Better With Butter

by Victoria Piontek

  Near the end of practice, Dad comes in carrying the final pieces of the set. When Dad sees me, he smiles broadly and comes over. “Want me to wait for you until you’re done? We can walk home together.”

  “That’s okay. Mom’s coming to pick me up.”

  “I know. She mentioned it, but we could call her to let her know you’re walking. I have her number on speed dial.” Dad nudges me playfully.

  I know I’m disappointing him, but I shake my head. It’s too sad to walk home with Dad without Butter. Nothing is the same without her.

  When play practice is over, I go outside to wait for Mom to come get me and take me away from school, the play, and everything I became with Butter by my side.

  After dinner, I sit in her enclosure and refuse to leave. It smells of hay, lavender, and wood; it smells of Butter.

  I must have fallen asleep because I feel Dad’s arms scoop me up to carry me inside. At first, I don’t remember what’s wrong. Then it all comes back. I shut my eyes as quickly as I can. I don’t want to remember. I don’t want to feel the emptiness in my heart.

  * * *

  I sit on my bed with my knees drawn close to my chest and stare out the window. It overlooks the garden. Through my curtains, I see Butter’s enclosure, the home Dad built just for her.

  My sadness is heavy like a thing, not a feeling, and I want it to go away. I want to forget it. Never think about it again, but if I do, I forget Butter.

  Dad comes into my room and sits on the edge of my bed. He’s quiet for a minute, waiting for me to turn toward him. Instead, I stare out the window. He finally says, “I’ve got some bad news, kiddo. I’ve been called back to my ship. I need to leave for San Diego first thing in the morning.”

  Dad’s words tear my already-broken heart more. I don’t understand why I have to say goodbye to him too. I lay my head on his shoulder. I’ve gotten used to leaning on it. “I don’t want you to go.”

  “I know. I’ll be back,” Dad says.

  “It could be months,” I tell him. Months of missing him all the time, of no new memories, no day-to-day. He’ll fade again like before and become an imaginary character in a faraway land. I don’t want a hero for a father. I just want him home with me all the time.

  “I don’t want to go either, but I have to.”

  I finally look at him. “Last time, it was almost a year.” We both know it’s true. Almost a year is a long time. It’s the difference between sixth grade and seventh. Kid and teenager. The difference between happy and sad.

  “I know this is hard. Sometimes life just is.”

  “I wish you hadn’t spent all that time with Butter and me if you weren’t going to stay.” I pull away and wrap my hands around my knees again, closing up.

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “I do. Everything’s going back to the way it was before Butter.” With Butter at my side life got bigger. I found friends, and Dad came home. Now it’s shrinking back up again.

  “It doesn’t have to. Not if you don’t let it.” Dad takes my hand.

  “I got used to you, and now you’re leaving. Butter’s gone too.”

  “I know it’s heartbreaking, honey. We’ve got to take the good with the bad. Without the goodbyes, there are no joyful hellos.”

  Tears flow down my cheeks.

  Dad sits with me and holds my hand. When the tears slow, he kisses the top of my head. “You have to feel it all. Without feeling the bad, you close yourself off to the good—the joy, the excitement, the wonder. You have to let it all flow through you. You can’t bottle up the bad and think the good will somehow get in.”

  I sniff and bury my head into his chest. I hang on tight, not wanting to let him go. “I’m going to miss you.”

  “I’m going to miss you too. You have no idea how much.” Dad’s voice turns gruff and scratchy. “But home is where your heart is, Marvel. And my heart is always here with you, your mom, and your brother. So, I’m always at home, even when I’m away.”

  Mom comes to my bedroom door. She sighs softly.

  Dad glances over my head at Mom. His chin rests on the top of my head, and I can feel it move when he talks. “Your mom’s going to videotape the play for me. My scenery is going to look sick on film.”

  Reef comes to the door and drapes his arm over Mom’s shoulders. He’s way taller than her now. Everything keeps changing. “Sick, dad? No one your age should say that.”

  Dad chuckles. “No, probably not. Hey, watch out for your sister while I’m away.”

  “Don’t worry, Dad. We got her,” Reef says.

  Dad squeezes me tight and then lifts my chin to look me in the eye. “Only you can decide if you’re going to perform the bigger role or not. If you decide not to, let it be for something else. Don’t let it be because you were afraid to try.”

  His words swirl around me. It’s good advice.

  I wish I knew how to take it.

  With Dad and Butter gone, the house is really quiet. Mom misses Dad, and it’s hard for me to watch. I wonder if Dad is her Butter, and she’s not quite right without him. She keeps telling me we’ll get back into the swing of things soon, and I guess we will. I don’t suppose we have another option.

  Reef’s been hanging out with me more than usual. I think he’s trying to take care of me like he promised Dad.

  We sit at the kitchen table doing homework. We’re both working on math. Only, his looks really complicated, like some sort of technical magic, and for some reason, it makes me think about life and feelings and ways of being. It makes me think that when it comes to who you are, unlike in math, there are no right answers.

  “Is it hard for you with Dad gone?” I ask him.

  Reef looks up. He’s always the joker and nothing ever seems to get him down, so it never occurred to me to ask him before. “Sometimes. It’s always hardest the first few days after he leaves. It’s like trying to recalibrate an engine.”

  Reef wants to be an engineer. He’s constantly thinking about how things work. Only, I’m not sure I get it. “What do you mean?”

  He shrugs. “I get used to having him around, and it takes a few days before I remember he won’t be here when I walk in the door or that I have to save something I want to tell him for when he calls.”

  “Yeah, I get that. I didn’t really remember what it was like having him home all the time. It was nice having us all together.”

  “He’ll be back.”

  “How do you know? His job is really dangerous.”

  Reef stares off into space for a second, thinking. He looks back at me. “I don’t know. I suppose you can think about the worst-case scenario and focus on that or you can think of the best case. Either way you’re trying to predict the future, which isn’t possible.”

  What he says makes sense. I’m not sure how he does it, though. I don’t know how he controls his thoughts. I can’t stop thinking about what Dad told me. That he gets afraid but forges ahead anyway. “Dad said he gets scared all the time, but he doesn’t let his fear make his decisions for him.”

  “That sounds like Dad. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t get scared.”

  I fiddle with my notebook. “It helps me to know that other people get worried about things. I think my fears have been in my mind so much that I thought it was just me and everyone else had it figured out.”

  Reef rubs the top of my head in a VERY annoying big-brother way. “No one I know has anything figured out.”

  I duck my head away from his aggressive petting. “One of the things I love so much about Butter is that even though she faints when things scare her, she doesn’t let it stop her. She pops back up and keeps going.”

  Reef stares at me. “You’re like that.”

  I’m completely taken aback by this observation. “What do you mean?”

  “I see you getting knocked down a lot. Every time, you hop back up and keep going.”

  I didn’t realize Reef had been paying attention to me. “But I get knocked down by stuff t
hat other people find simple like going to school, giving speeches, or not worrying about every tiny thing, so it doesn’t count.”

  “Are you sure about that?” he asks, looking at me with eyes so similar to Dad’s it’s like a lesson in genetics.

  I guess I’m not. I fiddle with my pencil, tearing pieces of the eraser apart.

  Reef watches me for a second and then says, “But I also think you’re brave in the regular way too.”

  I stop pulling my eraser apart and peer up at him.

  “You rescued Butter from those kids, brought her into Mom’s garden, took her to school without Principal Huxx’s permission … you also stole my scrimmage pinnie and cut it up to make a jacket for a goat. That definitely took guts.” He punches my arm, and it’s a smidge harder than it has to be to land his joke. “From my perspective, you’re about as brave as they come.”

  I think about what he says, trying to see myself through his eyes. I did do all those things, but because I had to do them. I didn’t have any other choice. “The pinnie looked better on her than it ever did on you,” I tell him, and punch him back, but lightly, kind of like a hug.

  “True,” he says, and goes back to doing homework and I do the same, but I can’t stop thinking about his words. For the rest of the evening, they blow around my head like seeds in the wind until they eventually settle and start to sprout.

  Group therapy meets in the school basement, a location that makes me nervous. I worry that if there is an earthquake, the building will collapse and trap me. Possibly kill me. I know it might sound silly to someone else, but the danger feels very real to me. In fact, it feels so likely to happen that I replay disaster-response scenarios over and over in my mind.

  The last few days, Mr. J and I have been talking about it A LOT. He’s helping me realize that my concern isn’t rational. Yesterday, he encouraged me to write a list of facts to challenge my fear.

  I stand at the door to the basement and pull the list out of my pocket. I reread it.

  My Fear: An Earthquake Will Cause the Building to Collapse and KILL ME.

  The construction of our school is fairly new and has up-to-date safety standards. (This does make me feel better.)

  I’ll only be in the basement for one hour a week. The likelihood that a major earthquake will happen in that one hour is not very probable. (I’m not a math genius, but this makes sense.)

  If an earthquake is going to occur, it will happen no matter where I am. Going into the basement will not make an earthquake happen. (That’s logically sound.)

  There are several exit doors in the basement. (I did not know this previously. Mr. J got out a map and pointed them out to me.)

  It’s a good list. It puts my mind at ease, so I am going to do it.

  I slip the emergency whistle I swiped from our earthquake go bag over my head and tuck it under my shirt. I didn’t tell Mr. J I planned to wear it just in case. He doesn’t need to know everything. Baby steps.

  To my surprise, the basement looks a lot better than I imagined. It’s carpeted, well lit, and very clean. It also has a few windows on one side. I mean, it’s not just pleasant. It’s really nice.

  All of a sudden, I feel silly. I avoided group because I was afraid of the basement, and it’s not even scary.

  This group isn’t the same as our school friendship group. That group isn’t real therapy; this group is, and that’s part of the problem with it. I don’t like the idea of sharing my private thoughts with other kids my age. That’s terrifying, but Mr. J said I didn’t have to say anything at all. I could just listen.

  There are five of us: me, a girl named Bree (she’s in a different homeroom), a boy named Chris (I think he might be from a different school because I don’t know him), another girl named Makayla (also from another school, I think), and Jamie (this completely surprises me).

  The only seat open is next to Jamie, so I reluctantly sit there and whisper to him, “I didn’t know you came to this group.” I’m pretty sure we can talk, but everyone else is really quiet. I don’t want to be the only one chatting.

  He shrugs. “Since the beginning of the school year.”

  I want to ask him what he’s in for, but that seems kind of rude.

  Jamie uncharacteristically offers the information. “My parents got divorced at the beginning of the year. They still fight a lot. It’s not easy.”

  I gape at him, stunned by his honest confession.

  “Stop staring at me like I have two heads. You’ll find out soon enough anyway because this is group and everyone shares everything, but you’re not allowed to judge or tell anybody else, so I don’t care if you know.”

  “I would never say anything even if there wasn’t a rule against it,” I promise.

  Jamie squints at me and then nods appreciatively.

  Mr. J calls the group to order, and it’s nothing like I thought. It’s just us kids chatting, and I’m surprised at how much it helps. Makayla also has anxiety, and parts of her brain work a lot like mine. Listening to her talk makes me feel less alone, and that makes my fears seem smaller somehow. I think I’m going to like coming here.

  After group, Jamie and I walk outside. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t relieved to be aboveground again, but it’s a small thought. Not a big, huge one that feels like it’s going to grab hold of my brain like a ravenous zombie and not let go.

  “You want to walk home together?” Jamie asks, completely shocking me. “I live close to you.” My face must show my astonishment because he says, “Ugh. You’re so annoying, Frosty. We’re not going to be best friends or anything like that. It’s pure convenience, and Mr. J told me to try to be more cordial three times a week. This counts as one.”

  It’s not the most complimentary invitation, and I haven’t walked home alone since Butter went away. “My mom is supposed to pick me up.”

  “You can use my cell phone to call her.” He takes out his phone and hands it to me.

  Everyone has a phone but me. Mom and I really need to have a conversation about this.

  I take his phone and stare at it for a moment. Then I punch in the number.

  Today is full of big steps.

  As soon as I walk in the door, I hear our phone ringing. I swear we’re the only people on the planet to still have a landline. No one else is home. Reef is at an elite, overnight soccer tournament and Mom is at her landscaping job.

  I lunge for the phone. “Hello?”

  There’s a delay, and then the other line crackles. Robocall.

  I’m about to hang up when someone says, “Is this Marvel?”

  The voice sounds familiar. I know I should recognize the caller, but I can’t quite place her. “May I ask who’s calling, please?”

  “This is Gloria Fizzle, Butter’s owner. I’m trying to reach Marvel.”

  Hearing Butter’s name makes me ache with longing. “This is Marvel.”

  “Thank goodness I’ve reached you,” Gloria says in a rush. “It’s Butter. She’s not doing well. She’s stopped eating and drinking. I’ve tried everything I can think of. Nothing has helped.”

  My heart lurches. “But … why?”

  “I’ve been asking myself that very same question. This morning I told the vet about you. She thinks Butter is grieving. Goats are social creatures and bond closely with the people they love. She misses you.”

  “I miss her too.”

  “Could you come to my barn and try to coax her into eating?” Gloria sounds desperate.

  “My mom would have to drive me, but she’s not home yet. Can I call you right back?”

  “Do you have a pen?” Gloria asks. I dig around the kitchen for one and something to write on. Gloria gives me all the details and tells me to call her back once I know if I can get there. “Please don’t take too long. I’m not sure how much time Butter has.”

  Her words shock me. “She’s that sick?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Gloria says, her distress clear.

  I grip the phone, trying to han
g on to something solid. The idea of a world without Butter in it doesn’t make any sense to me. I hang up with Gloria and dial Mom, but it takes me a few tries to get the number correct because neither my mind nor hands are working properly and I keep messing up. When I finally get her number dialed, she picks up on the first ring.

  “Mom?” My voice sounds like one a much younger me would use.

  “Honey, what’s wrong?”

  “It’s Butter—” I break off, unable to get the words out. They’re too terrible, and I’m crying too hard to speak.

  “Sweetheart, take a deep breath and try again.” Mom’s voice sounds calm, but I hear worry underneath her composure.

  I do as she says, and I’m finally able to fill her in on everything and give her Gloria’s address.

  “I’m on my way but …” She pauses for a moment like she doesn’t want to finish her sentence. Then she continues, “It’s Friday afternoon. Bay Area traffic is notorious. It’ll take a couple of hours to get home this time of day. If not more.”

  I go silent. I didn’t turn on the lights when I walked in the door, and I regret it now. As the sun sinks outside, the dimming natural light makes our usually cozy kitchen feel bleak and lonely. I imagine Butter alone in a darkening enclosure, thin and frail, bleating for me, and me not answering her calls. The picture makes me frantic to get to her as quickly as possible, but I don’t have a way there.

  On the other end of the line, I hear Mom’s car door slam. “I’m coming home now. I’ll get there as fast as I can. You know …” Mom trails off, thoughtful, and I can tell she has an idea she wants to share.

  “Yeah?” I ask. Normally, I’d never encourage her to continue because it usually means she’s going to suggest something I’m not going to like, but this concerns Butter.

  “The address Gloria gave is in the headlands. There’s a bus that goes out there. Reef rode it to his camp counselor job last summer. If you took it, you wouldn’t have to wait for me, and it’d be fast. The bus gets to use the carpool lane, but I know how you feel about taking it, especially by yourself.”