Come to think of it, Dad did seem like he was elsewhere most of the time. But Wendell can tolerate Dad’s “space cadet” moments, even at times when Mom and Ate Nadine couldn’t. I guess that’s why he and Dad are together.
“Anyway …” Wendell clears his throat. “We’d really love to have you and Nadine visit us here at the resort. We were even thinking … You could celebrate your birthday here!”
Funny. It’s almost as if Wendell read my mind.
“I’ll order a roast pig and all the ice cream flavors you want. Bring Pepper and your mom too! Is she still with the police guy?”
“Yeah, Mom and Tito Ed are still together.” My forehead creases in a frown. I tear the drawing off the notepad and crumple it into a ball.
Tito Ed isn’t really my tito either. He’s my mother’s boyfriend. They’ve been together for three years, but Mom and Tito Ed can’t get married because divorce isn’t allowed in the Philippines. Mom and Dad’s only options, legal separation or annulment, are too complicated.
I’ve always considered Wendell “Dad Number Two” and Tito Ed “Dad Number Three.” It’s not something I tell anyone without being asked. Awkward pauses usually follow my explanations. Still, the three of them—Dad, Wendell, and Tito Ed—care for Ate Nadine and me in their own fatherly ways. They all deserve to be called Dad.
I thought Ate Nadine felt the same way. I remember this one instance when Dad was getting treatment from that purple-and-pink building in Pasig. It didn’t look like a hospital at all, more like a school. Mom told us Dad had a medical condition, so he needed to stay there for a while. Ate Nadine looked like she couldn’t bear to leave Dad, crying all the way home.
Then my grandma, Lola Cordia, died last year, and everything changed. My sister never said why.
Wendell is still talking about all the fun things we could do if we came to the resort, but if my pathetic attempt at “testing the waters” was any indication, there’s no way Ate Nadine would go for it. Even if the food spread does sound like heaven.
I aim for the wastebasket across the room, throw the crumpled paper like a basketball, and miss. “Ate Nadine will never agree to it.”
“I’m sorry.” Wendell sighs again. I’m getting used to hearing air blown into the mouthpiece, so I don’t wince this time. “Your dad talks about you and Nadine a lot, you know. Not a day goes by that he doesn’t mention your names. He really misses you—both of you.”
“I’ll see what I can do about going there,” I promise, even though I know it’s a lost cause. Because really, what can I do? I tried to ask but chickened out—which is probably all for the best. What if Ate Nadine had gotten mad at me? I would spend my eleventh birthday not only Mom-less, but sister-less too. I wish I knew why she stopped speaking to Dad. But no one has ever told me what happened. “Ate is so stubborn.”
“I know.” Wendell chortles. It’s high-pitched, like Minnie Mouse’s giggle, but comforting somehow. “Well, let us know if there’s anything we can do to help. And, Sab? Tell Nadine that your dad …”
“Yes?”
Wendell pauses. “Just tell her to give me a call, will you? See you soon.”
There’s a beep when Wendell hangs up, and I place the phone receiver back in its cradle.
Ate Nadine doesn’t mind talking to Wendell. But he should know better than to discuss Dad with my sister.
I glance at the desk clock—it’s almost five. The afternoon sun has turned the sterile white walls of Mom’s office orange. It’s so bright it’s hard to see the shed in the garden. It’s hard to see anything outside, for that matter.
Nightfall’s coming.
“Wake up, Lawin.” Sighing, I walk across the room to clean up the crumpled paper mess I made on the floor. The duck stares at me with a beady eye as he stretches his legs.
Pepper and I still don’t have a plan. I’m not even sure there will be one. If only there was a way to get Ate Nadine to work things out with our father, to take me to the resort for my birthday …
As I stand, my gaze falls on the shelf where Mom displays photos of our family. They’re mostly of Ate Nadine, Mom, Tito Ed, and me. Some are of Mom’s parents; a few are of my lolo and lola on Dad’s side.
My favorite is this family photo, the last one we had with my grandmother. It shows my sister, our parents, Tito Ed, Wendell, Lola Cordia, and me smiling at the camera. Behind us is a background of blue, green, and yellow blots. It’s a blurred image of the sky and ylang-ylang trees around my grandmother’s beloved butterfly garden. The day we had the photo taken was the same as today—a humid March summer afternoon.
“Oh!” I cry. Next to the photo on the shelf is a silver locket—my locket. I must have left it on the shelf when I talked to Mom this morning, right after taking a shower.
A breeze enters the room, smelling like grass and ripe mangoes. But it also brings in a shower of dust as it passes through Mom’s old books and journals. Lawin lets out a series of quacks, running around in circles as he frantically flaps his wings.
“Ah-choo!” I rub my eyes once to relieve the itch, blinking as they begin to water. That’s when I see it fluttering into the room—a huge pitch-black butterfly.
The Butterfly.
The one Dad warned me about. I’m sure of it.
My pulse quickens, and goose bumps appear on my arms. I get a sick feeling in my stomach as I remember the stories Dad used to tell me. How the Butterfly appeared days before his cousin drowned. How it warned Dad of a friend’s death before she succumbed to cancer. How Dad listened to Lola Cordia cry herself to sleep after the Butterfly showed her that it was her husband’s turn to die.
“Oh no.” My hands turn clammy and cold. This can’t be happening. “No, no, no.”
I want to shoo the Butterfly away, but I’m too afraid to touch it.
I hold my breath as the Butterfly hovers above the family photos. Don’t land, don’t land, don’t land. It spreads its wings wide, gliding down to land.
The Butterfly goes by our family photos and doesn’t settle on any of the picture frames propped up on the shelf. Instead, it comes to perch on my most prized possession: silver and heart-shaped, attached to a chain of little braided metal.
My locket. The Butterfly landed on my locket.
I’m going to die.
MONDAY
“YOU CAN’T DIE. YOU’RE ONLY TEN,” Pepper says for what seems like the eighth time. She puts her right hand on her chest and hangs her head like she’s in mourning. “We’re only ten. I’m too young to be a widowed best friend.”
“I’m serious.” I slam my fist on the kitchen counter, flattening a piece of yellow-orange polymer clay. Pepper’s my first and only best friend. Sometimes, though, I wonder if I should reconsider that.
To her credit, Pepper had her dad bring her over the very next day after I saw the Butterfly. She has her faults, but I can always count on her for moral support. It didn’t even matter that she lives in Antipolo, thirty minutes away from Quezon City, where I live. She still answered my call.
“So am I.” Pepper raises her hands in mock surrender. They’re covered with green clay slivers. Gross. “Stop ruining my mojo. I need it to finish this masterpiece.”
I hide my snort with a cough. Pepper and I are in the kitchen, making clay sculptures. Well, at least I am. I don’t want to hurt her feelings, but the mess in front of her doesn’t resemble what people normally call a “masterpiece.” It’s more like a leafy version of the poop emoji.
“So.” Pepper pokes the green glob’s “head” with her pinky. “How long do you think you’ll have?”
Dad said his friend had three days after the Butterfly landed on her garden spade. His cousin lasted an entire week following the insect’s appearance on the tip of her fountain pen. Yet, Dad’s own father didn’t even make it through the first twenty-four hours. He died almost as soon as Dad saw the Butterfly sit on the space bar of my grandpa’s typewriter.
“Seven days, max. Dad never told me of anyone who
’s lived more than that,” I say, wiping sweat off my brow. The oven’s already warm, but Pepper and I aren’t allowed to use it on our own. Tito Ed will set our clay art into the oven to bake when he finishes his phone call. It should have been Ate Nadine. As usual, she’s off doing some writerly thing.
Pepper eyes her sculpture and decides that she’s done. She dumps her “artwork” onto the parchment-lined baking tray set on the counter, next to a sculpture that I made earlier. Mine is a grown-up version of a Pekin duck. White, with an orange beak and legs. It’s far from being great, like Dad’s creations. Still, it’s better than Pepper’s.
I don’t want to offend my friend, but curiosity gets the better of me. “What’s that supposed to be anyway?”
“It’s abstract art,” she says, sticking a piece of rolled black clay on top of her glob. It now looks like a green poop emoji with a decayed unicorn horn. “It’s a mess, but you need to look closer. It’s a beautiful representation of my past, present, and future.”
I blink. “Okay.”
Pepper bursts out laughing. “I’m kidding,” she says, shaking her head. “I don’t know what it’s supposed to be either. Let’s call it Algae Monster or something.”
“How about the ‘Green Blob of Past, Present, and Future’?” I wiggle my eyebrows.
“Sounds good.” Pepper gives me a saucy wink, and we laugh louder.
“You should learn from Christopher. Sab’s dad is a great sculptor,” says Tito Ed, walking into the room, his brown eyes twinkling. He’s wearing gym shorts, a running belt, and a light blue shirt printed with the letters “PNP,” the Philippine National Police. Warm air blasts my face as he puts the tray in the oven.
“Yeah, Dad is great!” What Dad lacks in parenting he makes up for it in artistic talent. Lucky for me, I inherited some of it. When he was in the mood to teach me a new form of art, I got the hang of it easily. My favorite was (and still is) painting with oil pastels. Dad said I had the natural skills of a true artist.
We watch through the glass as the polymer clay figurines bake. I thought they’ll expand, but they don’t. They look very much the same way they went in the oven.
“That’s true. Juice? I harvested dalandan this morning.” Tito Ed opens the fridge. Pepper and I say yes, and he pours a glassful for each of us. “Ah. That’s refreshing.”
It sure is. These local oranges are much sweeter than the American ones found in the grocery. Kind of like Valencia oranges, but the skin is green like a lime’s—or Pepper’s horrible clay art.
Pepper lets out a loud burp. “Tito Ed, what do you think about black butterflies predicting death?”
I give her a warning look, but Pepper simply shrugs.
“I try not to.” Tito Ed smiles. The lines on the sides of his eyes deepen. Ate Nadine said people who smiled a lot had those “happy person” face lines. But when she realized I was talking about Tito Ed, she took it back and said they’re “old people” face lines. “Why do you ask?”
“Nothing.” If Pepper felt my nudge under the table, she didn’t let on. “I heard Papa’s staff talking about it at the farm.”
It’s amazing how my friend can come up with lies on the fly.
“Your mother will kill me if she finds out I’ve been indulging this kind of questions.” Tito Ed frowns. He downs his dalandan juice in one gulp.
Tito Ed doesn’t like breaking rules—especially his rules—but I know he cares about me.
I stare at him and plead with my eyes. I’m pretty sure I resemble a featherless owl who had too much coffee instead of an adorable kitten. But Pepper’s doing the same thing, and she does the “cute kitty” look well.
“All right.” Tito Ed sighs. “Don’t tell Ginnette.”
Pepper pretends to zip her lips. “Promise.”
“I don’t know much, but my mother used to say that black butterflies are souls of the departed.” Tito Ed gathers our empty glasses and brings them to the sink. “It’s the form they take when they visit loved ones.”
Pepper glances at me. “Are they real?”
I take a deep breath and release the air little by little. I do this a couple of times, but my pulse isn’t getting any slower.
Tito Ed takes his time before answering. He brings out the clay and turns off the oven. “It depends on you.”
My friend and I exchange confused looks.
“The Butterfly’s only real if you want it to be real.” Tito Ed wraps the baked clay in a dry towel. “Don’t touch them yet; they’re still hot. You might burn your fingers.”
Pepper’s blue eyes narrow. They remind me of Ate Nadine’s when she’s annoyed. “That doesn’t make any sense!”
“No, it doesn’t. Don’t worry yourselves about old superstitious tales, girls. It won’t do you good seeing signs everywhere.” Tito Ed chuckles as he fills a plastic bottle with water, securing it on his utility belt. “Ginnette thinks this belief in butterflies is just a way for grieving families to cope.” He shakes his finger at us. “She’s right, of course.”
Pepper and I exchange a grin. It’s funny how somebody as strong and tough as Tito Ed could be so scared of my small and thin mother.
Beep-beep, beep-beep!
“Time for my run.” Tito Ed presses a button on his sports watch, stopping the alarm. “See you later, girls. Don’t go near the oven. You might burn yourselves. I won’t be long.”
Mom’s boyfriend leaves through the back door. When I’m sure he’s outside, I bring out my inhaler and take a puff. It releases the heaviness in my chest.
Pepper tilts her head to one side, studying me. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” Physically, yes. But inside? Definitely not. “Maybe I should write a will.”
I don’t have anything of real value to bequeath, except for my phone and tablet. Pepper can have them. Ate Nadine might have some use for my art stuff, and Mom can donate my clothes and dolls to charity or something.
“You’re not going to write a will. That’s silly. Wills are for old people.” Pepper takes out some fresh purple clay and starts turning it into a ball. “You heard Tito Ed. Stop worrying. Besides, you have a lot of flowers in your garden. Papa says butterflies love them.”
The piece of clay I’ve been shaping somehow starts to resemble butterfly wings.
Nope. I’m not making a butterfly.
I slice it like cake with the plastic sculpting knife, mashing the pieces one by one.
“Our windows have screens, Pepper,” I say, returning the clay back to its tray. “They keep mosquitos out, not to mention butterflies.”
Pepper rolls another clay chunk into a ball. This time, a pink one. “A caterpillar could have snuck in and turned into a butterfly. It’s not like you don’t open the doors to get out.”
It’s pretty far-fetched, but it’s possible. After all, we do see a lot of millipedes coming in from the garden during the rainy season. A caterpillar could have done the same. “But it was so big. Abnormally big. It freaked Lawin out too.”
“Ducks get freaked out by anything—maybe an ant bit his butt. And your eyes could have been playing tricks on you. You did say the dust made them itchy, right?” Pepper leans closer, looking straight at me. I can feel my worries dissolving. “Come on. You know I’m making sense. I always make sense. I’m a genius.”
“Yeah, you are.” A small smile forms on my lips. Pepper might be an awful sculptor, but she is smart. Still, I can’t shake the possibility that the Butterfly is real. Tito Ed didn’t say it wasn’t. “But I don’t know … What if this is it?” I push my tools and ruined sculpture to the side, and lay my head on the table.
“Fine. Let’s say it’s true, that you did see the Butterfly.” Pepper stops rolling the clay. I can feel her eyes on me. “You’ll be dead in a week.”
“Thanks a lot.” I love Pepper, and her straightforwardness has always been part of her charm. But this is my death we’re talking about. She might want to be a bit more sensitive.
“That came out wro
ng. I’m sorry.” Pepper gets off the kitchen stool and walks over to my side. “What I’m trying to say is we shouldn’t wait for your death to happen. In case it does happen. If we do, you’re going to ruin the last days of your life moping around and feeling sorry for yourself.”
I bury my face in my arms, but Pepper grabs my shoulders and pulls me upright.
“It’ll be your birthday soon,” she says. I struggle in Pepper’s grasp, but she holds me tightly. “You’re turning eleven, Sab. Eleven!”
“That’s in a week. I’ll be dead by then!” Whatever assurance Pepper gave is gone. “Dad and Ate haven’t made up yet. I’ve never even experienced riding a jeepney. Or getting a tattoo. There are so many things I still need to do, and I’m dying already. It’s not fair!”
“Hey. Calm down.” Pepper lets go of me and runs her fingers through her hair. They leave tiny pieces of clay on her locks, but she doesn’t seem to care. “We’ll tell Ate Nadine about this Butterfly. Then she’ll feel so bad she’ll drive you to your papa’s resort herself. If this is your last week on earth—”
“Okay, okay. I get it.” I don’t want to hear the possibility I might die again. Not from Pepper, not from anyone. It sounds too real. “Pepper, we can’t tell Ate Nadine. Well, not yet anyway. I love your ideas—they’re brilliant—but trust me on this one. We need to come up with something else before telling her about the Butterfly.”
“Why?” Pepper rubs her hands on her shorts, smearing them with pink and purple clay. “You’re always on my case about being honest and all that. This is just about some superstitious thing your papa said. Why is it so different?”
“It’s hard to explain.”
“Try me.”
“It’s a feeling I get.” I rub the tiny piece of clay in front of me, spreading it on the table. “It’s going to be harder to make her agree if we guilt her into it. She’s mad at Dad about something. Like, a huge something. We need to fix that first.”
My Fate According to the Butterfly Page 2