When I was very young, my mother nicknamed me 'birdy'. I used to think that if I flapped my arms real hard, then I would be able to fly. My mother humoured me, and encouraged my fantasies, until the day I decided to jump off the top of the garage. I fell bad, and broke my arm. When we were in the hospital, and the doctor had wrapped my broken arm in a plaster cast, my mother was in tears, and she told me that now that her birdy had broken her wing, she wouldn't be able to fly anymore. She made me promise to her that I'd never pull a stunt like that. 'I promise, mommy', I said. 'Cross my heart and hope to die', I added. And I never did, never again. But the nickname stuck. So those who've known me long enough, will call me Birdy. Because I never, ever liked my name - and the only reason I still haven't changed it is because it's my late grandmother's name - she died when my mother was very young, and this is her way to homage her. This way, she said, my grandmother would live on through me.
We lived up north when I was born, and we stayed there until my mom got a real good job offer. So good, in fact, that after having a conversation with my dad about it, it was decided that we'd be moving down south. It helped, I guess, that my father was between jobs, and the city we would be moving to had much better prospects. It was sad, in a sense, to leave this quiet life we were used to living. I had doubts and fears about us being able to adapt to the bustle of the big city, but we fit in well enough and built out life there. When we moved south, birdy became a name only my family called. I decided to reinvent myself. I'd be someone else. Someone new. Something I'd do very often, mind you. No one got to know the real me that way. Just the ideal version of myself I'd fashion for whatever circumstance. In high school I didn't allow anyone to call be my my name, rather, everyone knew me as Moon Unit. Yeah, I got that from dad - he's a huge Zappa fan. When I went to college abroad, I was someone else different again. Not just in my mindset, not only in the way I wore my clothes, but also in terms of attitudes, and demeanor. I wanted to experiment, to understand how people think, how and why they react the way they do. I wanted to learn as much as possible, to grow, and also.. to have fun. And my time as the pious, chaste Sister Ray was very fun indeed. Very, very fun.
But then, ah, then there are the vagaries of adulthood, and pursuing a career in the publishing world. I began by working at a rather small one, first doing some very dreary proofreading for a couple of years, then being promoted to assistant editor. I was eventually headhunted by one of the big publishers, who tempted me away with a big paycheck, and also a full editor. I wasn't terribly excited about editing children's books, though, and I had my eyes set on bigger things. I had the time, the will, and the patience - I would get there. Oh, there was also the added bonus that this was the publisher that was putting out his books, him, the reclusive, secretive writer who'd been putting out very well reviewed books.... and no one seemed to know who he was. There wasn't even a picture of him in any of his books. Just a name. I actually assumed that this was an alias for someone else, but one Christmas party his editor and me were having a semi-drunken conversation, and he'd confided that I should make sure to visit his office in early January. I asked him why, he looked this way and the other, then pulled me close to him. He tapped the side of his nose and said that he would be coming to the office in person to deliver the final draft of the new novel. Oh boy, was I giddy! I couldn't wait until the day came and I finally got to meet this mystery guy.
It's almost mid January, and I still have no idea if Oscar pranked me. Maybe he somehow learned that I liked his books, and wanted to punk the newbie? But then I get an email from him, telling me to run to his office. It's time. He's here. I go out of my office, and walk hurriedly down the hallway to where Oscar's office is. There is a delivery guy moving that way as well, and as I pass him, I sort of bump into him. I hurry along, look back and say sorry to the guy, he waves at me saying that it's ok. So where's the guy, I ask Oscar, as soon as I step inside his office. He's sitting down in his leather chair, then looks at his watch and says he should be arriving any moment. There's a knock on the door, it's slightly ajar, and I look behind to see the delivery guy standing there, holding a Manila envelope that seems to be tightly packed. Probably just another unsolicited pitch. We get tons of those every day. Oscar gets up, beams at the delivery guy. 'Ah, there you are', he says, wrapping the guy in a warm embrace. 'It's here, Oscar, it's finally here!', the delivery guy says. I'm lost, who the hell is this guy? 'Come here, my boy', Oscar said, 'Let me introduce you to one of our very best and brightest young editors. I hear she's a bit of a fan...', he said in a sing song voice. He held out his hand, and said 'Hi, it's so good to meet you!', and it's such a calm and peaceful voice that I am disarmed instantly. I see my hand reaching out to his in slow motion, and I shake it - vigorously so. 'My name is Geraldine', I finally say.
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