Paper Butterflies
Page 18
“How are you?” His words get caught and he coughs slightly. “Blister’s mom sends her love.”
The thought of her standing in her kitchen makes my lungs burn. I want to be with her. I want to listen to her voice and hear Eddie yelling from the hall.
“I didn’t mean to,” I whisper.
“We know you didn’t,” Mr. Wick says. And I know he’s trying not to cry.
Blister holds up his hand to the glass. On my side, I hold up mine. He’s so close to me, but I can’t feel his skin.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. He nods, biting his lips.
“So am I,” he mouths, before the tears take him over.
Blister, it’s you. You’re here.
“How is the food?” Mr. Wick asks. I nod to him. “Do you share a room?”
“No,” I say quietly.
“Maybe it’s nicer on your own,” he says.
No. I’m lonely. They hardly let me out. I’ll go crazy.
“How is Megan?” I ask, and the air turns colder.
“She’s still in a coma,” Mr. Wick says.
“Will she wake up?”
“They don’t know.” His words wind down the wire toward me and end in silence.
“Can I speak to Blister?” I ask quietly.
“Of course.”
Mr. Wick puts his hand on Blister’s back as he passes him the handset.
I look into Blister’s eyes. The pain in my chest stabs so hard that it’s difficult to see.
“Can we bring you books?” Blister eventually asks.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“We’ll ask,” I think Mr. Wick says.
“Which would you like?” Blister asks.
“Anything,” I tell him. My hand still touches his through the glass.
“Are they treating you OK?”
“Yes.”
Blister is looking so hard at me.
“Is there a window in your room?” he asks.
My mouth is dry. I need some water.
“A small one, at the top. It’s too high to look out of, but I can see the sky.”
“The sky’s good,” Blister says.
I want to ask how Tom is, but I know that I’ll fall apart if I do.
“Mr. Johnson is organizing your appeal,” Blister says. “He thinks that it might be as soon as three months.”
“And then they’ll let me go?”
Mr. Wick looks down at his hands, but Blister’s eyes don’t leave mine.
“I’ll get you out,” he says.
•••
It’s been maybe five days since I saw Blister. The days here are endless and blend into one.
The slot in my cell door opens and a book is pushed through. It’s a paperback, but it feels heavy in my hands. I open it to look at the words. They’re black, against the white pages, tidy in their rows. I breathe in the smell of the paper, the smell of the world outside.
Somewhere, out there, in a huge room with machines clunking and whirring, this book was put together. People touched it, their fingerprints smeared with living. I put my hand on the cover, but I can’t tell who they are, where they are.
The writing on the back says that it’s about a girl who can sing. I think that Blister sent it to me. He chose it for me.
I sit on the bed and open it. I read the first line. And then I read it again. And then I let myself go into the page, far away from here. I’m somewhere else and they’ll never be able to find me.
After
one week later
I’m led into a small room. Instantly I know the man is a priest.
“June?” he asks. “I’m Reverend Shaw.”
I’m clamped in handcuffs, but still he wants to shake my hand.
“I’m pleased to meet you,” he says.
I look to the warden at my side.
“You don’t have to stay,” he tells me blandly. But I’m outside of my cell, if only for a short time, and I’m grateful.
“I’m here to help you,” the reverend says. I nod. “Do you want to sit down?” He gestures to the table. On top of it sits a small vase of flowers.
I don’t answer him, but I shuffle forward and sit on the chair, pushed back against the wall.
“You can leave us,” Reverend Shaw tells the warden. The man looks at me briefly, as though he doesn’t trust me, before he steps outside the door.
“Some people like me to read to them,” the reverend says, sitting down opposite me. His face has gentle lines.
“I didn’t mean to do it,” I say quietly.
“I’m not here to judge,” he says.
“Do you believe me?”
“I believe in the power of forgiveness. The strength of love.”
“My dad died because of me. How can I ever be forgiven?”
“You have to start by forgiving yourself.” His words fall heavily around me.
“That’s not possible.”
“It is. It takes strength and courage and you have those, June.”
“I’m so frightened,” I whisper.
“I know.” Reverend Shaw puts his hand lightly on top of mine. “But I’m with you,” he says.
I put my head in my hands and weep.
•••
I think that the mosquito bite on my cheek is infected, but they won’t give me any cream. They say it’ll clear up if I stop itching it. But I’ve tried and I can’t stop. And now Blister is coming again and I look even worse. He’ll never want to kiss me again.
The handcuffs are on and they lead me through all the doors. Two other prisoners stare as we walk past. One of them I’ve never spoken to. The other is Sarah-Jane. She’s in the cell next to mine and I hear her pacing, all the time. Up and down, four steps one way, four steps back. I have to block my ears, or my anger would take over and then I’ll never get out.
Blister is the first person into the visiting room. For a split second, I’m happy and I think I can run to him. Then I remember that glass keeps us apart. My whole body jolts with the shock of it.
Mrs. Wick is walking behind him. Her head is held high, but she looks terrified.
They sit down and Blister picks up the handset, holding it close to both of them so that his mom can hear me too.
“Hey,” Blister says. He puts his hand up and I put mine as close to his as it will go.
“Hey, you.”
He’s not crying, but he looks torn apart.
“June,” Mrs. Wick mouths. “How are you?”
“I want to go home,” I say.
She puts a transparent plastic bag onto the thin table in front of them. There are a few coins and some keys in it. Her car keys. I think of all the times that I’ve sat with them in their car, the windows rolled down, singing to the wind.
“Did you get my book?” Blister asks. Even his voice sounds different. It doesn’t belong here.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“I spent a long time choosing it,” he says. “I didn’t know what to get.”
“It’s perfect.”
“We’re allowed to give you some food from the machine,” Blister says. “The officers will bring it through to you.”
“Thank you.”
Unease circles around us. When we had all the time in the world, we could talk about anything. But now we don’t and I don’t know what to say.
“Dad sends his love,” Blister says. I nod. “Tom misses you.” I nod again, over and over, to try to keep the tears away. “He made Dad make him a double swing, so you can sit on it with him when you come out.”
“How is he?” I manage.
“He’s fine,” Mrs. Wick says too quickly. I look from one to the other.
“Has he been sick?” I ask. I want to know the truth. I don’t want any more lies.
“He’s got another infection,” Blister says. “But he’s getting better.”
“Tell him that I’m hugging him,” I say. “And that I’ll never stop.”
Blister smiles, but not enough for hi
s dimples to show.
“How’s studying?” I ask.
Blister shrugs slightly. “It’s difficult.”
“You have to keep going, Blister,” I tell him. “You’re going to be a doctor and change the world, remember?”
“I’ll try.”
The sadness sitting on us is so heavy that nothing we say can lift it. With every word, I’m closer to them going.
“Is Megan awake yet?” I ask quietly. Blister shakes his head.
She’s sleeping, with tubes drifting in and out of her.
“She will get better, won’t she?” I ask, but neither of them replies.
I stare at the white wall and wish that I could rearrange Megan’s life. I’d change it all, right from the beginning. I’d give her a different mom and a different dad.
“I’m going to leave you two alone for a bit,” Mrs. Wick says. I want to hug her goodbye. I think she’s crying because she turns away from me and walks quickly out of the room.
I look at Blister.
“Have you got another bike yet?” I ask.
“My mom’s cousin has an old one I can have,” he says. “And I’m saving up to buy you one.”
“You’ll buy me one?”
“Yes.”
“What color will it be?” I close my eyes.
“What color would you like?”
“Purple,” I say.
“Purple?”
“Yes.” It’s just Blister and me, sitting together in our trailer. Our palms are touching and soon he’ll kiss me.
“I’ll get you a purple bike,” he says, but the choke in his words makes me look up.
He’s been crying and I didn’t know. His hand is on mine, so he can’t wipe away his tears.
“You don’t like the color.” I try to laugh.
“I miss you so much, June.”
“I miss you, Blister,” I say, before the pain swoops in and takes us both away.
•••
The envelope has been opened, but it’s addressed to me. From inside it, I pull out a purple paper bicycle. It’s out of proportion and the seat is tiny, but it’s beautiful.
There’s a note with it, in Blister’s spidery handwriting:
They wouldn’t let me use glue. X
I hold the bicycle up in front of me. Blister has folded each line so carefully. I want to unfold it and do it again, just so my hands can be exactly where his were. But I don’t want to ruin it. I smell the paper, but I can’t find his smell on it. I turn the bicycle over and over, imagining Blister’s fingers on it.
I love it, I tell him.
He’s put a single line of thread on it. The only place I can hang it from is the bars in my door. I loop the fragile thread around and tie a knot. My purple bicycle hangs down, flat against the shiny paint.
And my heart breaks into a million tiny pieces.
•••
Mickey and I walk in the yard. The sky is white cold, reaching down to touch the walls high on every side of us.
“Where shall we go today?” Mickey asks, shuffling slowly beside me.
To Blister’s and my trailers, I want to say, but I know it’ll hurt too much to go there.
“We could go for a picnic?” Mickey suggests. “How about alongside that stream?”
I look hard at the bricks until they dissolve, and we’re walking through the grass toward the water. I want so much to hear the sound of it sliding past, but the quiet of the wind is all there is.
“Are you OK, June?” Mickey asks. We don’t stop walking; we won’t let the grass disintegrate into the dust that’s beneath our feet.
“I miss Blister.”
“I bet he misses you too.”
I didn’t want to hear that. I wanted her to say that he’s all right without me.
“He says my appeal might be in a few weeks,” I tell her. Mickey doesn’t say anything for a while. I think she’s listening to the stream.
“You can’t depend on that, girl,” she finally says. “Or you’ll go crazy.”
“But Blister says that they could let me go.”
“Then, if that’s what you want to hang onto, you hang onto it. We’ve all got different ways of coping. You do yours and I’ll do mine.”
“Why are you in here, Mickey? What did you do?”
There’s an uneasy silence. I meant never to ask her. I don’t think I want to know.
“If I tell you,” she says at last, “you won’t see me as human anymore.”
“I won’t ever think that, Mickey.”
But she doesn’t say another word.
After
six weeks later
“I only live when you’re here,” I tell Blister. He looks gaunt and so tired.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” he says.
“Yes, I should.”
“But you didn’t mean to do it.”
“I killed them, Blister.” The words are distant to me. I have to pluck them from far away and put them in the right order.
Blister rubs his eyes. When he looks up again, the hurt has gone even deeper.
“A lot of people think you shouldn’t be here,” he says.
“They send me letters,” I say quietly.
“They do? Saying what?”
“That they’re signing petitions to try to get me out.”
Blister looks brighter. “It’ll work,” he says. “If enough people sign, they’ll have to listen.”
“I fold their letters into flowers,” I tell him. “I don’t make very good ones.”
Blister stares at me for the longest time.
“What’s it like?” he asks so quietly.
“Lonely.”
And he nods, as if he knows. But he can’t. It’s a loneliness I never knew existed. An impossible loneliness. A silence inside that strips away your soul.
“Maggie’s got a new job,” Blister suddenly says. “She’s moving to Oklahoma City.”
“But what about Jack?”
“She says she prefers the job to him.”
“Oh. I thought she liked him.”
“He was OK,” Blister says.
I want to ask him how our trailers are, but I can’t. And he never talks about them.
“Chubbers broke his bed by jumping on it. Dad’s not happy.”
“The one he made?”
“It took him every weekend for six weeks,” he says flatly.
“Can he fix it?”
“Yes. It’ll just take time.”
I look at Blister and imagine his house, the chaotic rooms, the windows full of light. I could get lost there, but I know we haven’t much time left.
“Mr. Johnson says Megan is much better. She’s even walking around,” I say.
“Can she help?” Blister asks. “At the retrial, can she say what Kathleen did to you?”
“How can she, when she did it to me too?”
“She won’t get into trouble. She’ll be telling the truth. And then they’d understand that you were just trying to burn their things. Megan could help get you free.”
The door on Blister’s side opens and the officer comes in.
Panic rushes into me, as it always does when visiting hours are over. I just want to be able to reach out and hold Blister’s hand, to keep him with me, but I can’t even touch him. Through the glass, I can see the fear in his eyes too.
“I’m OK,” I try to tell him.
He doesn’t move.
“I’ll get you out,” he says.
The other visitors are leaving and the officer is walking toward him.
“You have to go,” I whisper.
He leans forward, his mouth to the glass. I try to kiss him, but he’s pulled backwards.
He looks terrified.
I want to tell him that I love him, but the tears beat my words down.
And he’s gone. The door is closed. The room where he was is empty. And they’re helping me up and leading me away.
After
four months later
Mr. Wick takes the handset from him. “Mr. Johnson is already working on the next one,” he says. He’s grown a small beard and I wish I could reach out, just to feel what it’s like. “It’s OK, June—it’s just a setback. And the petitions are still going strong.”
“Are they?” I ask, my voice empty.
“Yes!” I see Blister shout. He slams his hand on the table. His dad leans over to touch his arm.
“People don’t write to me so much anymore,” I say. Yet I prefer it this way.
“Don’t give up, June,” Mr. Wick says. “Mr. Johnson thinks the next appeal will be up and running within a few weeks and it should be heard a few months after that.”
“He told me that Megan’s speech is getting better.”
“That’s good news.” Mr. Wick nods his head.
“Do you think she’ll testify?” I ask. They glance briefly at each other and I know their answer.
Blister takes the handset from his dad.
“I’ve decided something, June.” His black eyes look alive. “I’m not going to be a doctor.”
“No,” I say. He can’t mean it. He’s spent so much time working for it. “You can’t do that, Blister,” I say.
“I can. I’m going to be a lawyer. I’m going to be the best lawyer this country has ever seen.”
No. Don’t change your dreams for me.
“But you’re going to find cures. You’re going to save lives.”
“I will be saving lives. Just in a different way.” He touches his fingers to mine, but I can’t feel them. “I’ll have a head start. I’m going to begin studying for it now, alongside the schoolwork I do with Dad.”
“You’ll be great,” I say quietly.
“I’ve been thinking,” he says to me. “Maybe you should study something too. You wanted to be a vet, once,” he reminds me.
“When I was twelve.”
Mr. Wick leans toward the phone. “What would you like to be now?” he asks.
Free.
“Maybe you’re the doctor,” Blister says eagerly. “All these years we thought it was me, when all along maybe it was you. You were good when we learned things together.”
“You have to be really bright,” I remind him.
“You are bright, June,” Blister says. “You’re easily good enough.”
“How can I study to save lives, when I took two away?”