by Wendy Dunham
He keeps his arms around me. “I’m so sorry, River.”
I pull back and look up. “Dad, even though she doesn’t remember, I think she really likes me.”
Michael invites him in, and my mom comes from the kitchen. She looks at Dad, stares for a minute, and then says, “Yes, please come in and sit down. We just made cookies. So before you leave, you’ll need to try them. I’ll get you some milk too.”
Dad sits at the table while Mom brings him a plate of cookies. Then she pours him a glass of milk. But when she sets it down, she picks it right back up. “Oh, I’m sorry, Jay, you prefer your milk in a mug, not a glass… better for dunking cookies. I’ll switch it.”
She and Dad freeze, staring at each other. She covers her mouth. “How did I know that?”
Dad’s face turns pink. “You must have remembered.”
While Dad says goodbye to Mom and Michael, I go to the guest room for my bag. I leave my heart necklace and picture on the nightstand—it will help her remember.
When Dad and I get back to the Whippoorwills’, Aunt Elizabeth, Uncle Henry, and all the little Whippoorwills greet me with enough hugs to last forever.
Forrest jumps up and down. “Riber not lost! Need to celabate!”
“Forrest is right,” says Aunt Elizabeth, “Let’s celebrate. I’ll whip up a pot of sloppy joes, and we’ll share a meal together.”
Rosa kisses me on my cheek. “I’m glad you’re safe, River.” She rubs my head. “Carlos looked for you too.” She turns to him, who I didn’t see on the other side of the room, and says, “Carlos, come on over. I’d like you to finally meet River.”
He’s wearing jeans, a long sleeve T-shirt, and a baseball cap. He walks across the room slow and awkward, like his legs are stiff or something. He’s taller than Rosa and doesn’t look anything like her. To be honest, with all his scars, it’s probably not possible he could look like anyone human.
He smiles and reaches out his hand. “Hi, I’m Carlos.”
I take his hand, which has bent fingers and blotchy patches of skin. It feels smooth, soft, and bumpy all at the same time. “Hi, Carlos,” I say, trying not to stare. “I’m River. Thanks for looking for me.”
He smiles. “Glad I could help.”
Just then Nathan rushes over with the bucket of Lincoln Logs and interrupts (which I actually appreciate because it’s awkward enough meeting someone for the first time, especially when they’re covered with burn scars). “Hey, Carlos,” he says, “want to come show the little ones how to build a horse ranch?”
Carlos nods. “Sure, I’ll be right there.” Then he turns to me, “It’s good to meet you, River.”
Rosa watches him walk away. “He’s a great kid,” she says. “Hard on the eyes, but once you know him, somehow the scars disappear.”
I smile at Rosa. “Want to help Aunt Elizabeth make sloppy joes?”
She grabs my hand and we hurry to the kitchen.
18
Red-Spotted Purple
After we eat sloppy joes, I take Carlos to see the birding place. He told me he’d read about it in The Birdsong Times just after he moved here (and since it was in the paper only once, when Billy died, Carlos must know what happened).
Carlos can’t walk fast, so I lead him across Meadowlark Lane and through the shaded trail at a slow pace.
When we reach the open field, Carlos looks back and forth across the field and out at the river. “It’s beautiful.”
While I show him around, I tell him how Billy and I made suet and hummingbird nectar to feed the birds. I show him the birdbath we made and all the flowers we planted. I show him the wooden bird feeder on the metal pole, but I don’t say anything about the BBs still lodged in the wood.
Carlos wipes his forehead on his shirt sleeve.
“Aren’t you hot with pants and long sleeves?”
“Real hot,” he says, “but I have to be careful and cover my skin when I’m in the sun.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m used to it.” We walk around a little more when he says, “You know, River, if you don’t want to talk about it, I understand. But is your friend Billy the William I read about in the paper? The one who died here?”
I nod. “That was Billy.”
When Carlos looks at me, his eyes seem to say he understands. “I’m real sorry. It’s hard losing someone you care about.”
I smile at him, then lead the way to a row of birch trees at the edge of the field. I point to a bluebird house nailed to one of them. “We even made bluebird houses.”
“They’re like the ones I made in scouts. Yours came out great.” All of a sudden Carlos points to the trunk of that tree. “Look! A red-spotted purple!”
“A red-spotted purple what?”
Carlos laughs. “Sorry! A red-spotted purple butterfly. They’re typically called red-spotted purples for short. Do you see it?”
I shake my head.
“Look about three feet below the bluebird house—it’s drinking sap from the tree.”
“Now I see it.” We walk through the tall grass to get closer.
Carlos says, “That is absolutely my favorite butterfly.”
“I don’t think I’ve seen that kind here before. There’s mostly monarchs. But honestly I don’t see what’s so special about it. It looks sort of plain.”
“Then we need to get closer.” I follow Carlos until we’re close enough to the tree to touch it. “Watch this,” he says, reaching for the butterfly. “Red-spotted purples aren’t afraid of humans.” After it climbs on his finger, he brings his hand close to me. “Here,” he says, “hold your hand out.”
When I bring my hand to his, the butterfly climbs onto mine. As it opens and closes its wings, I now see why they’re his favorite. “Wow, the top and the underneath of its wings are completely different.”
“You’re right. And what you saw before was only the underneath—the brownish black with orange spots. It’s nice, but like you said, sort of plain. But when you see the colors on the top of its wings, that iridescent blue can easily take your breath away.”
I lift my hand to my eyes to look even closer, when the red-spotted purple climbs off my finger and onto my nose. Carlos and I laugh so hard that it flies off my nose and back to the tree.
“Even though the red-spotted purple is incredibly beautiful,” he says, “that’s not why I’m crazy about it.” Then he doesn’t say anything else.
I put my hands on my hips. “Well, are you going to tell me why?”
Carlos grins. “Sure, if you want to know.” He still doesn’t say anything.
“Oh, I get it. You want me to beg? Fine. Please, Carlos, I beg you! Tell me why you’re so in love with the red-spotted purple.”
He looks at me and smiles. “Hmmm? The red-spotted purple what?”
I cross my arms. “Very funny. Come on! Tell me!”
“Okay, I’ve tortured you enough. I like them because I often think of myself as a red-spotted purple.”
“And I was just beginning to think you were normal.”
“But,” he continues, “I actually think of myself as a red-spotted purple caterpillar waiting to become a red-spotted purple butterfly. You see,” he explains, “a red-spotted purple caterpillar is ugly and created to look like a bird dropping. It’s so ugly that even its predators won’t eat it. But it doesn’t stay ugly forever. One day that ugly caterpillar undergoes metamorphosis and transforms into a magnificent thing of beauty.”
I take a deep breath, not sure what to say.
“You see,” Carlos says, “when I get to heaven, I believe God will give me a new body, kind of like a metamorphosis.”
When he tells me that, his eyes look full of hope.
I smile at Carlos and hardly see his scars.
Wednesday July 13, 1983
Dear Diary,
So much has happened. I finally met my mom. And Michael was right—it wasn’t the reunion I dreamed of, but it
’s a start. She doesn’t remember me, but she sure remembered something about Dad. He blushed and got redder than a strawberry. It won’t be long until she remembers everything and we’re a family again. But I feel bad for Michael, Bennie, and Livvy. They’ll just have to understand that she knew us first. It’s only fair.
And I met Carlos. I never thought I’d have another friend like Billy, but I think I do. If Billy were here, he’d like him too.
I keep thinking about the red-spotted purple caterpillar. Even though Carlos knows he’s ugly on the outside, it doesn’t stop him from looking great on the inside. Maybe I’ll feel like that when I get my brace. I know I’ll look different from everyone. But at least I’ll be done wearing it when I’m seventeen or so, and then I’ll look normal again. Carlos won’t ever look normal… until he gets to heaven, anyway.
Signed,
River
I tuck my diary under my mattress and turn off the light.
19
Mailed the Letter
Dad knocks on my door and peeks in. “Good morning, River. Don’t you have to volunteer this morning?”
I pull my head out from under my sheet. “No, only Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays.”
“Since you’re not volunteering, would you like to help paint the studio?”
“Sure.”
“Great. Throw on some old clothes, then we’ll eat breakfast and head to the store to buy paint.”
When I get to the kitchen, Dad flips two pieces of French toast onto my plate.
“I didn’t know you could make French toast.”
Dad gives me a wink. “We’ll probably learn something new about each other every day.”
“Kind of like Mom—she’ll remember something new every day.”
“River, just because she remembered one thing about me doesn’t mean she’ll remember anything else. Don’t get your hopes up.”
After we eat, I set our plates in the sink and notice a newspaper clipping on the counter. I reach for it. “What’s this?”
But Dad’s quicker and puts his hand on it. “I almost forgot,” he says. “Remember I said I’d look for your mother’s garden bench columns?”
I nod.
“Well, I found one. But, River,” he says, “the more I think about it, the more I realize it may not be a good idea that you read it.”
“It is, Dad,” I say, carefully pulling it out from under his hand. “Just because Mom doesn’t remember me yet, doesn’t mean I shouldn’t know more about her.”
“Then put it in your room for now, and we’ll head to the store.”
I look at Dad, hoping I won’t disappoint him. “If you don’t mind, Dad, maybe I could meet you at the studio in a little while? There’s something I need to do.”
“That’s fine.” He grabs his keys. “See you when you get there.”
I bring Mom’s column to my room, climb onto my bed, and read it—
Thoughts from the Garden Bench
by Margaret Whippoorwill
May, 1971
Strolling along the paths of our cottage garden has provided some of the fondest times for my husband and me. At the earliest signs of spring, we can be found in the still of the morning searching for that first crocus—he with his coffee in hand and me with River, our eight-month-old daughter. And when May arrives, our garden walks become even more of a sensation as the May flower, better known as the lily of the valley, pokes through spring’s moist soil and spreads its sweet aroma throughout our garden. Although its fragrance is strong, the flower is as fragile as life. On a tender stem, hang delicate, white, bell-shaped flowers. Not only do I love the flower’s sweet fragrance, I love the meaning it carries. The lily of the valley is often referred to as the return of happiness. It means “you’ve made my life complete.”
This month may you enjoy the sweet fragrance of the lily of the valley, discover the return of happiness, and know, like me, your life is complete.
I hold her column close to my heart. “See, Mom? We were complete. You just need to remember.”
I find a pen and piece of paper.
Dear Mom,
I’m so glad I met you. I’m sorry you don’t remember me, but I know you will. It must be hard for you. I’ll pray every day that God helps you remember.
Dad gave me one of your old garden bench columns. It’s from May of 1971. You wrote about the lily of the valley. Do you remember? You said your life was complete—with you, Dad, and me. I was eight months old then.
Mom, please remember the lily of the valley and what it means. I want to know you more than anything. You already remembered something special about Dad, so I know you’ll remember everything else too.
Love your daughter,
River
I write Mom’s address on the envelope and grab twenty cents for a stamp. It won’t be long ’til we’re complete again—Dad, Mom, and me.
I stop by the post office on my way to the studio.
Dad’s on a ladder painting. “There you are,” he says. “Ready to paint?”
I look at the color he picked and scrunch my nose.
“What’s the matter?” he asks.
“I would’ve picked a more cheerful color. Don’t you want people smiling when you take their picture?”
Dad laughs. “Maybe you’ll need to make them smile.”
“Come on, Dad. Why didn’t you pick a happy color like yellow? Anything would be better than gray.”
“Tell you what,” he says, “since I picked the studio color, you pick for the office and kitchen. And by the way, gray’s a fantastic color for the studio—it has to do with the lighting.”
“Whatever you say, Dad.” He shows me how to use the paint roller. It’s easy. Dip the roller in paint, then move it up and down along the wall. And since the studio’s small, we finish before noon.
Dad takes me to Chick-a-Dee’s Diner again for lunch. He dips the last onion ring in ketchup. “I haven’t had a chance to ask,” he says, “what do you think of Carlos?”
“He’s real nice,” I say, then suck the last bit of chocolate shake through my straw (not realizing the noise ’til Dad looks at me with raised eyebrows). “And he knows a lot about butterflies.”
Dad laughs. “Butterfly knowledge is a plus.” He fiddles with his napkin. “Sounds like he’s been through a lot.”
“He actually hasn’t said anything, but Rosa told me a little.”
Dad picks the bill up off our table. “I’m sure he’ll share more when he’s ready.”
Talking about Carlos gives me an idea. “Dad, do you think he’d like to paint with us?”
“You know, Rosa mentioned he’s been bored and hasn’t made many friends, so maybe he would.”
“Can we ask?”
Dad checks his watch. “Rosa’s working, but we could swing by their place on the way to buy paint.”
“How do you know where they live?”
I could be wrong, but Dad looks almost embarrassed. “Oh,” he says, “I stopped over once to help move their refrigerator.”
That’s strange, since Gram and I moved our refrigerator alone before. But Carlos probably can’t move big things like refrigerators, so I guess it makes sense.
Dad pays our bill and we leave.
20
A Butterfly in the House
Dad drives down Main Street, then turns right after getting off Meadowlark Bridge. In a few seconds, he pulls in to the parking lot of Shearwater Apartments (they’re on the other side of Meadowlark River, opposite Gram’s house). I was expecting a house.
I follow Dad to apartment number eleven, where he knocks.
The door opens, and there’s Carlos wearing a pair of blue gym shorts, holding a book in his hand. “Wow,” he says, “what a surprise.” He opens the door all the way. “Come in and have a seat. I’ll be back—just going to throw on a shirt.”
“Tell you what,” Dad says, “before you do, River can explain why we’re here.”
I force myself to look at
Carlos’s eyes (and not his legs, feet, stomach, and chest, which are covered in just as many scars as his face and hands that I saw yesterday). “We’re painting Dad’s photography studio and wondered if you’d like to help.”
“Sure,” he says. “I helped paint our scout lodge once.”
“Great,” Dad says. “Then put on something you won’t mind getting dirty.”
Carlos smiles. “Good idea, plus I’ll call my mom to let her know.” He sets his book on the living room table, face down. “Make yourself at home,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”
Dad and I sit on the couch. He picks up a magazine, and I take a peek at the back of Carlos’s book, hoping he doesn’t come back and catch me. Abel’s Island by William Steig. There’s a picture of a mouse, who I assume is Abel. Why is Carlos reading about a mouse? Just then I hear Carlos close a door, and he’s back in the living room. I put his book back just in time.
On the way to the studio, we stop to buy paint. Because of Carlos, Dad and I walk slowly. Store workers and shoppers watch us walk in, but I don’t think much of it. For some reason, it seems like everyone’s staring.
Dad leads us to the paint section. “Okay, River, choose your colors.” Then he tells Carlos, “River wants happy paint. She says the gray I picked for the studio is so sad that no one will smile.”
I punch Dad’s arm. “Come on, stop picking on me.”
“Maybe I can help,” Carlos says and then turns to look at the color samples on the wall.
A sales person comes over to us. “May I help you?”
Dad continues picking on me. “Yes,” he says. “My daughter wants to purchase two gallons of happy paint.”
The salesperson smiles. “Happy paint? Well, let me see if I can be of assistance.”
Just then Carlos turns around. “I think I found one,” he says, handing me a color sample.
The salesperson’s face turns white. “Well,” he says, “looks like you’re all set.” He puts his hand over his mouth and walks away.
