The Patron Saint of Butterflies (24 page)

I wonder what Mom and Dad are doing now. It’s our third night away from them. Have they left Mount Blessing to come look for us? Has Dad tried to call Nana Pete? Will he be even angrier when he finds out that Lillian is in on this, too? And what will Emmanuel do when he finds out? Will we ever be allowed back inside Mount Blessing?

In the dark, I can hear Benny’s hand rustle under the blankets as he reaches over for me. I slide my hand over his and hold it tightly.

…

Hours later, I am awakened suddenly by what sounds like a strangled sob. I sit up straight in the dark and listen, my body white-hot with fear.

“Oh God, please!” It’s coming from upstairs. “Nana Pete! Get up! Please!” Throwing back the blankets, I race up the steps on the other side of the room. The scene inside Lillian’s bedroom has the look and feel of a dream. A tiny, pear-shaped lamp next to the bed casts an eerie wedge of yellow over the room. In the bed, Nana Pete is lying flat on her back, her mouth open in a distorted
O
shape. Honey is straddling her, shaking her shoulders with both hands. “Get up!” she sobs again. “Please God, get up!”

“What are you doing?” I scream. “Get off of her! You’ll kill her!”

Honey turns around, and in the partial light of the room, her face has acquired an ethereal, almost transparent look. Tears are streaming down her cheeks. “It’s too late,” she whispers. “She’s gone.”

PART III

HONEY

I get a weird feeling in the center of my chest when I see Mr. Pibbs, as if a curtain hanging over my life is about to be pulled wide open. It feels like Jell-O, nothing I can really stand on firmly or trust, and yet … it’s there. It’s real. Something is about to happen. I know it is.

My initial aggravation at Lillian leaving for her shift at King’s disappears after Nana Pete tells me she’s working so hard, that people are depending on her. She must have a really important job. The place is called King’s—it sure sounds important. Maybe she is in charge of a lot of people, a boss of some kind. She left the house in a pressed white shirt and black slacks—pretty professional looking. I wonder if she is a nice boss or a mean boss. Would she order people around? Get mad if they come in late? Throw things at them? Curse? Or would she sit down and listen to what they had to say? Give them another chance?

I’m in a mood—all impatient and jittery and nervous and scared at the same time. I’m dying to get up and poke around a little, but Agnes won’t stop with her insane praying. I figure leaving the room is a better option than leaning over and strangling her, so I head out to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of limeade. Then I climb up on one of the counters and sit there for another hour, staring out the window. I wait for Agnes to come out and start yelling at me for one thing or another, but she doesn’t show. It’s very dark outside. The
drapey branches of Lillians’s tree look like fingers behind the glass. I reach into my pocket and feel around for George. Just having him in my hand makes me feel better. Eventually I creep back into the living room. Agnes is asleep.
Finally.

I start in the living room first. It doesn’t take very long, since the room itself is about the size of a shoe box. The only piece of furniture aside from the couch and the rocking chair is a rickety old bureau pushed against the far wall. In the center of the bureau is a small glass bowl filled with seashells, sitting atop a delicate square of blue scarf. There are three small drawers underneath.

I pull the first one open with shaking hands. I don’t even know what I’m looking for. Worse, the thing pushing me to find it might not even be valid. It might just be some kind of weird, screwed-up hunch. But what if it isn’t? What if … ? I glance inside the drawer. My heart sinks. It’s packed with old, dusty Christmas ornaments—gold and silver balls, ropes of beat-up garland, a half string of lights. The second drawer contains blue-penciled drawings on large, slippery sheets of white paper. I pull one out. It looks like the inside of someone’s house. The rest of the drawings are similar looking. I put them back in, my heart starting to plummet.

But my breath freezes in my throat when I open the final drawer. It’s full to the brim with pictures. Hundreds and hundreds of Polaroid pictures, loose and scattered, piled on top of one another. I remove the one from the top of the pile. It’s of Agnes and me, when we were about four or five years old. We’re sitting on the stone steps in front of the nursery, sticking our bare legs and feet at the camera, giggling hysterically, the way we used to do when things like stinky feet and toe jam
were the funniest things in the world. I lean in closer, studying Agnes’s face. Blue eyes crinkled at the corners, tiny button nose scrunched up, teeth as small and white as pearls. I haven’t seen her face look like that in years.

I dig my hands through the rest of the pictures, letting them fall like leaves over my outstretched hands. Every single one has me in it. Some are just me alone, but most of them are with Agnes and Benny. They are all hot-weather shots, taken at the pool or in the frog pond. We are dressed in bathing suits and T-shirts and shorts, flip-flops and sometimes no shoes at all. There are pictures of us in the nursery, pictures of us on our bikes, pictures of us at the Field House, digging through the iris garden. My brain races. Nana Pete is the only one all of these years who has taken pictures of us. Of me. Every summer when she came to visit. So why are they here, in this drawer, inside Lillian’s house? What does it mean that Agnes’s aunt has an entire drawer full of …
me
? I scoop up a handful of the photos and race upstairs. If I can find just one more thing …

Tiptoeing quietly into Lillian’s room, I place the pile of pictures on the bed and look around. It’s a tiny room, almost completely filled by the bed. Nana Pete is on her back, as still as a shadow. Next to the bed is a dresser and then another door, which turns out to be a closet. I open the door, pushing the hangers aside slowly, and get down on my knees, feeling around in the dark. There are at least six pairs of sneakers, two pairs of brown work boots, and all the way in the back, a beat-up pair of black heels. I shove them aside impatiently and lean in farther. When my hand comes into contact with it, my whole body freezes. Slowly I pull out the violin case and rest it
across my knees. It’s smaller than I imagined it would be. The black leather surface is smooth and pebbled at the same time. I open the lid carefully, gazing at the slender instrument, my eyes filling with tears. Then I stand up. I need to know everything, right now. All of it, before Lillian comes home and …

But I stop cold as I turn toward Nana Pete. Something is wrong. There is no snoring coming from the bed, in fact, no sound at all. It is so quiet that it’s like someone turned off a switch. Slowly, I put down the violin case and walk up to the bed. I know even before I crawl up on top of her. I scream and holler, beg her to wake up, but I know.

Agnes doesn’t believe me when I tell her Nana Pete is gone.

“Get off!” she screams again. “You’re hurting her!”

I slide my straddled legs off slowly, one by one, without taking my eyes off Nana Pete’s face. Her eyes, frozen in their sockets, are slightly open, and there is a faint, blue pallor to her skin. I reach out to close her eyelids, but Agnes shrieks.

“Don’t touch her! Don’t you
touch
her! You don’t even
belong
to her!”

My heart cleaves in two when she says that. It’s the meanest thing she’s ever said to me. Ever. I catch sight of Benny suddenly, who has awakened from the noise and is standing behind Agnes.

“Benny … ,” I start, but he runs into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

Agnes comes around to Nana Pete’s side, almost on tiptoe, as if she is afraid of waking her. She sits down next to her grandmother and reaches out for her hand, running the tip of her finger over a large green vein on the surface. “Hey, Nana
Pete.” Her voice is just above a whisper. “Hey, I know you’re tired, but just sit up for a minute and tell us you’re all right. Come on, now. Sit up.” She pats Nana Pete’s hand over and over again as she talks.

I’m horrified. Can’t she see the parted, unmoving eyes? The sickly shade of Nana Pete’s dead skin? Does she not realize that the entire time she has been talking, her grandmother has not taken a single breath? She cannot possibly be this far gone. No one can be so out of touch with reality that they do not realize they are sitting beside—and talking to—a dead person.

“Stop it,” I say, taking a step closer to the bed. “Agnes, stop it. She can’t hear you. She’s dead. Stop talking to her.” But Agnes doesn’t seem to notice that I’m even in the room anymore. She keeps talking in the exact same tone of voice, keeps rubbing the top of Nana Pete’s hand over and over again. “Come on, Nana,” she whispers. “Let’s go now. Come on. Wake up.”

And then she makes the sign of the cross over her, as if the gesture will somehow breathe new life into her. It’s pure Emmanuel, and it freaks me out. It does. Before I can stop to think about what I’m doing, I reach out and shove Agnes as hard as I can off the bed.

“Stop it!” I scream. “Stop talking to her like she can hear you, you freaking lunatic! She’s dead, Agnes! And nothing’s gonna bring her back!”

Agnes cowers for a moment on the floor a few feet away from me. As I take a step toward her, I catch a glimpse of myself in Lillian’s mirror on the wall. My face, flushed with rage, is framed by wild red hair, still unbrushed from the night before.
My shoulders are hunched, my fists clenched, and there is spit in the corners of my mouth. Maybe I’m the lunatic, I think to myself. Maybe we both are.

I hear Agnes crying beneath me and I move toward her, sinking to my knees.

“Oh, Ags,” I start, reaching out to touch her trembling shoulder. But she raises her face and smacks my outstretched hand away from her. I don’t mind being smacked. I probably deserve it, shoving her the way I did. But I’m not prepared for the look that creeps into her eyes as she starts talking to me.

“That’s the last time you’ll ever push me around, Honey Harper.” Her voice is eerily calm, with a power behind it that I don’t recognize. “I’ve spent the past fourteen years of my life putting up with you because I thought you were my best friend. But now I know the only reason is because I felt sorry for you.” She spits on the floor, right between us. Some of it lands on my knee. “Emmanuel was right all along. You’re nothing but trash, Honey. That’s why you’re always getting into trouble and being dragged into the Regulation Room and why my parents don’t even want me associating with you.” She glares at me with those new eyes of hers. I swear to God, they’re practically pulsing with whatever weird energy is flowing through her. “And it’s probably even why your own mother left you.”

I haul off and punch her right in the face when she says that. It’s the second worst thing she’s ever said to me. There is a horrible sound as my fist connects with her jaw and then a scream as Agnes falls back, clutching her face. I lunge toward her again, ready to do God knows what, when Benny comes barreling out of the bathroom. He flings himself against the two of us, holding his bad hand in the air, grunting wildly like
a baby pig. I back off then, not wanting to hurt him. But Agnes gets to her feet. Her eyes are still crazy. She’s clutching the side of her mouth where I hit her with one hand and holding Benny behind her with the other.

“We’re going,” she says flatly. “This whole nightmare is over. I’m calling my parents and we’re going home.”

My teeth start working my lower lip until I taste blood. I decide to try again. Rationally, this time. “Agnes. Please. I’m sorry I called you a lunatic. I’m sorry I hit you.” I take a deep breath, struggling to control my voice, which is on the verge of tears. “But please, we’ll work something out. We’ll call Lillian, okay? Please don’t call your parents, Agnes. We’ve got to stick together. You know I can’t go back there. Please.”

But it’s not working. Agnes starts shaking her head as soon as I start talking about sticking together.

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no.” She pulls Benny out from behind her and grips him tightly around his shoulders. “
This
is my family,” she says. “Benny and my parents and Emmanuel. They’re who I’m sticking with, Honey. Not you. Not Lillian. You do whatever you want from now on. I don’t care.” It’s the third shot Agnes has fired at me in less than ten minutes. I feel dizzy, as if I have been mortally wounded. I glance over toward the bed behind us.

“What about Nana Pete?”

“And Nana Pete, too, of course,” Agnes replies. “She’s always been family.”

“She’s my family, too,” I whisper.

Agnes sneers at me. “She just let you think that because she felt sorry for you, too. You’re not her real family. You’re no one’s real family. You’re—”

“N-no,” I stammer. “You’re wrong. I just found—”

“Shut up,” Agnes says. “I don’t want to hear any more of your stupid rationalizations for the way things are. They never make any sense anyway.”

I stare at her dumbfounded. Is this
Agnes
talking? I don’t recognize her. “You don’t have to worry about any of this anymore.” I step forward with my last bit of energy and hold out my hands, palms up. “Agnes. Come on. Remember what Nana Pete said? When we were little and I wanted to leave you behind in the nursery because you were too afraid to go down to the frog pond with us?”