The Butterfly Affect

by Patrice Stanton

  4

  Time flew as the two worked as a team, positioning the butterflies. Careful consideration meant a nice random spacing and color distribution. Though birds of a feather flock together, Louisa had said, you probably don’t want clumps of the same kind of critter.

  Brett had agreed amiably.

  “Heaven must be like this,” Brett said as they surveyed the results: Louisa from the doorway, Brett from atop her loft bed. “But my tummy hurts again, Louisa.”

  “Well, look at the time; it’s nearly 5:00 pm. Where has the afternoon gone?”

  “Do you think Mom’s OK?” asked Brett as she climbed down, “Should we take her something?”

  “Sweetheart, when she has Martinis for breakfast and brunch, it’s best to let her come out for further sustenance at her own pace,” Louisa said gently.

  “Then could I have…” Brett hesitated, looking up as if she wanted the grown-up in charge to choose the forbidden, and preferably by reading her mind.

  “White-Castle?” they said in unison, then laughed.

  “Of course,” said Louisa, with a hand on the girl’s shoulder as they walked the long hallway toward the kitchen. “Blame it all on me for giving you my own special kind of early birthday gift.”

  “Do you think they’ll like the blurry flowers and all those water lilies?” the girl asked.

  “Who? Oh…the butterflies…why, yes, I think they’ll like them just fine, miss.”

  “I forgot to do something, Louisa. I’ll be back,” Brett said, and ran back to her room. She went to the window that was around a corner, out of sight from the doorway, and opened it and its screen ever so slightly.

  “For the Butterflies,” she said quietly, glancing up at the just completed project one more time, “just in case they’d prefer some real flowers.”

  At Louisa’s suggestion the cut edges of each four-winged beauty had been purposefully curved upwards, ever so slightly. Immediately, the breath of hot air coming through the window’s narrow opening touched those nearest; they responded; seemed to give an unseasonable shiver.

  5

  After the special supper Brett used her mother’s cellphone and called her dad. Of course the poor guy didn’t answer it.

  He called back within minutes of checking the voicemail, though.

  “Thanks, Dad,” Brett said, “they’re the best.” Brett tilted the phone out and away from her ear so Louisa could hear, too.

  “You’ve got them up already?” he asked.

  “Yup. Me and Louisa, just like you ordered…”

  He laughed. “When your mother yells at Louisa, or you, about desecrating her Art, you call me. You hear?”

  “Yup,” said Brett as Louisa chimed in with a, “Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t you two forget to be looking for that last package, alright?” he said.

  “I won’t, we won’t,” Brett said looking at Louisa and nodding at her; the woman gave Brett a thumbs’ up in return.

  6

  After the call, a quick check on her mom found her still snoring away, so Brett went and got ready for bed all on her own.

  “Goodness, miss,” said Louisa as the girl entered the kitchen in her summery-ist PJ’s, “the sun’s not even all the way down yet. Are you feeling alright? Two of those burgers with all the fixings was way too much, wasn’t it?”

  “Nope, I’m feeling fine, and so is Mom I guess; she’s still sleeping. I just wanted to look at all the butterflies before falling asleep, that’s all, Louisa. Tell Mom goodnight when you see her later, please,” the girl said, feeling a little more grown-up than she did that same morning.

  “I will, and goodnight to you. Don’t forget…” Louisa began.

  “I know, we leave for swim lessons at 9 am,” she said matter-of-factly, “got my suit all picked out. Can you guess?”

  “Wouldn’t be the one with butterflies by any chance, would it?”

  “Yup. Now I know Mom’s right…you can read minds.” They both laughed as the girl spun around then skipped off to her room.

  Brett hardly felt the cool wooden steps up, up, up to her high platform of a bed. She slipped between the equally cool sheets and gazed happily over the shimmering creatures adorning her ceiling.

  Wait until Mom sees this, she’ll wonder why she ever thought those old clouds were so special.

  The girl tried counting up all of one kind of butterfly, but colors were shifting so she kept losing count. As the summer evening’s light faded, red-oranges were first to disguise themselves. They turned dark grey, before going black. But even whites and all the other rainbow colors soon went to various and ever-darkening greys, as moment by passing moment would ultimately drain all but tonal-visibility away.

  Heroically, Brett fought sleep as long as she could, of course eventually losing. She drifted off to a soothing sound she knew was simply the unstuck paper edges rustling in the fan currents. Her still active imagination, though, preferred to believe dozens of critters with countless wings were gently exercising previously unused muscles.

  7

  Some time in the middle of the night Brett’s mother, on the way to the kitchen hung-over and hungry, came by to check on her daughter. The girl’s door was open, as usual, so a silent flashlight sweep of the room easily confirmed the child was peacefully asleep. The woman noticed how neat the space was as she continued to scan the room.

  That’s odd. Nothing, not a book, a shoe, a doll, zero out of place. The woman smiled, considering her throbbing headache, that alone was her accomplishment. She had turned to tiptoe away when she heard something incongruent. Stopping, she turned back.

  It was a scritch, scratch, flip, flop, flapping kind of sound...but then again she was hearing it mixed with the pounding of her own racing, erratic pulse. She used the light to try and find the source of the low sound; the beam cut a white-yellow line along the wall and up to the ceiling. Nothing.

  I’m hearing things and no wonder.

  She rubbed her temple with her free hand, but still, there was that sound, only now, a little louder. Or closer.

  She jerked the light all the way up this time; swept the custom cloud-studded ceiling methodically from directly above her entryway position to the back of the large irregularly shaped room. A ha! She thought. There, halfway to the far wall was one of those wrapping-paper butterflies Brett had gone so gah-gah over.

  The woman couldn’t take her eyes off it, and contrary to her usual nature, the thing set her to wondering: why in the world was it flapping for all it was worth…as if a hairdryer on HIGH was trained on it, instead of the lazy low-speed breeze from the ceiling fan, half a room away? She had no more time to muse on it for just then the thing fell free of whatever had been restraining it, plummeting to the floor. Sort of.

  As the stunned woman watched, the free-fall ended and “something happened” she’d later be unable – or unwilling – to relate, but would frequently recall. The colorful piece of paper somehow went away from her and around an awkward corner - towards what Brett called her secret space.

  Quick-stepping as quietly as she could, she again used the narrow beam and checked the floor. No paper butterfly. However she was annoyed to find the girl had left the casement window partially open in the middle of a 100-degree spell.

  Brett mumbled in her sleep at the loud ‘clunk’ of the window’s latching, “…but the butterflies...” which the woman completely dismissed – she was busy whispering angrily to herself about kids these days and air-conditioning.

  8

  Next morning Louisa’s nose told her halfway to the kitchen what she’d find when she got there. Or at least some of what she’d find: leftover sauerkraut and ragged shreds of raw onion. All soaking their odors into the cutting board she thought of as hers. She wondered how many cycles through the dishwasher it’d take to get those smells out this time.

  Worse, she realized, was the pan she just spotted on the stove. A lone cold hotdog, floated in now cool water, the surface of which was dott
ed with coagulated fat droplets.

  Lovely. The Missus didn’t allow cookware in the dishwasher, so cleaning it would require the hands on treatment. She grimaced like a toddler confronted with a dose of doubly noxious medicine all the artificial cherry-flavoring in the state of Texas couldn’t disguise.

  Stumbling over her own feet, she finally made it to the French doors, which she flung open, despite that the outside temperature had already broken 80 degrees. That smell needed to be diluted fast.

  She set-to the one-woman cocktail-party kitchen disaster. From the corner of her eye she swore she saw a butterfly, but ignored it. It wouldn’t make a mess, or wake the Missus, and if Brett was up and saw it she’d be tickled pink.

  “There,” she said aloud not fifteen minutes later, the space returned to its normal order – the way she liked it, “now we can start breakfast.” It was nearing 7:30 am and an overly warm breeze wafted in smelling of pool chemicals. She needed to close the doors. As she went to close them another lone butterfly wandered in.

  “Shoo,” she said, trying to use hand signals to wave it or waft the thing back outside, “Come on now, one of you in the house is plenty, besides, there’s nothing like blooming flowers in here, that’s for sure.” She wasn’t succeeding but left the doors propped open a sliver, in case. In case what, she wasn’t sure. It wasn’t possible to herd it anywhere. All Louisa could do was watch the thing. Clearly it had a mind of its own and after a loop around the kitchen it headed straight for, then started down, the hallway towards Brett’s room.

  “Miss Brett,” Louisa whispered as she knocked on the girl’s half opened door, “are you up?” She pushed it open and came face to face with the girl who was still brushing her teeth.

  “Morning, Louisa…what’s--”

  “Look, miss,” she pointed to the fluttering thing which was now here there and everywhere, then finally over by the bend in the room.

  “What’s it doing in here?” the girl asked, through a foam-filled mouth.

  “Go spit that out, miss, before you swallow too much of it.”

  The girl backed away, eyes glued to the butterfly and before she made it to the bathroom the two watched in amazement as the creature fluttered up and up towards the ceiling and found a vacant glob of the special sticky-putty Louisa had used the day before. It alighted over top of it and apparently settled down right on it. It’s arrival meant the ceiling’s new butterfly-array was finally complete. Again.

  Both were too stunned to say a word. Louisa turned to go back to the kitchen.

  Brett trotted over to her secret corner and found the window and its screen closed and latched.

  9

  Brett chewed the last of the last raisin oatmeal pancake at half speed to make it last. She could hear the clip-clop of her mother’s slip-on “kitten” shoes echo down the private tiled hallway from the master bedroom.

  Walking into the kitchen her mother glared at her, “So, why did you disobey me – and your father – last night, Brett?” The two simply stared at each other for a few moments. Then Brett understood, or thought she did.

  “Did you shut my window, Mom? It was…” the girl began.

  “So you admit it? Good for you, but as punishment you can just spend the rest of the morning in your room away from…”

  “Pardon me, ma’am…” began Louisa.

  “This does not concern you, Louisa, unless you’d like to begin paying the electric bills around here!” She turned back to Brett, who’d stopped chewing and was standing up to show that she was dressed in a bathing suit. For her lessons.

  There’ll be no swimming today, either…coffee, Louisa,” she plunked down in her usual command-and-control position and opened the awaiting newspaper.

  “But it’s swimming lessons, all week, Mom,” said Brett, “I bet they’re not cheap.” She smiled at Louisa.

  “Fine. But when you’re back from that…” her mother noted the other two’s camaraderie-of-the-moment with a sly grin of her own. “Something more than the window I should know about, other than that the two of you ate a bunch of junk-food-burgers while I was resting yesterday?...Good. Oh, and Brett, don’t think I don’t know about…”

  Here it comes, Brett thought, the order to rip down all the paper butterflies off the ceiling – even the, the magic one. All that work...thrown away.

  “…another gift coming today. Heaven’s…two gifts. It’s enough to make me think the man’s trying to make up for something. Anyway, a gift from that particular establishment is bound to be much too valuable for a girl your age, so be prepared for a ‘look but don’t touch’ label on that one, sweetie.” The sweetie sounded strained.

  “Um, Mom, there were two gifts yesterday, not one, there was also the…” Brett started.

  “Yeah, I know…the wrapping paper leftovers. That wasn’t a gift it was the cleverest act of ‘decluttering’ disguised as generosity I’ve ever seen,” she practically spat it out, “Louisa, make sure you dispose of it, we sure don’t need any more clutter. My God, what will he think of next?”

  “I kind of…” Brett started again.

  “At least you didn’t try and cover a wall with it,” she chuckled at the thought.

  Brett and Louisa gave one another confused looks.

  10

  So the punishment was delayed while Brett was taken to swim lesson and by the time they got back Louisa was in a rush to get the Missus’ requested lunch prepared on time. This meant there was only one person to answer the doorbell: the Missus.

  The woman brought it to the kitchen and proceeded to cut into it. It was small and did need to be signed for, confirming it’s higher value.

  “Now this is more like a birthday present,” the Missus said unlatching and lifting the lid on the velvet-lined jewelry box.

  Louisa’s breath caught in her throat. Butterflies. Enameled gold probably, with a ‘sparkly’ here and there – diamonds and sapphires probably.

  “Oh, ma’am, it’s exquisite…she’ll treasure it, I’m sure.”

  “Ha! Lou-i-sa, Lou-i-sa…do you really think my husband…my almost ex-husband intended a child to suddenly be ready to wear something like this because she’s about to turn nine? You can’t be serious…

  She’d stepped to the French doors, letting the sunlight play over the colors. “Look at the depth of that enamel,” she spoke almost dreamily and certainly to herself since Louisa was busy half a room away, prepping the meal. “Gorgeous,” she said, stating the obvious.

  Lousia knew why the Missus had put the necklace in direct sunlight. Had heard her brag some and complain more about some of her own jewelry. In that full spectrum she could see the refraction of the stones…to judge their cut...or was it the clarity?

  11

  Brett had heard the front door slam followed by excited voices; figured it must be her last gift. Any moment she expected her mother would bring it to her room. She’d at least show it to her, she was certain. But so far she was so wrong.

  The girl opened the door a crack and listened. All was quiet out there but in her room it was a different story.

  As the minutes following the doorbell chime ticked by, the paper critters seemed to grow more and more restless.

  But why?

  She hadn’t increased the speed of her fan, but they were making the same near-frantic fluttering sound they had at bedtime. As she looked upwards, their commotion ratcheted louder still, the paper wings visibly vibrating. Brett thought she should probably shut her window. There was no telling what the next punishment would be.

  Before she reached it a crispy sort of static burst from over head; butterflies were falling from her ceiling in mid-metamorphosis: paper-becoming-real. Like a rainbow tinted tornado, the flapping winged things circled, spread out, re-coalesced, as if each was searching or feeling the others out. Brett was too startled, then too amazed to be scared.

  After a few more lazy revolutions the cloud of colors started distilling individual shapes. Then, oddly, forming into
two-by-twos, and the pairs flew straight for the open window.

  And they left.

  It had all taken only a couple of minutes. What remained, she guessed, were the loners. They circled in a lazy slo-mo, directly above her. She continued to watch, then turned to her bedroom door: distinct mother-footsteps were coming down the echo-y hallway.

  “Bre-ett…” came her mother’s happy singsong voice, “Brett?”

  The loners had dropped suddenly through air, like they made of lead rather than paper. They landed lightly on Brett’s shoulders; began doing the queerest thing. Dozens of near weightless little feet were stepping towards, then around her tanned neck, stumbling, it seemed, over the simple links of her delicate, plain gold everyday-necklace. The beat of their wings slowed as if they’d each found just the right spot.

  By the time her mother set her hand on the door handle, those stay-behind butterflies were wingtip-to-wingtip and stock-still. As was the thoroughly enchanted little girl.

  12

  Brett’s mother glanced in one of the half dozen ornately framed mirrors she’d placed strategically about the large house.

  Yes, indeed...the man could be generous when he wanted to be. She smiled more broadly at how the stones sparkled. They complimented, yet subordinated themselves to, the rest of her look.

  Even hung-over I can still turn heads.

  She pushed open the door to her daughter’s room. The ear-to-ear grin collapsed as soon as she noticed the other’s necklace. Her eyes flashed open wide; her hand flew to her own throat, because for a moment she had the crazy thought the girl had somehow managed to swipe the precious gift from her very own neck...as she’d walked down the hall. But, no, it was of course still there.