Raptor

I saw the bird trapped on the dotted line between the lanes of I-95 North, somewhere south of Augusta. It was some kind of raptor. A hawk. A falcon. A small eagle. I don’t know: I’m not good at telling them apart. It hopped about sluggishly, one wing damaged and dragging. SUVs and eighteen-wheelers flew by, first on the left, then on the right, creating hot hurricanes of air that spun the bird around, then around again. I slowed but was still doing at least 55 mph when I blew past in the travel lane. The bird staggered in my wake.  

It was a long, straight stretch of highway, and I pulled over in the breakdown lane as soon as I could. I walked back along the shoulder. A large semi blew by, creating a suction of wind that pulled at my clothes and whirled the bird around backward. Then a car. Then a van. Then another car. In between vehicles, the bird wavered in place, and I stood there on the side of the road, pretty sure what any sane person would do and dead certain what I would do instead.  

This was not the first time I would try to make up for some nagging, indefinable sense of parenting failure by helping some other creature’s baby. Before this there was the painted turtle, the injured snowshoe hare, the baby cedar waxwings, the baby ruffed grouse, the mouse I bottle-fed until the cat killed it, the mouse I bottle-fed until it died in my hand, the mouse I killed myself so I wouldn’t have to bottle-feed it. The newborn goat I sat with, wondering if the farmer would ever arrive. The deer I was trying to feed when she punched me in the shoulder with her knifed hooves. Spiders I caught between glasses and pieces of paper and carried out of the house. Sometimes I failed, but what mother doesn’t fail all day, every day? This was not the first time.   

I counted the number of seconds between cars. Traffic flowed from the horizon like a river, front bumpers gliding just behind rear bumpers. Between an approaching RV and a green convertible, it seemed like there might be space for me to dash onto the highway and scoop up the raptor. There would be no time to stop and turn around, so I would keep running to the center median, wait for another space between vehicles, and then run back. I imagined the bird’s weight between my hands. Would it struggle?   

I thought about my kids. I was three hours from home. They were waiting for me to pick them up from their dad’s house. It would be so stupid, I thought, to die on I-95 trying to rescue a bird. It would not be heroic or valorous—just stupid. But I also thought this: you won’t die doing this. You’re going to save that bird. I stood, waiting for the RV to pass. The convertible was not so close behind, and the passing lane would be empty as soon as that jacked-up pickup went by. This bird might have a nest of babies somewhere. Would they see her again? I crouched, ready to spring. I was dizzy with adrenaline, my body throbbing. 

The bird panted, open-beaked, facing the oncoming cars. A breeze lifted the feathers along the edge of its nearly detached wing. I wanted my hands around it so badly I couldn’t breathe. The pickup prepared to pass. The RV was almost there.   

At home, the kids were probably having dinner. What were they eating? Why wasn’t I speeding home to them, unloading groceries, and tucking them into bed? 

The driver of the pickup truck saw me poised there, and with a very deliberate move of his arm, he swerved. Maybe he saw what was about to unfold there on I-95 North. Maybe he had kids waiting for him at home too. His front tire smashed into the bird, which disappeared into a cloud of feathers and shadow. It spun, then rolled under the truck. The wing was now gone, then so was the truck. One beat, then the RV. Half a beat, then the convertible. I would not have made it across. The spell of my ridiculous invincibility evaporated around me. I took a breath of hot exhaust. This was not the first time. But it would be the last.   

Penny Guisinger is the author of two memoirs, Shift: A Memoir of Identity and Other Illusions from University of Nebraska Press and Postcards from Here from Vine Leaves Press. Her work has appeared in Fourth Genre, River Teeth, Guernica, Solstice Literary Magazine, and others. Pushcart-nominated, a Maine Literary Award winner, and a three-time notable in the Best American Essays series, she is a codirector of Iota Short Forms and a former assistant editor at Brevity. Penny is a graduate of the Stonecoast MFA Program. She lives near Lubec with her wife, college-age kids, and a slowly increasing number of dogs. More at pennyguisinger.com. 

This essay is a Short Reads original.