Waiting for Butterflies

by Karen Sargent

  “So, not to change the subject, but I didn’t want to ask in front of the girls, not that it’s any of my business.” Erin tilted her head. “This retirement. Sam. Really?”

  “Really.”

  “I mean, they say after you lose someone, you shouldn’t make any significant decisions for a year. Within weeks you ended the career you love and bought the house you hate.”

  “I think hate is a little strong. I didn’t appreciate the house before.”

  “Okay.” Erin raised a shoulder. “But you’re missing my point, which is your career. I know how you threw yourself into your work. How are you not going to go crazy without it?”

  “I feel crazy every day without it.” But would his explanation make sense to anyone but himself? “I don’t know, Erin. Some things are more important. It took sacrificing almost everything for me to realize that. And right now, raising Rachel and Olivia is more important than my career. It was easier to give up one job and focus on the other—rather than do both poorly, which is what I was doing. Besides, I stay connected. I testified on a couple of my cases that went to trial. And my detectives call me in every so often to consult on investigations, although sometimes I wonder how well I trained them. They shouldn’t need me to answer some of those questions.”

  Erin tapped her chin. “Sounds to me like someone is trying to keep you around.”

  Sam hadn’t considered that, because staying around wasn’t a consideration. “No, when the time I accrued runs out, retirement will be official.”

  “Oh? So you aren’t officially retired yet?”

  Sam detected a question hidden within Erin’s question. “No. Why?”

  “No reason. Just curious.”

  Erin stood and started down the staircase. Sam followed. He, too, had something he wanted to ask, something he was embarrassed to say out loud.

  “Since you already think I’m crazy,” Sam joked, trying to find a way into the subject, “can I ask a question that will convince you I really am losing it?”

  Erin stopped at the bottom of the steps and turned to Sam. “Sure. Shoot.”

  “Olivia. Well, you know, she says things, things that can’t be . . . real.”

  “You mean about her mom?”

  “Yes. Like she, like Olivia thinks—”

  “Her mom is still here.”

  “Yes.” Sam was relieved Erin said it so he didn’t have to.

  “And?” Erin prompted.

  “Well, it’s crazy, right? I mean, it doesn’t make sense that—that Maggie would be . . . still here.”

  Erin smiled. Sam’s sudden defensiveness surprised him. Why should he feel defensive? He didn’t believe it himself, right? Because it wasn’t possible.

  “Are you trying to tell me I’ve been sleeping in a haunted house the past week?” Erin teased.

  Sam’s temper flared and his face flushed with embarrassment. “No.” He failed to mask his reaction.

  “I’m sorry.” Erin put her hand on his arm. “I’m being insensitive. Look, Sam. You know me. I’m an attorney. Everything has to be based on evidence. It’s hard to gather evidence that you can’t . . . see. As for Olivia, it’s just her way of coping. She’s five. She doesn’t understand the finality of death.”

  Erin was right. Detectives base decisions on evidence, too. But Sam knew there was risk in that, because sometimes when a detective wants to see something badly enough, the evidence may seem to lead in that direction, even though it really doesn’t. Objectivity is vital. So what was Sam’s evidence? It wasn’t just what Olivia said, it was when she said it. The timing of her delivery was beyond the scope of a child. And the snow globe. Was that evidence? He explained it away by insisting Rachel had not placed the snow globe exactly where she had thought, but his attempt to debunk the truth caused hurt to surface in her eyes. And then there was her scent. Maggie’s. Or was it his imagination? Ever since the accident, sleep had not come easily to him. But the past few nights, when Sam laid his head on his pillow, the scent of her lavender lotion surrounded him, settled his mind, and sleep would find him.

  “Sometimes I wish it were true.” Sam whispered his confession. “I just wish I could talk to her.”

  “Then talk to her.”

  Sam’s forehead creased. “Okay, so first you say Maggie isn’t there, and now you say she is? I’m confused.”

  “No, I’m saying talk to her. If you have things to say, Sam, just say it. It helps to say things out loud. Don’t you ever talk to yourself when you need to process? Right now it sounds like you need to work through some things, emotionally. So talk to her.”

  He thought about Maggie’s journal. It was her way of processing, talking. Maybe Erin was right. Then he imagined himself sorting laundry or cooking dinner, holding one-sided conversations. He felt ridiculous thinking about it.

  A knock drew Sam’s attention to the front door. He peered through the glass and recognized the intruder. “Oh great.”

  “Who is it?” Erin strained to see.

  “Rob. The pastor from Maggie’s church. What the heck is he doing here?” Sam exhaled as he walked to the door. He opened it and a look of relief crossed the pastor’s face.

  “Sam.” Rob stepped inside with an outstretched hand.

  Sam accepted the handshake. “Pastor Rob. You remember my sister-in-law, Erin.”

  “Yes, of course. Hello, Erin.” The pastor returned his attention to Sam. “So Olivia was right? She told me a few Sundays ago that you bought this house. I thought I recognized your pick-up in the drive, so I decided to take a chance and see if I could catch you.”

  “Yep. All true.” He could see the questions bouncing around Rob’s mind, but Sam wasn’t about to explain to him of all people why he was now the owner of this property. “What can I do for you?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all. I just wanted to check in, see how you and the girls are doing.” Rob hesitated. “Holidays can be rough.”

  Sam’s defenses eased, not because of Rob, though. “Yes, it’s been rough. But not as rough as it would have been without Erin.” Sam smiled at Erin as he realized it was the first time he had expressed appreciation for her spending Christmas with them. “She’s been a good distraction for Olivia and Rachel.” Sam didn’t want to imagine the past few days without Maggie’s sister nearby, the pit he would have been trying to pull himself and Rachel from, or the task of faking Christmas spirit for Olivia’s sake. The holiday hadn’t been all candy canes and gingerbread, but it had been bearable.

  “So, you’re a pastor.” Erin pursed her lips and squinted. “I have a question for you. Do you believe in ghosts?”

  “Erin!” Sam’s cheek’s flushed.

  Erin made a quick, dismissive face at him. “I mean, here Sam has bought this old house that he plans to make into a B&B. But I told him, you never know what could be lurking in these empty rooms, and that could be bad for business. Do you think ghosts exist?”

  Rob cupped his chin as if he were considering his answer. “Well, my initial response is no, I don’t believe a person can manifest himself after death as a ghost. I believe the Bible is clear that believers immediately enter into the Lord’s presence, like the story of Lazarus and the rich man.”

  The threat of disappointment stung Sam.

  “I do believe the memory of someone, our sense or connection to them, can be very powerful. So, maybe we can have a sense of someone who has gone on. But the only way I can explain that biblically, and this is a loose explanation, is by considering Hebrews 11, often called the Faith Hall of Fame. Hebrews 11 lists heroes of the faith—Abraham, Isaac, Moses, and many others. Then the very next chapter, Hebrews 12:1, refers to us as being surrounded with a ‘great cloud of witnesses,’ meaning all the heroes of the faith. Some interpret the word witness to mean spectator. So, I suppose one could argue this makes a case for the possibility of someone still being here. The very small possibility.”

  “Well, there you go, Sam.” Erin held out her hands. “This house could be h
aunted. Or not. That clears up everything.”

  Rob and Sam smiled at Erin’s declaration, though Sam a bit nervously.

  “There’s one thing I know for sure,” Rob held up a finger. “We have miniscule human minds that try to figure out God’s incomprehensible mysteries. The intersection of the physical and spiritual worlds is one of those mysteries.”

  Sam glanced at Erin, but she was looking at Rob. So it’s possible? He decided to dismiss Erin’s betrayal.

  “Thanks for stopping by Rob, for checking on the family.” And he meant it. Sam offered his hand as the pastor turned toward the door.

  “A B&B, huh?” Rob examined the foyer. “I think you could be on to something here. Good idea.”

  “It was Maggie’s idea,” Sam confessed. “Something she’d wanted to do for a long time. It just took me too long to get on board.”

  “It’s never too late, Sam—to get on board.” The pastor stepped onto the porch.

  And there it was. The thing about Rob that set Sam off. “Quit trying to save my soul!” he wanted to scream. Instead, Sam gritted his teeth and closed the door.

  “You really don’t like him very much, do you?” Erin grinned. “He seems really nice, you know. Like he genuinely cares.”

  “The guy just rubs me the wrong way.”

  “It was thoughtful of him to check on you and the girls.” Erin looked at her watch. “Hey, we’ve got to be going. I’m meeting someone in town.”

  “Oh?” Sam was surprised. “Anyone I know?”

  “Maybe.” Erin smiled.

  Sam smiled back, but Erin left the mystery hanging in the air.

  CHAPTER 18

  Maggie missed her sister. Erin left that morning with a promise to return soon, but she knew Erin’s job as assistant prosecutor was quicksand. As soon as she stepped into her office, she would be sucked under, along with any memory of her promise. Still, Maggie was blessed that Erin made time for the holidays, for her family. She was generous with her attention and affection, which Olivia monopolized. But Erin had good moments with Rachel, too. Fruitful moments. Through her, Maggie learned Rachel didn’t choose to quit painting or drawing. She said it was like the artistic part of her had been filled with wet cement; she just couldn’t create anymore. What about photography? Erin had asked. “I can’t” was all Rachel said. Erin talked to Rachel about how much time she spent online and encouraged her to spend more time with friends, to go back to youth group. She asked about school, and about Maggie. Maggie appreciated the words Erin shared that she couldn’t, as well as her approach—brief conversations in intervals throughout the week, a little at a time for Rachel to digest. Rachel didn’t talk much, but at least she seemed to listen. Maybe the wall she had built around herself was beginning to weaken. Maggie wondered if it was because of the snow globe.

  The shattered snow globe. After the incident, Maggie retreated to her bedroom to escape the confusion, maybe even fear, she heard in her family’s voices, saw in their eyes—and to escape her own disbelief. She wasn’t certain she had moved the snow globe, but she had no other explanation. Did she dare hope? A phrase kept repeating in her mind. She could still see it on Rachel’s computer screen: develop an ability to interact. Could Paulie Milton and his theories on lingering spirits have been right? Maggie wanted to try again, to interact with the world around her. She stood at Sam’s bedside and looked for something to move. Next to the frame on the nightstand, a pen rested on a legal pad where Sam had scribbled notes for the renovation. Maggie fixed her gaze on it. Hesitant, she started to reach for the pen, but quickly drew back. She was afraid. What if it didn’t work? What if there was some other explanation for the snow globe? Maybe it was a fluke. Or maybe, like Sam said, Rachel didn’t set it securely on the mantel. But what if it did work? What if she reached down, curled her fingers around the pen, and lifted it?

  Chatter from the living room echoed down the hall and into the bedroom. Only moments before, that same chatter should have created a barrier to prevent Maggie from moving the snow globe, but it didn’t. And now it should prevent her from moving the pen that lay in front of her. Would it? Carefully she laid her hand on the pen. She could feel the round barrel, the cool metal. She willed her fingers to close around it. And she lifted. Slowly the pen rose with her hand. Maggie laughed, amused, as she watched her hand continue to rise, controlling the physical object inside. She pressed it against her heart.

  She didn’t know why, or how, but she had broken through. Maybe it was the agony of being alienated from her children, her husband, her sister at Christmas. Or maybe the simple passing of time had given her an element of control over her existence. The reason didn’t matter. As she returned the pen to the legal pad, she wondered what she would do with this new gift. She thought of the girls and remembered their faces when they saw the snow globe in pieces. She must be cautious. She didn’t want to scare them, to be some ghost to them. Maybe, she decided, she shouldn’t use her new ability. But still, she wanted it. It would be nice to feel a little more . . . alive.

  Now Maggie enjoyed interacting in her home again, but only when her family was asleep. She sought out safe tasks nobody would notice, hanging the crumpled towels in the girls’ bathroom so they would dry better, sweeping the kitchen floor. Sometimes she would pretend Sam was working late, the girls were in bed, and she was finishing the last few chores before calling it a night. In those moments, she could almost remember how it felt to be someone’s wife, someone’s mother.

  Rachel tapped her keyboard to waken her laptop, typed in her password, and checked to see if Smiley15 was online. Yep. She began typing. She made sure to include some details about how good it was to talk to Aunt Erin, that she was studying for the big science test next week, and that she was considering going back to church—only some of which was true—but it would make her dad happy and keep him off her case when he creeped her laptop.

  Then she opened another tab and prepared to start a new message, but she couldn’t decide. Who did she want to be tonight? LocoLola, who never takes anything too seriously, or, Jezebel, who is emo and cutting with her words, or Dqueen—the D was for drama. She looked at the clock, an hour until bedtime. Maybe she had time to be all three. She logged in as Dqueen first.

  As she waited for the page to open, she thought about her talks with Aunt Erin. She felt like a soda that had been shaken too hard, and one pull of the tab would cause her to spew. So she shared only surface stuff, enough to relieve some of the pressure, cautious not to make a mess. It was hard though, because Aunt Erin was an expert at cross examination, and Rachel really wanted to tell somebody. But how could she tell Aunt Erin the two things that would disappoint her the most? I used drugs. And, I’m the reason your sister died. But Aunt Erin would forgive her for the pills, right? Because she quit when her dad’s prescription ran out. The pills didn’t make it easier like Cricket said. It just made it weird. But the text she sent her mom—Aunt Erin would never forgive her for that. No one would.

  She looked at the page that loaded on the screen, her fake profile for Dqueen. She didn’t know what made the idea come to her, but she thought it ingenious. She couldn’t change who she was in real life, but online, she could live any life she wanted, say anything she wanted. And she had since the beginning of November, confident her secrets were safe, confident her dad would never dig further than the screen she created just for him. Rachel’s fingers skated across the keyboard as she began messaging one of her “friends.” Suddenly they stopped.

  “What the—”

  Her screen was black.

  Rachel hit the escape key multiple times. Still, no screen. Then she held down the power button. Instantly the screen blinked, and the computer turned on.

  “Weird.”

  She returned to the website and began typing again.

  The screen went black.

  “Dad!” Rachel called over her shoulder. “Something’s wrong with my laptop!”

  Sam lay in bed listening to the famili
ar house sounds—the ice maker dropping ice, the furnace kicking on, the clock ticking in the hallway. It was too quiet. He missed the noise, the laughter, the games and movies, staying up too late and collapsing in bed, too tired to hear the sounds that now penetrated the emptiness. He worried about the girls. Erin brought joy back into their lives, but it left abruptly, as soon as the door closed behind her. Olivia clung to him all afternoon, whiney and dejected. Rachel returned to her usual sullen self. And Sam missed the elements a woman’s presence added to a home. He missed Maggie.

  The numbers on the clock glowed 10:05 p.m. Sam continued to wait in the stillness. For what? His imagination? A touch of insanity? Because it couldn’t be real. Yet, there it was. It was faint at first, but the scent grew stronger as Sam turned toward Maggie’s side of the bed. He inhaled deeply and imagined Maggie propped against her pillows, massaging lotion into her hands, her arms, her elbows. How many times had he watched her nightly ritual, never realizing how important it would be to him now?

  “Maggie.”

  His voice tightened. He felt ridiculous, saying her name out loud. But that’s what Erin said to do, wasn’t it? Talk, process. Except Sam didn’t want to process. He wanted to communicate, to connect. With what? An empty pillow? In spite of the absurdity, he spoke again.

  “I don’t know if you can hear me, but—I thought you might like to know tomorrow is the big day. The renovation officially begins. I have to tell you, I’m a little nervous. This is kind of a big deal—for you, for me—and I’m not sure I’m ready for this. But I gotta start sometime. I figure tomorrow is a good day.”

  Olivia cried out in her sleep, now a rarity, interrupting him. Erin’s departure must have awakened feelings of loss Olivia had suppressed. He waited for a second cry to spring him to action, but it didn’t come. So he continued.