Paper Butterflies

by Lisa Heathfield

  “Kathleen said something. And the way she looked at me. She wanted me to know.” We don’t stop, but Blister’s hand tightens around mine.

  “You might have gotten it wrong,” he says.

  “No. I think it’s true.” The words feel too heavy to say.

  For a moment there’s nothing but the sound of our feet on the road.

  “But you said Megan’s dad was someone she’d never met.”

  “I thought he was.”

  “And she can’t be your dad’s daughter. Your mom died when you were six.”

  “I know.”

  “But Megan’s only one year younger than you.”

  “Yes.”

  I wish I could hear Blister’s thoughts.

  “Do you really think so?” he asks.

  I don’t reply, but he knows what’s in my mind.

  “Oh, God.”

  I thought my dad had loved my mom. I thought they’d been happy. I thought that it had only been us three.

  “What are you going to do?” Blister asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Will you ask him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  A truck drives past, kicking up the dust.

  “But what if you find out that Kathleen was with your dad when your mom was alive? Would you really want to know?”

  “Yes. I’d need to,” I say strongly.

  “But it’d be awful.”

  We still have so far to walk and already my shoes feel filled with sand.

  “Do you think my mom knew?” I ask.

  Blister breathes out heavily. “I don’t know.”

  “I had no idea,” I say.

  “None at all?”

  “No,” I answer sharply.

  I remember my mom and dad together, happy.

  Blister takes his hand from mine and puts his arm over my shoulder.

  “You can face whatever they tell you,” he says. “I’ll help you.”

  •••

  Blister’s dad drops me half a mile from my house. He doesn’t question why. Maybe he knows more than I think he does.

  “Will you be all right?” he asks. I nod and he hauls the remains of my bike from the trailer. “I can tell your dad what happened, if you like.”

  “It’s OK.”

  “Are you going to be able to get it home?”

  “Yes. It’s not too heavy.”

  “OK.” He sweeps me into a hug. He smells of the Wicks’ house and I want to hold onto him tight. “You just phone me if ever you want a lift to our house. I’m happy to come and pick you up.”

  “Thank you.” I feel completely hollow.

  I watch as he gets back into his car and slams the door. He leans out his open window.

  “See you soon.”

  I think I’m going to cry in front of him, so I nod quickly and start to walk away. I hear his car go and leave me.

  My bicycle is awkward to carry. I have to half drag it, but even that’s difficult. I think about leaving it here and asking my dad to come and help me to get it, but I know I can’t do that. I never want him to help me with anything again.

  Megan is turning cartwheels on the front lawn. Kathleen is weeding the flower bed. Megan gasps as she sees me. Kathleen stands up straight and squints slightly in the sun.

  It’s hard to pull my bicycle through the gate, but I manage it.

  “What have you done to your bike?” Megan comes up to me, but she doesn’t get too close.

  “It was a tornado.”

  “A tornado?” Kathleen almost spits.

  “Dad’s going to kill you,” Megan says.

  “It wasn’t my fault.” I take my bike to the side of the house and lean it against the wall. It bends away from the bricks.

  Megan tries to follow me as I go into the house.

  “What are you going to tell him?” she asks. I shut the front door behind me, so I can’t see or hear them.

  I find my dad in the living room. He has the television pulled out and is doing something with the wires. I go and stand as close to him as I can get.

  “June?” He looks up, surprised.

  “Is Megan your real daughter?” I ask.

  I watch as his face crumples. I see the lies he wants to tell me get folded away and the expression that’s left is hopeless.

  “What do you mean?” he asks.

  “You know what I mean. Is it true?”

  “June.” He pulls himself up to sit on the edge of the armchair.

  “Did Mom know?”

  He puts his face into his hands as though he can rub the shame away.

  “Did she know?” I’m starting to shout, and he’s looking toward the door. He holds his hand out to me, as if I’d want to take it.

  “No,” he says. “Yes. She found out.”

  “Found out?”

  “Yes.”

  “That Megan was yours?”

  “No, not that. She found out about Kathleen.”

  “When?”

  He rubs his fingers over his creased forehead, over and over.

  “A few months before she died.”

  My world creeps in around me.

  “But Megan was five by then,” I say.

  “Yes.”

  “So you must have known Kathleen all that time.”

  Dad nods slowly. “Yes.”

  “But Mom loved you.”

  “It’s complicated,” Dad tries.

  Kathleen’s antique clock is on the mantelpiece. I run over and pick it up. Dad just has time to cover his head before I throw it hard at him.

  On the wall, there’s a picture of Dad and Kathleen on their wedding day. They smile out at me and I hate them. I rip it from its hook and hurl it at the wall. It smashes and the splinters pierce their perfect faces.

  Dad jumps up and he tries to hold me, but I kick out at him. I break free and grab Kathleen’s shepherd ornament from the shelf. I throw it at the wall and hear the china smash.

  Kathleen and Megan come running in. They stop in the doorway.

  I run toward them, but Dad pulls me back.

  “Did you know?” I yell at Megan.

  “Know what?” She moves a bit behind Kathleen as I shove myself out of Dad’s arms.

  “That he’s your real dad!” I shout it so hard that my throat burns.

  Megan stares at me. “Who?”

  “Him.” I point toward the dad I used to know.

  The expression on her face changes. She looks lost.

  “He’s not,” she says. She seems five years old again.

  “Ask him!” I shout.

  “I’m sorry.” Dad tries to reach out for Megan, just as I look at Kathleen.

  “I hate you!” I scream at her. Dad grabs me back again. “I hate you I hate you I hate you!”

  Kathleen moves slowly behind the sofa, but Megan stands still, as though the words still don’t make sense for her.

  I kick Dad hard and he doubles over and I run from him.

  I have nowhere to go. Without my bike, I’m trapped. I storm up the stairs and slam my door. I wedge my chair under the handle. I kick my bed again and again, before falling onto it and screaming into my pillow, hitting and hitting it. The anger is like a knot in me and it feels like it’s growing. Its tendrils creep into my lungs, into my stomach and into my heart.

  I scream until my throat is so sore that it burns to breathe.

  I curl up into a ball. I want to disappear.

  •••

  I won’t eat breakfast with them. I’m silent as I pack my bag with bread and fruit. I take a bottle of water from the fridge.

  “I want you to drive me,” I tell my dad. I won’t look at him. I’ll never look at him again.

  “Where?” he asks. He sounds defeated.

  “Out.”

  “June, he’s eating breakfast,” Kathleen says.

  “It’s OK.” Dad pushes his plate away and stands up. I go outside and wait for him by the garage.

  I direct him where
to drive. I’ll get close to our trailers, but far enough away for him to never guess.

  “I’m sorry,” he attempts. I look away and try to block him out. “It wasn’t easy. None of it was.”

  Go away go away go away go away go away.

  “When you’re older, maybe you’ll understand.”

  “Mom was older. Did she understand?”

  He can’t answer that.

  “I hate you,” I tell him. His fingers grip the steering wheel.

  “I can understand that,” he says.

  “And Kathleen and Megan. I hate them too.”

  “Megan didn’t know,” he says quietly.

  The anger is stretching out inside me again. I roll the window down and put my hand into the air. It hits into me and calms me.

  “I don’t want to live with you anymore,” I say.

  “June, I know it’s really tough for you. Just give it time.”

  “Is that what you said to my mom?”

  I move my fingers in the wind.

  He stops the car where I tell him. I get out, pull my bag over my shoulder and walk away. I don’t even bother to close the door.

  He doesn’t start the engine. He must be watching me. I hold my head high and start to cut across a field, where there’s no way he can follow. I walk on and eventually I hear the sound of his car. He must be turning it around on the narrow road and heading off back to his family.

  •••

  Our trailers look worn this morning. They need a wash, but Blister and I rarely do it because it’s difficult to get enough water up here.

  I stop outside our kitchen. I lick my finger and draw a heart, just under its window. In the middle of it, I write our initials: mine and Blister’s.

  I bend down and wipe my finger on the grass.

  Inside, a new paper shape hangs above the sink. I’m not sure what it’s meant to be. It’s gray, with strange coils coming off it.

  The plate I get from the cupboard isn’t very clean, but I use it anyway. I put my apple and the slices of bread on it. And I sit alone and eat.

  I could live here. Blister could bring me water and I could shower at his house. It’d be too difficult to get to school, so I’d just never go back.

  The bread is dry, so I open the bottle and drink some of the cold water.

  I leave my bag on the table and go to our school room. Blister’s books are stacked neatly on the floor. The top one has pieces of paper sticking out of it. When I pick it up, I’m careful not to let them drop out.

  In his notebook underneath, he’s drawn pages and pages of labeled diagrams. His handwriting looks like broken spiders’ legs. It doesn’t seem right for him.

  Another book is about anatomy. On the front, a heart has been cut open. There are the veins where the blood flows in and out. There are layers of muscles that help it beat. There’s a heart just like it inside me now. I put my hand on my chest and feel it faintly. If you cut through, you’d be able to see the different parts that make it work.

  I hear someone jumping over our gate and landing with a thud on our side. I duck down, so they won’t see me through the window. There are footsteps, but I’m not sure which way they’re walking.

  The door opens, and when Blister sees me crouching here he jumps back, startled. He nearly falls off the step and I laugh.

  “June?” He sounds confused.

  “Good morning,” I say lightly.

  “How did you get here?”

  “Dad drove me.”

  It’s back again. Everything my dad did with Kathleen is filling the trailer. I push with all my might to keep it away.

  “He drove you here?”

  “No. He dropped me off and I walked the rest.”

  Blister leaves the door open as he comes over to me. His kiss is warm and it loses me, just for a moment.

  “Did you ask him? About Megan?”

  “Yes.” My voice is flat. “I was right.”

  Blister shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”

  “They didn’t even bother to tell Megan.”

  “That’s a lot for her to take in too,” he says.

  “I want to bury them all and dig them up when they’re only bones,” I say. Blister doesn’t laugh.

  “I’m not surprised,” he says.

  “We could paint their bones black and hang them from a tree,” I say. Blister looks at me.

  “I don’t think that’d be such a great idea.”

  “You’re the boss.” I want to smile, but it’s not there.

  “What did they say about your bike?” he asks. I shrug. “Dad says mine is beyond repair,” he says. “It’s totally mangled.”

  “I don’t want to ever go back, Blister.”

  “I bet you don’t.”

  “Would your parents let me live at your house?” I ask.

  He looks shocked. “Our house is fit to bursting, June.”

  “But I wouldn’t even need a bed. I could sleep on the floor. And I could help your mom. I’d look after Tom.”

  “How would you get to school?”

  “I could learn with you.”

  “My dad’s struggling to teach us as it is.”

  “I could help him teach the little ones.”

  “You’ve got your exams soon.”

  “You don’t want me to live with you,” I say. The numb feeling I have inside me flares into pain.

  “You know it’s not that. But my parents already have seven kids. They can’t take on anymore.” He kisses the back of my hand. “Maybe you just need a few days for things to settle down. You might feel better about it in a while.”

  “Better?”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugs awkwardly.

  “You think that it’ll all just disappear? That one day, it’ll be OK that Megan is my dad’s daughter?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Do you know what I think, Blister? Do you know what I’ve spent the whole night thinking?”

  “What?”

  “That my mom didn’t drown by accident. I think she jumped in and got tangled in those reeds on purpose. I don’t think she wanted to live.”

  Blister looks at me, but he doesn’t say anything.

  “Dad might as well have killed her,” I tell him. “He hurt her so much that she jumped into that water and never wanted to come up again.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I think it’s true.”

  “She wouldn’t have wanted to leave you, though.”

  His words slam into me.

  If my mom had done that, then she knew she was leaving me. I wasn’t enough to make her stay.

  My chest is gripped tight.

  I wasn’t enough.

  Even for my mom, I wasn’t enough.

  •••

  Mr. Wick drops me at the same point as yesterday. When he stops, I don’t get out of the car.

  “Can’t I stay with you?” I ask. He raises his eyebrows at me and his warm eyes go wide.

  “I don’t think your dad would be too happy with that.”

  “I’d be happy, though.”

  “But you have a home. It’s where you should be.”

  “I don’t want to be there.”

  “What’s up, June? Why are things so bad?”

  “They just are.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  I look up at Mr. Wick and I wonder if I could. I wonder if I could risk him changing who he thinks I am. Would he understand? Would he think it was all my fault?

  “No.” Slowly I twist the strap of my bag around my fingers.

  “Some things in life can seem really tough,” Mr. Wick says. “There are things that seem like a mountain and you can’t find a way around it, yet you don’t have the energy to go over it, either. You always find a way, though, eventually. Us humans are very strong underneath it all.”

  I open the car door.

  “Thank you,” I say. I look at him and I know there’s genuine concern in his eyes
. But I’ve finally asked for his help and he said no.

  I close the car door and walk away. I don’t take my compass necklace off. I tuck it under my T-shirt, but I keep it on.

  The air is colder. The weather is changing. Soon, I’ll have to take my coat when I go to our trailers. I rub my arms to warm them, but it doesn’t really work.

  •••

  My bedroom door is closed. I know that no one is hiding in there as I can hear Dad, Kathleen and Megan downstairs in the living room.

  I go in. It looks like confetti has been scattered all over my floor. My bottom drawer is open. My clothes have been thrown out. Next to them is my box of precious things. It’s empty. Someone has cut my special things into tiny pieces. Blister’s castle, my arrowhead flower, my mom’s scarf. My tulip. The angel that Blister made me is littered like snow on my carpet.

  I stare at it, unable to move.

  My most precious things have been cut into pieces so small that I’ll never be able to put them back together again.

  I pick up Tom’s ring. It’s been stamped on so hard that I can’t even fit it on my finger. The green heart is cracked.

  I get the chair and push it up against the door. I pick up my pillow, and as I lie down among the remains from my precious box, I pull my duvet from my bed and hold it tight around me.

  I ignore Dad’s knocking on the door.

  I ignore Kathleen calling me through the painted wood.

  And I try to float far away, up to the clouds, where no one can hurt me.

  Thoughts twist away from me and my head hurts. My hip aches, so I turn onto the other side. I keep my eyes shut tight. I don’t want to see what they’ve done, to remember that someone has been in here and sliced my things to shreds.

  My eyes open. It’s night, but my heart is beating so fast. I was in a dream, but I can’t find where I was. I know I was crying, but my mind reaches out to find the fragments and it disintegrates at my fingertips.

  The room is quiet. The house is cold. Like a solid block of ice that I can’t melt, however hard I try.

  I push the blanket to the side and get up. It’s silent as I walk down the stairs. The paint on the wall seems clammy under my hand.

  In the kitchen, I click on the small lamp and open the fridge. I don’t want the bread and milk that’s waiting. Or the slices of ham, sitting on a plate, squashed under the plastic wrap.

  I close the fridge and on its door, just where my fingers hold the handle, there are the pictures that Megan drew when she was younger, pictures that would have taken hours.