Free Under a Summer Sky by Nan Rossiter Page B

New images popped up, and she slowly scrolled down through them: white-breasted nuthatch, tufted titmouse, white-crowned sparrow, mockingbird. Finally, at the bottom of the page, she saw a picture that resembled the birds in the backyard, and she clicked on it—that was it! Eastern phoebe. She scanned the page, reading more about the little bird, including its unique tail movement and the interesting fact that it likes to build its nest on a ledge under an overhang.
    Curiously, she pushed open the screen door, and immediately, the two birds flew up to the roof and cocked their heads. She peered under the back of the shed overhang, and to her delight, discovered an intricately woven nest with five creamy speckled eggs in it. The nest was made of small twigs, strips of bark, and a single strand of white ribbon, and it was lined with soft, green moss. “Oh, my,” Laney said softly. She backed away slowly and looked up at the anxious parents. “Good job,” she said softly.
    As she walked back through the porch, she noticed Lucky stretched out lazily on the swing and warned, “Don’t you dare bother them!” Lucky blinked innocently, and she knew she’d have to keep an eye on him. She went into the living room, excited to tell Asher, but he was sound asleep with a dog curled up on each side of him.
    Laney watched through the kitchen window as the pair of phoebes flew back under the shed roof. Then she turned on the water to finish filling her pasta pot, and as she did, she remembered the phone call she’d gotten that afternoon and forgot all about the phoebe nest.
    Dr. Jamison had called to tell her that her blood work revealed she was vitamin D deficient and slightly anemic—both of which could be easily remedied with supplements and diet. But then she’d gone on to say the ultrasound had been inconclusive and she wanted to get a biopsy.
    “A biopsy . . .” Laney had repeated in quiet alarm, and Dr. Jamison had quickly reassured her it was just a precautionary measure. But the word had sounded surreal and now Laney wondered if maybe she’d dreamed it. At the time, there’d been so much commotion in the house, she hadn’t had time to absorb everything, but now—alone with her thoughts—she could feel the icy fingers of fear wrapping around her heart. Biopsy was one of those worrisome words—like malignant, inoperable, metastasize, and mass —that people always associate with cancer. She put the pot on one of the working burners, and as she chopped an onion, she pictured herself pulling a soft pink hat on her bare head. Is that what her future held? Was she going to be bald and have ominously dark circles under her eyes? Would she be bone thin—almost skeletal—and not have the strength to protect her bullied son?
    Through the blur of tears, she scraped the onion into a puddle of hot olive oil. It sizzled, and she gave it a quick stir. Then she wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand and minced a clove of garlic into the oil too. Suddenly, she remembered something Noah had said when they’d first started dating: “Lane, I don’t want there to be any secrets between us. . . . I don’t want you to ever ask me why I didn’t tell you something.” Her heart ached from not telling him, but she couldn’t bring herself to say the words. It was almost as if saying them would give life to the specter of cancer.
    Lane, I don’t want there to be any secrets between us. . . . His words continued to echo through her mind. They’d never kept secrets. It was true. Noah sometimes forgot to tell her things—important things—but he never purposely withheld information. And how many times had they had this same conversation with the boys? Withholding information was just as bad as lying!
    “All right all ready,” she mumbled, plopping a pound of ground sirloin into the hot pan. “I’ll tell him. . . .”
    “Tell him what?”
    Laney looked up, startled. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
    Noah smiled. He was