Butterfly Tattoo

by Deidre Knight

  Laurel has those same eyes. Beautiful like his, so clear and open and fathomless. The picture of him is exactly eye-level to me, and it’s a close-up—Alex in a simple black turtleneck, leaning forward so that he stared right into the barrel of the camera lens that day. So that he’s staring right into my eyes this day.

  There are secrets here, I think, peering into Alex’s wise, comprehending eyes. I don’t understand how to handle them.

  You are strong, he whispers near me. Strong enough for them all.

  Shivering, I gaze into his cool eyes again. And yet I find such warmth there. Looking up, I discover another black and white picture, this one of Michael holding Andrea on his lap. She’s only a baby, smiling and toothless, snuggling close to her lifeline. Michael’s hair is disheveled, standing on end like he’s just woken up; he’s young and arrestingly handsome, gazing at his daughter in pure adoration, cup of coffee in hand.

  Maybe it was a Saturday morning and they were relaxing together, enjoying family time; maybe Alex jumped up to grab the camera, as all new fathers are wont to do, eager to capture a priceless moment. But unlike most parents, I think Alex realized somehow that his life was fleeting—one reason this home is covered with photographs taken by him. He made sure his family was documented, archived for posterity.

  He made sure of that because they were a family, exactly like he told their daughter. Maybe more of a family than I’ve realized until now: only there’s this gaping, empty crater left in the middle of them where Alex used to stand.

  Slipping through Michael’s bedroom, something makes me hesitate, and I notice another grouping of framed pictures on his dresser. Maybe I’m searching for more clues to understanding this family’s mysteries, or maybe I’m searching for more Beautiful Alex pictures, I’m not really sure. What I discover is a faded photograph of a woman, from that era when Kodak added a white border to each image, imprinted with a date stamp on the edging. But I don’t need help pinpointing the time period—the woman’s rayon party dress, cat-eye glasses and glamorous style clearly date the picture to the mid-1960s. She’s a redhead, too, like Alex. Maybe this is his mother? She’s holding a baby crooked in her arm and beaming at the camera. A new mother, obviously.

  There’s something in her smile that puzzles me, though, something familiar and vaguely troubling. Holding the frame within my hands, the woman begins to remind me of Andrea, I realize. So I’m right: this picture must be of Alex and Laurel’s mother, what with the red hair and that same delicate smile of Andrea’s. But why is she only holding one baby—and more importantly, what about this image unsettles me so?

  When Andrea pops her head through the doorway, it gives me a jolt. “Hey!” she announces, grinning at me. “I came to get my Felicity doll to show Aunt Laurel.”

  I cover my chest with my hand, willing my heart to slow down, and she asks, “What’re you doing with Grandma Warner’s picture?”

  Again, I stare at the haunting image of the redheaded woman. No wonder he fell in love with Alex, I think, almost laughing out loud: like all men, he went looking for his mother. “She’s really pretty,” Andrea says, studying the picture in my hands, leaning into me. “I have a crocheted blanket that she made in my room, but it used to scare me when I was little. It smells kinda weird and musty.”

  “Did she make it for you?”

  “Oh, I never met her. She made it for Michael when he was a baby, right before she died.”

  Michael’s own mother seems eerily like a member of Alex’s family, almost as if, in meeting Alex, Michael were completing some lost portion of his history. I can’t imagine how traumatic it must have been for him, never knowing his mother; we haven’t really talked about our families much yet, so I’m still learning. But one thing this photograph makes abundantly clear: his life has always been haunted by loss. Staring at the faded photograph in my hands, I’m not sure I can ever adequately fill those empty places in his life.

  Andrea vanishes into her bedroom, returning with two dolls in her arms. She introduces each of them to me. One is a fellow redhead, the doll named Felicity. The other is a brunette named Samantha, and in a low voice she explains, “Michael and Daddy gave her to me over a year ago. For Christmas.” Their very last Christmas together as a family. Her voice grows confessional, feather-soft, as she hugs Samantha against her chest. “I know Daddy picked her out, ’cause I heard them talking about it.”

  “Can I see?” I ask, and very gingerly—as if Samantha were made of eggshell china—Andrea passes her into my arms. “You have to be really careful,” she explains, sucking on her lower lip. “’Cause her leg’s loose. I don’t know why, but it is.”

  Holding the doll close, snuggling her like she were my own child, I say, “I’m good with little girls.”

  Andrea’s face brightens. “Yeah, you are. That’s how come I like you, Rebecca.”

  Dinner surprises me, passing easily, Andrea filling much of the conversational floor space with chatter about little-girl things. It’s not lost on me how much more talkative she is around her aunt, the way her air of heavy resolve seems to vanish. After the table is cleared, Andrea produces a catalog filled with doll paraphernalia, clothing and beds and tiny trunks for storage, and they examine these together. Sometime soon I’ll need to buy Andrea a gift, and I file this helpful knowledge away.

  It’s when they’re playing there at the table on the deck, the sun nearly set and a chill falling over the Valley, that Michael reaches for my hand. It’s the first time he’s touched me in Laurel’s presence, and without meaning to, I flinch. Yet Laurel remains unfazed—in fact, she doesn’t even look at us, but I feel like I’m admitting to a horrible, guilty secret in her presence. Michael squeezes my hand harder, until I feel Alex’s band press into my skin, locking against my nana’s sapphire dinner ring.

  But he’s not holding my hand to comfort me, or reassure me that I have a place here. That’s not it. He’s flaunting our relationship in front of Alex’s sister. Taking my hand like that, bringing me here without warning—he’s trying to provoke Laurel, and using me as the weapon.

  At precisely the moment his strategy crystallizes for me, Andrea’s water-blue eyes grow painfully wide. Her rosebud mouth forms a wounded shape, with only a plaintive, quiet sound seeping out as she stares down at Samantha, the doll her daddies gave her that last Christmas, clutched within her small hand. And one lonely, amputated appendage in the other—poor Samantha’s loose leg, fallen off in her hand.

  “Let me see,” Michael says, immediately the voice of calm parental reason. I can only stare in unabashed horror, knowing how special this doll must be to her. But Andie doesn’t budge, simply gapes down in horror at her wounded doll. It’s like that old Waltons Christmas episode from when I was a child, the one where the little girl opened her present to discover that her new doll’s face was shattered.

  Michael is around the table before I can even move, dropping to one knee beside her. “Here, sweetheart, let Daddy see.”

  With a glassy-eyed, dazed look, she hands over the doll, and Michael goes to work. He prods and pokes, already walking back toward the house as he does so. “Let me take her out to the garage,” he announces evenly. “To my workbench. I’ll get her fixed right up. Don’t you worry.”

  “Don’t hurt her,” she says, staring up at him, tears filling her eyes.

  Laurel slips a comforting hand around her small shoulder. “I’m sure she’ll be just fine.”

  But she’s not just fine, and Michael returns with an ashen expression on his face. He would have loved to be the hero, the one who could make everything okay again. I know this, because I wanted him to be the hero, too. “We could try New York,” Laurel suggests tentatively. “I know they have a doll hospital there, at the store.”

  Andrea’s entire demeanor changes, her eyes lifting hopefully. “I didn’t know they had a place to fix them!” From Michael’s sinking expression, he didn’t either. “Thanks, Aunt Laurel! You’re the best!”

  Wrapp
ing her small spaghetti arms around Laurel’s neck, Andrea buries her face there, holding tight. Michael carefully deposits the doll on the table. “I’ll call in the morning, sweet pea,” he says. “I can ship the package off from work.”

  Andie murmurs a “Thanks, Michael,” without giving him another glance.

  Rubbing his eyes, he tells her, “You need to start saying goodnight, sweetie.”

  “Aunt Laurel, will you take me inside for bed?” Andrea asks hopefully. “And read me a story?” Of course Laurel happily acquiesces, so together they rise, Andrea slipping her hand into her aunt’s as they walk past us.

  Michael stands there, disbelieving as he watches them go. “I’m gonna take a walk,” he finally mutters.

  I’m not sure if I should follow or stay, but his face blanches as he says it, so I decide to give him some space. For a long while I sit in his yard, on the dark deck, listening to the nighttime sounds of Studio City. The freeway is in the distance, the rushing sound of cars and traffic and business. Sipping from my wine, I ache for Michael, for the burden of pain he carries. I ache so badly that the sensation grows inside my chest, like something malignant and devouring that won’t let me breathe.

  “Is everything okay?” It’s Laurel sliding the door open, glass of wine in her hand. “Where’s Michael?”

  She doesn’t understand the fragile balance here, how she disrupted that, stole Michael’s chance to win for once.

  “He left a while ago.”

  “Why?”

  “Laurel…” I consider leaving the explanations to Michael, but something in her eyes, the love for him I see there, emboldens me. “Because he couldn’t fix the doll.”

  She picks up the leg, holds it against her chest thoughtfully. “But he’s calling tomorrow—”

  “I know, but see, he couldn’t fix the doll, Laurel. And you could,” I explain, watching sadness darken her features.

  Without a word, she sinks into the chair beside me, bowing her head. “I never even thought…”

  “Of course you didn’t.”

  “I love him, Rebecca. I just can’t figure out how to reach him.”

  Nodding, I have to laugh. “I know exactly what you mean.”

  She tosses a wayward tendril of dark hair over her shoulder, glancing back toward the house. “Was it because she wanted me to put her to bed?”

  “He’s in a lot of pain.” I’m voicing the thought that’s been coalescing for me tonight. I’ve known it, of course I have, but it seems his heartache has become clearer to me this evening than before.

  “I’m sure he told you that some of that’s because of me.”

  “No, he hasn’t.”

  We fall silent, sipping our wine together as I wonder what she’ll share. But all she whispers after a long time is, “He took down every one of my paintings. Did you know that? There were so many here, and now they’re all missing. I wonder if he destroyed them?”

  “I can’t imagine he’d do anything like that.”

  Digging into her beaded pocketbook, she pulls out a pack of cigarettes, her fingers tremble as she lights up. “Well, you don’t know how he feels about me then. I love him and he despises me, Rebecca. You’ll learn all that soon enough.”

  Questions burn within me, begging to be asked, but I refuse—I have to hear Michael’s version first.

  “I better go after him,” I say. “I’m worried.”

  “Thank you.” When she looks at me, there’s such gratitude in her clear eyes that I have no doubt she’s been telling the truth. She loves him, of that I’m certain—and maybe even in ways that she shouldn’t.

  There’s no sign of Michael out in the front yard, and finally I walk to the end of his driveway and search his street in each direction. A couple of blocks up the way, I spot a rangy shadow loitering beneath the streetlamp. Quickly I cover the distance between us, and the shadow’s edges fill in, become recognizable.

  “She send you after me?” he asks when I come near.

  “I was worried.”

  “I’m okay, so go back.”

  “Like I’d leave you out here?” I laugh, as he begins to walk, his back to me. “How could I do that?” I’m following him slowly up the sidewalk, trying to match his lengthy strides without pushing too hard.

  “She’s such a snobby bitch sometimes. That whole Wellesley-cum-hippie thing bugs the shit outta me.”

  “She loves you, Michael,” I say. “That’s really obvious.”

  He pulls up short, spinning to face me. Heat and anger are in his towering gaze as he rumbles, “Loves me? Really? You’re basing that on what, Rebecca? One night around us all?”

  I stay calm, staring up into his eyes. “She’s upset that you’re so upset, Michael.”

  He makes a grunting sound of denial, but says nothing.

  “What happened between you two?” I ask, trying to touch him, needing to be closer, but he backs away. It hurts, him shaking me off, and it hurts that he feels like a stranger. “You’re not going to answer me,” I state flatly as he marches up the sidewalk, farther and farther away from where I stand rooted, waiting.

  “I want to.” He turns back to me. “I want to tell you everything, Rebecca.” His hands open, reaching, and I rush into his embrace. Strong arms wrap around me, squeezing me close, and neither of us speaks. We stand there beneath the luminous streetlamp, holding one another, utterly safe.

  “Then tell me, Michael,” I say after a while, rubbing his lower back. “Tell me everything, just like you want, okay?”

  “I meant what I said earlier, Rebecca. About falling so hard for you.” His heartbeat quickens, speeds anxiously against my chest. I’m scared, too—terrified really—as slowly I disentangle and look up into his eyes.

  “You’re just feeling that way because Laurel’s here.”

  “No.” He shakes his head. “No, that’s not true, Becca. I meant it ’cause I feel it.”

  Reaching, I touch his jaw, stroking it slowly with my fingertips. “Michael,” I whisper urgently, “I feel it too. But let’s give it time.”

  “Is it because of Laurel?” he asks. “Is that why you’re so cautious? Because she’s here?”

  “Of course not—why would it be?” His face darkens, becomes troubled, and it’s a warning flag. “Should it be a problem for me?”

  “Rebecca, I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Hurt me?”

  He shakes his head, staring past me. “Things with Laurel are just damned complicated, that’s all.”

  And then it all becomes clear—painfully, abysmally clear. “You’re attracted to her,” I say, stepping backwards. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re attracted to her; she’s attracted to you. God, I am so, so dense. How could I not have seen it? There’s some kind of thing between you both—except, I realize that sounds ridiculous. But I am right, aren’t I? You’re attracted to her—”

  Michael shakes his head. “Rebecca—”

  “I mean, it’s not like I can blame you,” I blurt. “She’s tied to Alex, looks like him—”

  “Rebecca, listen—”

  “And she’s drop-dead gorgeous, so of course you’re attracted to her.” I spin from him, stepping quickly in the other direction, but he captures me, turning me hard to face him. Taking both of my shoulders within his hands, he steadies me. “How could I have not caught on?” I stammer, feeling my lungs pull cordon-tight. “I must be—”

  “Rebecca, she is Andrea’s mother,” he explains, and I dead stop, silent, wheezing painfully.

  “What?” I finally manage, and slowly Michael repeats, “Laurel is Andrea’s birth mother.”

  Rattling, my chest gives a weakened sigh, a dilapidated terrible sound accompanied by immediate vise-like tightening. I only nod, digging in my purse, which for some inexplicable reason I brought out here with me. God really does watch over me.

  “Are you okay?” he asks. Fumbling past my car keys and my wallet, my eager fingers search out my inhaler. “Just a second,” I wheeze, an
d take in a deep breath of my medicine.

  Michael watches in silence, surprised. Closing my eyes, I wait to be able to breathe again. “I didn’t realize you had asthma.” Raw concern is in his voice, and he rubs a strong hand down my arm, soothing me. Hadn’t I mentioned this to him before? Maybe I did and he just wasn’t ready to hear about my fragile side.

  “It…” I struggle to breathe, feeling like my heart will explode inside me, “…hadn’t really come up. I thought I’d told you, but maybe…not.”

  “Are you all right?” His worried gaze fixes on me, those gentle brown eyes opening wide, and for the first time it occurs to me that in loving me, he loves someone vulnerable. Someone who, by the wrong twist of fate, might die on him just like Alex did.

  “It’s because of my attack. Post-traumatic stress…stuff.”

  “Oh baby, I’m sorry.” Bending low, he kisses the top of my head, a chaste, tender kiss that makes something strange knot low inside of me. “I didn’t get it before. I’m sorry.”

  “I was stabbed in the chest, that night. Ben—that’s his name, Ben McAllister—stabbed me nine times, actually. I was in ICU a long time, and had a lot of respiratory complications… they think maybe it contributes,” I babble, nervous, clutching the inhaler in case I need it again. “Well, to the problem. But really it’s anxiety. Not that you could imagine me having an anxiety problem, could you?” I laugh hysterically, feeling tears burn my eyes. What a disaster of a girlfriend I’m turning out to be. I’ll be lucky if he ever wants to see me again.

  “I’m sorry I brought you into this blind. Tonight.” He pulls me close, right into his arms, and I wilt there, pressing my face against that strong chest. “That was unbelievably selfish of me. I’m just really sorry.”

  “Please don’t, Michael.” I can’t handle his pity—his love absolutely, but never his pity. “I am still a big girl.”

  “Becca, this stuff with Laurel, it really is just crazy complicated,” he explains, stroking my hair, winding his fingers down the length of it. “That’s all I was trying to tell you. Not anything else.”