“Golly,” Wally said. “Speaking of your mom. Uh, maybe we don’t need to tell her about today’s business. She has enough on her mind, don’tcha think?”
I was super glad to hear him say that. “Yeah, I do. So telling her about any of this would be such a bad idea.”
“Okey doke, then,” Wally said. He breathed a sigh. “We’re on the same sheet of the funny pages.”
Ghost gave him a suspicious look. “Daddy,” she said. “You’re giving the feeling that maybe, just once in a while … you used to skip school.”
Mom’s Diary
I’m not sure who I am anymore. What I did in Kazakhstan was unspeakable. How could I have done those things? How?
Madness. There was nothing but madness.
But wasn’t it pulled from somewhere inside me?
Am I a monster?
Can anyone ever forgive me?
When I got home from the Gundersons’, I decided I wasn’t hungry. Not even for yummy leftover beef Stroganoff.
Instead, since I still had a few minutes before Mrs. Lehman would come over, I pulled out Mom’s diary again. I kept coming back to the last entry. See, that Kazakhstan madness had tried to catch me, too. But I protected myself in my cocoon.
Mom, though, was there in the flesh. It ripped her mind apart, and that’s why she’s so … broken now.
As I stepped out of her bedroom, I heard the front door open. I assumed it was Mrs. Lehman, using the key Mom had given her. But when I came into the living room, there was Mom with a bag of groceries in one arm and flowers in the other.
“Hi, Mom!” I took the groceries from her. “I guess stuff in Panama went okay? And you called Mrs. Lehman?”
She shrugged. “I sent Mrs. Lehman a text. As for Panama, there was nothing to it. Turned out the people the Committee thought were going to be a problem were just being paid to be obstreperous for a day. They ’fessed up when I put one of them into a bubble and offered to roll it into the canal. But none of them seemed to know where the money had come from, or why they were told to stall.”
I had a pretty good idea, myself. But of course I couldn’t say. “Maybe someone just wanted a celebrity encounter with the Amazing Bubbles. Oh, and what’s up with the flowers?” I hoped that would change the subject.
“I thought they might brighten up the place.” She looked sad for a moment, and then there was that blankness again. I’d been sure she’d look at me and know I had been up to something. But no. Nothing.
“Mom.” I put the groceries on the kitchen counter, then waved my hand in front of her face. “You okay?”
She blinked and was back. She gave me a wan smile. “Yes, dear. Panama was nothing. I’m fine.”
But she wasn’t fine, and there was nothing I could say to change it. I didn’t have the right words.
And then I realized that even though there was nothing I could say … there might be one thing I could do.
“Hey,” I said as we put away the groceries. “I know it’s kinda late, and a school night, but … just for a little while, maybe we could get out of the house and do something totes fun.”
She gave me a falsely bright smile. “What’s that, honey?”
“We could go to the Statue of Liberty.”
A confused expression crossed her face. “I don’t think the ferry runs this late.”
I took her hand and gave a tug, but I couldn’t move her. She was pretty pudgy at the moment.
“C’mon, Mom,” I said.
She shook her head as if she were just waking up. "Okay, fine, if you’re going to insist." She half laughed and almost sounded like the old Mom. Then she let me pull her into my bedroom.
I let go of her hand, cranked my window open, and climbed onto the sill. The mist had stopped, and the sky was almost clear.
I stepped out onto the narrow ledge and turned to face Mom.
Her eyes were wide. “You can’t,” she said. “You never told—”
But before she could finish her sentence, I jumped backward, letting my wings spread wide. Mom gave a little squeak, then ran over and stuck her head out.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked. There was both wonder and annoyance in her voice. Definitely more like the old Mom. “How long have you known?”
“Not long,” I replied, hovering. I looked down and saw people on the sidewalk stopping to squint up past the streetlamps. Oh well. It was going to come out sometime. “Let’s go, Mom. It’ll be fun!”
Now she looked dubious. “How do you know you can even carry me?”
“Well, we can try,” I replied. No need for explanations about that.
And yeah, I was exhausted from the day’s torturous adventure. But the thought of taking Mom flying made me feel like I could do anything.
“You could bubble off some fat,” I said. “And even if you fall, well, I mean … so what?”
That made her snort-laugh—nothing ladylike about it at all. I loved that laugh.
Then she started bubbling through the open window. Some of the bubbles floated around me, and some drifted down to amaze the pedestrians. They were all like the ones she used to make for me. Soft and pretty. Shiny, too.
“Okay,” she said, climbing out onto the ledge when she was a bit thinner. “How do you want to do this?”
“Just wrap your arms around me.” She reached out to pull me close, and I let her embrace me.
Then I gave a few strong flaps, and we rose into the air. It smelled of autumn. The wind changed direction as we ascended, and I knew I’d have to compensate for it. But hey, no prob. Not for Morpho Girl.
I liked Mom’s arms around me. It made me feel like a little kid again. But now I was the one carrying her, and that felt like … something new.
So maybe we could never be normal again. Never like the way we used to be, I mean.
But maybe we could be … okay.
I flew upward until we were high above the city. Below us, the jumbled buildings of Lower Manhattan were bathed in electric radiance. It was freaking gorgeous.
Then Mom and I looped around, rose higher still, and flew through the darkness toward the bright glow of Lady Liberty.
About the Author
Bradley Denton was born in Wichita, Kansas, in 1958. He is the author of five novels, including Blackburn, and two short story collections. He lives on the outskirts of Austin, Texas. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Begin Reading
About the Author
Copyright © 2018 by Caroline Spector and Bradley Denton
Art copyright © 2018 by John Picacio
The Flight of Morpho Girl Page 6