Butterfly Tattoo (4 page)

Andrea shifts her weight from foot to foot, looking up at me through her dusty auburn lashes. She’s waiting for something.

Very tentatively, I begin to speak. “Tell me about it,” I urge with a nod. “About her scar.” I know it’s a risk to press her, but I need to be closer emotionally.

She takes one step toward me, chewing on her bottom lip. “It’s on her face.” She touches her cheek with a fingertip and draws a line that reaches the edge of her mouth. “Right here. Didn’t you see it?” She scrunches her face into a strange, twisted imitation.

Only now do I realize how little I glimpsed of Rebecca O’Neill. I know she seemed attractive, that something about her got to me. In fact, I spent the rest of the workday trying to shake off that reaction, the way she’d drawn me in. Now I can’t believe I missed so much of her story.

“No, it was dark, sweetheart. Tell me.”

Andrea stops then, wrapping her small, pale arms around herself in a bear hug. “Her scars still hurt sometimes, too. That’s what she said.”

I fight the urge to reach for her, to try and hold her. Like some hostage negotiator, I’m forced to play observer in my own family, as she edges nearer by the moment. “Like mine does.”

My lips part and what I want to say is that I’m sorry. Sorry that my sweet little girl has to hurt at all, that she worries about a scar nobody else can even see. Sorry that her daddy’s nearly a year dead and all she has left in this frightening world is me.

But I don’t, and before I can figure out what I
should
say next, she’s already gone, vanished in a blur of white nightgown and coppery red hair. Then there’s the sound of her bedroom door slamming shut, and the whole house gasps in shuddered reaction.

All I can do is bury my face in my hands and wish like hell that Alex were still here with me. Because I don’t have a clue how I’ll ever keep doing this on my own.

I wake the next morning with a jackhammer pounding straight through the core of my skull. Apparently some crack team of demons is on an expedition to my medulla oblongata, and are causing hell along the way. Bravely, I open one eye in my own version of a recon mission, but the sunny spring morning sends me diving back for my pillow with a muffled groan of agony. God, somebody stop me the next time I decide to drink a twelve-pack of Heineken by myself.

Why is it that the denials and oaths of abstinence always make so much sense in the morning, but nighttime brings the same bottomless swell of loneliness all over again?

I bury my face in the quilt, and fight a tide of nausea that rises high. I hear muted sounds from the living room, and know that Andrea must already be up watching television or playing Wii. But that doesn’t explain the homey smells drifting my way, something like eggs and bacon and maybe even fresh-ground coffee.

With another deep groan I roll onto my back, sniffing the air as I rub my eyes. It’s got to be my imagination; there can’t actually be breakfast cooking in the next room. Then I remember. With all the clarity of a boom lowering, I know that I’ve screwed up big-time. Marti’s here to help with my taxes, exactly like she’s supposed to be, and I’m the one who’s fallen way off schedule.

I force myself to sit up in bed, the whole room gyrating and pulsating angrily. Staring in the mirror over the dresser, I hardly recognize the guy staring back at me: wiry curls askew, hollow circles under his eyes, pasty complexion shadowed by an outbreak of beard.

I’m pathetic, and I know what dear Marti’s going to say the minute she lays eyes on me. “Lord, Warner, you look like hell!”

That’s why she’s my best friend—and a great ex-girlfriend, at that. Sometimes in the past year I’ve almost wondered if Alex didn’t will her to me by divine act of life choice. Wondered whether the two of them, back in kindergarten and lining up for recess, made a sacred pact even then. That Marti would introduce Alex to his life partner, then watch over that poor guy’s lost soul once he’d been left alone at the end of the day.

I’m sure that Alex would tell me to be gentler with her, not so grumpy and difficult. And he’d remind Marti that although I may not talk about it much, I’m lost without him. As for our other best friend? I’m not sure how he’d answer Casey’s constant grumbling that I won’t go out with our gay friends—that I only want to stay home every weekend. Alex would probably say what he learned the hard way: that it’s never a good idea to push me about anything.

“So, Warner, you sleeping in?” I hear from the doorway and literally jump, startled from my somber ruminations.

“Marti, hey.” I rake a hand over my disheveled hair in an effort to tame the unruly beast. She peers at me with her clear green eyes, a smile filling her full face. Marti’s the yin to my yang, short and squat where I’m tall and rangy.

“No use, my friend.” She laughs hoarsely, reaching onto my dresser and tossing me Alex’s antique comb. I never use it because it’s like some holy relic, an artifact left by my dead lover, but she doesn’t know that. I reach for where it rests on the handmade quilt, lifting the silver spine gingerly between my fingertips. She stares for a long moment, and I feel exposed, treating such a commonplace object with undisguised reverence. So I do what I haven’t done in nearly twelve months, and use the damn thing.

Of course it catches and knots through my short, unmanageable hair as she settles cross-legged on the bed next to me. “How you feeling?”

“Great.”

“Yeah, I can tell.” She seizes the comb from my hand. “Faker.”

“About what?” I collapse back onto the pillows, and the feel of cool cotton against my cheek instantly soothes me.

“Everything.” She leans back with me, crossing her stubby bare feet as she settles on Alex’s old side of the bed. “The hangover, the comb, our breakfast date.”

“The comb?” I’m pure innocence, and she props her head on one elbow, staring at me.

“That Alex’s mother gave him when he went to college,” she clicks off easily. “Had been part of her father’s set. You haven’t used it a single time since he died.”

“And you know this because?”

“It had dust on it.”

“Damn, girl, you’re good.”

“No, I’m just a good accountant. It’s my job to follow a trail.” She reaches for my clammy hand, squeezing it in her warmer one, planting a gentle kiss on my knuckles. “Well, and I also know you very well, my friend.”

“Did Alex pay you to do this, Marti?” I sigh. “Did I miss that in the will or something? I mean, you and Casey are tag-teaming these days.”

“He’s out back, actually. Trying to salvage what’s left of your garden.”

Casey’s a landscape architect who runs several crews around the exclusive parts of the city, and my yard’s just a charity project.

“Y’all are relentless lately.”

“Because you’re starting to get scary, Michael. To all of us.” I think of Andrea in the next room and how strained things are. Am I scaring her, too? Marti seems to read my thoughts. “Andrea’s already had breakfast,” she says. “We let you sleep in.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Seemed like a great idea when I tripped over the pizza box and garbage bag full of empty beer bottles.”

I rub my eyes with a repressed groan, wondering if Andrea saw them when she woke.

“Casey took care of them discreetly. But you’ve got to pull it together, Michael,” she admonishes gently.

“Don’t worry, this hangover pretty much guarantees that I will.”

“I’m not just talking about the drinking, even though I know it’s a lot more than last night.” It’s true, so I don’t make any further lame arguments. I simply wait for the rest, because with Marti, there’s always more.

“You know Alex wouldn’t want you hurting this way,” she continues. “Bleeding along like this.” I flash on a wounded whale, banking through the water, trailing a ribbon of blood—not quite dead, but not living either. “You do realize that, don’t you?” she says, her forehead furrowing into creases of concern.

I turn away from her. “Alex loved life,” I say flatly, watching the ceiling fan’s soundless rotations and fighting a fresh wave of nausea. I can’t do this now, can’t have the big talk that she’s been bucking for lately.

“Alex loved
you
.” She sits up in bed, staring down at me for emphasis. “Okay? We both know how much he loved his family. But he’d want you to get on with living, Michael, not mourn him forever like this.”

“Come on, Marti, he hasn’t even been gone a year yet.”

“But you’re getting worse every day.”

“What? You don’t think that sackcloth and ashes is a sexy look on me?” I joke with a bitter laugh, and earn a terrible Marti-sized scowl in return; it fills her whole moon-shaped face.

“I’m not laughing,” she says.

“I can see that.”

“Life is for the living, you know.” She turns Alex’s comb within her hands, gazing at it like some divine instrument of guidance until she taps the silver handle against her lips with a sigh. “Look, Michael, you’ve got to do whatever it takes,” she says soberly. “Because you’re fading fast, and if something doesn’t change, it’ll be more than Alex that we’ve lost. This grief is going to kill you, too.”

With that sinister prophecy, she slides off the end of the bed and out of my room without another glance.

Drowsy-eyed, I make my way out of the bedroom, wearing faded jeans and a sloppy T-shirt. The pants are loose on me—yet more physical evidence of the spiritual emaciation that Marti’s been talking about. When I enter the living room, Andrea’s eyes are laser-locked with the television, on what looks to be
Hannah Montana
.

“Morning, sweet pea,” I announce with a smile, but she doesn’t bother answering me. I watch her as I move past our leather sofa, where she’s sitting, knees tucked neatly inside her cotton nightgown. “Did I hear a ‘good morning’ there?” I push, sounding a little too much like my old drill sergeant.

Finally, she blinks up at me. “Morning.” Nothing more, no hint of our late-night truce. Not even a smile; just a chilly blue-eyed glance.

“That’s my girl.” Back at my game of appeasement as usual. Marti’s in the kitchen, doling out eggs and bacon for me, and I bend low to kiss her cheek, whispering an awkward “thanks” as she presses the plate into my hand.

“We only talking food?” she asks, leaning back against the counter. “Or is life advice included in that murmur of gratitude?”

“Whole enchilada, Ms. Murphy.” I hoist myself up onto the bar, lifting the plate close to my chin for ease of consumption. It’s the kind of uncouth behavior that Alex used to complain about; something I now do precisely because he’s
not
here to gripe anymore. Maybe it’s my way of venting some of this subtle anger that’s always swashing around inside of me.

“You know, since I’m clearly on a roll here,” Marti says, snagging some bacon out of the pan for herself, “would you consider one more piece of advice?”

“I’m guessing I don’t have a choice.”

She steps much closer to me. Casting a cautious glance in Andrea’s direction, she clasps my shoulder conspiratorially. “You need some time to yourself. Time to do something just for you. I could take Andrea home to stay the night. The kids would love to see her, and Dave’s planning to cook burgers on the grill.”

For a moment, sadness stabs at my heart because Marti and Dave lead a family life that I can only dream of giving Andrea. Hell, it’s not a life our daughter’s
ever
led, not even when Alex was still alive. I should be grateful for the occasional time she gets at their suburban home, not jealous of the way Andrea worships their whole family, but I can’t seem to help myself.

In the living room, Andrea’s already looking our way with keen expectation. “Sure,” I say, tightlipped without meaning to be. “That’d be great.”

“Cool!” Andrea cries, bounding to her feet. “Can I go pack now?”

“Yeah, sweetie, go get your stuff together.” I barely have the words out before she’s vanished into her room.

Marti’s gaze drills into me, telling me that I should just take this break. “Don’t feel guilty. You always do, but don’t. Go and have some fun, for crying out loud. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Fun
?
I doubt I’m capable of it anymore. I think of Casey and his repeated invitations to hit the movies, get a couple of beers, head out dancing—anything that involves going out with the guys. But the thought of passing through those old haunts without Alex chills me to the core.

“Yeah, I’ll do something relaxing.” Fix that stupid burned-out light in the hallway, the one I’ve been ignoring for the past year. Maybe work out in the yard for a while, try to pick up where Casey leaves off today. I see him out there now, bent over, slaving to resurrect the flower garden before it’s choked alive by weeds.

Marti slugs me on the shoulder. “Good, because there
will
be a test at the end of the break. And remember what I said about life, okay?” Marti admonishes, an encouraging smile filling her broad face.

“It’s for the living?”

She gets the look of a pleased parent, as if I’ve recited my alphabet correctly. “Right!”

Right. But the thing is I can’t help but wonder, like I did last night, if I’m even part of that club anymore.

***

So much for my revolutionary plan of staying home by myself, because no sooner than I’d set about repairing that hallway light, teetering high on the stepladder, that I remember my un-deposited paycheck, left somewhere on my workbench back at the studio. Yet more evidence of the mental haze I’ve been wandering around in these days, especially since I count on that weekly check. So without showering, I climb in the truck and hightail it toward Hollywood, knowing that with enough luck I can get the check to the bank before it closes at one.

Money’s tight, that’s for sure. Not that Al’s insurance payout wasn’t generous in the extreme, especially since he’d arranged for maximum coverage in an effort to offset the loss of his hefty annual income. But after I paid off the mortgage and tucked the rest in a fund for Andrea, it didn’t leave much. Frankly, I’m afraid to touch the rest; guess it’s the difference in my background and Allie’s. When you come from money you don’t worry about it drying up like I always seem to do.