#ch: birdie murdock

[thornbushrose]

The Unreadable Heart ch. 1

The Heart of Rubble

 The Unreadable Heart

Thornbushrose

Summary:

Birdie Garrett lives a deliberately peaceful life as a social worker at St Agnes Home for Boys, until a mysterious patient in the infirmary starts to challenge the rules she uses to keep the peace.

Teaser:

Birdie could sense hearts. She called it reading them, but it was much more than that. If she focused, she could perceive the emotional landscape inside someone. Hearts opened to her in a panorama of texture, sight and sound, like a movie in her mind. It was hard to interpret and sometimes traumatic. She had learned to block it out when she was a teenager, but some people projected. There was no way to ignore this man’s heart, so Birdie took a deep breath and opened up to it. Matthew Murdock didn’t have a heart so much as a huge pile of rubble, pulsing faintly and screaming in pain.

The Heart of Rubble

“Excuse me,” Birdie said, ushering two more boys into the room, “Mr and Mrs. Webster, I didn’t want you to leave without meeting Micah and Jesse. Their paperwork just came through.”

Birdie had spent her morning standing in a doorway, watching one awkward introduction after another, as St. Agnes’s Orphanage had offered the Websters child after child who met their detailed list of qualifications. The Websters had no doubt built the list over hours and hours of daydreaming in their lonely home.

Unfortunately, the list was crap. Birdie might have been the only one who could see that. People never know the shapes of their own hearts.

So when the final young man, a brusque four-year-old with curly hair, stumbled in and refused to meet their eyes, and the wife turned to the husband with that look of exhaustion that always preceded a disheartened retreat, Birdie leaned over to Sister Frannie and whispered, “Don’t let them leave yet. I’ll be right back.”

When she returned with Micah and Jesse, the four-year-old had gone back to class and Sister Frannie was telling the Websters some crazy story about meeting Pope John Paul when she was a kid, which must have been in the very bottom of her bag of nunly charms.

Micah and Jesse didn’t belong on the Websters’ list. They were brothers, and the Websters wanted a singleton. One of them was a year too old; the other had a medical condition. The Websters sighed and made brave smiles. The boys shook their hands like nervous little gentlemen. Birdie returned to her doorway, watching with satisfaction as four hearts clicked together like a jigsaw puzzle.

Two hours later, the Websters left with paperwork to fill out and an appointment to see “their boys” again on Tuesday. Sister Frannie couldn’t stop smiling her big, benevolent smile and patting Birdie’s hands. “You did it again! Such a gift! What are you doing here with us? You could sell ice cream to a polar bear!”

“I don’t sell ice cream,” Birdie said. “I sell kids. And there are only so many ways to do that legally.”

She didn’t have anything else to do until her appointment at one, so she volunteered to take the boys back to class. Instead, she took them to the kitchen, where the lunch sisters, Teesha and Hattie, fussed over the boys’ good news and gave them ice cream to celebrate. After the boys had finished licking their bowls and been sent back to class, Birdie asked the lunch ladies if there was anything she could do to help them out.

“You could do that,” sighed Sister Teesha, gesturing with her chin at a covered tray standing under the heat lamps. “You’re pretty tough.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve heard about our Patient X in the infirmary, haven’t you?”

Birdie had heard all about it. A grown man, a former resident of the orphanage, had been in some kind of accident and was being cared for in the infirmary for the last few weeks. Why he was there instead of a hospital was a lasting topic of debate among the more gossipy sisters. “Last I heard, he was still a vegetable.”

“He woke up on Saturday. That’s his lunch.”

“Ah. So where do I come in?”

Sister Hattie, the tiny, compassionate nun who would feed anyone who showed up, leaned in and said, “He’s awful! He made me cry yesterday!”

Birdie frowned. “Isn’t Sister Maggie in charge of him?”

“She’s at the Center, collecting donations.”

Birdie shrugged. It wouldn’t be the first time she dealt with a cranky client. “Okay, I’ll take it to him.”

The nuns gave her instructions and sent her up to the infirmary.

***

“Are you ready for lunch, Mr. Murdock?” Birdie called out as she entered the man’s room. She went to the table by his bed and set down the tray.

The man in the bed had probably been handsome when he was well, but weeks in bed had made him pale and hollow-looking, like a plant in a closet. Whatever had happened to him, his chest was completely covered in bandages and his arms and face were painted with red and purple scrapes and bruises. Lying on his back, he stared at the ceiling with half-closed eyes, like a corpse. He didn’t move a muscle to answer her.

Birdie said, “Mr. Murdock? Are you awake? I can’t tell.”

“I sleep with my eyes closed,” he said, faintly. “Just like sighted people.”

Birdie supposed that was meant to be a dig, but she didn’t let it sting her. “Well, for your information,” she said lightly, “some people don’t. Sighted or not.” She crossed the room and opened the cupboard there. “I’m Birdie Garrett. I’m a social worker with the orphanage.”

“Birdie? Like, tweet tweet?”

“Yep.” She opened the cabinet on the wall by his bed.

“Your parents hate you?”

“Yep, that’s why they named me Roberta.” Birdie checked the shelves on the far wall. “I’ve been Birdie since I was six.”

He waited while she looked through the laundry basket next to the cabinet. “You’re not a nun.”

“And you’re not a little boy. Isn’t life funny?”

Murdock stirred, shifting to face her slightly. “The chocolate’s a bit much.”

Birdie bent down to look under his bed and frowned. “What chocolate? Oh wait.” She sniffed her hands. “Yeah, this new lotion I bought wants everyone to know it has cocoa butter.”

His voice was weak but deep, and hoarse from weeks of disuse. “Why are you under my bed?”

“I’m looking for your backrest pillow. You don’t know where they keep it, do you?”

He gestured vaguely at his sightless eyes. “Haven’t seen it.”

“Har har,” Birdie said. “I’ll be right back.” She went out of the room and searched the linen closet, but of course those backrest pillows were only to be found when you didn’t want one. Eventually, she found one in another room and came back to her patient. “Got it.”

She set the pillow on the bed near his feet and pulled his sheet back. Close up, he looked like he’d been through a wood chipper; it was going on two months since whatever had happened to him, but he still had dozens of little cuts and scrapes all over his body. He had to be pretty bad off to take that long to heal shallow scratches like these, she thought. She kept any hint of pity off her face – not that he could see her anyway—and said, “I’m going to lift you and scoot you up the bed so you can sit. Tell me if I’m hurting you.”

She hooked her hands under his arms, set her legs, and pulled him up into an awkward hug. He was heavier than he looked; he must have had some muscle still in there. She prepared herself to haul him toward the head of the bed, but he did it himself with his arms. He had his lips pressed together, his face tightened against the pain, but a small groan came through anyway. Then they were done, and Birdie put the backrest pillow behind him and helped him settle back.

He obviously was used to keeping himself fit, she thought, before he’d injured his spine, and to have such reduced mobility must be hard for him. It was probably too early to know if he was going to get his legs back. So she turned away from him to fuss over his blankets, allowing him a little privacy to regain his composure.

Slowly, she became aware that something was bothering her. It was like the itch of hot sunlight on bare skin; like the tickle of a hair under the back of her clothes. Like voices hotly engaged in conversation, just barely heard through a wall. She swiped at her ear, her shoulder, her elbow, but there was nothing there. She turned back to Murdock, who was facing away from her, catching his breath, and she felt the heat on her face. It was him. More properly, it was his heart.

Birdie could sense hearts. She called it reading them, but it was much more than that. If she focused, she could perceive the emotional landscape inside someone. Hearts opened to her in a panorama of texture, sight and sound, like a movie in her mind. It was hard to interpret and sometimes traumatic. She had learned to block it out when she was a teenager, but some people projected. There was no way to ignore this man’s heart, so Birdie took a deep breath and opened up to it.

Matthew Murdock didn’t have a heart so much as a huge pile of rubble, pulsing faintly and screaming in pain.

He was in so much pain.

Not bodily pain. She was sure there was plenty of that, but hearts only revealed to her how people felt about their bodies, not actual sensations. Somehow, what had happened to this man was a lot worse than a spinal injury and a broken hip. He’d lost something – or someone – he loved, and worse. Something that had been the cornerstone of his entire identity. The writhing pile of broken cement and glass that had been his heart was crisscrossed with confusion, fuzzy and green like mold that burned rage-red around the edges. He didn’t understand what had happened to him, and he was furious about it.

He could be a ticking time bomb, she realized. Or he could overcome this and be stronger than before. It would depend on a lot of things.

“You okay?” he said.

Birdie returned to reality with a jolt. Murdock’s sightless features appeared to be focused on her. She was glad he couldn’t see the expression she quickly blinked off her face. “No, I’m… I’m fine. Just distracted by something.”

Her heart pounding, she uncovered his tray and set it in his lap. What would happen if the fury she sensed in him exploded? Would he harm himself? Would he turn violent? Was she safe, being alone with him?

He turned his face toward the tray. “Chicken noodle from a can.”

“Yeah,” Birdie said. She placed his hands on the cup of soup and the spoon. “Smells like childhood.”

“Yeah,” he murmured.

Grumpy or not, it was hard to imagine him becoming violent. This poor, pale, neglected houseplant. And whether she needed to protect herself from him or help him overcome whatever had uprooted his sense of self, she would have to start by talking to him. She settled back in her chair, casually laying an arm on his bed, next to his leg. “You grew up here, didn’t you? In the orphanage?”

“Yeah.” Very gingerly, he took a tiny amount of soup in the spoon and brought it to his lips.

“Were you adopted eventually?”

“No. There was one guy.” His voice turned hollow. “But it didn’t work. I aged out.”

Birdie nodded, forgetting he couldn’t see her. “That must have been tough.”

He didn’t answer, savoring his soup. Or maybe brooding over it. If he were anyone else, she would have been able to sense the difference. But not him. The screaming was too loud.

“Do you mind if I ask how you were injured?” Birdie asked.

“Yes.” Murdock set the soup down in his lap and groped on the tray. “I mind.” Birdie put the cup of water into his hand. He took a sip and changed the subject. “You said you work for the orphanage?”

“I’m a social worker. I represent the kids, make sure their needs are being met, facilitate adoptions, etc.”

“Does that work?”

“Sure. Our kids are happy and healthy. We have one of the highest adoption rates in Manhattan.”

Murdock set his cup down. He was starting to sound tired. “I meant, adoption. People just take home a random kid and they’re a family?”

Birdie pursed her lips. “Well, it takes work. All families take work.” She watched him eat pensively. “It worked for me, anyway.”

Murdock paused, mid-slurp. “You’re adopted?”

“My birth mother abandoned me as an infant. I joined my real family when I was two.”

“Does that make you mad?”

She sighed and brushed his arm with a napkin. “It used to. I mean, I had my angsty teenage years like everyone else.” She shrugged. “Now I’ve worked with too many people in ugly situations to judge. Maybe leaving me at the hospital was the best she could do.”

Murdock took the napkin and wiped his chin. “That’s very magnanimous of you.” All of his movements were slow, shaky.

“Yeah, well. Two summers at anger management camp is all it took.”

A corner of his mouth twitched. “Teenage angst?”

“I never do anything halfway.”

He snorted and turned back to his soup. Birdie decided to let him eat in peace.

She hadn’t actually spent two summers at anger management camp, of course, but it was easier than explaining the truth. I got arrested at thirteen and the people who said they could help tried to recruit me to join their mutant army, but don’t worry; I said no. Yeah, that would go over well.

A few minutes later, the cup was empty, and Birdie got up to clear away the trash. “Do you need help to lie down again?”

“I’d like to stay up,” he said. “Unless you need to return this pillow.”

“Pillow?” Birdie said, with a deliberately confused voice. “What pillow, Sister? Did you look in the linen closet?”

Something that had probably been a smile in a previous life brushed by his lips without reaching his eyes. “Thanks for that. No one else propped me up before.”

Birdie stopped in the act of lifting the tray. “What? How have you been eating?”

“On my back. They fed me with a spoon.”

Birdie frowned. “They can’t do that. That’s a choking hazard. I’ll talk to someone.” She carried the tray to the door. “I have to say, though, this was a very poor showing, Mr. Murdock. I was told you’d hurt my feelings.”

“Call me Matt,” he said. “And I tried my best. You just aren’t scared of me.”

“Unlike the sisters, I’m not intimidated by half-naked men.”

“Didn’t they tell you I’m the Devil?”

Birdie paused for a moment, choosing her next words carefully. “If the Devil himself had been through what you have, Matthew Murdock, I think he’d be a gibbering heap on the floor.”

Murdock turned his face away from her, blinking hard. Birdie carried the tray out and closed the door behind her.

***

Two days later, Birdie spent the morning holding an eight-year-old’s hand and introducing him to his new home. There were other people who did the real work of entering Parker into the databases, settling him into a dormitory, and developing a schedule of classes for him. Birdie served as his advocate, checking everything for errors, explaining things to him, and providing a familiar face, so the boy would feel safe enough to ask questions.

At lunchtime, she took him out to the tree-lined courtyard where the middle-schoolers were allowed to take their lunches. “Wanna see something cool?” she asked him, searching the branches of the trees above.

Parker shrugged. A moment later, Birdie found what she was looking for. “Psst! Harbinger!”

The raven swooped down to perch on the back of the bench opposite them. He clacked his beak at Birdie and eyed Parker suspiciously.

“Whoa!” the boy said, eyes wide.

“This is my friend, Harbinger,” Birdie said. She tossed him a chicken nugget from her plate. Harbinger caught it in the air, mashed it with his beak a bit and then swallowed it down. “Harbinger, this is Parker. He’s going to live here with the other boys.”

Harbinger did a spin-hop so he could peer at Parker with his other eye. He hopped a little closer along the back of the bench. Then he croaked, “Nevermore.”

“It talks!” Parker cried with delight.

Birdie grinned. “That’s the only thing he says around other people. He talks to me all the time, of course. He’s pretty snarky, for a bird.”

Harbinger turned his gaze on Birdie, raising his beak as if he were judging her. She let her expression turn smug, and then tossed him another chicken nugget.

“Can I pet him?” Parker asked.

“Probably not,” Birdie said. “He doesn’t really like being petted. But he’ll let you feed him the rest of these.” She scooted her tray of nuggets toward him. Parker grinned and picked one up.

“I wish you wouldn’t bring that godforsaken thing here,” said a long-suffering voice behind them.

Birdie jumped and turned to find Sister Maggie, a small nun with sharp eyes and a straight back, watching Harbinger with disapproval. Maggie was not unlike a raven herself: small, quick, bright-eyed and dangerous.

“Oh, hi, Sister Maggie,” Birdie fumbled. “Have you met Parker?”

“No,” Sister Maggie said. “Welcome to St. Agnes, Parker. We’re glad you’re here.” Her greeting sounded warm, but rehearsed.

“A word, please, Birdie?” She gestured for Birdie to walk with her, and there was nothing to do but promise Parker she’d be right back and follow her.

“Look,” she said, “I don’t bring Harbinger anywhere; he follows me around because he wants to.”

“I’m sure the chicken nuggets aren’t a deterrent,” Maggie said, leading her to an alcove near the door to the building. They could speak there quietly without Parker hearing them, but still watch him. “Aren’t you worried something will happen to him, letting him fly around free?”

“I pity the cat that tries something with him,” Birdie said. “And he doesn’t seem to hang with other ravens. I think he thinks he’s a person.”

Maggie scoffed and shook her head. “At any rate, I wanted to talk to you about Matthew. Our unusual patient in the infirmary? I understand you went to visit him the other day?”

“Oh—yes. I’ve been meaning to speak to you about him.”

“The lunch sisters said they asked you to give him his lunch.”

"Yes,” Birdie said. “I offered to help, and they seemed to be afraid of him.”

“And you?”

Birdie shrugged. “He isn’t as mean as he thinks he is.”

“I see. And why did you help him sit up?”

Birdie raised an eyebrow and reminded herself that it was unkind to sass a nun, even if she was asking stupid questions. Unfortunately, her mouth, as was so often the case, didn’t get the memo. “So he could eat?”

Maggie did not show any reaction to the disrespect. “Do you realize it isn’t safe to lift something heavy while leaning over a low bed like that?”

“I used my legs. And he’s not a something.” Birdie scoffed. “Are you seriously mad that I let him feed himself instead of spoon-feeding him?”

“I’m not mad. I know you meant well,” Maggie said. “But now he won’t eat unless we sit him up.”

“Good for him.”

“I appreciate all you do around here, Miss Garrett,” Maggie said, with a tone that suggested she was reminding herself that it would be unkind to sass Birdie, “But look at the situation you’ve put us in. Neither Sister Teesha nor Sister Hattie is strong enough to lift him, and it isn’t safe anyway.”

“And his dignity doesn't come into it? You're more worried about OSHA?” Birdie turned to put her back more squarely toward Parker, in case she failed to keep her temper down. “Making him eat on his back is an affront to compassion. Didn’t we sign a Resident Bill of Rights a couple of years ago?”

“He’s hardly a resident. And since you mentioned OSHA, what am I supposed to tell them if one of the sisters hurts her back lifting a 30-year-old man who isn’t supposed to be here?”

“Then raise his bed! Or get someone stronger to do it. The thing about rights is that there are no exceptions. Even if he IS the Devil!”

Most people didn’t talk back to Sister Maggie like this, but Birdie didn’t expect the little nun to rock her head back like she’d been slapped. Shock, then fury rolled across her face and off her body. “Who told you he was the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen?” She stepped toward Birdie and slapped her fist on her palm. “I made all of those women swear on the blood of Christ!”

“He told me himself,” Birdie said, holding her ground. Then her jaw dropped. “Wait—what? He’s Daredevil?”

Sister Maggie fell still, except for a barely perceptible quiver. Birdie could sense her trying to decide if she should explode in anger or sink into the concrete beneath them and disappear forever. “You didn’t—what did he tell you?”

“He said the lunch sisters were afraid of him because he was the Devil. That’s all. I thought—I mean, he obviously has some psychological issues ….” Birdie’s brain was racing. “He does all that ninja stuff and he’s blind?”

Sister Maggie lunged at her with a wagging finger. “If you tell ANYONE his secret, I swear I’ll… I’ll…!”

Birdie snapped, “You’ll what? Make me do Hail Marys? Sic the Saints on me? I’m not one of your nuns!”

Maggie drew herself up as tall as she could, which was still an inch below Birdie’s eye level. “I’ll make sure that the rest of your time working for St. Agnes is excruciating. And short.”

Birdie scowled. That was something Maggie was probably capable of doing. “So my job is what his secret is worth, huh?” She forced the anger down. “All right, calm down. I’m not going to tell anyone. It’s my job to help people in situations like his. And… Daredevil's kind of cool.”

“Good.” Sister Maggie turned around, wringing her hands, and breathed a Hail Mary under her voice. When she returned to Birdie, she was calm again, except for the light of an evil idea in her eyes. “All right then. Since you are apparently strong enough to lift him, and not afraid of the Devil, whether of Hell’s Kitchen or otherwise, you may serve him all his meals from now on. And clean his dishes.”

“You’re putting me on KP duty?”

“He won’t be here much longer. A couple of weeks, at most.”

“I leave at five. What about his supper?”

“I’m sure you’ll figure something out. It would violate his rights not to serve him an evening meal.” Sister Maggie stepped aside and waved Birdie toward the door. “I’ll look after Parker so you can go now. It’s already noon. I’m sure he’ll be hungry.”

[ssweeneys]

MADCHEN AMICK as Wendy Beauchamp in Witches of East End.