Butterfly Tattoo (9 page)

Despite myself, I smile. “No, just that it’s not a line that will work on me. If it is a line, I mean.”

“Rebecca, I’ve told you the way it is with me. And I don’t confess those things to just anyone.”

“Why me?” I ask, really wondering. Thinking of Trevor’s suspicious take on my new friendship.

Maybe he’ll say because he’s been waiting for a girl like me. Or that it’s been a long time since anyone made him feel this way. I wait, breath held tight inside my lungs, time literally suspended until he finally answers.

“’Cause I know you’ve been through things, too. But you’re still smiling. And beautiful. I want to understand how you do that.”

Oh, God. He could’ve said anything else, but now he’s got me. In the palm of his hand, like a baby bird just fallen out of its nest. I’m vulnerable, naked. I can only hope he’s gentle.

“Can we wait to talk about my past?” I ask, knowing I’ll go anywhere he leads me now.

“Of course.”

“It’s just, well, it was three years ago last week that this—” I hesitate, then point to my face,“—happened. My attack. I’ve been feeling kind of freaky about it.”

“Anniversaries are tough,” he answers knowingly, and it makes me wonder exactly when Alex died. “They make you feel like you’re in a time warp.”

“Or like it’s going to happen all over again,” I add, and this clearly hits home, because he nods his head dramatically.

“Yeah, and if I had to go through it all again,” he agrees, “it’d probably kill me.”

I think of the nine slashes of Ben McAllister’s knife. If I had to live through those again, would he aim any better? Or would one or two more targeted thrusts finish me off next time?

“That’s why it’s the past, Michael,” I answer, shivering as I think of Ben languishing in Chino. Thank God he’s locked away for the rest of my life and his. “Because it’s done with.”

“Reckon so,” he agrees, and then we both just look away. We look away because the platitudes don’t work for either of us. We both know that I’m saying what we
want
to believe, because like some terrible Chinese riddle, the fact is that the past isn’t in the past at all. It’s vital and breathing and a little bit ravenous, and no matter what else we’ve lost, it’s the one thing we can never truly lose.

Chapter Six: Michael

I’ve dreaded this day for weeks, maybe even months. Now that it’s here, though, it doesn’t seem to pack the power that I feared it would. No, today’s just an average, unremarkable Saturday. Muggy and hot for late May, with a hazy morning sun that’s already making me sweat, but it’s bizarre how absurdly normal everything feels. Normal, if Andrea and I weren’t driving to Grandma Richardson’s to visit the family gravesite and mark the first anniversary of Alex’s death. And if I weren’t seeing his sister, Laurel, for the first time since we laid him in the ground. There’s been lots of water under our bridge since then, Laurel’s and mine, and none of it good.

Weird to think that it was early morning just like this when Alex stopped into the kitchen on his way out to work and said to me one last time, “Baby, I love you.”

What made him turn back that way? Andrea was already in the car, his briefcase was slung over his shoulder, and then just like that, he stopped. We said the words often enough between ourselves, though not usually with him halfway out the door. He made such a point of me hearing that last time; he
wanted
me to know. For the rest of my life, I’ll see the smile he gave me as he turned away.

Who would’ve thought that a single day could change everything so much? It’s the time warp thing again, like I told Rebecca. Sometimes it even feels like that movie
Groundhog Day
, with me watching him leave over and over, only there’s a different ending every time. How I wish.

Even though it’s a somber occasion that’s calling us back to his hometown today, I’m still determined to make it a special visit for Andie. That’s why we’re taking this slightly longish coastal route. It’s a beautiful day and I liked the idea of her seeing the ocean for a good part of the drive, and while she’s not full of chatty reactions, her face lights up once the beach appears off to the side of the 101. She’s always loved the ocean, whether it’s up in Santa Cruz or out at Casey’s place in Malibu. She’s pure beach bum, just like her daddy was.

As we crest a slight hill, dark, shark-like figures appear in the water, a group of them bobbing along on their boards. “Look,” I point out. “Surfers.”

“But it’s so early.” She wrinkles her nose as she looks at the dashboard clock. Seven a.m. on a Saturday, not my idea of where I’d be, paddling my way out into the chilly Pacific, squeezed tight into my wetsuit.

“Hey, you know what Daddy always said,” I remind her with a grin, and she finishes for me, “The best waves don’t ever sleep in!” We both laugh a minute, remembering, and my heart beats a little faster at the pure joy of making her smile.

“Won’t be long and we’ll be out there, too. Casey’s planning on us for Fourth of July.” We always used to spend summer holidays with Casey at his beach house, but this will be the first time without Alex.

“Well I’m not going to surf.” She turns from me, staring out the window of the truck.

“Why not?” I ask, even though I already guessed she wouldn’t wear her bathing suit, not with how self-conscious she is about that long scar on her thigh.

She only shrugs, studying the open map that I had given her to track our travel progress over the six-hour drive. From the corner of my eye, I see her taking her fingers and measuring out the distance, then comparing it to the mileage legend. Sizing up the world between her stubby little fingertips. The world’s a big place when you’re that small: everything seems super-sized compared to what you know.

That’s what I’m thinking when out of nowhere she asks, “Were you always gay?”

I almost spit coffee onto the steering wheel of my pickup truck. “Why?” I ask with forced nonchalance.

“Well.” She sighs as I watch a pair of sexy, lean guys with surfboards walking along the highway shoulder. “Gretchen Russell’s daddy is gay now. At least that’s what they say.”

Peter Russell. I’ve met him before at some of the school events, especially back in the preschool days. I remember a good chat we had once at Muffins with Mom. Guess
that
event takes on a whole new meaning in this context. So does the interest he took in Al and me being gay parents.

“What happened to Gretchen’s mom?” I ask, after a moment of thoughtful silence.

“She’s still her mom.”

“No, sweetie. I mean…” I pause, rubbing at my eyes. “Did they divorce? Is that what you’re saying?”

She shrugs, silent and won’t tell me any more, but I don’t think Gretchen Russell and her daddy’s conversion to my side is the real issue. Andrea wants to know about me.

“I had some girlfriends, you know,” I begin gingerly. “Before Daddy.”

She turns to me, her bowtie mouth widening in surprise. “But…” She shakes her head, unable to fathom this new catalog of information.

I can’t help but smile at her innocence. Really, it’s not that different from a straight married couple, their child’s pure belief that both parents sprang forth, fully formed, attached to one another from birth. “You find it hard to believe, huh?”

“Wasn’t that weird for Daddy?”

“I’d say it was pretty weird for me.”

“Well, what if I turn out gay?” she asks softly, closing the map book and turning toward me on the seat. “’Cause I could, couldn’t I?”

I think of how delicate and feminine she is; how even at four years old she began crossing her little legs, still sitting in the car seat. I think of how she fusses over her Barbies, taking infinite care with their sequins and satin. But I also know that’s no measure of which way one’s sexuality will ultimately swing, not even close. Consider my army airborne days if you think I’m wrong about that. After all, I’ve jumped out of loads of perfectly good airplanes, and I still went pink triangle.

So I ask, “You know that Daddy and I were really happy together, right?” She looks away, silent, and I sense her shutting down to me just as quickly as she opened. “’Cause we were, sweetheart. We loved each other.”

“So?”

“Well, so it’s okay, being gay.” I glance sideways surreptitiously. “That’s what I mean.”

I swear I see her roll her eyes at me as she reaches for the radio tuner buttons. What I’m trying to tell her, but I’m doing such a miserable job of it, is that love is what counts. Whatever form it comes to you, even if it sneaks up on a strange, unanticipated night, love is all that matters in this world of ours. Even if you lose that love when you least expect it.

“Andrea, are you even listening to me?” I demand, feeling more forceful and assertive than I usually am with her.

She turns to me, blinking her crystal-blue eyes. “Yeah.”

“The important thing is whether you find someone to love. Someone to love
you
as much as we all do.”

“Do you like Rebecca? ’Cause if you weren’t always gay…” she suggests, winding a long auburn lock around her fingertip thoughtfully. “Well, you might not always be gay
now
, right? Then you might like Rebecca, I mean. Sort of like Gretchen’s daddy liking boys.”

“Sort of like.” I cough, raising my coffee mug to my lips as a way of concealing my face.

“’Cause you could do that,” she presses, “like he’s gay.”

“I could, yeah, conceivably like women again.”

“Good, ’cause I like Rebecca.” She gazes up at me through her rust-colored lashes. “She’s really fun and cool. I totally like her.”

“Well, maybe we can get together with her again soon,” I offer, thinking of the amazing inroads she’s made with my child. Thinking of how I could have spent all afternoon in that Chinese restaurant just talking to her. Looking at her. “Maybe she could come back over again and spend time with us.” Like we’re a unit, a full package, not that I’m one lonely man who has become infatuated with a beautiful, available woman.

“I’d like that,” she agrees.

“Yeah. Me, too.” Oh, I’d like it, all right. A whole lot more than I care to admit, even to myself just yet.

***

As we hit the heart of Santa Cruz, my breathing changes. Becomes rapid and a little desperate. It’s the thought of seeing Laurel again that’s got me all wound up, not just being back here to visit Allie’s grave. I’ve already done that drill a few times in the past year. Been there at Thanksgiving, and again at Christmas. But I haven’t seen Laurel, not since a year ago, and I’m not sure what to expect. Still, I shove those dark thoughts aside as we drive up the long, steep hill to the Richardson house.

Or maybe “home place” is a better description of the million-dollar house where my baby grew up. A rambling old Victorian by the sea, it crests the hilltop like the local icon that it is. There’s no pretension to it: the mansion boldly crowns this cliffside part of town.

“Wonder if Grandma’s roses are blooming yet,” Andrea reflects.

She loves her grandma’s garden, and it’s always been something that binds them together, working in it side by side. Planting seeds and watching them yield life. Nipping the buds off waning pansies. She makes Andrea feel important, and reaches her in a way that I haven’t figured out how to do since Al passed. What worries me is the thought that maybe Laurel might find a way to do that, too.

Andrea unzips her Barbie backpack, pulling out a large envelope. “I brought this for Aunt Laurel.”

“What’s in it?” I ask, my voice just a little too bright. As I turn the truck into the pebbled driveway, there’s a crunch and spray of rock beneath my tires. I have to skid a bit to slow down on the drive.

“Something I made her in art class.” Laurel is a world-class painter, with an exclusive gallery of her own in Santa Fe.

“What kind of project was it?” I stare at the closed front door of the house. So much rests behind that colored Tiffany glass pane, and I’m not sure I’m ready to face it yet.

Andrea takes the envelope in one hand, then reaches eagerly for the door handle with her other, never answering me as she shimmies out onto the driveway. Then, full throttle, she runs across the lush green yard and up the steps, onto the sweeping veranda. She hasn’t been this excited since
High School Musical 3
finally came out.

Feeling ancient and slow as hell, I plant my Nikes on the pebbled drive, ready to face what waits.

***

Time is endless in Ellen Richardson’s home. There’s the steady ticking of the grandfather clock, the groaning creaks of the one-hundred-year-old hardwoods, the rhythm of the crashing waves down the cliff side. My blood pressure lowers; my heart rate slows. The day lengthens whenever I enter. Why couldn’t that eternal spell have worked a number on Alex’s life?

Ellen embraces Andrea, leaning her aged shoulders low to really hold her close. She watches me over Andie’s head, a faint smile playing on her lips. But I’m already looking around for Laurel, ’cause I don’t get why she hasn’t joined us in the sweeping hallway for our big entrance.

“Laurel not here?” I ask, curiosity corrosive on my insides. Ellen closes her eyes momentarily—wearily—then opens them again as she stands tall to face me.

“Michael, she wasn’t able to get away. She wanted to, but…” Her voice trails off, the explanation obvious. Yeah, I don’t buy it for a moment. Laurel’s putting off our confrontation yet again. Here I’ve dreaded seeing her almost as much as the anniversary of Al’s death, and she bails without a warning to me? I can’t believe it.

Ellen steps close, wrapping her graceful arms around me. “Hello, son.” She reaches up to pat my cheek, her charm bracelet tinkling musically.

“I can’t believe she didn’t come,” I blurt, thinking of what today means. No matter what’s happened between Laurel and me, we should all be together today. A family.

“She wanted to, darling,” she explains as I step away. “You know that.”

I doubt it
, I’m about to grumble, when Andrea lights up, her gaze falling on a package tied up with a dazzle of ribbons and paper. “Look!” she squeals in excitement. “It’s got my name on it.”

“From Aunt Laurel, darling.”

“What’s the occasion?” I can’t resist jibing, even though I know Laurel’s only assuaging her guilt for skipping out on us today.

Ellen doesn’t answer me, but walks to the antique Chinese credenza, where the present rests prominently. “Open it, sweetheart,” she encourages. “A little bird told me that you will love what’s inside.”

Andrea’s eyes sparkle as she tugs on the gathered rainbow ribbons. Her small hands pull and wrestle, but it takes me stepping forward with my pocketknife to get the damn thing open. Guess I’m not completely useless just yet.

“Thanks, Michael,” Andrea murmurs, the paper unfolding within her hands.

She squeals, “It’s an American Girl doll!” as the package comes into view. “Felicity!”

Felicity, the little redhead doll I’d been thinking of getting her last Christmas, but never did. Just great. Laurel’s gone for true bribery now. Proffering expensive gifts, more reminders that she’s more thoughtful than I am. Of what a terrible substitute I am for the mother and daddy she should have in her life.

“Great, sweetie,” I mumble, wandering away from them and into the adjoining parlor as Andrea chatters with her grandma about how much she’s wanted a Felicity doll, how she’s looked at the catalog and wished.

Their joyous laughter chases after me, haunting me as I sink heavily into the plush velvet sofa beneath the front window, burying my head in my hands. And I have to wonder—is it really possible that a thirty-nine-year-old man can feel this brittle and worn out? I’m not sure if it’s realizing Laurel’s never going to fade away, or maybe it’s just being back in this house again. All I know is I haven’t missed Alex so much in a long damned time.

***

The cemetery is hot. Way too hot, despite the leafy palm trees scattered throughout the graveyard, offering slight shade from the blistering sun. My shirt’s clinging to my back in a terrible, sweaty outline, and I just wish we could head on home. But Andrea’s taking her time, quiet and thoughtful, and I can’t rush that, no matter how restless I might feel about being here. She’s kneeling in the grass, running her open hand over the prickly blades that cover Allie’s resting place. Back and forth she swishes her pale hand, letting the grass tickle her palm. Blotting my forehead and neck with a McDonald’s napkin from the truck, I notice the freckles sprinkled across her fair shoulders. They’re peeping out from beneath the shoulder straps of her flowered sundress, even crawling up the nape of her pale neck. Eventually, if she’s not careful, she’ll be as covered with them as Alex always was.