Butterfly Tattoo

by Deidre Knight

  With a sigh, I roll onto my back and smell his childhood bed. Plaid pillowcase, handmade quilt, it’s all a little musty. Like he really has left this world, same as he once left this room. Quiet—impenetrable quiet—blankets me as I prop my head on my elbow, and watch dust motes waft listlessly in a beam of light. Squinting, I look at Al in the picture again. He had no idea what the world held for him then, but he was just wide open, ready for it all, fearless.

  Strange, but I almost feel like it’s me somehow in that crackled photograph, riding high atop the world. For a minute, I close my eyes, and I’m almost certain that it is.

  ***

  Not sure how long it is before I wake up, and for a displaced moment, I think it’s morning. Blinking back the sleep, I even think it’s a year ago, as I scrub a drowsy hand across my face. Then I remember the anniversary and just how much we’ve all lost.

  I slept in this room for days after the funeral. Every now and then, I’d rouse from heavy slumber and gaze through the mottled windowpane into the backyard. I’d spy Andrea with her grandmother, sitting in the garden, or see Laurel coming into the back door, arms filled with brown-paper grocery bags. Whenever I tried to awaken during those days, it felt impossible. Like moving under water in a thick dream; like being drugged. Occasionally I’d stumble downstairs, and Ellen would always kiss me, pointing me straight back to bed. “Sleep, darling. You need rest,” she’d chide me.

  I had to sleep because I couldn’t live. Not with him gone.

  But then, after three days of barely eating the sandwiches and fruit they kept delivering to the bedroom on that food tray, I did finally get up. I had to wake because Andrea was still alive—even if I wasn’t.

  The gratitude I’ll feel for their protection during those first days after we buried Alex is something I’ll never forget, no matter how much some of the later events with Laurel nearly destroyed me. I try and remember that as I blink back the naptime sleep from my eyes and amble downstairs in search of Ellen. Funny how much today feels like a year ago; the same heat, the same shrouding coolness inside this steamship of a house, the same rhythmic ticking of the antique grandfather clock.

  “You’re up already?” Ellen asks. She is sitting at the dining-room table sipping tea, a hardback open in front of her.

  “What are you reading?”

  She examines the novel’s spine. “C.S. Lewis.” Ugh. God stuff. Not what I need today. Settling across from her, I slide my newly discovered picture of Alex across the table toward her. “You see this one?”

  She lifts it eye-level, smiling as she studies it. “That’s the summer he grew like a bean stalk,” she laughs gently. “At least six inches, I think.”

  “You know what I noticed about it?” I ask as she hands it back to me, shaking her head. “That he was triumphant. On top of the world. Guess he always was.”

  “Not always,” she answers wistfully. “But most of the time.”

  Staring down at the image, at the way he’s riding high and confident on Casey’s shoulders, I say, “Bold as a mountain.”

  “Bold as life,” she agrees. “Some people are born that way, Michael. They come to us for a brief, special purpose. We must accept that it was Alex’s way.”

  I know she’s right. Alex, the speedy comet that trailed across my life, then burned out fast. He lived to the fullest, that’s for sure. No apologies, no hesitation, he reached for life with both hands and took it. Gusto should have been his middle name.

  “It was the same way when he came out to me,” she continues. “He was gay, that’s how it was, and he hoped I’d still be proud of him.”

  “And you said?”

  “How could I not be proud?”

  “You’re a great mother.”

  “I had a great son.”

  “Well, you won’t get any arguments from me about that.” I laugh, and our eyes meet. We shared a true love between us; the approach just came from different directions.

  She gets a distant look on her face, staring past me at some unseen place. “He went at everything so intently, it was almost as if he knew he’d die young.”

  “Yeah, maybe some people have a short lifespan coded into their DNA.”

  I thought about that after he was gone. How fitting it was that he’d made a career of staving off death, of battling it, hand to hand; then, ever the victor in others’ lives, he succumbed finally in his own.

  “I’m angry when I think of all the people he might have healed,” I say. “All the kids he could have saved. That really burns me up.”

  “I receive letters from the parents, you know,” she says. “I had one just last week, from the mother of a thirteen-year-old boy he treated for leukemia. Her son has been in remission for five years now. Totally well. She wanted me to know how thankful she was for Alex.”

  Slowly, she moves toward the credenza, easing a drawer open. There must be family silver and serving pieces in that thing, because it gives an uneasy groan, but she steadies it, pulling out a thin envelope. Everything Ellen Richardson does is deliberate, purposeful, elegant. Her movements are choreographed poetry. Like the way she runs her palm over the creased paper as she removes it from the envelope, ironing the thin paper with her fingertips as she lifts her reading glasses upward to the bridge of her long nose.

  She settles into the chair again and studies the page, her eyes skimming over the words. “Your son gave me back my own son,” she begins. “For that I will always be grateful. But we are not alone. I know there are countless others like my family. Your son touched us all.”

  Family. With that one word, tears fill my eyes. Ellen must sense my reaction, because she pauses, glancing upward at me. “Oh, Michael,” she soothes, covering my hand with her own weathered one. “I’m sorry.”

  She blurs, becomes misty as I blink at the tears. I don’t want this woman, the only mother figure in my life, to see me cry. Her bony hand closes around mine, squeezing tight, and the tears won’t stop. Searching for my voice is a useless task; there’s only a tight raspy wheeze as I bow my head, dropping it into my palm.

  Ellen rises from her chair and stands beside me, her familiar hand circling my tired shoulders. “You loved him so much, I know.”

  “It’s not just that,” I manage thickly, glancing up at her. “We were a family.”

  “You still are, Michael. You and Andrea.”

  “But he was the glue. He’s what held us together.”

  She strokes my hair, brushing her long fingers through my unruly locks. “It only feels that way right now, dear.”

  Family. What I hadn’t really known before Al, and what it feels like I’ll never know again. The one thing I still have here, at Ocean Crescent Drive. “I can’t reach her, Ellen. I’ve tried.”

  “I think she’s better.”

  “Maybe on the surface.”

  “She told me Inez is going to keep her this summer.” There’s no accusation in her words, but I feel heavy guilt descend in the space of a heartbeat. That I have to work, that I can’t stay with her myself. That I’m not loaded like the Richardson family used to be, once upon a time, before only the trappings of their fortune remained.

  “While I work,” I offer lamely, wiping at my eyes with the back of my hand.

  Ellen leans down, embracing me, and I catch the faint aroma of hand cream and perfume, tinged with earthy smells from her garden. These scents have been a constant during my thirteen years in her family. “Michael, of course you’re working.” She laughs, giving my shoulder a squeeze of reassurance. “The world works because it must, but perhaps you could take some time off. A vacation for the two of you might help Andrea to open up.” She settles herself regally in the chair beside me again, studying me with her aged blue eyes. Eyes so eerily like my dead lover’s that for a careless moment, I’m startled.

  “I’ve been thinking of taking her back east. To meet my father.”

  Ellen nods, but her mouth turns downward in concern. “Have you spoken to him?” Lately. She
doesn’t say it, but I know that’s what she’s thinking.

  “Nope.” The grandfather clock in the foyer sounds the quarter-hour, and the chimes echo through the whole house. The quiet here has always been peaceful, never lonely like at my home when I was growing up, where it was empty and cavernous. The kind of silence that would swallow you whole if you weren’t careful.

  Ellen draws in a breath. “Does your father know that Alex passed?” Staring down into my tea glass, tinkling the cubes of ice in it, offers me a temporary reprieve until Ellen covers my hand with her own again. “He doesn’t know?”

  “He doesn’t even know that we have a daughter, Ellen,” I confess, glancing up at her. Damned if fresh tears aren’t a serious threat, but I manage to urge them away.

  “You should tell him,” she states with a resolute nod of her head. “He’s your father and he’d want to know.”

  “He doesn’t want any part of what I had with Alex. He made that painfully clear years ago.”

  Again, only the sound of the grandfather clock, measuring the silence between us like a metronome. She knows my family history. Knows that my old man had expected me to become a doctor, not hook up with one—one of the male variety at that. Knows that the Reverend Warner had some very choice words to say about my life partner.

  Keen blue eyes fix me hard. “You are a father, Michael. You understand what this breach between the two of you must be doing to him.”

  “Ellen, no. Seriously. He doesn’t give a crap, okay?”

  “Has he phoned you in the past year?”

  “A few times.” I shrug. “That’s it.”

  “And you didn’t tell him that Alex died?”

  I lean back in my chair, expelling a tight breath. “What do you hear from Laurel lately? You told me she’d be here this weekend.” I’m turning the tables intentionally, reminding her that both our families have their torn places.

  Again, the faint, knowing smile. “She sends her love.”

  I’ll just bet she does.

  “Good. Tell her the same from me, okay?”

  “Maybe you should call her, too?” she suggests in a gentle tone, but that’s one area where my emotions absolutely fear to tread. I can’t deal with Laurel, not yet, and Ellen knows it. She rises to her feet, stepping slowly toward the large picture window at the back of the dining room. Her heeled shoes tap out a staccato rhythm on the polished hardwoods, marking time between us in even measurements.

  Standing at the sun-filled window, she presses a thin hand against her temple, shielding her eyes against the late afternoon light. Andrea’s been sitting out there on a giant chunk of rock overlooking the Pacific for more than an hour, her nose poked into a Nancy Drew mystery.

  I follow Ellen’s gaze, and say, “She loves books.”

  “Like both of her fathers.” She laughs. “What perfect sense that makes.”

  “At least something in this crazy mess does, huh?”

  Ellen turns toward me, absently knotting her long strand of pearls in her hand. “That Andrea would reflect so much of you both? Yes, it makes beautiful sense to me.”

  The idea of some part of Alex, living on here with me, well it’s the only comfort I can take in his death.

  “Laurel wants to see her, Michael.” The warm eyes are still open, but I’m instantly terrified. Terrified of what happened last year, after Alex’s death; that it could happen again. “And you. She misses you.”

  “No way. I can’t.”

  “You must talk to her some time. She’s been afraid to push you, after…” She hesitates, staring away from me. She’s searching for a diplomatic phrase.

  “After what she did to me?” I nearly shout. “That what you mean? Well, good, ’cause she should be afraid.” The rage swells up and I just can’t stop it. We’re talking about Ellen’s own child, after all, and no matter how much she loves me I can’t help feeling cornered. My first priorities always lie with Andrea, so of course Ellen’s are with Laurel. How can she possibly support me? “Ellen, I know she’s your daughter, but she was wrong.”

  She steps close again, never taking her eyes off me. “Michael, I’m not choosing sides, dear,” she explains gently. “Just like I never chose between Laurel and Alex.”

  “Yeah, well you wouldn’t, ’cause they were your children.” I’m on the outside here; I’m always on the outside when it comes to family, so why should this be any different?

  “You are my son now. You can’t possibly doubt that?”

  “I can’t forgive Laurel for what she did to me.”

  “Well, you may not, but at some point, you will have to let her into Andrea’s life. At least in some way. Andrea needs her, too.”

  “Why didn’t she come today? She could’ve seen her, that’s what we’d planned. I know it wasn’t some art dealer that she had to meet with back in Santa Fe.”

  “She didn’t want to push you, Michael. Not today. You may find it hard to believe, but she doesn’t want to hurt you.”

  “Should’ve thought about that a year ago.” My hand has closed around the tea glass in a death grip, and I don’t realize how badly I’m shaking until the ice cubes begin to rattle.

  Ellen lowers herself into the chair beside me and covers my hand again. “You don’t need to be afraid of her. All she wants is a place in Andrea’s life.”

  Anxiety knots its way through my stomach and I feel a wave of instant nausea. It’s not just Laurel I fear, that she’ll work her way into Andie’s life. What worries me most is the thought of her waltzing right in and doing what I can’t possibly accomplish—making a connection. And then, the unthinkable will happen: I’ll lose this one amazing person who binds me permanently to Alex Richardson and the life we once shared.

  Laurel’s always waiting there, always has been, just off in the wings.

  Ellen looks back at me. “Laurel doesn’t want to hurt her, Michael.”

  “No, but she doesn’t give a damn if she hurts me.”

  And to that, there is nothing Ellen Richardson can possibly say.

  ***

  Sunday evening finds us back in L.A. again. The day began with early mass, which I politely declined, even though Ellen did her best to guilt me into attending.

  “Michael, darling, God didn’t kill Alex,” she told me intensely.

  “Never said He did,” I grunted, and she didn’t say another word. She’s been hounding me about my unresolved God issues for years, and she never gives up. I’ve always been her pet spiritual project, and now that Allie’s gone, I guess she’s stepping up the pressure on behalf of her grandbaby.

  So they headed off together, me reclining on the old wicker porch chair with the newspaper, Andrea slipping her small, delicate hand into Ellen’s aged one as they began the walk downhill to Alex’s childhood church, St. Anthony’s. Watching them go, I couldn’t fight a tug of remorse. Alex always made sure our daughter got to church—was rigorously faithful about it, as a matter of fact, and I’m certain that he’d want it for her now. Plus, the eagerness in Andrea’s face told me everything: church binds her to her daddy in a permanent way. Which makes me wish all the painful history with my own father, an Episcopalian minister, wouldn’t prevent me from giving her that simple gift each Sunday. But as much as I love her, and as much as I still love Alex, it’s just one thing I can’t seem to do for either of them.

  After they returned, we sipped on iced tea and ate chicken salad sandwiches in the formal dining room, making small talk about plans for the summer. Andrea actually got a little animated about going to Casey’s for July Fourth, a nice change from our conversation in the car—but then her face fell when I told her Marti would be bringing her kids. “You guys can swim all weekend,” I promised, and she forced a dark smile. Inwardly I groaned, realizing I’d unleashed the demons again. With her, it’s like walking a minefield, and I never seem to know when I’m going to misstep.

  Maybe Rebecca can talk to her again, get her to open up more about the scar. I don’t think it looks
that terrible, but I’m not eight years old. And I don’t bear a physical memento of Alex’s death every day of my life. Not unless you count that butterfly tattoo on my shoulder. Ah, but that’s a pure, perfect memory, a reminder of his vivid life. I’ll never forget that sheer look of mischief that danced in his eyes the first time he tugged my T-shirt off and discovered the small monarch on my shoulder. I remember that he laughed, a soft rumbling sound, tracing it with his fingertip. Michael Warner, maybe a little softer than he’d always seemed on the outside.

  I wonder what Rebecca would think about my tattoo. The thought pops into my head before I can even stop it, and I rub my shoulder like it’s just been burned, imagining her mouth kissing it, the way Al always loved to do. Almost like the flutter of a delicate butterfly wing, there’s the sensation of feminine lips pressed against my skin, Rebecca O’Neill making love to me, one seductive kiss at a time.

  What the hell is wrong with me? Alex deserves better than this. More loyalty. I mean, it’s only been a year. Then how come with as much as I miss him, something feels like it’s starting to change inside of me? Something irreversible, unstoppable.

  I’ve been down this road before, and I know what it’s like to feel the sexual pendulum begin to swing. Which is why that unshakable image of Rebecca O’Neill kissing my back, tumble of blonde hair spilling over my shoulder, lithe body pressed naked against mine tells me one thing.

  Baby, that damn pendulum has already swung.

  Chapter Seven: Rebecca

  And so it’s Sunday evening. Which marks one full weekend—and the better part of a week—without a call from Michael Warner. Ever since the Chinese lunch that I’ve come to term The Debacle, I haven’t heard a word from him. I should’ve told him my entire life story when he asked; I knew then that I’d probably offended him, and this whole non-calling scenario only proves that fact. Now I’ll never hear from him again, I think, hoofing it up the steep, winding hill to the garage apartment where I live. My lungs are tight from the three-mile run I’ve just completed, but at least my body’s more relaxed than it was beforehand.