He says there are 33 flamingos. I say 32. It’s hard to count because they keep wandering in and out of camera range.
They wade in the lagoon. Sidle into the water like grandparents tiptoeing into the shallow end of the pool. Sleep on one leg with their heads tucked into plumage. Drag their beaks across the sand in search of bugs. The color of mangos, fire, yams, Barbie pink lawn ornaments.
“They can fly you know,” my father says, as the nurse adjusts his IV line. “In the wild. In real life.”
It’s cold in the ward. I’ve brought blankets, magazines, a deck of cards to pass the time. But my father would rather watch flamingos. He’s set up his laptop on a rolling tray near his chair and we both study the birds. They look different at different times of day, depending on the light. I think they’re happiest after people leave the zoo and they can float on the water and get as near to the railing as they want without some kid yelling at them.
“Look,” my father says, pointing. “There’s Leo.”
The zookeeper enters from the left of the screen. He always has on the same uniform. Khaki pants, khaki long-sleeve shirts, khaki hat with flaps. He’s holding a red hose and on cue, he points it at the flamingos and water sprays out like a shower with low pressure. It’s 89 degrees in the shade.
“Do flamingos have a pancreas?” my father asks, reaching for a cup of crushed ice. He moves gingerly, as if he’s afraid of breaking himself.
I Google it. Yes, their pancreas releases insulin and other hormones, just like ours. They can get diabetes. One flamingo named Finn, from the Greenville Zoo, had cancer of the wing. After rounds of radiation therapy, his tumor shrunk and he’s back with his flock.
“I was rooting for him,” my father says, smoothing his features flat to mask the pain. “I knew he’d make it.”
It’s my father’s 52nd birthday on Monday. I call the zoo and explain the situation, ask if maybe Leo could come to the hospital and visit. My father would get a kick out of meeting him. I’ll write the zoo a check. The lady on the phone says she’ll let me know. His real name’s not Leo. We don’t know what his name is. My father named him Leo after Leo Durocher, the ballplayer.
He’d have named the flamingos too, but they all look alike.
Sometimes they’re haughty. Sometimes they’re frail. Always hypnotic. In the predawn hours, they’re leggy ghosts.
I watch the Flamingo Cam alone, at home. It’s soothing, really. How they’re always there, always the same. No matter what time it is, no matter what else is going on. Oblivious. Immune. An avian metaphor for serenity.
Plus, I like that my father and I are in synch, focused on the very same thing.
Here’s what I’ve noticed: These flamingos spend a lot of time wading in the lagoon. When it rains, they huddle under palm trees. Sometimes, one takes the lead and the rest follow, high-stepping it from one end of their pen to the next. But other days, they keep to themselves, like they’ve never met one another before.
My father used to fear the worst. Now that it’s here, he just wants to get on with it.
“You’ll be okay,” he says. “There’s some money left. You’re smart. I trust your choices. You should too.”
It’s seven in the evening. All the tourists have left. On his screen, the flamingos barely move. Not meditative. Mindless. They’re trapped in there.
We don’t talk about what’s going to happen next or much of anything except the flamingos. They’re a safe topic. One that doesn’t involve medical bills or chemo or DNRs. My father and I have been watching birds since he got me my first pair of binoculars when I was six. It occurs to me that all the birding we did together connected us, a way of communicating without words. We used to love the thrill of the chase: catching a glimpse of a salmon-pink wing, a mottled breast, grey ear patch. “Scissor-tailed Flycatcher” we’d shout, high-fiving like we’d won the lottery.
The zoo gets back to me. Leo can’t come. Monday’s his day off and he has plans he can’t break. I arrange for balloons and a Chocolate Cheesecake to be delivered to my father’s room. Go to the zoo. At exactly one-thirty I’m at the flamingo pool, facing the camera, surrounded by kids on a field trip from Camp Hilliard and a couple with five children who could be headed for divorce.
I lean on the railing, count the flamingos. Thirty-four. We’re both wrong.
Sticking my hands high in the air, I wave them in arcs. The flamingos scatter, edging toward shore. People scatter, too, eying me warily. But I keep waving until my shoulders ache and my back tenses up. Flamingo, I say wordlessly, again and again, like I’m signaling to someone who only reads lips. I keep waving until my arms feel like they’re about to fall off, and the birds return to the lagoon, orange-pink feathers skimming the surface.