The Fall of Butterflies

by Andrea Portes

  And the truth is, her breathing is stronger every second. She’s coming back to the land of the living.

  “You guys want me to drop you at the end of the block or something?”

  Vinnie clearly wants us out of his SUV one way or the other. I don’t blame him.

  “Yeah, um. Just maybe right down there. Thanks.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  We get out at the end of the block. Find a bench. Sit.

  Zeb and I look at each other, puzzled, as Remy leans on Zeb.

  “What do we do now?”

  “Well, we can’t exactly go back to Pembroke. Maybe we could just . . . get a couple of rooms at Rittenhouse Square or something? She should be all right by the morning, I think.”

  So that’s it. It will be a room in a fancy hotel, then. It will not be a night in the alley. It will not be a night in the hospital.

  It will not be a night in the morgue.

  Not this time.

  FIFTY-TWO

  By the time we get back to Denbigh it’s one o’clock the next day, and the reality of last night seems to have come barreling in once Zeb dropped us off. He doesn’t take it on himself to issue any closing statements about the dangers of drug abuse. But as I get out, he gives me a look. I’m pretty sure the look means something along the lines of “Take care of your friend” or “Watch out.” But who knows. Maybe it means “Stay away from this girl.” That could be, too.

  Remy is quiet now. Contemplative.

  She hasn’t said much all morning, and, honestly, what is there to say?

  We walk up the steps to our room, which sort of seems like climbing Mount Everest at this point. I’m pretty sure neither of us is going to acknowledge what happened now, or maybe ever.

  But when I get back to the room after brushing my teeth, there is Remy, sitting on the bed.

  She looks up. And I’ve never seen this before. Remy, shoulders shrunk down, makeup smeared, and tears in her eyes, looking up at me.

  “Willa, I’m scared.”

  It’s a little girl’s voice. It’s a tiny voice. It’s a desperate voice.

  And now I’m over there, next to her, next to her on the bed, holding her. And she lays her head on my shoulder, then my lap. “Will you help me?”

  And she’s crying, shuddering, and I’m there with her, trying to put it together. Trying to figure out how I can help her.

  “Of course. Of course I will. We can do this, Remy. We’ll do it together, okay?”

  She nods, still crying.

  “You won’t abandon me for being a fuckup?”

  “Abandon you? Why would I do that?”

  “’Cause everybody does. Eventually.”

  Okay, I sort of don’t know what she’s talking about, but I’m thinking maybe this is the heart of the matter.

  “Who, Remy? Who’s done that?”

  “Everyone. My parents. Every guy. Like, once I like them, they’re not interested. Humbert Humbert is doing it, too. You’ll see. It’s like I’ve got this disease. People get up close, and then they run away. Like I’m a leper or something.”

  And I am looking at this girl who has everything, who is everything. And I am remembering that first day, when I saw her and her name was like glittering script all around her. And the moment I was looking at the clock tower standing so tall, like an invitation, and the plan—the plan I had to climb that clock tower and make it stop.

  I haven’t thought about the clock tower . . . I haven’t thought about it since this girl showed me people and things I would never, ever have known without her.

  She reached down and pulled me up to where she was.

  She saved me.

  And I don’t care if it sounds corny. Because given that fact—that rock-solid, unassailable fact—how could I not do the same for her?

  “Remy, can I tell you something?”

  “Hm.” She nods.

  “I am not ever going to leave you.”

  This stops everything in the room.

  “I was in a dark place. Like, really dark. And you made me think that the world could be amazing and maybe I should try it.”

  “I did?”

  “Yeah. It was you.”

  She’s staring at the floor now.

  She shakes her head.

  “You know what’s funny? When I saw you, that first day on the green, I felt like I had a chance. Like a chance at a real friendship. With someone real. Not these jerks, so concerned about last names and status and all that garbage. The first time I talked to you I just felt lucky. I told Milo. I was like, ‘There’s this girl, and she’s from Iowa, and she’s sort of shy and she doesn’t know anybody we know or anything about us, and I want to be friends with her.’”

  I smile.

  “Well, look at us now. We’re, like, practically lesbians.”

  This gets a laugh.

  Remy looks out the window, the sun coming through the leaves.

  “I keep saying I’m not gonna do this anymore. Like, I keep telling myself. And then I just do it again. Like I’m just watching myself. I’m just watching myself do it.”

  She stares at the floor.

  “Willa, I think I’m really fucked.”

  I can’t help but wonder, how did I have no idea any of this was happening? I mean, I knew Remy was gone, but I thought she was off with Humbert Humbert getting into an entirely different kind of trouble.

  And what was I up to? I was seeing Milo in secret and never asking questions. Important questions. Questions that might have prevented, well, this.

  Where was my big mouth when I needed it?

  “Okay. Here. This is what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna stay here on campus. We’re not gonna go to New York, or even Philly, and especially not Jersey. We’re gonna hunker down and study. And I’m gonna find a place to go to talk to people about this. With you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like an Anonymous thing. Like Alcoholics Anonymous. But for drugs.”

  “Oh, that’s Narcotics Anonymous. It doesn’t work.”

  “Remy, you asked me to help you.”

  “What if I know someone who’s there?”

  “Well, it’s anonymous for a reason. And it’ll be some random place down here; no one will know. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “We’ll go together. Okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We’re gonna do this. I promise.”

  Remy nods. I hear myself saying these words, and I mean them, but I sound a hell of a lot like an after-school special. I know it. And I know Remy knows it, too.

  “Right. You’re right, Willa. I’m in.”

  “Good. This’ll be good.”

  “Willa?”

  “Yeah?”

  “We’re still going to Paris together, right?”

  I smile. “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  PART III

  FIFTY-THREE

  It’s a redbrick church with red doors. A place called “The Holy Innocents,” and the outside is not so bad, actually. It’s the basement where they do the meetings that really makes you want to jump off the Ben Franklin Bridge.

  It’s a dank kind of basement with wood-paneled walls and flyers hanging off them. In the corner there’s a table with coffee, half-and-half creamers, sugar, saccharine, and a few pastries. People around here drink coffee like there is going to be a worldwide coffee ban tomorrow. I’ve never seen people drink coffee like this. And there’s a lot of smoking involved. A lot. Basically, two minutes before the meeting everybody is outside smoking and then they all hustle in last minute before the serenity prayer.

  The serenity prayer is when everybody holds hands and says, “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” Or, if you’re Remy, the serenity prayer is when you roll your eyes and look at me like What the fuck are we doing here?

  And I can’t say I blame h
er. This place is a real bummer. The people are nice and all, but half of them seem like religious zealots, and half of them seem like homeless people.

  This is our fifth meeting in five days.

  Remy wants to stop going. I want to stop, too, but I am not going to stop, for Remy’s sake.

  Right now a middle-aged woman with thousand-year-old skin is talking about her last meth bender and how that was when she knew she had to stop because she almost blew up her house. I’m glad she stopped, too. She seems like a nice lady and I feel bad for her, looking at her, thinking about what her life might be like now. But she’s happy. There’s a kind of calm to her that surprises me. It’s like she has some secret to restlessness. Some cure. Maybe there is something to this. Maybe I could learn something.

  Someone else starts talking about God, and Remy rolls her eyes again.

  I can tell it is gonna be hard to make this stick, but I don’t know what else to do. Maybe it’s just this meeting. This place. Maybe there’s a more glamorous meeting for fallen debutantes somewhere.

  As we’re leaving the meeting, a couple of nice ladies walk up to Remy to give her their numbers. They tell her she can call anytime. They look a little crazy, but there’s a kindness to their eyes.

  “That’s nice of them. They said you can call them anytime.”

  “Anytime. As in, like, never.”

  “Remy, you have to at least give it a chance.”

  “I know, I know. I just wish the place weren’t so fucking depressing.”

  “Yeah. Although . . . you know . . . ODing in an alley full of trash? More depressing.”

  “Touché.”

  There are only about ten blocks to walk back to Pembroke, and it’s actually really pleasant, once you cross the train tracks. There’s a sweet little park on the way and a small-town row of storefronts with expensive things no one ever buys. Overpriced candles and soaps made of thyme, tea tree, lavender. A framing store. A quilt store. Really? A quilt store? I mean, is there really that much of a demand for quilts?

  “Have you thought about Thanksgiving or whatever?” Remy asks all casual-like.

  Ugh, I haven’t been wanting to talk about this. Milo wants me to go home with him for Thanksgiving, back to New York. And I want to. But there’s a problem. I feel like if I leave Remy alone, who knows what will happen.

  “Um, I’m not sure.”

  “Well, I think I’m gonna go with Humbert Humbert.”

  “What? Are you serious?”

  “Yeah. It’s okay. No one will know.”

  “Remy, does he, like, know?”

  About NA, the OD, the OMG, is the subtext.

  “No. But that’s why it’ll be good, you know? That’s totally not his scene. I’ll be . . . distracted.”

  “Well, where are you guys going?”

  “I don’t know, somewhere private, I guess.”

  “Well, you better make sure it’s far away from here.”

  “I know. Don’t want him to find out I’m a junkie, right?”

  I grab her arm and turn her toward me. “You’re not a junkie, Remy. Don’t even say that.”

  “I think Milo is gonna ask you to come to New York with him.”

  My face is practically glowing with guilt as I say, “He already did.” How did she know? “I’m nervous.”

  “Don’t be nervous. Just don’t mention his dad.”

  And that’s really it, isn’t it? The only rule for Milo. Don’t mention his dad. Never say, “Hey, I heard your dad hung himself after his company bilked everyone in New York out of their money!” Got it.

  “Listen, Remy, are you gonna be okay? Like, I’ll stay with you if you want.”

  “Of course I’ll be okay. I’ll be with Humbert Humbert. I’ll be more than okay. If you know what I mean.”

  “This can’t be helping you. You know it’s like a sick situation, right?”

  “Yeah, but we’re in love. I bet we’ll get married. You can be my bridesmaid.”

  I frown at her. She smiles at me.

  “You know, you’d actually like Humbert Humbert. He’s, like, really good in bed.”

  “Well, that is what I look for in a teacher.”

  FIFTY-FOUR

  I guess if you live in New York, you don’t have to have your Thanksgiving dinner at home with all your relatives around watching football. No, no. Instead, you can just have a six-course meal at a fancy restaurant and invite the whole family there.

  Which is what Milo’s mom did. Of course.

  Don’t worry, though, we get the whole back room to ourselves. It’s a private room with dark-wood floors, burgundy damask wallpaper, and sconces on the walls. I’m sure if you push one of the sconces, the wall flips around, revealing a secret passage to the dungeon, which is probably where they keep everyone who is cooking our food.

  It’s just Milo; his mom; his sister, Kitty; Kitty’s new boyfriend, who nobody seems to be talking to; Milo’s grandfather and grandmother; and, of course, me. The grandfather on the other side is not in attendance. Why, you ask? Oh, because he’s in jail. His wife? Um, she’s in Europe. She won’t be back anytime soon. So, you see, it’s all a very happy family. Nothing unsaid here. The wine does go well with the chicken.

  Except now the door opens and Milo’s mother stands up to greet a man who must be the new stepfather.

  That changes the temperature of the room considerably. Now Milo is brooding. The grandparents are pretending to inspect the wine list, and Kitty is whispering to her boyfriend, who seems slightly allergic to something. Maybe himself.

  The stepfather tries to break the ice.

  “So, Milo, how are things going down there at Witherspoon?”

  “Not as good as they’re going up here, apparently.”

  Kitty smiles, amused.

  He’s not a bad-looking man. Brown hair, thinning at the top. But a handsome face. You could see him sailing somewhere in his youth, off the coast of Nantucket. There’s something kind of dry here, though. Like his veins are filled with powder. Milo’s mom is a stunning woman, no two ways about it. So I’m guessing this guy is seriously loaded.

  “So, you must be Willa? Named after Willa Cather, I presume.”

  “Yes, you presume correctly.”

  “And I hear you’re from . . . Iowa?”

  At this, the two grandparents look up, perplexed.

  Kitty tries to help.

  “Oh, you’re so lucky! To grow up with all that land and sky and not in a city overwrought with people bumping into each other left and right!”

  “I agree.” Milo’s mom chimes in. “I would have loved to be from someplace . . . pastoral. Like an Andrew Wyeth painting.”

  The grandparents look at each other but remain silent. They seem puzzled by my existence.

  “So, Milo, how did you meet this belle from the Midwest?”

  The stepfather is really pouring it on.

  “Remy. She and Remy are BFFs.”

  “BFFs?” This is the grandmother.

  “Best friends forever,” Kitty informs. “Oh, that’s lovely. Remy is practically part of the family. She and Milo went to day care together. Before she went to Spence, then Brearley, then Pembroke.”

  “And how is Remy these days?” Milo’s mother asks.

  I don’t answer, “Oh, other than the obvious drug addiction, she’s just fine.” Instead, I say, “Oh, she’s great.”

  “Why didn’t you invite her, MyMy?” This from Kitty.

  Milo shrugs.

  “She actually had plans, so . . .”

  “Oh, I bet.” Kitty smirks.

  “Are you speaking of Remy Taft?” The grandmother again. This time, directly to me. Somehow as if I should not even dare to utter the name of the Remy Taft.

  Milo intercedes.

  “Of course she is, Grandma. They’re best friends.”

  “Hm.”

  And that is all I will ever get out of that. Hm.

  Kitty tries to lighten it. “Well, I’m so glad, Willa.
Remy could use a friend like you. She needs someone grounded. You know? So she doesn’t fly off into the clouds.”

  “Is that what they call it?” Again, the grandmother. She seems on the ball in a way I didn’t expect.

  “Mother, please.” This is a direct order from Milo’s mom.

  The stepfather puts his hand on Milo’s mother’s arm, assuringly.

  “Well, we’re all happy you’re here, Willa. We have a lot to be grateful for this Thanksgiving.” He smiles at Milo’s mother, knowingly.

  And this is too much for Milo.

  “Oh, really, like the fact that my dad is dead and now you get to fuck my mother?!”

  “Milo!” Kitty is as shocked as I am.

  “You know what?! Enjoy your Thanksgiving.” Milo stands up. “Enjoy the fact that my dad is dead. Enjoy your snobbery, too, while you’re at it. God bless us, every one!”

  And Milo grabs my wrist and drags me out of there. I look back at his mother, who is putting her head in her hands, and his sister, who is staring at the table. The grandparents have suddenly become very interested in the china.

  Milo storms through the restaurant with me in tow. We rush through the front doors, and before you know it, we’re in a cab, heading downtown.

  “What was that?!” I can’t help myself. I’m mortified.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Um . . . that Thanksgiving dinner that you just ruined?”

  “What, are you kidding me? Am I supposed to sit there and—”

  “Listen, what do you want to do? Make your mother cry? What for? That’s not love. I mean, I know it’s hard . . . but you have to let her move on. And enjoy her life. I’m sure it’s been horrible for her.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Milo, you’re being a jerk. You really are. If you love your mom, which I know you do, you’ll want her to be happy.”

  “That fuckface has had the hots for my mother for years.”

  “Milo, that guy didn’t cause what happened to your family.”

  Milo sits, silent, as we glide through the city streets.

  “Look, Willa. You shouldn’t talk about things you don’t understand.”

  “And you should stop punching at invisible walls. Honestly, Milo, I think you need to see someone, like a therapist. To get through this.”