Butterfly Tattoo

by Deidre Knight

  Who would’ve thought that a single day could change everything so much? It’s the time warp thing again, like I told Rebecca. Sometimes it even feels like that movie Groundhog Day, with me watching him leave over and over, only there’s a different ending every time. How I wish.

  Even though it’s a somber occasion that’s calling us back to his hometown today, I’m still determined to make it a special visit for Andie. That’s why we’re taking this slightly longish coastal route. It’s a beautiful day and I liked the idea of her seeing the ocean for a good part of the drive, and while she’s not full of chatty reactions, her face lights up once the beach appears off to the side of the 101. She’s always loved the ocean, whether it’s up in Santa Cruz or out at Casey’s place in Malibu. She’s pure beach bum, just like her daddy was.

  As we crest a slight hill, dark, shark-like figures appear in the water, a group of them bobbing along on their boards. “Look,” I point out. “Surfers.”

  “But it’s so early.” She wrinkles her nose as she looks at the dashboard clock. Seven a.m. on a Saturday, not my idea of where I’d be, paddling my way out into the chilly Pacific, squeezed tight into my wetsuit.

  “Hey, you know what Daddy always said,” I remind her with a grin, and she finishes for me, “The best waves don’t ever sleep in!” We both laugh a minute, remembering, and my heart beats a little faster at the pure joy of making her smile.

  “Won’t be long and we’ll be out there, too. Casey’s planning on us for Fourth of July.” We always used to spend summer holidays with Casey at his beach house, but this will be the first time without Alex.

  “Well I’m not going to surf.” She turns from me, staring out the window of the truck.

  “Why not?” I ask, even though I already guessed she wouldn’t wear her bathing suit, not with how self-conscious she is about that long scar on her thigh.

  She only shrugs, studying the open map that I had given her to track our travel progress over the six-hour drive. From the corner of my eye, I see her taking her fingers and measuring out the distance, then comparing it to the mileage legend. Sizing up the world between her stubby little fingertips. The world’s a big place when you’re that small: everything seems super-sized compared to what you know.

  That’s what I’m thinking when out of nowhere she asks, “Were you always gay?”

  I almost spit coffee onto the steering wheel of my pickup truck. “Why?” I ask with forced nonchalance.

  “Well.” She sighs as I watch a pair of sexy, lean guys with surfboards walking along the highway shoulder. “Gretchen Russell’s daddy is gay now. At least that’s what they say.”

  Peter Russell. I’ve met him before at some of the school events, especially back in the preschool days. I remember a good chat we had once at Muffins with Mom. Guess that event takes on a whole new meaning in this context. So does the interest he took in Al and me being gay parents.

  “What happened to Gretchen’s mom?” I ask, after a moment of thoughtful silence.

  “She’s still her mom.”

  “No, sweetie. I mean…” I pause, rubbing at my eyes. “Did they divorce? Is that what you’re saying?”

  She shrugs, silent and won’t tell me any more, but I don’t think Gretchen Russell and her daddy’s conversion to my side is the real issue. Andrea wants to know about me.

  “I had some girlfriends, you know,” I begin gingerly. “Before Daddy.”

  She turns to me, her bowtie mouth widening in surprise. “But…” She shakes her head, unable to fathom this new catalog of information.

  I can’t help but smile at her innocence. Really, it’s not that different from a straight married couple, their child’s pure belief that both parents sprang forth, fully formed, attached to one another from birth. “You find it hard to believe, huh?”

  “Wasn’t that weird for Daddy?”

  “I’d say it was pretty weird for me.”

  “Well, what if I turn out gay?” she asks softly, closing the map book and turning toward me on the seat. “’Cause I could, couldn’t I?”

  I think of how delicate and feminine she is; how even at four years old she began crossing her little legs, still sitting in the car seat. I think of how she fusses over her Barbies, taking infinite care with their sequins and satin. But I also know that’s no measure of which way one’s sexuality will ultimately swing, not even close. Consider my army airborne days if you think I’m wrong about that. After all, I’ve jumped out of loads of perfectly good airplanes, and I still went pink triangle.

  So I ask, “You know that Daddy and I were really happy together, right?” She looks away, silent, and I sense her shutting down to me just as quickly as she opened. “’Cause we were, sweetheart. We loved each other.”

  “So?”

  “Well, so it’s okay, being gay.” I glance sideways surreptitiously. “That’s what I mean.”

  I swear I see her roll her eyes at me as she reaches for the radio tuner buttons. What I’m trying to tell her, but I’m doing such a miserable job of it, is that love is what counts. Whatever form it comes to you, even if it sneaks up on a strange, unanticipated night, love is all that matters in this world of ours. Even if you lose that love when you least expect it.

  “Andrea, are you even listening to me?” I demand, feeling more forceful and assertive than I usually am with her.

  She turns to me, blinking her crystal-blue eyes. “Yeah.”

  “The important thing is whether you find someone to love. Someone to love you as much as we all do.”

  “Do you like Rebecca? ’Cause if you weren’t always gay…” she suggests, winding a long auburn lock around her fingertip thoughtfully. “Well, you might not always be gay now, right? Then you might like Rebecca, I mean. Sort of like Gretchen’s daddy liking boys.”

  “Sort of like.” I cough, raising my coffee mug to my lips as a way of concealing my face.

  “’Cause you could do that,” she presses, “like he’s gay.”

  “I could, yeah, conceivably like women again.”

  “Good, ’cause I like Rebecca.” She gazes up at me through her rust-colored lashes. “She’s really fun and cool. I totally like her.”

  “Well, maybe we can get together with her again soon,” I offer, thinking of the amazing inroads she’s made with my child. Thinking of how I could have spent all afternoon in that Chinese restaurant just talking to her. Looking at her. “Maybe she could come back over again and spend time with us.” Like we’re a unit, a full package, not that I’m one lonely man who has become infatuated with a beautiful, available woman.

  “I’d like that,” she agrees.

  “Yeah. Me, too.” Oh, I’d like it, all right. A whole lot more than I care to admit, even to myself just yet.

  ***

  As we hit the heart of Santa Cruz, my breathing changes. Becomes rapid and a little desperate. It’s the thought of seeing Laurel again that’s got me all wound up, not just being back here to visit Allie’s grave. I’ve already done that drill a few times in the past year. Been there at Thanksgiving, and again at Christmas. But I haven’t seen Laurel, not since a year ago, and I’m not sure what to expect. Still, I shove those dark thoughts aside as we drive up the long, steep hill to the Richardson house.

  Or maybe “home place” is a better description of the million-dollar house where my baby grew up. A rambling old Victorian by the sea, it crests the hilltop like the local icon that it is. There’s no pretension to it: the mansion boldly crowns this cliffside part of town.

  “Wonder if Grandma’s roses are blooming yet,” Andrea reflects.

  She loves her grandma’s garden, and it’s always been something that binds them together, working in it side by side. Planting seeds and watching them yield life. Nipping the buds off waning pansies. She makes Andrea feel important, and reaches her in a way that I haven’t figured out how to do since Al passed. What worries me is the thought that maybe Laurel might find a way to do that, too.

  Andrea un
zips her Barbie backpack, pulling out a large envelope. “I brought this for Aunt Laurel.”

  “What’s in it?” I ask, my voice just a little too bright. As I turn the truck into the pebbled driveway, there’s a crunch and spray of rock beneath my tires. I have to skid a bit to slow down on the drive.

  “Something I made her in art class.” Laurel is a world-class painter, with an exclusive gallery of her own in Santa Fe.

  “What kind of project was it?” I stare at the closed front door of the house. So much rests behind that colored Tiffany glass pane, and I’m not sure I’m ready to face it yet.

  Andrea takes the envelope in one hand, then reaches eagerly for the door handle with her other, never answering me as she shimmies out onto the driveway. Then, full throttle, she runs across the lush green yard and up the steps, onto the sweeping veranda. She hasn’t been this excited since High School Musical 3 finally came out.

  Feeling ancient and slow as hell, I plant my Nikes on the pebbled drive, ready to face what waits.

  ***

  Time is endless in Ellen Richardson’s home. There’s the steady ticking of the grandfather clock, the groaning creaks of the one-hundred-year-old hardwoods, the rhythm of the crashing waves down the cliff side. My blood pressure lowers; my heart rate slows. The day lengthens whenever I enter. Why couldn’t that eternal spell have worked a number on Alex’s life?

  Ellen embraces Andrea, leaning her aged shoulders low to really hold her close. She watches me over Andie’s head, a faint smile playing on her lips. But I’m already looking around for Laurel, ’cause I don’t get why she hasn’t joined us in the sweeping hallway for our big entrance.

  “Laurel not here?” I ask, curiosity corrosive on my insides. Ellen closes her eyes momentarily—wearily—then opens them again as she stands tall to face me.

  “Michael, she wasn’t able to get away. She wanted to, but…” Her voice trails off, the explanation obvious. Yeah, I don’t buy it for a moment. Laurel’s putting off our confrontation yet again. Here I’ve dreaded seeing her almost as much as the anniversary of Al’s death, and she bails without a warning to me? I can’t believe it.

  Ellen steps close, wrapping her graceful arms around me. “Hello, son.” She reaches up to pat my cheek, her charm bracelet tinkling musically.

  “I can’t believe she didn’t come,” I blurt, thinking of what today means. No matter what’s happened between Laurel and me, we should all be together today. A family.

  “She wanted to, darling,” she explains as I step away. “You know that.”

  I doubt it, I’m about to grumble, when Andrea lights up, her gaze falling on a package tied up with a dazzle of ribbons and paper. “Look!” she squeals in excitement. “It’s got my name on it.”

  “From Aunt Laurel, darling.”

  “What’s the occasion?” I can’t resist jibing, even though I know Laurel’s only assuaging her guilt for skipping out on us today.

  Ellen doesn’t answer me, but walks to the antique Chinese credenza, where the present rests prominently. “Open it, sweetheart,” she encourages. “A little bird told me that you will love what’s inside.”

  Andrea’s eyes sparkle as she tugs on the gathered rainbow ribbons. Her small hands pull and wrestle, but it takes me stepping forward with my pocketknife to get the damn thing open. Guess I’m not completely useless just yet.

  “Thanks, Michael,” Andrea murmurs, the paper unfolding within her hands.

  She squeals, “It’s an American Girl doll!” as the package comes into view. “Felicity!”

  Felicity, the little redhead doll I’d been thinking of getting her last Christmas, but never did. Just great. Laurel’s gone for true bribery now. Proffering expensive gifts, more reminders that she’s more thoughtful than I am. Of what a terrible substitute I am for the mother and daddy she should have in her life.

  “Great, sweetie,” I mumble, wandering away from them and into the adjoining parlor as Andrea chatters with her grandma about how much she’s wanted a Felicity doll, how she’s looked at the catalog and wished.

  Their joyous laughter chases after me, haunting me as I sink heavily into the plush velvet sofa beneath the front window, burying my head in my hands. And I have to wonder—is it really possible that a thirty-nine-year-old man can feel this brittle and worn out? I’m not sure if it’s realizing Laurel’s never going to fade away, or maybe it’s just being back in this house again. All I know is I haven’t missed Alex so much in a long damned time.

  ***

  The cemetery is hot. Way too hot, despite the leafy palm trees scattered throughout the graveyard, offering slight shade from the blistering sun. My shirt’s clinging to my back in a terrible, sweaty outline, and I just wish we could head on home. But Andrea’s taking her time, quiet and thoughtful, and I can’t rush that, no matter how restless I might feel about being here. She’s kneeling in the grass, running her open hand over the prickly blades that cover Allie’s resting place. Back and forth she swishes her pale hand, letting the grass tickle her palm. Blotting my forehead and neck with a McDonald’s napkin from the truck, I notice the freckles sprinkled across her fair shoulders. They’re peeping out from beneath the shoulder straps of her flowered sundress, even crawling up the nape of her pale neck. Eventually, if she’s not careful, she’ll be as covered with them as Alex always was.

  Ellen holds fast to my arm, teetering beside me in her high heels. Even at seventy-six years old, when we’re trudging out here, in the damp grass, she refuses to give them up.

  “My precious boy,” Ellen murmurs under her breath, as if she were cradling Alex in her arms. “We miss you so.” Tears immediately burn my eyes, and I blink them back, not moving. Not even when she whispers, “And we love you so. Always.”

  “Grandma? Why do you talk to Daddy whenever we come here?” Andrea doesn’t look up, just continues to stare at the monolith atop his burial place, reaching with her fingertips to touch that, too. Maybe she needs to know that where he stays is solid, corporeal, even if he is not.

  Ellen gazes up at me, the quiet blue eyes filled with emotion. I speak for her. “Sweetheart, don’t you?” I ask. “Talk to him whenever we’re here? Maybe not out loud, but in your head?”

  I can tell she’s thinking about the question pretty seriously when she finally whispers, “I talk to him in my dreams. ’Cause that’s when he talks to me.”

  Beside me Ellen shivers, and I do too, despite the heat of the afternoon. I know Andie’s speaking metaphorically, but it still spooks me. “What’s he say?” I ask, barely suppressing the trembling that tries to invade my voice.

  “That he misses us. But that he’s happy, too. He’s in a really good place,” she explains reverently, then looks over her shoulder at both of us. “He’s not here, you know.”

  “No, darling, of course not,” Ellen agrees.

  “That’s why I asked, Grandma,” she continues. “Just ’cause I know he’s not down there.” She pats the quiet earth beneath her hand by way of explanation.

  “Then where is he?” I squint into the sun. Is he high up in some cloudlike heaven? Staring down at all of us today? “Is he there when you dream at night?”

  Andrea laughs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Don’t you know?” She hasn’t laughed this honestly with me in a year, nor smiled so transparently. I even glimpse love in her expression. Ellen releases my arm, as slowly I crouch low beside my daughter.

  “No, Andie, tell me. Where’d he go?”

  Blue eyes fix me, clear and bright, and I behold the mysteries of my whole universe. “Silly, he’s at the beach,” she says with a dimpled grin. “Surfing. And the waves are always good!”

  The beach. Well, of course. Where else would Alexander Barrett Richardson be? Laughter bubbles up from deep within me, unstoppable, despite the incongruity of being here at my lover’s grave.

  That’s when the miracle happens.

  For once, just once, Andrea lets me pull her tight into my arms, and rock
her like she’s still my baby girl.

  ***

  After the cemetery visit, Andrea and I retire to the adjoining upstairs guest rooms for a nap. She doesn’t even complain about that fact, which I’m pretty certain has a lot to do with the cache of Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys books she discovered in Laurel’s old bedroom trunk. Typical Ellen, though—neither room has ever been fully converted to dedicated guest quarters. Both retain some of their childhood charm and character. Laurel’s room has an antebellum dollhouse that has fascinated Andrea for years, and Alex’s boasts a bunch of surfing and football trophies, as well as tall shelves lined with his favorite books.

  But right now, it’s the cigar box on his old bed that’s holding my attention. Ellen told me she’d pulled together some photographs for me to cart home, but I can’t believe she’s really willing to part with all these family pictures. She wants Andrea to have them, she explained. And me. “Darling, I have more in this house than I can possibly keep up with,” she told me. “You must have them.”

  Dropping onto the edge of the bed, I thumb through a disheveled heap of photographs and mementos. There’s a wrinkled camp award for “good citizenship,” a handmade potholder, an old journal. That gives me pause, as I crack it open and realize that Al kept it when he was fourteen years old. From what he told me, I wonder if his first confessions about realizing he was gay might be in those pages. I shove the cloth-bound diary to the bottom of the stack to guard his secrets, and then notice a large picture just beneath.

  Gingerly, I pull the framed photo out, and at first I hardly recognize him: he can’t be more than twelve years old, riding high atop Casey’s shoulders. Overhead he holds some flag like it’s an exultant trophy, grinning from ear to ear. He’s so small and young and vulnerable that I want to reach into the picture and save him. Save him from anything that might possibly hurt him, and hold him close like I did Andrea earlier.