Paper Butterflies

by Lisa Heathfield

  “Then they’ll pay too, June.”

  And it makes me feel good. Because I’ve got someone else on my side.

  “Karma is powerful stuff,” he says.

  “I wish I could keep it in a bottle and use it when I need it,” I say.

  Blister laughs. “Don’t worry. It’ll be there.”

  I look up at the bright blue sky.

  You won’t catch me, Karma, I think. I won’t do anything bad.

  And I close my eyes and breathe in the dry smell of our field and the muddy smell of Blister and I know that I’m happy.

  “Do you reckon the rabbit has been buried long enough?” Blister asks. I open my eyes and sit up to face him.

  “How long’s it been?”

  “Three months,” he says. Three months since we found the rabbit dead in the forest, when we’d buried it properly and I’d said a prayer.

  “Is that enough time?” I ask.

  “It normally is.”

  Blister stands up quickly. He’s always the most excited about this bit, as though he’s digging up treasure. He doesn’t like to leave the animals alone in the ground, when he can find them and make them beautiful again.

  We walk quickly through the grass and Blister goes into our Bones Trailer to get a bag and two trowels. He passes one to me and we climb through the fence at the back of our field and into the cool of our forest.

  We follow the path in silence. Blister likes this bit to be quite solemn. Out of respect, he says.

  It isn’t difficult to find the little cross. He always buries the animals in the same place. If there’s more than one at a time, he buries them side by side.

  “Are you sure it’s been long enough?” I ask as we start to dig. I don’t want it to be like the last time, when there were sticky tendons still stuck to the bird’s bones.

  “I think so,” Blister says, and he picks up the earth in his trowel and trickles it gently next to us. “Be careful,” he reminds me.

  We dig more slowly as we get deeper.

  I see it first, a dusty white color sticking up through the brown.

  “Stop,” I say, and push Blister’s arm away from the hole. I press my fingers into the earth and gently pry the first bone loose.

  “Wow, that’s a beauty,” Blister says, and I smile with pride, as though this is all my work. He unzips the bag and I place the bone gently inside.

  Blister pushes the crumbled earth aside until he reaches the next one. He rubs it slightly and pushes up his glasses with his muddy finger.

  “Tibia, I reckon,” he says.

  “Is that the leg bone?” I ask, and he nods his head.

  I let him dig with his fingers until he finds the skull. He cups it in both his hands and holds it up.

  “Look at that,” he says. I nod and try not to think of my mom.

  We collect the rest of the bones and when we’re sure we’ve got them all, we push the earth back into its hole and I flatten the top with the palm of my hand. Blister puts the little cross at the top of his bag and we walk in silence back to our trailers.

  •••

  “Blister, do you think I’m fat?”

  He’s laying the rabbit bones out on the table in height order. They’re washed clean and he’s dried each one of them carefully. He stops what he’s doing and looks at me.

  “A bit,” he says. “Do you think I am?”

  “A bit,” I say, and smile, but inside, my heart is hammering, because I know I’m going to tell him.

  “What?” he says, laughing as I stare at him.

  “Kathleen makes me eat too much,” I say quickly. “She wants me to be fat.”

  I don’t know what I expect him to say. I don’t even know if I want him to say anything. Maybe I should try to swallow the words right back up and we can both forget that they ever hung in the air.

  “Does she do it to Megan?” he asks quietly.

  “No. She gives her a little. She gives me a lot.”

  “I thought she just said nasty things to you,” he says.

  “And this as well,” I say, and hold my breath.

  “Can you ask her not to?” he asks.

  It feels like the world is beginning to crumble under me.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say. I want to look at him and smile. To pretend that I haven’t wanted to tell him for forever and now his answer is all wrong.

  Blister shivers, as if he’s cold, and starts to rearrange the rabbit shapes slightly. I know I can’t let Kathleen darken his life too.

  “What are we doing with these?” I ask, pushing her far away from here.

  “I want to give this to Tom for his birthday,” he says. “Do you want to hold, or glue?”

  “I’ll glue,” I say.

  Blister picks up two bones. “Just here,” he says, and points clumsily with his thumb.

  I squirt some glue onto the plate, dip in the plastic brush and sweep it over the hard top of the rabbit’s leg. Blister pushes it into the femur.

  “I’ll hold too,” I say as I put the glue on the other leg. “What happened to your glasses?” There’s sticky tape wrapped around the arm and rim, and it makes them slant slightly.

  “Eddie sat on them.”

  “Does it make everything wobbly?”

  “It’s fine,” he says, scrunching up his nose. “Do you know what my favorite color is today?”

  “Green?”

  “No.”

  “Black?”

  “Nope. Orange. I love that color.”

  “Today, mine’s turquoise,” I say.

  “Turquoise?”

  “It’s pretty,” I say.

  “Like you,” Blister smiles. He’ll look strange when the train tracks are taken off and all his toothy gaps have gone.

  “Like you too,” I say.

  “Can I be handsome instead?”

  “You can be that too.”

  Blister moves his hand very slowly from the rabbit’s leg. The bone holds.

  “Ta-da,” he says proudly, but the bone slips down and crashes to the table. “Tom better appreciate this,” he mumbles, pushing the bone back into place. “It’s going to take us forever.”

  “I’ve got forever,” I say.

  The skull is the difficult part. Blister puts a stick through the holes, to help it stay in place. We take turns holding it.

  “Are you going to paint it?” I ask, my arms beginning to ache a bit.

  “I might. Maybe black?” Blister thinks. Black bones. I wonder if anyone has ever had black bones.

  “Tom’d like that,” I say. He hands the small skeleton to me. It feels heavy, but I know it’s not. I imagine it with fur, with eyes looking at me. With a little heart beating and blood being where it’s meant to be. Instead of this, all gone.

  “Blister?” I ask.

  “Mm.” He’s looking in the cupboard. There’s a small line of his skin showing under his T-shirt as he reaches up.

  “What do you think happens to us when we die?”

  He puts a tub of black paint on the table, but then he stops and looks at me.

  “Do you think there’s a heaven?” I ask.

  “I know there is,” he says. He’s so sure. “Otherwise, what would be the point?”

  “To life?”

  “Yeah. And it wouldn’t be fair, otherwise. Some people die as babies, others live to a hundred. It wouldn’t be fair if that was it. You’ve got to have somewhere to go on to.”

  “Is my mom there?”

  “Definitely,” Blister says.

  He gets up to pick a paintbrush from the bucket and scoops a mug of water from the bowl. He has to work the spoon all the way round the lid of the paint tin until it gives way and lifts off.

  “Will the black stay on?” I ask.

  “I think I’ll have to go over it a few times.”

  The smell of paint fills the trailer, even with the door hooked open.

  “Do you ever go to church?” I ask him.

  “Only at Thanksgivi
ng and Christmas. Mom finds it a bit stressful, though, with half of us crawling around the floor, the other half laughing in the wrong bits.”

  “I don’t find it stressful. I like it.”

  “I didn’t know you went.”

  “I used to, sometimes. With my mom. We’d dress up a bit and go to the church over near Neville’s Creek. We’d drive there together, just me and her.” It felt like the sun was always shining on those days. Mom would hold my hand and we’d sing so our songs wove in and out of the rafters.

  “How come she drowned, June?” Blister doesn’t look at me as he speaks. Instead, he concentrates on making the white bones black. I move my fingers slightly so they don’t get covered in paint. “You don’t have to say.”

  “It’s OK,” I tell him, although it’s not. “It was the river by our house. She went for a swim and got caught in the weeds.”

  Blister sucks the air in through his teeth.

  “That’s horrible,” he says.

  “I think she must have been frightened,” I say quietly. It’s difficult to get the words out. I’ve thought them so many times, but I’ve never actually said it. Blister puts the paintbrush down.

  “Yes. She would have been. But only for a bit, June. I’ve read that it’s a peaceful way to die.”

  I can’t answer him. Nothing makes it better.

  “I wish it hadn’t happened to you,” Blister says. I nod and touch the wet paint gently with my fingertips. It’s darker than my skin. I hold the bones still and wait for it to dry.

  •••

  I’m happy when I walk into our house. I’ve gotten better at keeping hold of my good times with Blister and carrying them with me through the front door.

  But Kathleen grabs me. She yanks my ribbon from my hair. Terror swoops into me as she drags me into the kitchen, where Megan stands silently in the corner.

  Kathleen holds my arms tight by my side as she pushes me into a chair. She’s somehow managed to grab my head too and she tips it back, forcing my mouth open wide.

  “Quickly,” she says. I can’t see Megan now, but I can hear her scuttling closer.

  Megan’s face is expressionless as she lowers my red ribbon until it sits at the back of my throat. I start to gag, but it only makes it go down further.

  “Twist it around,” Kathleen tells her. Megan looks at her, as though she doesn’t understand. But when Kathleen nods she slowly begins to turn the ribbon stuck in my throat. I writhe to get away, but Kathleen is too strong. She’s always too strong.

  “Put your hand over her mouth,” Kathleen tells her. Megan pauses. Fear creeps into her eyes. “Do it now,” Kathleen says. Megan’s hand feels small and she doesn’t press down hard, but my throat tightens and I retch.

  I can’t breathe.

  I’m going to die.

  I’m coughing and the ribbon is sticking and building in my throat. I know Kathleen is laughing, but all I can hear is the blood thumping in my ears and my legs stamping on the floor.

  My dad will come back and then he’ll know. I’ll lie bloated on his kitchen floor and they won’t escape this time.

  Megan lets go of my mouth and backs away as I gasp for air, but the ribbon sticks so far down my throat that I can’t stop myself vomiting. Kathleen holds my head back tight and the vomit is gurgling like lumps of acid.

  My dad will find me too late.

  She throws my head forward and I’m sick all over my lap. I’m breathing so hard, trying to get enough air into me. Trying not to die.

  “You’re disgusting, just like your mom,” I hear Kathleen say. “Clean up this mess. I don’t want black girl’s vomit on my floor.”

  •••

  In my bedroom, I can still smell the sharp smell. I’ve washed my clothes in the bathtub and scrubbed my hands, but it seems to have found a way into me and I can’t get it out.

  Quietly, I open my bottom drawer. I take out the top two sweaters and find my shoebox underneath. I lift it out, put it on the floor in front of me and take off the lid.

  All my most precious things fill it. Memories of my mom, and Blister’s paper shapes. I find my white angel and hold her to me. She’ll be able to hear my heartbeat. She lets me cry, quietly, so they can’t hear.

  The pain of needing my mom is like burning coal inside me. I want her to come back. I want her here, in my bedroom now, holding my hand and braiding my hair.

  I’m crushing my angel too tight. I don’t want to damage her. She tells me to cry until there’s nothing left and the feeling in my chest becomes more like an ache.

  Carefully, I put her back among my paper castle and my tulip and all the other things that Blister’s made for me. I put the lid back on, to keep them safe, put the box back in the drawer with the sweaters on top and silently push the drawer closed.

  •••

  Miss Sykes touches my arm as I’m about to walk out of the classroom the next day.

  “June, can I have a word?” she asks.

  I stand by her desk and watch the rest of the children go. Miss Sykes sits down and takes off her half-moon glasses. They hang from blue string around her neck.

  “Is everything all right with you at the moment, June?”

  “Yes, Miss Sykes.”

  “Are any of the children still upsetting you?”

  I look at the floor. “No, Miss Sykes.”

  “I heard Kelly making a jibe about your weight,” she says. I bite the inside of my cheek.

  “It’s not bad,” I say.

  “Any name-calling is bad.”

  I look up at the clock and then at the door.

  “And how about at home? Is everything all right at home?” I stare at her. Is this a trap? Is Kathleen hiding somewhere, ready to pounce? “June?”

  “I’m going to be late for lunch, Miss Sykes,” I say.

  She looks at me and sighs deeply. “All right, but promise me you’ll talk to me if you need to.”

  I nod. But I know she’d never believe me. They never do. And before she can ask any more I’m gone.

  •••

  It’s been a week since Blister and I made Tom’s birthday present and the rain soaks me as I pedal fast to his house. I’m wearing my raincoat, so my arms and back are dry, but my legs are shiny with wet. The hood keeps my hair dry, but it can’t keep the rain out of my eyes.

  The path leading up to their house is always littered with things that should be inside. Clothes, or a chair, or a boot. They’re like secret signs to follow, to get to the front door. Someone must pick them up eventually, as they change every time.

  Today, there’s a sweater left in the rain. A bit further on, there’s a toy oven, puddles gathering on the plastic. A teddy bear lies face down in the water.

  I leave my bike leaning against the hedge and go up the path. I don’t knock on their front door. No one would answer in any case.

  The door handle is dented and I don’t even have to turn it. I just push the door open and poke my head around. There’s no one here.

  “Hello?” I call. There are sounds coming from all over the house.

  Mr. Wick walks out of the kitchen, a dishcloth slung over his shoulder, icing on his chin.

  “June!” he says. He comes over and hugs me, even though I’m soaking wet. He smells of flour and wood-chips. “Blister!” he yells up the stairs. He looks back at me. “Come in and close the door.”

  I shut the rain out, but I know it’ll take ages for my shoes to dry.

  “I’ll put your raincoat by the stove,” Mr. Wick says. I’m dripping all over his floor, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “Blister!” He leaves me standing in the hall as he disappears into the kitchen.

  “Hi, June,” Mrs. Wick calls from the kitchen. I go through the big, white door, to find her stacking cookies onto a plate. She stops what she’s doing, just to come to see me.

  “Your hair looks lovely like that,” she tells me, and she kisses me once on one cheek and once on the other. I spent a long time deciding on my hair this
morning and it’s in two buns, high up on my head. “Come and stand where it’s warm.”

  She’s fussing me over to the stove when Blister comes in.

  “Hiya,” he says. He’s always a bit different with me when we’re here, as though we need our trailers to really be us. He reaches out for a cookie.

  “Uh-uh,” Mrs. Wick says, and swipes his hand away.

  “Have you given Tom his present?” I ask him.

  “Not yet. I was waiting for you to get here.”

  He disappears into the room next door and comes back with a package wrapped in newspaper. It’s covered in tiny paper ladybugs.

  “Where is he, Mom?”

  “He could be anywhere,” she laughs, filling a jug of water.

  Blister sticks his head out the kitchen door.

  “Tom!” he yells.

  “You could try looking,” Mr. Wick says as he rinses the empty sieve.

  “Come on,” Blister says to me.

  We find Tom in the study with Mil. Blankets drape across their dad’s desk and hang down either side. We can hear them, chattering away from inside.

  “Can we come in?” Blister asks.

  “Password?” Tom asks.

  “Horse.”

  “No.”

  “Feet?”

  “Nope,” Mil giggles.

  “Well, if you don’t want your present,” Blister laughs and stomps loudly back to the door.

  The blanket whips aside.

  “June!” Mil smiles at me. She has a streak of jam across her cheek.

  “You can come in,” Tom says. So I wriggle in beside them, pushing the plate of half-eaten sandwiches out of the way.

  “How does it feel to be six?” I ask.

  “Good,” Tom says, smiling, although his breath is wheezy.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “OK.”

  “Blister says the new medicine is yuck,” I say. Tom nods his head and screws up his nose.

  Blister comes in and pulls the blanket closed behind him. It’s darker, but not pitch black. Light scoots in around the edges.

  “This is for you.” Blister passes the present to Tom. “It’s from me and June.”

  Tom smiles. “Thanks.” He picks off every one of the ladybugs and lines them up in a row at the edge of the hideout.

  “Careful opening it,” Blister tells him.

  Tom rips back the newspaper, until he’s holding the rabbit’s black skeleton. Even in the dim light, I can see happiness in his eyes.