Butterfly Tattoo (25 page)

“I’ve been angry a long time, Rebecca,” he answers, leading me out the doorway onto the sunny sidewalk. Away from his co-workers, so he can talk openly. Once we’re in the bright sunlight, standing in the walkway that runs the length of the soundstage front, he continues, “Been carrying all that crap around inside of me. I’m tired. I’m tired of feeling bitter toward her. Toward—” he pauses, adjusting his tool belt, “—a lot of people.”
Alex.
He means Alex, and I understand that it’s hard to talk about that.

“It was really easy to see how much she loves you, Michael,” I tell him, thinking of the look on her face the other night when she realized he’d left the house. Her realization that she’d overstepped, trying to help with the doll.

“But it’s still hard to trust,” he admits. “I can’t help that. It’s just true.”

“Of course it is.”

His demeanor brightens. “So, hey, Casey’s stoked that you want to learn to surf,” he announces, his dark eyebrows hitching upward in excitement. “He’s told me to pick out a board for you.”

“Casey,” I repeat, wondering how Casey got involved in our big surfing plan.

“Yeah, he teaches loads of people,” he explains. “Me included, way more than Al ever did.” My stomach knots nervously, thinking of Casey and his disapproval of me, imagining having to learn anything from him, especially anything scary. “So, I’m bringing a long board for you, next weekend,” Michael continues. “Okay?”

Even though I don’t feel it inside, I smile and tell him, “That sounds fine.” I’m thinking of everything that we have planned for next weekend in Malibu, and my anxiety intensifies when Michael adds softly, “We’re still on, right? For next weekend?” He searches my face, and I know he sure as heck doesn’t mean about the surfing. He means Malibu; our first time together, like I promised the other night.

“Still on,” I assure him, with a thin smile.

“Good, because I’ve kinda been thinking about that a lot,” he says, squeezing my hand tight.

I’m smiling on the outside, but thoroughly freaking out on the inside. There’s no positive spin for this, the truth about my naked body, all those hideous scars. Right now, hunky Michael Warner is grinning at me, a shy blush creeping into his face, and he’s clueless. He has absolutely no idea that his girlfriend’s body doesn’t look sexy or appealing once her clothes are stripped away. He has no idea that my naked body is just plain dreadful, with the searing scars across my chest and abdomen.

My only hope is that we can make love in the pitch-black dark. Or that someone can rush in a body double at that critical moment. I mean, where’s Hollywood when you really need it?

Chapter Twenty: Michael

Rebecca stands on the curb in front of my house, laughing with Marti, the setting sun catching highlights of honey gold in her hair. She’s worn it loose this last night of Laurel’s visit, and it seems richer than usual, wavier and thicker, as it cascades across her shoulders. In fact, everything about her appearance seems more dramatic tonight. Then again, maybe that’s only my feelings for her that I’m keying in on.

“I’m thinking that dress was designed by a straight guy,” Casey observes, studying her thoughtfully as he takes a swig of his beer. She’s just arrived and hasn’t spotted us yet, sitting here on the front steps tucked back behind two tall flowering planters.

“What makes you say that?” Although I know exactly what that aquamarine sundress is doing to me. All vintage and Melrose-looking, it’s a damned sexy wisp of a thing. Barely a dress at all, I’m telling you.

“Well,” he answers, pushing his mirrored sunglasses low down the bridge of his nose so he can see better, “’cause if I had a straight bone in my body, then that wouldn’t be the
only
bone in my body. That’s all I’m saying.”

I elbow him in the ribs and tell him to shut up, though my eyes never leave Rebecca.

“I’m serious,” he says, still studying her appreciatively in that strappy dress, cut well above her knees, “she’s hot, Mike.”

Planting my chin in my hand, I sigh. “Welcome to my world.”

“What was she wearing that night at the ballgame?” he asks, considering. I could easily answer: khaki pants, with a clingy little T-shirt that emphasized her well-developed biceps. I’m lost in that thought, rubbing my chin, when Casey bursts into laughter beside me. I turn to him, surprised. “Ah, man,” he chuckles softly, shaking his head in apparent amazement.

“Something funny, Case?” I’m thinking he’s going to make a disparaging comment, something cutting about me turning into Straight Guy.

“You’ve got the look, that’s all,” he explains, studying my face closely. “I don’t believe it, but you do.” He gives me an affectionate slap on the knee. “Gotta hand it to the girl. She obviously does quick work.”

“I have no idea what in hell you even mean.” I feel my face flame hot at his remark.

“Just that last time around,” he says, “it took about a year for you to get The Look. The one you had when you and Alex got together.” He shakes his head again, chuckling in appreciation, as Rebecca turns our way. He lifts his hand, greeting her with friendly vigor. “Hell yeah she’s hot,” he concedes in a low voice. “If she’s given you
that
look.”

Hot, he thinks? And he doesn’t even know the half of what she does to me.

But maybe Casey
does
get what Rebecca’s all about. He coaxed her into joining him there on the front step and proceeded to be a nice guy for a while; unbelievably, considering what a grump he can be, he’s actually capable of charming the pants off anyone when he tries. And I do know he’s trying with her, if only because of me.

Right now, he’s actually cornered her back in Al’s surfboard room, offering to help fix her up with the right board for next weekend, talking rocker and tail kick, and a bunch of crap she doesn’t understand. Poor Rebecca, she looks anxious as he leads the way to the back of the house, but when you get Casey Porter on surfboards, it’s hard to shut him up. I trail behind them, trying to give an appropriate amount of space, and I spy Laurel in the guest room, packing her suitcase.

I lean in through the doorway, holding onto the frame. “Packing up?”

She gives me a quiet smile. “Almost done.”

I’m going to miss the familiarity in those blue eyes, the chance to stare into them like I’ve done for the past four days. I walk into the bedroom, and she digs inside her suitcase, retrieving something.

“I’m wondering what to do about this.” She extends a flat stone toward me, the one Andrea found on our bike ride. “We were going to paint it,” she reminds me, “but maybe you’ll help her?” The stone rests in her open palm, an invitation to me—an opportunity for us to parent our child together, for once.

“Yeah, Laurel,” I agree, nodding thoughtfully. “Yeah, I’d like to paint that with her. What kind of stuff you think we need?”

“Oh, you have it,” she replies. “It’s there, in the living room. I brought her some paints, you know. A whole set.”

I can’t help smiling, thinking of how talented our daughter is. “She really loves art.”

“I know,” she agrees, “and she’s really gifted already.”

“I’m not so good with that stuff, you know,” I admit reluctantly. “Alex could sit with her for hours and create all these intricate things, but mine always come out like big globs.”

Laurel takes my hand, and delicately slides the rock from her palm to my own, closing my fingers around it. “Michael, you are very exceptional. In many ways.”

“I know enough to appreciate your work, Laurel,” I say, and from the surfboard room I hear Casey laughing with Rebecca. Sounds like Marti’s in there, too. That’s got to be a good sign that they’re all yukking it up together.

I know it’s now or never—the things I want to tell Laurel, just us. We won’t be alone like this again before she goes; first thing tomorrow, Andie will attach to her like a barnacle until we’ve deposited her curbside at the airport. So I close the bedroom door, turning to face her.

“Let’s talk a minute,” I say, and she nods, sitting down on the bed. Her bare feet dangle over the edge, and unlike Rebecca, I notice that she doesn’t paint her toenails. She’s all natural, including the shell ankle bracelet she’s wearing, something woven and handmade.

“I wanted to thank you, again,” I begin, tentative as I close the distance separating us, “for that painting of Alex.”

“I’m glad you liked it.”

“But what you said about it speaking to me?” Her clear eyes narrow, though she says nothing. “I don’t think I get what you mean.”

“Maybe it’s something you need to think about,” she suggests softly. “Some more. Maybe?”

“No, Laurel see, I want to know what you meant by that. How can a painting sing?” Despite myself, I feel my anger rising. “Got enough shit I’m always thinking about.” All the mysteries; all the thoughts about where Alex went, where he might not be.

Laurel stares at her hands, toying with her charm bracelet. She rubs the cross between her thumb and forefinger, quiet.

I think of Andrea and her dreams. “Why’d you paint him on the beach?” I press, and she only smiles. One of those inside-out kind of Laurel smiles that begin somewhere deep inside of her.

“Michael, art comes from the soul of the creator,” she explains quietly, “and reaches out to touch
your
soul. That’s what art does.”

I’m still perplexed by her mystery. “You telling me that Allie will talk to me?” I demand, stepping closer. “Is that it?”

She only continues smiling, a warm, tender expression—not closed off to me, like a few days ago.

“Michael, I’m going to pray that you hear what you’re supposed to hear.”

“Pray.” I snort at that one. God seems to have me trapped by a posse of believers. “Sure, Laurel, you pray about that. Knock your socks off.” My words come out bitter, and that’s not really what I wanted, so I add, “I appreciate all the help I can get, you know.”

“We all need help, Michael,” she agrees, swinging her bare feet as they dangle off the side of the bed. Her eyes never leave me, serious and intense, the thick black lashes opening wide around the quiet blue. Alex had a way of watching me like that when he was trying to talk to me about important stuff. It always made me squirm, and I feel pegged in the exact same way now by her; just change those lashes to a dusty red, and it could be my lover looking right through me.

So I wrestle the conversation in a different direction, a more comfortable one. “Hard to believe it’s already time for you to go.” I turn away from her, walk toward the closet and thumb through his clothes. My hand lingers on his suede jacket.

“It’s been a quick few days,” she agrees, a melancholy sound that she can’t hide filling her voice.

“So maybe we’ll do this again, huh?” I suggest, turning toward her hesitantly. “Not wait so long.”

A glorious smile spreads across her face: relief, joy, it’s all there. “I’d love that, Michael,” she agrees, giving her long hair a casual toss.

“Maybe next time you could bring Bruce?” Bruce is her live-in boyfriend of about ten years.

She laughs. “Well, now
that
I’m not so sure about.”

“Is Bruce still struggling with commitment, Laurel?” I tease.

“No, not really. I just like…spending time with you.” That old feeling falls over me—the familiar one where she’s like my secret lover or something. Just ’cause we share Andie between us. “Laurel,” I stare down at the floor, “I’m still not over what you did.”

“I know that.”

“I think it’s going to take some time,” I say, turning back to the closet again. The clothes seem like an accusation, hanging there, a disembodied part of Alex’s life still left on planet Earth.

“I understand,” she answers quietly from behind me.

Reaching for his faded suede duster, I gather it within my hands and pull it off the hanger to hold it against my chest. One last time, I inhale the scent, try and find him in there, lost somewhere in the clouds of memory.

Then I turn, and extend it toward his sister. “Here, Laurel,” I say, not quite meeting her surprised gaze. “You should have this.”

“Michael?” She shakes her head, adamant. “No, it’s yours.” His shirts I can wear, his watch. His ring. Even his damned boxers. But not this suede jacket that he wore so often and long.

“I know it’s big, but you’d use it, wouldn’t you?” I ask, still extending it toward her like an ungainly appendage. “In the winter? Maybe you could even have it resized?”

“Of course.” She tries to blink back the tears that well in her eyes.

“Then you should definitely have it,” I insist, dropping it on the bed beside her. “Your brother would want it that way.”

“Thank you.” She pulls it close, like she’s not sure what to do. I’m not sure what to do either, standing there in the middle of the room—there’s a sudden awkwardness between us that I don’t fully understand.

“Yeah, so…” I blow out a breath, stepping closer to her. “Maybe I’ll come see you some time. With Andie. Maybe we’ll drive out later this summer.” It’s been growing in my mind over the past day, this plan, but I haven’t been sure how to broach it until now.

When she looks up, her tears begin to fall in earnest, tracking silently down her cheeks. I see her swallow hard, wrestling to find her voice, but she says nothing, simply nods at me with a fragile smile.

I speak for her, understanding that her emotions are too strong. “So okay,” I say, “maybe we will.” Then bending low, I press a fleeting kiss against the top of her head, the kind I reserve for Andie most of the time. Then I turn and walk fast out the door.

***

At the airport, I pull up curbside to let Laurel out, parking temporarily. The police keep blowing whistles to keep traffic flowing, but we won’t be here long. It’s better for Andrea—for all three of us—to keep this farewell pretty quick.

“I wish you weren’t going,” my daughter says, gazing up at her aunt with doleful eyes. Laurel strokes her auburn hair away from her cheek.

“I know, but you’ll see me again soon.”

“Are you sure?” Glancing in my direction, Andrea seems worried that I might get in the way of that promise.

I’ve been giving them room, but I step a little closer. “Yeah, we’ll see Aunt Laurel real soon,” I reassure her. “We might even drive out in a few weeks.” Her blue eyes grow wide, her mouth forming a delicate, hopeful smile. “That would be so cool!”

“I would love that,” Laurel agrees. “We could even do some art. In my studio.”

“And don’t forget,” Andie tells her cryptically. For a moment, Laurel seems unclear, then she breaks into a broad smile. “Oh,
right
,” she says, “I won’t forget.” Both of them bob their heads in agreement over this shared secret. Seeing the playful, happy smile on my daughter’s face, I don’t really mind being left out this time.

Laurel drops low to the ground; opening her arms, she draws Andrea close for a hug. “Pumpkin, I’ll be praying for you,” she promises quietly, stroking the silky red hair beneath her fingertips. “I’ll e-mail you every night, too, okay?”

“Okay.” Andrea wraps her thin arms around Laurel’s neck, holding on tight.

Kneeling there, not worried at all about dirtying her jeans, Laurel loses herself in this one, final moment. And I envy everything about her ability to do that.

Andrea buries her face against her chest, nestling close—closer than she usually lets me hold her.

Laurel’s eyes drift shut, and she simply holds Andrea. She’s drinking in the very scent of our child. Memorizing her, before she has to leave her behind again. Watching them together, I find myself thinking of the hospital—of the first time I held Andrea, and the look on Laurel’s weary face. Joy, heartbreak, amazement; it was all there. Many times—long before Alex died—I’ve thought of what that cost her.

I know she wants to take her back today. She aches with it, deep in her bones because Andrea is her child, same as she’s mine. And leaving her behind now, when she knows what a hole she has in her life—that’s got to be killing her. I know, because living with that hole, that giant crater Alex’s absence has left, well it’s killing me, too. Every day I stare into it, like a mirror; every day I know what my baby girl’s got missing in her life.

But watching them there at curbside, Andie’s cheek resting against her birth mother’s shoulder, I think of someone else that’s missing. And it isn’t Alex, oddly enough. For some unexpected reason, I remember the other baby Laurel carried briefly, of Andrea’s lost fraternal twin. The tiny second baby that appeared on the first sonogram, but had vanished by the next, before we could even find out if it was a boy or a girl. It was in the bloodline, they told us. Twins could be expected with in vitro fertilization. Still, that soaring feeling when I saw those two tiny sacks on the screen was the most unexpected miracle of my life.