The Butterfly Box_A SASS Anthology

by Anthology

  Dutch loves me?

  I STARE UP at the ceiling, my fingers linked under my head, and try to make sense of the past few days.

  The spare room at Molly’s is basically her sofa and an old blanket, and I have been lying here, wide-awake for at least two hours. Pulling my phone from under the cushion that I’m using as a pillow, I open my messages and as I scroll down to Dutch’s name, I realise that my heart is beating really fast. My stomach flips as I open up a new blank message and start to type.

  It’s all just psychosomatic. It has to be. I have never reacted like this at the mere thought of him, so fuck knows why it’s happening now. I stop myself from typing anything and press the cold metal of the back of my phone to my lips as I mentally construct a light and breezy text that doesn’t mean anything more than what I want it to mean. What the hell am I doing? Why the hell am I analysing the words I use to talk to someone I have spent almost every day with since I was seven? I will kill Molly in the morning for putting these thoughts in my head.

  I chuck my phone to the end of the sofa and decide against texting him at all.

  Huffing through my nose, I roll onto my side forcefully and pull the blanket up to my chin, closing my eyes and blotting out the stupidity of the over-thinking I am doing.

  In love with me indeed…

  What a ridiculous notion.

  As I listen to the sound of my own breathing slowing down, and as the dizziness of sleep falls like a mask over my consciousness, I jump, the pattering of my heart speeding up again, as my phone vibrates on my feet. I sit up quickly and stare at it as the screen lights up and taunts me. Biting at the nail on my thumb, I continue to watch it like it’s a ticking bomb, my heart in my mouth and my stomach filled with fluttering wings.

  Get a fucking grip of yourself, Jessica.

  I reach out and pluck it from its nestling place before pulling it under the blanket with me. Dutch’s name is now emblazoned across the screen and I am required to swipe at it in order to see what he has to say. I suck on my bottom lip as I move the pad of my thumb across the glass and watch as the message pops up.

  Thanks for being a pal. D x

  I stare at the message and find myself analysing every single fucking character. A pal. Well that’s true isn’t it? We are pals, and he is thanking me for being his. No big deal and no hidden message. And then I look at the kiss on the end. My eyes remain on it for much longer than is necessary before I roll them at myself.

  He always puts a kiss on the end of his messages to me; it’s just what we do. Always have.

  But does he mean something else with this one?

  Mol thinks he is head over heels in love with me...

  Maybe it is his way of trying to tell me, every time he messages me, that he is in love with me...

  I shake my head, switch my phone off and shove it under my pillow before I do more internal damage. I then vow to follow through with that smack in the mouth that Mol so clearly deserves, once I wake up.

  THE FOLLOWING COUPLE of days go by with little to write home about. I keep myself to myself at Molly’s house, entertaining the kids as much as possible in order to avoid another difficult conversation with her. I have decided to push her concerns to the back of my mind and focus on what is important instead.

  Dutch and I are like brother and sister, and that is how it is going to stay. My priorities are to get him back on track, get him smiling and laughing again, and then we can move on with our lives. I am not about to go complicating things by confronting him about probably non-existent feelings that he may or may not be harbouring for me. Even the sound of it is laughable.

  As we sit around the diner table, a tradition that has been carried on in Mol’s house since leaving Joan’s, I decide to call a truce.

  She’s sensibly kept out of my way, and we therefore haven’t smoothed over the un-comfortableness of the other day. I am not one to shy away from confrontation, believe you me, and if I have something to say, you can bet your bottom dollar that I will say it, but you will find me incredibly awkward and stubborn when it comes to backing down and admitting I am wrong. I don’t like that. I don’t like to show that I am vulnerable or weak, or that I might have made a mistake. So what I do next is a big thing for me.

  I reach over and squeeze Molly’s hand and give her a tight-lipped smile when she looks up at me, her fork halfway to her open mouth. She knows what I am like, and the look on her face tells me that she is pretty gobsmacked that I am making the first move towards reconciliation.

  “Sorry.”

  Her fork is still poised and her eyes haven’t left my face. I let her stare a little longer and then my walls go back up.

  “Jesus, Molly. Close your mouth, I can see what you had for breakfast.”

  And with that, we are back to normal. Nothing more is said and nothing more needs to be said. I clear my plate and in turn clear the table of dishes and cutlery and set about preparing for returning home the next day.

  After Molly has bathed the kids and put them to bed, she perches on the sofa and watches me as I sit crouched, stuffing my belongings into my rucksack.

  “I care about you, Jess. That’s all.”

  I stop what I am doing and let my head fall forwards. “I know. I know.” I don’t want to start this up again, so no more words creep out, even though some of the ones that are jostling around on my vocal chords include the words ‘bitch’ and ‘keep out’ and ‘mind your own business’. I leave it at that and rub her back when she comes over and gives me a hug once I have stood up.

  “I’ll probably slip out first light, so I’ll catch you soon, okay? Give the kids a big kiss for me.”

  She smiles and nods folding her cardigan around herself and heads for the door. “Will do.”

  “Oh, and Mol…”

  Molly turns back towards me.

  “Thanks.”

  Another nod and she disappears up the stairs, leaving me to spend one more night under the threadbare blanket.

  As I lie there, much the same as I have the past couple of nights, I battle with her words again, and the years I have spent with Dutch come whizzing past in a way that I would imagine happens when people say their lives flashed before them prior to something tragic happening. I wonder if Bobby’s little life flashed before him just as he realised the car was going to hit him. I swipe at my eyes and get rid of that thought immediately.

  Dutch and I spent nine years as inseparable playmates between the ages of seven and sixteen. It was purely platonic. We were too wrapped up in our friendship for it to be anything else. Not that anything else even figured or was thought about. It just wasn’t. Nothing about our relationship was remotely sexual or chemical the older we got. It was deeply rooted in mutual understanding, trust and protection. We were there for each other to lean on whenever and wherever. When he left Joan’s, a month after his sixteenth birthday, (there were hoops and red tape to get through and over in order for him to be eligible for housing) I was lost for a few months. It was like I’d had a fucking limb cut off, and I found it really difficult. I’d begged him to take me with him, but without Joan’s consent, I had to stay until I was sixteen—as much as she was an old witch, she at least kept a roof over my head and food in my belly,

  And so I pretty much became a recluse, holed up in my room, waiting. He would come and visit me and we’d go out to the fields or town and hang out, but he’d had to take a couple of jobs in order to get himself on his feet, which meant his free time was scarce.

  His first few weeks were spent bunking on a mate’s floor, but once he’d found his feet with work, he was able to contact social services and the council as a ‘care leaver’ and they sorted him out with a house.

  Joining him in the ‘two up, two down’ was one of the best days of our lives. It was such a buzz having a place to ourselves for the first time, and we spent nearly a whole week pissed up, smoking joints and just remembering how good it was to be best friends. Of course that couldn’t last, and finding
jobs that would pay enough to keep us both sheltered and watered was tricky. But no matter how hard some of the days were, where we had both pulled fifteen-hour shifts at the local supermarket or spent a night shift at the petrol station, coming home to each other was always worth it. We would eat junk food, watch trash on the telly and laugh. We would laugh so much. At bedtimes, we would go to our separate rooms, but nine times out of ten, one of us would end up crawling under the covers with the other, just like we used to in the bunk beds at Joan’s. We had each other, and that’s all we had, and the comfort of being close was one of the things that I am certain got us through those first three years of learning how to be adults, without any decent role models around to help us on our way.

  We are by no means perfect and have never once got it completely right, but we did it our way, by ourselves, pulling each other up and keeping each other going.

  Now aged twenty-three, I can honestly say that I wouldn’t change a minute of it. We are who we are because of our belief in one another and because we didn’t quit. We did it. And I’m so proud of us.

  AS THE SOUND of milk bottles clink at the front door, I stretch out and psych myself up for getting ready to make a move. Dutch will be leaving for work in about half an hour, so I’ll be able to get home without bumping into him to start with. I have no plan of action, only that I need to be home, I need to speak to him and I need to get back to normal.

  Flinging the blanket back and standing to my feet, I stretch some more and move quietly to the bathroom to clean my teeth. I don’t want to wake anyone because I just want to slip away and back to my life with him without any fuss. I stare at myself in the mirror, one hand ragging through the straw-like look that my hair is sporting today. I’ve always had it cropped short, that pixie look. Long hair makes me look young and baby-faced. I dye it as often as I change my sheets, which of course takes its toll on the condition of it. Not that I really care.

  Leaning on the sink, I push my face closer to the mirror and stare into my own eyes, flicking from one to another. In the dim light of the bathroom, it looks as though I have no pupils they are such a dark chocolatey-brown. I take a moment to wonder whose eyes they are… I have no pictures of my birth parents, so I don’t know if I look like my mother, or if my elf-like features and dimples are from my father. I look deeper, this time directly into both of my eyes to see if I can see anything else that might belong to either one of them. Of course I don’t, and it results in me slamming the palm of my hand against the mirror in frustration.

  Grabbing my toothbrush from the side and smearing it with paste, I brush abrasively, avoiding the mirror this time lest the backed up tears of years of hidden emotions try to push their way through. I lean my lower back against the sink and stare at the door as the froth builds up in my mouth.

  See, now I’m just angry, and that doesn’t bode well for a peaceful reunion with Dutch. I rarely allow myself to think about the fact that my biological mum and dad abandoned me, purely for this reason, because it angers me. It makes my blood boil because I am powerless to do anything about it.

  When I was small, it didn’t play on my mind so much. I just accepted it. It was who I was and I didn’t know any different. It was only as I got older that I started to question everything. I mean imagine. Can you? Can you imagine being left by the two people that are meant to love you unconditionally, forever, more than anyone else? How does a child deal with that? Like I said, I didn’t really register the hurt until I got a little older, probably around the time I went to Grandma Joan’s. Passed from pillar to post was kinda life as I knew it, but I remember feeling different then. I was angrier, more closed off, and I’ve pretty much stayed that way since. Don’t get me wrong, I am capable of pushing it to the depths of my consciousness and it can stay there tucked away for months on end, but sometimes it pops back out and I am forced to remember that I was never really wanted by anyone, least of all my parents.

  I spin around and spit the toothpaste into the bowl, running the tap to clear it and to rinse my brush. After gathering other toiletries from the shelf, I barge through the bathroom door again and back to the living room to finish packing my bag.

  Olivia is curled up under my blanket, her blue teddy bear tucked under her arm and her thumb in her mouth. Her long blonde curls are matted and unruly, and I lean on the doorframe a moment to watch her has her sleepy eyes blink open and closed. She finally notices me, and her little hand peeks from under the blanket making grabby movements.

  “Hey, princess. Why are you in my bed, hmm?” I move towards her and she smiles cheekily from behind her fist. “Budge up then. One snuggle and then Jessie has to go, ok?”

  She nods and moves to the back of the sofa, thumb still firmly in her mouth. I climb under the blanket next to her and slide my arm underneath her so she can cuddle into my chest. She smells faintly of bubble bath and detergent with a hint of sugar and I kiss the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair. We have always had a bit of a connection, her and me. I’m unsure what it is, but there’s something about this little girl that tugs at my inner child and for some unknown reason, she seems to feel the same. We lie in silence for a few minutes until I feel her fingers on my cheek. She pulls my face to look at hers and I watch as her big blue eyes roam over my features. “I like your face, Jessie. I like your eyes. They look like buttons.”

  I smile down at her and kiss her forehead. “Chocolate buttons, I hope.”

  Olivia giggles and covers her mouth, her little nose scrunched up in amusement. “Yes, silly. Not like buttons on my coat!”

  “Phew! I am very pleased about that. Well I like your eyes too. They look like sparkling diamonds and the deep blue sea.”

  Olivia pulls in an awe-filled gasp. “Really?”

  I look deeper into them and wonder if she knows that they aren’t the same as her mum’s pale green ones so are more than likely the same as her father’s, or if she is too young to realise the genetic connections we share with our parents. I never got to meet him when he and Mol were dating, or shagging more like. He was clearly a deadbeat dickhead and they were better off without him for sure, but there was still that pang of something in my chest when I thought about how Olivia would always grow up fatherless… like me.

  “Really. They are very pretty eyes.”

  She bats her eyelashes at me and we both laugh.

  “Right, monster. I need to go. Mummy will be up soon to make your breakfast, so I need you to go sneak back into your bed, okay?”

  “I don’t want you to go home. I want you to stay here.”

  I smile tightly at her. “That would be really lovely but I have to go see Dutch. He needs me to make his dinner.”

  “He can have rice crispies for dinner and you can stay here.”

  I ruffle the top of her hair and shake my head. “I am afraid, Dutch is pretty useless at making anything. I’ve been here for nearly four days and I’m worried that if I don’t go back this morning, he might have shrivelled up.”

  She gasps again, her little mouth forming an ‘O’ shape, her eyes wide and full of worry. “Oh no! You better go quick!” Olivia throws the blanket off her and kicks at it with her feet, climbing over me and onto the floor. “Quick, Jessie!”

  I join her on the floor as she runs up and down on the spot, pointing to my bag on the floor. “Hurry, Jessie! Hurry up!”

  I giggle as I watch her.

  “Who is making all that noise?” Molly appears in the doorway tying the belt around her dressing gown tight before walking into the room and scooping Olivia up. “I hope you didn’t wake Jess up, missy.”

  “No, no. I was up. I’m about to head out actually. Dutch…”

  “Dutch is slithering away, Mummy. She has to get back to feed him!” Olivia interrupts enthusiastically before I have a chance to finish my sentence, and Molly gives me a knowing look.

  “Ok. Well we’d better let her get going. Come on. Let’s go sort breakfast out.”

  I move towar
ds them both, kissing Olivia on the cheek and squeezing Molly’s hand. “Catch you later guys.”

  I sling my bag over my back and I am gone.

  SITTING ON THE sofa, twirling the rings on my fingers, I watch the clock incessantly. Why is it that time goes so bloody fast, but when you watch it, it almost seems to stop? The ticking of the second hand niggles at me like a dripping tap and after a few more seconds, I push to my feet and begin to pace the already worn carpet instead, my focus on the front door this time.

  Any minute now.

  Any minute now he will walk through the door and we will have to talk.

  He knows I’m home because I messaged him. I haven’t had a reply as yet, though, so I have no idea what to expect from him; hence the anxiety that is pirouetting on my nerve endings right now.

  As I turn to do another lap of the living room, I hear his keys rattle and I jump, hurrying towards the sofa, but change my mind and head to the kitchen at the last moment.

  Light and breezy. Light and breezy.

  As I hear the door open, I shout out without any thought. “Hey!”

  A clatter of cutlery whizzes my attention away from the sound of him entering the house as I drop spoons and forks all over the kitchen floor. “Fuck.” I crouch down and start picking everything up as I see his boots enter the room.

  “What the fuck are you doing, Jess?”

  I glance up at him and smile weakly. “Oh you know, just wrecking the joint.” I duck my head again to pick up the final spoon and watch his boots move back into the living room. I sigh and rest my forehead against my arm.

  I need to get through to him, and I have no idea where to start.

  PULLING ON MY boot with one hand, toast between my teeth, and grabbing my jacket from the banister with my other, I shout up the stairs with already low expectations of any answer I receive, if I receive one at all…