The Boxer and the Butterfly

by Sasha Hibbs

  I knew staying would cause my parents to become unhinged. This would be the proverbial straw for them. There would be no lying my way out of this. And I didn’t want to. I was tired of running and hiding. I was going to lose Mickey and with that knowledge, I had to clutch onto what time I had left. One night. It’s all I would have. I still carried hope that Mickey would see what I was going to do was out of love, but I knew in my heart he would see it as the biggest deception. After showing me his vulnerabilities, he would never forgive me for using them against him. But I loved him too much to care. We fell asleep in each other’s arms.

  ****

  Like an alarm clock going off, mine and Mickey’s time was over with his mom bursting into his shed.

  “Mickey Costello!” Cecelia screamed in horror, her gaze assessing everything before her.

  I knew Mickey was awake. He had been for a while. I could feel his breathing even out, but we still stayed in each other’s arms. In those brief seconds before his mom found us, I wondered if deep down Mickey knew this would be our last night, if he was as terrified of the future as I was. Once his mom burst in, I glanced down and watched him peel his eyelids back.

  “We better get up,” I said under my breath.

  Mickey slowly sat up on the edge of the bed while I wrapped his blanket around me. I wasn’t ashamed to be naked last night in front of Mickey, but his mother was an entirely different story. Mickey had the sense to put his boxers back on in the middle of the night. He quickly slipped his jeans up over his narrow hips and fastened the button. I watched Cecilia scan him over from head to toe. I could see her gaze flicker to his busted knuckles then to my bloodied shirt beside the bed and then back to me. She was piecing it all together.

  “Your parents are here, Autumn,” Cecelia said. It sounded like a whisper under her breath.

  I wasted no time in dressing. I scurried off the twin bed, quickly slipped into my jean shorts, and grabbed my bloodied t-shirt—the one I used to clean Mickey’s wounds. But they ran so much deeper than the surface. As I was pulling my shirt down over my head, I heard Mickey, his voice so shaky.

  “Mom—”

  It felt like time stretched on, or maybe as if a million things happened at the same time. It was such chaos I could hardly process what was going on. I heard a loud scream sound from the doorway followed by the sound of feet shuffling in. I popped my head through the bloodied neckline and saw both my parents. My mom had so many emotions flitting across her face, but it was the stack of Mickey’s letters in her hand that caught my attention. My heart sank. My head swam. I felt dizzy. Sick. Not for what I’d done, what we’d done, but that it was now coming to an end in the worst possible way.

  My mother rested a shaky hand across her mouth, her gaze darting frantically all over the room from me to Mickey and back again. My father was doing the same. He looked from the bed, to Mickey, to the bloodied t-shirt I wore. I could see him filling in the blanks. His face turned red as an angry vein throbbed at the side of his neck as though it would burst. Before anyone could react, he ran to Mickey, grabbed him by the throat and shoved him against the wall. Mickey’s body crashing into the wall caused the scream silenced in my throat to finally release.

  “Daddy! No!” I ran over to him, trying to pry his hands from Mickey with all the strength I had.

  To Mickey’s credit, he never fought back. And Mickey was a fighter—that was all he knew. But he must’ve known he wasn’t going to win this one, or perhaps he didn’t want to.

  “Did you hurt my daughter?” Dad said through gritted teeth.

  In my entire life I’d never seen my dad, Frank Chamberlain, esteemed member of the community, lose control like this. It felt like I was staring down the face of a wild animal.

  “Get your hands off my son!” Cecelia yelled, grabbing at my dad’s shoulders.

  Mom managed to wedge herself amongst all our bodies. She laid a shaky hand against my father’s cheek. “Frank,” she said, her voice steady. “Stop right now.”

  There were tears streaking down her face, but there was a calmness to her that seemed to penetrate through my father’s anger. My dad kept his heated gaze locked onto Mickey’s while he slowly removed his hands. He still had them cupped, poised and ready to strike, but my mother continued to whisper quiet demands that my father stop.

  Mickey coughed forcefully, trying to get the oxygen back into his lungs. I could feel tears well up in my eyes. They were hot, burning, and fell warm against my cheeks. This was bad. I didn’t want to lose Mickey. I could’ve done this entirely different, but hearing Mickey’s affirmation that he wouldn’t back down from a fight we both knew he wouldn’t win was enough to make me enjoy those moments last night with him, the early morning, every second leading up to our parents catching us.

  “Mickey Costello, I am absolutely ashamed of you. Get in the house,” Cecelia said in a clipped tone. “Now!”

  Cecelia jutted her chin out in the direction of the doorway while angrily pointing her finger. I could see the fire in her gaze, the disappointment. She wouldn’t soothe him because she didn’t know what his demons consisted of. I did, though.

  Mickey stood there a few moments longer before budging. He stared at the floor. I didn’t want him to feel shame for what we did. What we made was beautiful. I couldn’t be ashamed of that. I’d hid this for far too long. When he stopped at the doorway and glanced back at me, I tried to will everything I felt in my eyes and only hoped he could see and feel it too. There was a flicker in his gaze, the same one he had while taking me to heights I’d never been. It was still there—that fire—only now it was an ember.

  “Sir,” Mickey said to my dad. “I would never hurt your daughter. I love her.”

  My mother quickly squeezed my dad’s shoulder in a gesture to keep him grounded. It didn’t stop the tic working in his jaw or the rise of anger flaring up in his face. But he was silent. Mickey looked at me one last time before leaving. I squeezed my eyes shut, dreading what was to come.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Chamberlain, I’m Cecelia, Mickey’s mother,” I heard her say. I opened my eyes.

  My mom clung onto my dad’s arm for support. Two things happened that I’d never witnessed before. My mother—always the picture of perfection—had mascara trailing down her porcelain-like face. And my father—who was the epitome of composure—looked like he wanted to kill someone. The couple before me were not the parents I was used to. But then again, after last night, I probably wasn’t the daughter they thought they knew either.

  My parents either ignored Cecelia or the anger and pain I caused them overshadowed her existence.

  “Your mother and I filed a police report. We were up all night, sick, worried, and this is what you’re doing?” My dad’s gaze flicked from mine to my bloody t-shirt to the bed Mickey and I shared.

  “It’s not what it looks like—”

  “Get in the car,” my dad said through clenched teeth. “I’ll deal with getting your car home later. And as for your son,” he said, shooting Cecelia an evil glare. “If I ever find him so much as ten yards within the vicinity of my daughter, I will have him thrown in jail so fast, buried with so many charges, no one will ever be able to get him out.”

  “Don’t you dare threaten my son,” Cecelia said, crossing her arms over her chest challengingly.

  My dad grabbed the letters out of my mom’s hands and held them up with a disgusted look on his face. “Threaten? I’m not threatening. It’s a promise. Your son is eighteen. My daughter is seventeen—a minor—and I’ll have that boy prosecuted to the full extent of the law for statutory rape. He’ll do jail time, and once he is finally out, he’ll have a record so damaging he’ll never get a job worth anything.”

  Statutory rape. My knees nearly buckled in on me. He had the upper hand. Cecelia knew it and I knew it.

  “But Daddy—” I said through trembling lips.

  He moved away from my mother toward me so fast I had no time to react. With fingers digging into my arm he said,
“I said get in the damn car now!”

  My mother started crying again.

  I wanted to protest, scream, yell, but I had to get him away. The easiest way was to comply and live to fight another fight. I had to find a way to protect Mickey. I shook free of my dad’s grasp, but before I went to the car, I quickly yelled over my shoulder at Cecelia.

  “Please tell Mickey I love him. And I’m not sorry! I’m not!”

  And I wasn’t. They had to know. I would make them understand that the love Mickey and I shared, that was so fractured, took something as beautiful as what we shared last night to repair it.

  To repair us.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The drive home was the longest of my life. My mother wept softly into her hands while my father had a death grip on the steering wheel. I watched his knuckles turn white while the vein in the right side of his neck pulsated again and again. I had prepared myself for the consequences of my actions, made peace with myself, but never once did I stop to think that my parents could hold Mickey’s fate in their hands. How could I make them understand what Mickey meant to me? How could they understand a love like ours that burned so bright wasn’t destined to be extinguished? Mickey took me to places I’d never been. I felt alive with him. I felt real, like we were tangible together and transparent apart. He made me angry, so many times. He set my insides on fire. And then he’d cool me down with his kisses. I loved everything about him—his fury, his anger, his vulnerability.

  I turned my gaze outside the window. A feeling of isolation and hurt crept in on me as I realized I wouldn’t be able to make them understand. How could I when they led such cold and indifferent lives? I observed Mickey’s neighborhood as we drove past the rows of houses. I looked at all the tiny homes and wondered about the people who occupied them. Were their homes filled with the same love that Mickey’s was? I felt sure they were. I imagined what they lacked in wealth, they more than made up for with love. It was the one thing my parents couldn’t buy and essentially it was all I wanted.

  As we approached the familiar neighborhood I grew up in, all I could think of were the big houses, the big people, the big wealth. It was all plastic to me. They were all plastic, superficial robots pretending to be people and my blood boiled.

  We pulled into our driveway. My dad parked the car and shut off the engine. We all sat there for what felt like forever. We were surrounded by each other’s silence. But there was so much more, so many things that radiated in the air around us. I could feel my mother’s sorrow, my father’s anger, all the things I imagined they wanted to say but didn’t.

  My father finally broke through the silence. “Get in the house.”

  He didn’t even turn around to look at me, or even glance up in the rearview mirror. He sat there with this hands still clutching the steering wheel.

  I wasted no time slipping out of the car. As I shut the door, I glanced around at my neighbors. They thought I was missing last night. I noticed the Kellers from across the street. Mrs. Keller was making her way over. I saw a look of relief on her face until she got closer. It was soon replaced with surprise—no doubt the blood on my clothes. I hurried into the house. I didn’t want to talk to any of them and had no idea what story my parents would come up with. It didn’t matter, though. Soon enough I would be the hot topic of conversation, an embarrassment my parents would have to live down. I had nothing to be ashamed of. My only concern now was finding a way to keep my dad from pressing charges on Mickey.

  I closed the front door behind me and scurried into the kitchen. I heard my parents walk in. Moments later, they both came in to find me. I leaned my back into the granite countertop, my hands behind me. I balled them up into fists. This wasn’t going to be good. My father just stared at me for long moments. It felt like he was at a loss for words, or maybe that I’d hurt him so much he had none.

  It was my mother who began. She wiped at her eyes, her mascara leaving dark smudges. I could see her shaking, but it wasn’t in anger. It looked like she was afraid. In soft whispers she said, “How could you do this to us? How could you deliberately go against our rules and stay with that … boy? After everything your father and I have done for you? We gave you your phone and car back. We let you go to prom with Dakota. You told us you were going with his family to Blackwater Falls, and this is how we find out?”

  It was when the questions started falling out of her mouth that I saw her anger begin to rise like she was gaining momentum.

  “After everything we’ve given you? After everything we’ve struggled through to give you a better life? You have no idea what it’s like to live on the outside. You don’t know what it’s like to be hungry. You”—she pointed her finger at me—“you… We’ve given you everything!” My mother’s voice was high pitched and shrill now.

  “You’ve given me everything?” I laughed. “This house?” I looked around and then gazed directly at them. “This big beautiful house? With the perfect lawn? With the perfect people who live in it? Perfect, perfect, perfect!”

  Since meeting Mickey, I had been walking a fine line. I crossed that line last night when we made love, and I knew the next words that came out of my mouth would finalize the point of no return.

  “On the outside we have everything. Right? The perfect Chamberlains. Perfect job, perfect members of the Country Club, perfect daughter who listens to every damn thing you say!”

  “Autumn—” my dad warned.

  “No! There is more love in that small house on High Street than there is under this gigantic roof! Mickey’s mom works hard to provide for her sons. And Mickey is amazing. You don’t know him, and yet you judge him, like you judge everyone who doesn’t have a perfect credit score, or lives in a gated community.”

  My mother flinched at my words. I was already this far, I was laying it all out now. What did I have to lose? Mickey? My parents were going to see to that, so the way I saw it there was no point in holding back.

  “You’ve taught me to care about money—material things—always pressured me to make sure that our family name was respected in a community filled with more judgmental jerks. That there was no room for failure, that I could never mess up. We live our lives like we are perfect people and we’re not! And yet you two would judge others by the same standards you don’t hold yourself to. Dad, you’re never here. All you do is work. You don’t care about me as long as I do everything by the rules, as long as I’m perfect. And your wife.” I turned to her. I knew it would hurt her, and maybe that’s what I wanted. I wanted to hurt her, to hurt both of them because I was hurting inside. “Your wife is an alcoholic, and you turn a blind eye to it. And when have you ever wanted for anything, Mother? Doesn’t Dad work hard enough to keep you supplied in booze? Isn’t that all you care about? You can’t stay sober long enough to even know your own daughter. I gave up competing against the wine for your attention a long time ago.”

  “That is enough.” It came out as a whisper, but I could see the fury build in my father’s gaze and it fueled my own.

  “I’m not finished. You give us everything and nothing. It’s okay that she drinks, is that it, Dad? As long as she does it quietly? As long as no one knows? We live a lie. Mickey and his family might be poor, they might not have everything we do, but they are honest. They have integrity. All I have is a big-ass house with two parents who don’t give a shit about their daughter as long as she doesn’t ruin their perfect lives. At least Mickey’s family loves each other and doesn’t care what everyone thinks about their small house, or the size of their wallet—”

  In a moment quicker than I could’ve anticipated, my father snatched up an empty coffee cup on the island countertop and threw it against the wall. The porcelain cup shattered, sprinkling broken shards down on the floor.

  “I said enough!” he roared. I jumped at his words as my mother looked like she was going to pass out. “So help me God, Autumn—”

  I cut him off. “Why don’t you want to listen to me? Because it’s the tru
th? Your wife drinks all the time. Mary comes in morning after morning cleaning up her mess, covering up, putting everything back in its perfect little place. Are you ashamed of me now? Is that it? It’s okay that Mom’s an alcoholic as long as she can sober up in time to go to church or the next Country Club event? As long as your esteemed work colleagues don’t find out? What will the neighbors think now? What will you tell them? How will you cover up that your perfect little daughter stayed out all night and had sex with a boy?”

  I thought my words had broken my mother. I lashed out again and again, years of anger toward her for drinking and upholding a façade and my father being just as culpable with his silence. But if I’d broken her, that last sentence built her back up. She came at me and I hadn’t braced myself for it. I felt the sting on my face as she slapped me, the crack reverberating throughout the kitchen. I lifted my hand to where she hit me, closed my eyes, and braced myself for another blow.

  “Estelle, stop. She doesn’t mean what she says,” Dad said, trying to calm her.

  “I meant every damn word!” I said, opening my eyes, tears burning in them. Mom started sobbing again, her hand held frozen in the air as she was getting ready to strike me again, but my father’s words had pulled her out of it. My father drew her into him. She tucked her head under his chin and cried. I watched her shoulders roll as she sobbed. She cried, broken by me or the truth or both. I didn’t know. I only knew I had never seen her so emotionally wrought before. My father stroked her hair, tried to sooth her. He gazed at me. I could see an avalanche of emotions cloud his vision.

  “Go to your room, Autumn. For the love of God, just go to your room.”

  His anger was gone, his voiced filled with a sadness I’d never heard before. I felt so much too. I glanced at them one last time and ran upstairs. I ran over to my bed. Throwing myself down, I curled up, holding my hand against where my mother slapped me. I thought back to a few months ago when the same woman came into my room when I was pretending to be sick. She hovered over my bed, like the mother I’d longed for and felt my forehead. She was worried like a mother should be. I thought about the two of us shopping for a prom dress. I remembered only a few days ago, her sitting on the edge of my bed in a moment only a mother could experience. A moment where the realization that her baby had grown up and was on the cusp of womanhood. Those were the moments that angered me. Because that was the mom I had always wanted. She’d showed me glimpses of goodness and motherly affection, and because I knew it existed and she had it within her to be that way, it fueled my hatred that she chose not to walk that path every day. And that same woman, just minutes ago, had slapped me. I couldn’t remember a time when my mother had ever struck me, but what I said to her—to both of them—struck a chord much deeper.