected. “That’s not worth dying over.”
Evie shrugged. “Doesn’t change the fact that she did.”
No. It didn’t.
Something was going on—something bigger than one dead cuckoo. I just wished I knew what it was.
While I was still trying to put my feelings into words, Kevin said, almost apologetically, “We don’t get access to many dead cuckoos.”
“I’ll get the dissection kit,” said Jane.
“I’m going to go find Artie,” I said, and turned and fled before the autopsy could begin.
My family is my family. I wouldn’t have them any other way. But sometimes they can be a little much to deal with. Especially when the knives come out.
Nine
“Nobody gets to pick where they’re born or who they’re born to, but everybody gets to pick their family. Make good choices with yours.”
—Alice Healy
Roving through the family compound, trying not to think about what’s about to happen in the barn
DISSECTION IS A FACT of life—and death—when your whole family is involved with the biological sciences. Evie needs to understand cryptids if she’s going to help heal them. Kevin needs to understand them so he can document them as accurately as possible, an activity that matters both now and in the future. We wouldn’t even know that there used to be two types of wadjet if not for some of the old family notebooks, which meticulously documented the differences between the Egyptian and Indian branches of the species before the Egyptian wadjet disappeared, probably forever.
But that doesn’t mean I have to like it, and it didn’t mean I had to be happy knowing they were about to take a member of my species apart, piece by piece, like she was some sort of puzzle to be solved. People aren’t puzzles. At least, they shouldn’t be.
I found Annie and the others in the kitchen. Both James and Sam had become the sort of blank spot that I associated with anti-telepathy charms, although Annie was as bright and visible as ever. Elsie was sitting on the couch, sullenly drinking a glass of orange juice. It was amazing how much resentment she could direct toward citrus.
“Hi,” I said, offering a small wave to James and Sam. “Now that you have your telepathy blockers, I won’t be able to read your minds. That’s for the best, for all of us, but you should be aware that my brain doesn’t process facial input very well.”
“Meaning?” asked Sam.
“Meaning that if you didn’t have a tail, the two of you would be essentially identical to me.”
Sam and James exchanged a look. “I can’t decide whether that’s racist or just insulting,” said Sam.
“Technically, I think it’s speciesist,” I said. “All humans look basically the same when I can’t read their minds.”
“Okay, definitely insulting,” said Sam. “Not human. Hence the tail.”
“Yes human, hence the no tail, but there are humans with this condition,” said James. “Face blindness is usually a result of something being wired slightly differently in the visual processing center of the brain.”
“Well, I don’t know whether that’s my problem, since we don’t have an MRI, or a reasonable assortment of cuckoos to put in the MRI, but it doesn’t matter, since we’re living with the reality of my situation, not the theory,” I said. “I can recognize voices. I can’t read your expressions, and if you want me to know what you’re thinking—emotionally—you may need to say it out loud, just to be sure.”
“Do we have to wear these things forever?” James plucked at the chain dangling around his neck. “I’ve never been overly fond of jewelry. It gets caught on things, and the chain gets cold.”
“That’s because you’re secretly a snow cone machine who walks like a man,” said Annie fondly. Her mood when she looked at him was a fascinatingly complicated mixture of regret, fellowship, and a fierce fondness that felt very similar to the way she thought about Alex.
“He’s your brother,” I blurted, and paused, feeling the embarrassing tingle in my cheeks that would have been a blush, if I’d had the capillary response to fuel it.
Annie simply nodded. “He is. I found him in a cardboard box labeled ‘free to good home,’ and decided I was going to keep him. He has his own room now and everything.”
“I wish that were less accurate,” muttered James.
Their trio was starting to make more sense now. I offered Annie a wan smile and waved a hand toward the stairs. “I’m going to go find Artie.”
“Good luck with that,” said Elsie. “I’ve looked everywhere. The jerk is hiding.”
“Yeah, but I know he didn’t leave the house—I would have heard him go—and I can’t hear him now, which means there’s only one place he can be.” I started across the room. “I’ll be back down as soon as we’ve hammered this out.”
“Good luck,” called Annie.