The Butterfly Novels Box Set: Contemporary YA Series (And By The Way; And For Your Information; And Actually)

by Denise Deegan

  ‘Hey!’

  Oh God. Oh no. I turn.

  ‘You dropped your Maltesers.’ It’s a boy of about twelve. He’s picking them up and handing them to me. I look at him with such incredible relief.

  ‘It’s OK. You have them.’

  ‘Really? Cool.’

  I start walking. And seriously worrying. Was Mary Gleeson right? Is this an addiction, an addiction that could ruin everything?

  I’m late arriving at the home. Bingo hasn’t started but someone is already sitting with John. Christina comes over to me.

  ‘Sorry I’m late.’

  ‘No problem,’ she says. She glances over at the guy by the window. It’s like he hasn’t moved all week. ‘Why don’t you go over to Shane today?’

  It seems like a bad idea. ‘He doesn’t look like he wants company.’

  ‘I know. But I have to try something. And nothing else is working.’

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  She hesitates. Then she says, ‘He’s had some bad news lately.’

  I don’t tell her that’s not what I meant. Because I guess she knows that. I’m embarrassed now for asking, like I’m this nosey person who wants all the scandal. Suddenly, I want to do something good. For a change. Make up. If I can. So I go get a board and some counters. Before I even get to him, though, I know it’s a mistake.

  I arrive by his side. If he notices, he doesn’t let on.

  ‘Hello,’ I say.

  He turns his head and looks at me. Expressionless.

  ‘Would you like to play?’ I lift the board.

  ‘Bingo? You want me to play Bingo?’ And it’s not just words coming at me but anger.

  ‘OK. Sorry. My mistake.’ I turn to go.

  ‘Wait!’

  I stop and turn.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asks.

  Why does he care if he doesn’t want me there? I think, suspiciously. But he’s looking at me for an answer and I better give him something.

  ‘Sarah,’ I say, cautiously, turning to go.

  ‘Sarah, right. Well, Sarah, answer me this …’ He pauses. And I know what’s coming isn’t good. ‘Do you feel sorry for me?’

  ‘Sorry?’ I ask, not believing.

  ‘Do, you, feel, sorry, for, me?’

  Oh my God. It’s like a trap. I say yes, then there’s something to feel sorry for. I say no, then I’ve no sympathy. So I just stare at him. Stuck.

  ‘Come on. What are you waiting for? It’s either yes or no.’

  I’m blushing. And panicking. I look over at Christina. But she doesn’t see me.

  ‘You do, don’t you?’ he says.

  ‘No,’ I rush, defensively.

  ‘You don’t feel sorry for me?’ he asks, like I’m a stone-cold bitch.

  Oh my God.

  ‘I’m stuck here in a freaking wheelchair and you don’t even feel sorry for me?’

  My eyes smart and I think, I am not going to cry. I am not going to give him the satisfaction.

  ‘What have I ever done to you?’ I ask quietly.

  ‘Oh, that’s easy,’ he says. ‘You come here and use people like me to feel better about yourself.’

  ‘What?’

  He smiles. ‘A word of advice, Sarah. Next time you feel like doing an act of charity, don’t come near me.’ He plugs in his phone and turns away.

  And I want to die.

  ‘Sarah?’ Christina calls. ‘Could you come give John a hand, please? I’ve something I have to do.’

  Oh, now she calls me.

  I go over.

  ‘You OK?’ she asks quietly.

  I nod. But really I’m trying hard not to cry.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I should never have sent you over.’

  I shrug, afraid that if I say anything I’ll cry.

  ‘Sit here with John,’ she says.

  ‘Hey, John.’ I smile at him. All he can do is turn his eyes to me. But those eyes say, ‘It’s OK.’

  I turn my chair so my back is to the window. To him. Then, after a ‘testing one-two, one-two’, that would normally make me laugh, Bingo starts.

  ‘One and five, fifteen.’ I check the board.

  ‘Two fat ladies, eighty-eight.’ My eyes fill. I can’t stop them. The numbers blur.

  ‘Three and five, thirty-five.’ A tear falls.

  ‘Two little ducks, twenty-two.’ I drop my head so no one sees. And all I can think is, I steal. I lie to cover up. I use people to feel better about myself. Worst of all, I hate someone who’s in a wheelchair.

  ELEVEN | SUBCONSCIOUSLY

  Next morning, I’m freaking that Mary Gleeson will ask me if I’ve stolen anything and I won’t be able to hide it and I’ll never get out of this cycle of shoplifting and going to her.

  She looks even more pretty today, even more perfect. If she’d any sense, she’d ruffle herself up a bit for people like me.

  ‘So, how’ve you been?’ she asks.

  ‘Good.’ I sound upbeat. Maybe too upbeat.

  ‘How are things at home?’

  ‘You know, my mum isn’t as bad as I made her out to be last week. She’s things on her mind, you know? And she’s trying. She’s going to see a counsellor now. So that’s good.’

  She smiles in agreement. ‘And how’s your father?’

  Oh great. Here we go again.

  ‘You’re still not talking to him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So there’s nothing you want to say to him?’

  There’s plenty I want to say, I think. ‘No.’

  ‘Last week we spoke about anger.’

  I close my eyes. Not again.

  ‘You said you weren’t angry with your father. But you were angry.’

  ‘You made me angry.’

  ‘I hope that what I did helped you see that you had anger. Sarah, do you think there’s anything to be gained by not expressing it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sorry. Do you think that if you don’t get angry with your father, he might come back? And that’s why you’re not talking to him, so you don’t get angry with him?’

  ‘No offence, but that’s rubbish. I got angry with him this week.’

  She looks surprised. ‘So you did speak?’

  I shrug.

  ‘How did this come about? Did something happen?’

  Did something happen? ‘He wrote a blog about shoplifting. He used his own daughter to educate the masses.’ I fight hard not to get upset.

  ‘Did he mention you in person?’ She looks stunned.

  ‘No, but people could easily work it out.’

  She looks relieved. ‘What did he say?’

  I look out the window. ‘The usual “cry for help” crap.’

  After a pause, she asks, ‘And you don’t go along with that?’

  I turn back. ‘Yeah, sure I do,’ I say sarcastically. ‘I wanted my father back in my life so I took a dress.’ I roll my eyes. ‘Like I couldn’t have picked up the phone?’

  ‘But you haven’t picked up the phone,’ she says gently. ‘Apart from this isolated incident, you haven’t picked up the phone just to talk to him.’

  ‘I don’t want to pick up the phone.’

  After another pause, she asks, ‘Would your mother like you to?’

  ‘What? Are you kidding?’

  ‘Is that why you haven’t?’

  ‘Look. There’s such a thing as loyalty.’

  She puts on this kindly face. ‘Sarah, your mum wouldn’t be human if she didn’t hurt. But don’t you think you’re a bit young to take on her problems?’

  ‘I’m not taking on her problems. I’m just taking her side. Someone has to.’

  ‘Not so.’ She takes a deep breath and leans forward in her chair. ‘Sarah, I know you don’t want to talk to your dad but there are things you need to say to him, feelings you need to let go of. Bottled up emotions find other ways of coming out.’

  ‘What? Like shoplifting?’ I ask, cynically.

  ‘Like illness
, depression, stress. You’re lucky, Sarah. Your subconscious took over before that could happen. It made you do what you, consciously, wouldn’t do – get back in touch with your father. You need to talk to him, Sarah. You need to tell him how you feel about … well, about everything.’

  ‘I stole again,’ I say, because, suddenly, I need to tell someone.

  She doesn’t look surprised. ‘All the more reason to talk to your dad.’

  ‘You think I should just let him have it – like in general?’

  She nods. ‘I think you should say whatever you need to say. Don’t hold back.’

  ‘And if I talked to him, would that be the end of the shoplifting?’ I really need a ‘yes’ here.

  ‘Let’s take this one step at a time, Sarah. Talk to him, then see.’

  She’s just so confident about everything. And I need someone to be confident. Because I’m so afraid I’ll do it again.

  When I get home, Mum looks different. It’s her hair. It’s shorter. And a different colour. Lighter. With some warm highlights.

  ‘You look nice.’ Like, five years younger.

  She touches it. ‘You don’t think it’s too much?’

  ‘No. I think it’s great.’ And I would love to know that this means she’s finally started to look after herself. ‘I could give you a manicure some time, if you like.’

  ‘You can do manicures?’

  ‘You are looking at the manicure expert.’

  When she smiles, it makes me feel warm.

  ‘I could give you one now – if you’re not busy.’ She’s always busy.

  ‘Have you time?’ she asks.

  ‘I’ll go get my stuff.’

  I run upstairs and start to grab my things. I make sure to remember everything. If I have to interrupt the session, she might remember she has something else to do.

  On the kitchen table, I spread out a warm towel from the airing cupboard, the softest I could find. I fold it in two. I get a bowl of boiled water and put in a few drops of lavender oil. Then I set up all my tools. I work fast – just in case.

  ‘Ready,’ I say, as soon as I am. I pull out a chair.

  She comes over, sits down. She starts picking up my stuff and looking at it.

  ‘Very professional,’ she says, like she’s impressed.

  ‘So just put your fingers in the bowl and let them soak.’

  I put on some sounds, a CD I got once for a euro that I’ve never listened to. Sounds of the sea. It seemed like good value at the time.

  Finally, I sit at the table with her and start to get my creams ready.

  ‘So, how did you get on today?’

  Oh God. Just when I’d forgotten. I feel guilty all over again. ‘She wants me to talk to Dad.’ I watch her carefully. ‘I don’t have to.’

  ‘You do. A good mother would have encouraged you to – long ago.’ She looks guilty.

  ‘You are a good mother.’ Kind of.

  ‘I haven’t been.’ She looks at me. ‘But I’m trying to be better, to think of you. And Louis. I’m not the only person who’s been hurt by this.’

  I still feel I should explain. ‘She thinks the shoplifting was a cry for help. She thinks I need to say stuff to Dad.’

  She looks at me intensely. Then nods. ‘Do you miss him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I miss him,’ she says. ‘All the time.’

  Then we’re looking at each other and both of us are welling up.

  ‘You can take your hands out now,’ I say quickly.

  She looks down at them. ‘Oh, right. OK.’

  ‘I’m just going to push back your cuticles.’

  She nods. I pick up my gadget and take one of her hands. We both look down as I get to work.

  ‘It’s OK to miss him, Sarah,’ she says, without looking up. ‘You’re not being disloyal to me. He’s your dad and he loves you.’ Now she looks up. ‘If you decide you want to keep in touch with him, that would be a good thing.’

  I bite my lips together and say nothing because meeting up to let him have it is one thing. Keeping in touch is something completely different. A giant step I can’t even think about right now.

  I want to get on with my life. Be normal again. So, after dinner, I call him.

  ‘The shrink says I should talk to you,’ I say, flatly.

  There’s a pause. ‘OK. Good, I’m glad. When are you free?’

  Oh God. Do I really want to do this? ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘How about tomorrow morning?’

  I need to stop shoplifting. I need to stop seeing the shrink. ‘OK,’ I say, before I change my mind.

  ‘Will I pick you up?’

  I think about him calling to the door. How hard that would be for Mum. ‘No. I’ll meet you somewhere.’

  ‘Where?’

  Not in some public place. I might want to shout. Not in his new home. Where she might be. ‘At the bus stop at the end of the road. At eleven.’

  ‘OK.’

  In the morning, when I’m about to leave, I can’t decide whether to tell Mum or not. I don’t want to bring him up, depress her. But then I don’t want to sneak around behind her back. I go into the kitchen. She’s taking a piece of gum from a wrapper and putting it in her mouth.

  ‘Chewing gum?’ I ask. She hates the stuff.

  She holds up the pack. It’s Nicorette.

  ‘Oh my God, are you giving up smoking?’

  ‘I’m going to try.’

  I so don’t want to tell her now. She looks at me, with my coat on.

  ‘You going to see Dad?’ she asks.

  ‘Yeah.’

  She smiles. ‘Good luck … God, this stuff tastes disgusting.’

  I don’t want her to give up. ‘There’s an inhaler thing that you suck.’

  She smiles. ‘Don’t suppose there’s any chance of a hug?’

  I almost cry. If I was her, I wouldn’t want my daughter seeing him; I wouldn’t want any connection with him, at all, ever, after what he did. I go to her. And when she hugs me tight, I have this feeling that she doesn’t want to lose me either.

  ‘See you later,’ I say, to remind her that she will.

  ‘Hey,’ he says brightly, when I get into the car.

  ‘Hey.’ I can’t look at him. Because I’m still thinking about the blog. And Mum.

  He pulls away from the kerb. For a while he says nothing, then the predictable. ‘How are you?’

  I shrug, look out the side window.

  ‘How’s it going with the psychologist?’

  ‘No clue.’

  Another pause. ‘So, where to?’

  ‘Sandymount Strand.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  We drive in silence, then, after twenty minutes, he pulls up at the beach. The tide is out and there’s nothing but sand for miles. You could scream and no one would hear. I zip up my coat, take a deep breath and get out of the car. For a long time, we just walk. Then he turns to me.

  ‘I’m sorry about the blog, Sarah. It wasn’t a conscious decision to write about shoplifting. I honestly didn’t think.’

  ‘So, you’re telling me that I didn’t cross your mind once when you were writing it?’

  He looks guilty. ‘I guess once I’d started—’

  ‘You just don’t care, do you?’

  ‘Of course I care. I’m sorry. It was stupid—’

  ‘It was selfish, that’s what it was.’

  ‘I know. I know. I should have stopped … I’ll be more thoughtful in future. I promise.’

  ‘It’s just my life, you know?’

  He puts a hand on my shoulder and looks me in the eye. It feels so deliberate. Like he knows this is the right thing to do in this situation.

  ‘Sarah, I’m sorry. I love you,’ he says it so gently, I want to cry. I want to believe him. But he has taught me often enough to judge people by what they do, not what they say.

  ‘You left us.’ I say it simply. Because everything boils down to those three words.

  ‘Sarah,
I didn’t leave you, I left your mother.’

  And boom. Just like that, I could rip him apart. Because he did leave me. And he just called her ‘your mother’. Instead of ‘Mum’.

  ‘I hate you,’ I say.

  He’s silent. He looks at me, scratches his head. ‘I’d hate me too.’

  ‘Oh my God. Do you have to be so condescending? You walked out on us. All of us. You chose a total stranger over us. We were your family. Didn’t that count for anything?’

  He opens his mouth to speak.

  ‘And you left me with Mum’s anger. Months and months of rage. Do you think that’s fair?’ All of a sudden I’m crying. When I so don’t want to be weak.

  He reaches for me.

  ‘Don’t touch me.’

  ‘Sarah, I’m sorry.’

  ‘And stop saying sorry. Sorry’s a word. Anyone can say it. It takes two seconds and no effort at all. It’s a word. Like “fuck” is a word. And “hate” is a word. And “piss off” is a word. OK maybe two words.’ Then I stop talking because I’m making no sense. Anyway, there’s no point. And I’m in serious floods now.

  He hands me a handkerchief, a real cotton handkerchief. He’s always carried one around. And it’s a relief to know that he still does, like maybe there’s one thing about him that hasn’t changed. But that just makes me cry harder.

  ‘I love you, Sarah.’

  ‘Yeah, you already said that. But a person who loves you doesn’t leave. You’re my dad. You’ve responsibilities. You can’t just walk out.’ And I realise then that I’m not just angry that he left but that I miss him. I smell his aftershave on the air and I remember – he was the one who flung us high. He threw us up, knowing he’d catch us. It was only later that everything he did became so deliberate, as if he’d read somewhere it was good parenting practice. Oh God. This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come. I don’t want to remember.

  ‘Sarah, I didn’t plan this, any of this. I didn’t plan on falling out of love with your mother. I didn’t plan on meeting someone else—’