The Music of Bees by Eileen Garvin (free ereaders txt) 📗

He faced his physical limitations head-on then. Yes, he was supremely grateful that he could shower, use the bathroom on his own, and transfer in and out of his chair by himself. Learning to use a catheter to empty his bladder several times a day. Tracking his bowel movements to avoid the kind of situation that had given the term “shit storm” new meaning. That had been a steep learning curve, but he’d done it all, thank God. The humiliation of the nurses and his mother helping him remained fresh in his mind.

However, the list of things he could no longer do was overwhelming. He couldn’t drive—not without some kind of modified vehicle, which felt like an insurmountable goal—or even hop into Katz’s truck without a thought. No more skateboarding, which also meant no more skate park. What was he going to do—have his mom drop him off by the half-pipe? Just moving freely in public was a thing of the past. Like the one time he went to the pharmacy with his mom after a doctor’s appointment. The memory made him feel sick. The bright overhead lights in his eyes, the stupid Halloween displays blocking the aisles. He just wanted some damn Chex Mix and had gotten his fucking wheel caught under a cardboard cutout of a grinning jack-o’-lantern jutting out into the aisle. Some little old lady tried to help him, which made it so much worse. “Humiliating” didn’t even begin to describe it. He didn’t have the words. He was only eighteen and shouldn’t have to have the words.

He stayed home after that. He played Tomb Raider, ignored his email, and didn’t return texts. They were only from Noah by then anyway. Katz still texted every couple of days and even called him occasionally, leaving funny messages, pretending to be someone else, most recently a Scottish whisky salesman named Headachy McDrinkerstein. They hadn’t spoken in person since before Christmas Eve. Noah had stopped by with Celia Martinez, and Jake couldn’t come out of his room. He could hear their voices rise and fall talking to his mom, the sound of the door closing, Noah’s truck driving away. It was easier to be alone. Being with his old friend was too painful, especially with his new girlfriend. He liked Celia, but she was a reminder that their lives were changing and his wasn’t. Now what? That was the eternal question. The last thing he thought of at night and the first thing in the morning was, What the fuck am I supposed to do now?

He’d pulled out his sketchbook once or twice, but it depressed him to look at the scenes he’d drawn from his old life. He tried to comfort himself with the idea that he could still draw sitting down. But that thought made him so angry that he threw the book across the room.

He’d started lifting weights just to pass the time, and felt surprisingly better. When the weather improved, he ventured out on his own, waiting until his parents were at work. He went farther each time, getting stronger, until he was doing this orchard loop at least twice a week. Moving his body was such a relief.

At his last checkup in Portland, his neurologist was thrilled.

“You’re fit as a fiddle, kid,” Dr. Gunheim said, tugging at the waistband of his chinos as he sat at the computer.

Except I can’t use my fucking legs, Jake wanted to say.

“Any questions?”

Jake was glad he’d asked his mom to stop coming into the exam room with him. He wasn’t even embarrassed to ask, and Dr. Gunheim didn’t seem surprised. What eighteen-year-old boy wouldn’t wonder about his dick? Unfortunately, Dr. Gunheim didn’t have any definite answer.

“It’s very likely you’ll have adequate sexual function, but we’ll just have to wait and see. I’ll make you a urology appointment in a couple of months. You’re still healing, Jake. Try to be patient.”

Patient? He liked Dr. Gunheim, but at moments like that, he felt like punching the guy in the side of the head.

Now his own head throbbed. He looked across the orchard toward the tree line where the forest began. The green light of dusk had swallowed the sun. Venus brightened among the first faint stars. The evening breeze blew down off the hillside carrying the smell of pines. Jake’s gaze drifted. His eyes landed on his chair, which was on its side. Next to that, he saw a person, a short woman in overalls who looked older than his mom. She leaned forward and peered down at Jake. Her expression was worried and relieved at the same time. She reminded Jake of Cheney when he had brought Jake that turtle in his teeth—his brow furrowed with curiosity and worry at this unknown thing. It made Jake want to laugh, remembering that. Then the woman’s face folded into a frown.

“Christ on a crutch, kid! What in the hell are you trying to do? Get yourself killed?” she yelled.

5 Scent Fanning

Members of different colonies appear to recognize their hive-companions by the sense of smell, and if there should be a thousand stocks in the Apiary, any one will readily detect a strange bee; just as each mother in a large flock of sheep is able, by the same sense, in the darkest night, to distinguish her own lamb from all the others.

—L. L. LANGSTROTH

When a honeybee colony experiences a disturbance, even something as slight as a beekeeper opening a hive to evaluate honey caches or pollen sources, the bees’ first instinct is to communicate with each other. A few guard bees will fly out to evaluate the threat at hand, but most bees will immediately drop into the crouch that exposes their Nasonov gland and fan their wings, thereby spreading queen pheromone throughout the hive. This action, called scent fanning, is like a soothing roll call that tells the