Butterfly Tattoo (36 page)

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Michael

I’ve done my best to make a lot of things right in the past few months. To establish more credibility in my life, to get more honest. Coming clean with Andie about our family was the biggest of those steps. Sitting here on the back deck, deliberating about trying to call Rebecca one more time, I know that there’s another call I should make. That I
need
to make, but I’ve been putting it off for more than a year now.

I pick up my cell, turning it in my palm, and know that I need to tell my father that Alex died. That we had a daughter together, years before that. And that he’s a grandfather.

Truth is, ole George has tried calling me plenty of times in the past few years; I just never take the calls. I think about Ellen’s words that day up in Santa Cruz. That I’m a dad, too, and I know how that kind of estrangement must be killing him.

I stand up and walk to the sliding doors that lead inside. I lean in through the open door and call out to Andie. “Sweetpea, there’s somebody I’m going to want you to talk to in a little while. I think. So when I call you, come on out here, okay?”

She makes a sharp cry and tells me that she just beat her high score on Super Mario Cart. I listen for a moment, smiling as she talks to herself, and know that she’s starting to come alive again. That she’s healing.

And more than ever, I know I have to go make that call to my father because I’m healing, too.

***

So maybe I finally have added stalking to my list of failings because for the past seven days I’ve made a point of driving by Rebecca’s place. I just keep thinking that if she’s outside somehow, maybe going for a jog, that I can pull over and lay everything on the line. I could talk to her about Andrea’s party, find out if she plans to come.

In my mind, that party is my last real shot with her. If that moment passes us by, she’ll be like a sundial with me the shadow. Our point of intersection will pass like a lengthening shadow—permanently.

But the drive-bys don’t yield any reward, so I’m forced to do what I’m so very terrible at: be patient. I have to let her come to me on her terms now. That’s what Marti told me last night over Mexican food. “You’ve done the pursuing, wooing thing,” she told me after I admitted to having sent her flowers last week. And owned up to the party invitation. And the late night calls.

“Rebecca has to find her way out of her darkness and back to you, Michael. You can’t find that path for her.”

I growled, shaking my head. “I suck at the waiting game.”

Marti swatted me on the arm. “Too bad, lover boy. This one’s not as easy as Alex.”

“And that sucks, too.”

“Lord, Warner, did you forget what you’re dealing with?”

I gave her a blank look, so she finished the statement. “A woman! Rebecca is a woman. Alex was easier to figure out because he was a guy, and Rebecca’s not exactly opaque, but the stuff she’s been through…yeah, it’s gonna take a whole lot more patience than you naturally possess, old friend.”

I sank down in that booth and decided I could man up on her account, become stronger and more resilient than I’d acted since we broke up. I could do the army drill and dig into the trenches for the very long haul.

Chapter Thirty: Rebecca

The ice skating rink in Studio City is teeming with cars, even at two o’clock on a Saturday afternoon. I never RSVP’d for Andrea’s party; I knew if I talked to Michael on the phone, I would cave completely. That I’d be little more than a mushy puddle of regret, and I wanted time to think about my decision.

Even today, I’m still frightened and uncertain, but I know I need to be here for Andrea. I adore her, and I’m fairly certain she asked Michael to invite me. I won’t let her down by not coming. More than that, though, I know what I want.
Who
I want. I’ve been running from him long enough.

Entering the rink, a blast of cool air contrasts to the hot September day I left outside. Boppy teenage music blares over the speakers, a nameless tune that all the little girls gathered here undoubtedly love, transforming the large dank interior into something of a disco cave. Just past the entryway, I glimpse rows of tables with balloons. There’s a small lettered sign on one of the long tables with Andrea’s name on it. Nobody is at the table, though—there’s only the stack of birthday presents and a pink cake with a sparkling silver ice skate drawn on top in icing.

I’m glancing around, looking for a familiar face, when Michael calls out my name.

I turn. He’s leaving the concession stand, juggling a container of soft drinks and popcorn between his hands, grinning at me. “I knew you’d come,” he says, his throaty voice electrifying me. “You wouldn’t miss her birthday.”

I return the smile. “Can I help you with those?” I ask, reaching for the popcorn.

“Yeah, that’d be great,” he says, relief showing on his face. “I was afraid I might drop something. Pretty damn expensive, buying all this stuff.” He nods toward the stand. “But the kids have to get it, you know.”

“Or it wouldn’t be a party,” I laugh, and he nods in agreement. Together we walk toward the table, and I deposit my wrapped present with all the others. I’m quivering on the inside, fighting hard to keep my composure on the outside, just from being this near him again. Just from knowing what I really want for the first time in three years.

We sit down on a pair of benches facing one another. Neither of us seems to know what to say, and an awkward silence falls over us. He points toward the ice. “The girls are out there. Marti and Casey are watching them for me. Well, and a few of the parents.”

“That’s good.” I offer him a warm smile. I want to transmit all the love I feel for him; all the emotion that I’ve tried to stifle these past weeks.

“Just so you know that it’s okay,” he explains, sounding nervous. “Us being over here, you know. Not watching and all that.” He rubs his open palm over his hair. It’s shorter than I’ve seen it before, cropped super-close, which is an incredibly appealing look on him.

You’re so beautiful
, I think on the inside. Outside I have no idea what to do.

I nod, and again there’s silence, just the two of us sitting together at the long empty tables, wishing so much we knew what to say to one another.

“Is Andrea having a good time?” I try, gazing out at the ice.

“Oh, yeah,” he grins, nodding. “A real blast. She loves ice skating. Always has.”

“That’s good.” I stare down at my shoes. “I want it to be special for her.”

Silence comes between us, the sense that each of us has so much more we long to say. But framing all those things into words is the problem and for one long moment, we simply stare into one another’s eyes.

He clears his throat. “I’ve been wanting to apologize to you, Rebecca.” He blows out a ragged breath. “For a lot of things.”

I hold up my hands. “Michael, please. You don’t owe me an apology.”

He scratches his eyebrow thoughtfully. “Nah, see I think I do. I just careened into things with you, and didn’t explain much. I wasn’t fair to you at all. You’d been through a lot of stuff, too, and I should’ve thought about that more—”

“Michael,
please
don’t,” I whisper, reaching out and closing my hand over his. He stares down at it, like it’s a curious, unexpected find. “You have nothing to apologize for, okay?”

Without looking up at me, he says, “I promised myself that if you came—if I ever saw you again, really—I’d apologize.”

“For what?” I squeeze his hand. “For letting me into your life? Into your pain? For being honest with me about all that, and about how you felt? If anything, I should be apologizing to you.”

“I hurt you,” he says. “I know how much I hurt you.”

“But I’m strong, Michael. Stronger than you
still
think.”

His fingers thread together with mine. I don’t flinch; I don’t fight him. I hold my breath as he slowly strokes my hand, touching the jagged scar that flames through the center of my palm.

“Your lifeline,” he whispers, outlining my mark.

Tears fill my eyes. “Only you could help me see it that way.”

“Andrea knows everything,” he says. “About Laurel and me…” He stares out at the ice.

My chest clenches tight. “That must have been hard to do.”

“No. Actually it wasn’t.” He glances back at me. “You were right about that, of course. The truth was what she needed.”

“What changed your mind?” My lungs draw tight, the air getting tougher to draw inside. His answer matters more than I even want to admit.

“I wanted you to believe me. That I love you. If I ever saw you again, ever really got to talk to you, not some lame-ass late night call, I wanted you to know exactly how I feel. That I’ve loved you from the beginning,” he rushes, squeezing my hand. “I needed you to know that I’m a truthful guy. That it’s not all bullshit. I needed you to know that I want to make a family with you. It’s real, what I want. I want you, but it’s more. I want a life with you. A full, whole life.”

Bowing my head, tears blur everything. In the background I hear laughter, the sound of kids approaching. The sound of my future—my potential future—I think as my tears begin to fall.

“Michael, you didn’t have to tell her for me,” I manage to say, though my throat is closed tight.

“Actually, I did. But I needed it for Andrea, too. And for me.” He draws in a breath, and gazes beyond me, out at the ice, contemplative. “You know, Alex wanted to take Andrea to New York for her birthday last fall. He wanted to take her to Rockefeller Center for ice skating. And that never happened ’cause he died.” He looks back to me significantly. “That taught me something, Becca. That we only have today. That’s our only guarantee. Not even the whole day. Just this hour. This minute.”

“That’s why you had the party for her, isn’t it?” I ask, realization forming.

“We couldn’t take her to New York together, so yeah.” He glances around the rink. “This seemed like a good substitute.”

“
You
can still take her to New York.”

“And one day I will,” he agrees. “Maybe you’ll go with us.” He gazes into my eyes for a long moment. Hope, promise, love; everything he’s spent these months yearning for flickers in his golden eyes.

My cheeks flush warm, something fluttering wild inside my stomach. “I’d love that,” I answer, and he breaks into a gorgeous smile, his dimple showing.

“I’d love it too,” he answers softly. “For us to go as a family, all three of us.”

“A family?” My voice catches and he unfolds my fingers, revealing the center of my palm. Very slowly he traces his thumb across my scar.

“Your lifeline tells me you’ve got a bold future, Rebecca O’Neill.” He studies the jagged mark left by Ben’s knife in the center of my hand. “I see children, a husband. Maybe three children of your own… and one adopted daughter who worships every piece of ground you walk on.”

With an intense expression, he scrutinizes the scar that I’ve detested for so long.

“Do you see anything else?” I ask in a shaky voice, realizing he’s just proposed marriage here in the rink. “An alternative future?”

“
Is
there an alternative?” His expression grows intensely serious. “’Cause I can’t see any future for you that doesn’t include Andrea and me.”

Leaning close, I gaze with him into my palm, open there on his knee. “That’s funny,” I say. “Neither can I.”

Wordlessly, he clasps my face within his large hands, drawing my lips to his for a kiss. “I love you, Rebecca. It’s deep and scary and intense. But it’s right. God, I know that it’s right.”

Covering his hands with mine, I notice something. “You took off his ring,” I say, feeling tears sting my eyes.

“It was tough, but it was time.” He nods. “Time for the future.”

“I’m still frightened, Michael.” I close my eyes, feeling his lips brush against mine. “But I’m determined to run free this time.”

“And I’ll run right with you, wherever you take me,” he promises with a kiss. “As far as you want to go.”

For some reason, kissing him there in that chilly ice-skating rink, I recall surfing. Riding high and charging the waves on my knees, free like the wind, like the unhindered little girl I used to be. Alex wanted me to surf so I’d understand that feeling, I think, because he lived that way. And so I’d recognize it when it came again for me, like it has today.

Free, free like the wind, I think, as I kiss my fiancé one more time.

Epilogue: Michael

Fall in Monterey Bay brings crisp hues of blue and gold against an azure sky—nothing like the hazy scrim holding fast over Los Angeles, with the Santa Ana winds kicking fire and smoke and moodiness down our way. No wonder October’s always been my favorite time to escape to Santa Cruz; and no wonder Alex made such a point of bringing me here that first fall we were together, walking me out the length of the pier until we leaned over the railing and listened to the sea otters barking. We stood there, feeling the fresh wind and brine in our faces, and I knew I’d found my lost home.

No wonder I made such a point of bringing Rebecca here today. ’Cause she needs to know this world—his world—because it’s more a part of me than any of the countless towns where my father’s lived and ministered. It’s
my
world now too.

We came up yesterday to spend the night and go to church with Ellen this morning. Surprisingly, I managed to sit through the service without squirming too much; I liked Father Roberto’s style. I should’ve known that anyone Allie loved would have been someone I’d relate to. Now that the service is over, everyone’s filing out of the small historic church.

My dead partner’s childhood priest is standing in the portico of St. Anthony’s, greeting his parishioners as they move into the dappled sunlight. I’ve heard so much about Father Roberto over the years that it’s almost weird to think I only met him one other time before—Alex’s funeral. He sure knows a hell of a lot about me.

Alex often confided in him about my spiritual standoff, and from what I’ve heard, Father Roberto often counseled patience to my partner. Yeah, boy, the good father’s sure gonna be surprised to see me here today. He catches sight of Andrea first, and his weathered face lights up. “Hey, Father Berto!” She bounds up to him, slipping her pale arms around his rotund, robed body.

“Why, Andrea Richardson!” He laughs jovially, reaching deep into the sleeve of his robe for a handkerchief to wipe his perspiring brow. “Nobody told me you were here visiting.”

“We kind of snuck in,” she says, looking between Rebecca and me. That’s a good way to put our last minute visit to Santa Cruz this weekend, so that Ellen could finally meet Rebecca before we begin planning our upcoming wedding in earnest. I needed to tell her in person, and like I expected, she cried. But she looked very pleased too, fussing over Rebecca and our engagement—to the point of embarrassing both of us. Maybe it’s easier for Ellen this way somehow, me winding up with someone so completely different from her son.

Father Roberto glances at me, clearly surprised to see me in church for once. Extending my hand boldly, I remind him of my identity, not that he’d have any doubts. “Michael Warner,” I announce. “Good to see you again, sir.”

Then remembering myself, I indicate Rebecca, knowing this one’s gonna shock him for sure. “Uh, Father, this is my fiancée. Rebecca O’Neill.” But he doesn’t seem nearly as surprised as I expect him to be. Maybe Ellen debriefed him ahead of time? Then again maybe not, since he asks with twinkling eyes, “Irish Catholic?”

Becca smiles and shakes her head. “Southern Methodist, sorry.”

“We’re happy to greet all kinds in the house of the Lord,” he affirms, then turning back to me, “Where are you going to be married? Do you know yet?”

“Back in Georgia,” Rebecca answers. “At my home church that I grew up in.”

“Ah, lovely. That will be just lovely. A southern wedding.”

“Next spring,” I explain awkwardly.

“I’m going to be the flower girl,” Andrea pipes up with an angelic smile. “I get to pick my dress too.”

Ellen breaks away from a group of women nearby to join us. “I see you found Michael.” Ellen reaches up and pats my cheek, bestowing a radiant smile on me. “I’m very proud of my adopted son.” Then, she turns to Rebecca, extending her arm around her inclusively. “
And
of my daughter-to-be. Isn’t she beautiful, Father?” she asks, reaching to brush a long strand of blonde hair away from Rebecca’s cheek. It’s her scarred one, and for a moment I wonder why Ellen would be so thoughtless, but as she stares at sweet Rebecca admiringly, I get it. She’s just working her Richardson magic on my chosen one. And while Becca blushes a little, and seems embarrassed at the compliment, I also see how pleased she is at the way Ellen dotes on her in front of all her friends.

On the outside steps, I turn back to look at the church. I wonder why I always fought passing through these doors for such a long time. The Lion of Judah, I’ve heard God called, and growing up I always thought that lion wanted to devour all of me. Before I could crawl he took my mother, and then when I found sweet Allie—my first true love, my soul mate—that lion and my father turned both their backs right on me.

But lately, you know, with all the good in my life—all the perfect gifts I have—I’m starting to think the one who did that turning away was actually me.

***

Back at the house, we wind our way up a curving staircase to the third floor, an area I haven’t seen since my earliest days with Alex, not since a building inspector told Ellen that it wasn’t safe to climb up to the cupola anymore without serious renovation. Now, with the recent restoration work she’s had done, that majestic perch is finally open again so Andie can see it for the very first time, something she’s always wanted to do.

Laurel leads the way, her clogs echoing like thunderclaps on the antique hardwood steps with Andrea following close behind. The stairs are steep, creaky, and my daughter measures out each one, taking giant steps behind her birthmother. For a moment she nearly stumbles and I place a steadying palm on her back.

“Thanks, Daddy,” she says, and as usual I grin just to hear her call me that again.

Rebecca is our rearguard: solid, strong, confidently taking each unknown step as if they’ve always been a part of her. It’s eerie how much she belongs in this house, and not for the first time I think of how much Alex would have loved her. And she would have definitely loved him—not like I did, no, but there would have been a soul connection, I’m certain of it.

“Oh, wow!” Andrea proclaims before we even reach the top of the stairs that end in one windowed circular room overlooking the Pacific. Clear blue sky rushes out to a horizon line of dark, mysterious ocean.

“It’s something, isn’t it?” Laurel halts at the top, stepping sideways so we can all fit along the railing. She stands, hand on her hip, admiring the towering view of the rocks and ocean down below.

I remember the first time Alex unveiled this secret room to me, his favorite in the whole house. Right at sunset he snagged two glasses of wine for both of us, and led me up the narrow, spiraling staircase, whispering like it was a conspiracy. We slid down to the floor together, hidden from his family, and nestled right up against the windows until the burning daylight melted into night. Like a pair of renegade pirates sequestered away together.

Laurel glances around the area, her eyes taking in all the timeless relics, the driftwood and paperbacks. A few of her oil paintings lie propped against the windows, early crude works from when she was just a girl.

“When Alex and I were little,” she says, “we used to come up here and play for hours.” Although she smiles, I glimpse sadness in her expression. “We’d pretend we were sea captains or royalty.”

“It’s amazing!” Andrea agrees, slipping past Laurel to the cushioned window seat that offers the best view through the huge pane of windows. Across the road and far below us, foamy waves break on the rocks. Rebecca steps onto the landing beside me, and I reach for her, needing to feel her. Cupping her shoulder, I draw her close, and we stand together beside Laurel that way, staring out the window. For long moments, none of us speaks because we’re awestruck by the mysticism of the view, the memories, of the knowledge that Alex Richardson left some part of himself here years ago. And of the knowledge that in a very elemental way he lives because he lives between us.

“I want to show you something, Andrea,” Laurel says, dropping to her knees. “It’s in the window seat.” Lifting the cushion up, then tugging on a rope handle, the bottom gives way to reveal a cubbyhole. “It’s something your daddy and I put in here, a long, long time ago. Come look.”

“What is it?” Andrea asks, lifting onto her tiptoes to stare over Laurel’s shoulder.

“You have to see.”

Delicately, Laurel removes a fragile bird’s nest from inside. “It’s a robin’s nest. We found it over in Lighthouse Field one day,” she explains. “Our treasure, we called it. Of course everything was treasure back then.”

Andrea peers at the downy husk of a nest, her blue eyes sparkling. “It’s really old, then.”

“Yeah, it is,” Laurel agrees quietly, and her voice fills with a wistful tone I understand completely. Alex should be here. But Laurel shakes the mood, her clear blue eyes widening mischievously. “I want to tell you a story about your daddy,” she says and Andrea kneels in front of her, nodding encouragingly. “Did you know that he always knew you were coming one day?”

“How?”

“I don’t know. But he did. Whenever we played games up here, and imagined that we were a prince and a princess in the turret, he would say, ‘let’s remember this and bring our kids up here one day.’” I’m not sure where Laurel’s going, but I listen intently, feeling Becca’s heartbeat beneath my hand. She’s wearing this soft, oversized sweater that lets me nestle her right up against me, be as brazen as I want.

Laurel goes on: “'Let’s play like it’s later,’ he’d say.”

“What do you mean?” Andrea asks.

“He always wanted to pretend that we had grown up and that there was another little princess. He was the daddy and she was the little girl.”

“Is that true?” Andrea asks, her voice breathy and quiet. Frankly, I’m thinking Laurel must’ve made this story up, until she reaches into the window seat and retrieves something else, something that must be fragile and precious from the way she holds it in the palm of her hand. Then I see it, and it’s unbelievable. Three tiny sculpted figures. “I made these for his Christmas present,” she explains, revealing two little red-haired children, a boy and a girl. “When we were ten. Look, this is the other princess,” she says, showing a redheaded little girl.

“Wow! He knew I was coming,” Andrea says in wonder, and whether it’s even precisely true or not doesn’t really matter as she cradles the little figurine in her palm. She feels known, wanted. She feels as if she were destined in some way to be linked to the man she will always remember as father.

“You have no idea how much he wanted us to have you.”

She nods, pressing the little child doll to her lips, and just stares out at the ocean. Pensive, as she often gets, and none of us push her. After a while, she quietly asks, “Aunt Laurel?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“He really was my daddy, wasn’t he? Even though he was my uncle, he really was my daddy, right? In the ways that count?”

“Oh, yes, pumpkin. Absolutely.”

Andie cradles the little figure in her hand for a moment, then delicately, almost prayerfully, places it back into the bottom of the window seat. Like she’s offering a benediction.

Then she turns back to us, focusing on Laurel. “Aunt Laurel, can I ask you something else?”

“Anything.”

“What do I call you now? Now that I know you’re my mother?”

Laurel kneels there, right down on Andrea’s level. “Whatever feels right, pumpkin,” she says. “You can call me Aunt Laurel, like you always have.”

“Or Mom?” Andie suggests, her blue eyes hopeful.

“If that feels right, that’s okay too,” she answers with a gentle smile. “I carried you for nine months, Andrea, and there’s a place inside of me that will always belong to you. I will always be your mother, no matter what you decide to call me.”

“When Daddy and Rebecca get married, I might call Rebecca Mom too,” Andrea says softly. “That won’t make you mad, will it?”

I feel Rebecca’s body tense against mine; know that she’s holding her breath. This is the first either of us has heard of this request.

Laurel nods her encouragement. “Of course that’s okay.”

“You know, I’m lucky,” Andrea says with a shy smile, glancing back at Rebecca for a moment. “’Cause I’ve had two daddies. And I get to have two mothers too. Not everybody gets that.”

Laurel whispers, “And I’m lucky, because I have you.”

Andrea hurls herself into Laurel’s arms, burying her face against her birthmother’s chest. For endless moments, they hold one another, Laurel stroking her long shiny hair, Andie snuggling even closer. “I love you, Andrea,” Laurel says, and I see tears glint in her eyes. “Very much, sweetheart.”

“I love you too,” says Andrea, her voice muffled. Then she leans back and stares right up at me. Fixing me with that unnerving, blue-eyed look that sometimes reminds me so much of Alex, she asks, “Daddy? I’m glad I know the truth.” I can’t help the tears that instantly mist my eyes. “That you really are my daddy.”

“Me too, sweetheart.” I hold her tight and close, afraid of so much as breathing. “Me, too.”

“Know what else?” she asks, eyes sparkling. “I’m gonna teach Rebecca how to
really
surf next summer. She’s gonna rip! And I’m not even gonna think about my scar again ’cause it doesn’t matter anymore,” she says. “That scar’s just a tiny part of me.”

Pure wisdom, from the mouth of a nine-year-old, and the thing is, I know that she’s right. I know that of all the perfect, beautiful memories that Alex and I once shared, of all the new memories I’m forging with Rebecca and Andrea—and of all the most tragic times in my life—one thing is true.

For better or worse, they’re all a part of me.