Waiting for Butterflies Page 6

  “Just make her some oatmeal.” Maggie muttered. “Peaches and cream.”

  Their daughter tilted her head and froze in position. Then Olivia shocked her. “Mommy says oatmeal, the peaches and cream kind.”

  But she wasn’t nearly as shocked as Sam seemed. He filled his lungs and then exhaled slowly. It took him a few seconds to find words.

  “Mommy says?”

  “Yeah.” She gripped a chunky marker and drew a heart on the poster board.

  Maggie ached for husband as she realized once again the task she had left him with, guiding two young girls through the loss of their mother while trying to find his way through grief himself. As he stood there in his flannel pajama pants and grey T-shirt, hair tousled and face puffy from sleep, Maggie wanted to protect him. He looked like a little boy.

  Olivia giggled. “Mommy’s funny.”

  Rachel sat in her usual place at the lunch table across from Kristen, surrounded by the soccer team. The noise escalated as each girl talked over the others, fighting for the spotlight. Coming to school had been the right decision, Rachel concluded, as the scene unfolded before her the same as it did every lunch period. This was normal, though she wasn’t so certain of her decision when she first arrived at school.

  She did not expect the reaction, and lack thereof, she received when she walked into the building. Some kids she knew huddled around her with various versions of “OMG, I’m so sorry . . . I can’t believe it . . . If there’s anything you need,” and in the next breath asked who did the algebra homework and if anyone had heard that Megan Willis broke up with Jayson Jones. Other kids looked at her as they passed, some with sympathy, some with curiosity, some glancing at her like a regular kid passing another because they didn’t know her or her tragic story, which she preferred. The teachers were not much different. A few spoke to her a moment before or after class; others seemed as if they didn’t know what to say, so they substituted compassionate smiles for words. Some acted as if they knew nothing at all, and Rachel hoped they didn’t. She just wanted every day to go on like every day before. Just like now.

  She half listened to Lacey, the team goalie, broadcast a play-by-play of a fight she had with her mother last night. Something about a sophomore boy with a car who Lacey had been meeting up with, which her mom discovered by reading her texts.

  “You know, really, in a way you’re lucky, Rachel,” Lacey said.

  The sound of her name brought Rachel’s attention back to the table. “What?”

  “My mom makes me so mad. Sometimes I wish she were dead.”

  Stone silence. Nobody moved. All eyes focused on Rachel. Heat rose up her neck and settled in her cheeks. Her heartbeat pounded out Morse code in her ears. SOS. SOS. Kristen received the message.

  “You are so stupid, Lacey! Even if you think it, how can you say that to Rachel? You idiot.” Kristen reached across the table and flipped Lacey’s tray of spaghetti into her lap. “You suck.”

  The girls sat in shock, speechless, Rachel included. She had never seen Kristen so angry, ever. She wasn’t sure if she felt rescued or mortified. Either way, she needed to escape.

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized to Kristen, though she wasn’t sure why. Then she scrambled from the table and ran toward the hall. Kristen called after her, but she didn’t stop running.

  With no direction, Rachel ran down one hallway and then the next. She passed the lab. Science was her next class, but there was no way she could go in there. She couldn’t imagine going to any class for that matter. She reached the end of the hallway and raced up the staircase to the second floor, unknown territory where ninth grade classes were held. At the top of the staircase she hesitated, unfamiliar with the halls, not sure where to go. She heard the voice of the principal approaching. Afraid to be found on the wrong floor, she pushed open a classroom door and ducked inside.

  Her heart pounded as footsteps advanced. Pressed against the door, Rachel peaked through a narrow window into the hallway. The principal scolded a student as he escorted him to the office. When they had safely passed, Rachel surveyed the empty classroom for the first time. She drew in a sharp breath. Easels lined the room, holding canvases of chalk portraits. Ceramics, sculptures, and drawings were displayed on shelves and bulletin boards. A pottery wheel and kiln were in one corner. In the opposite corner was a sink with paint brushes soaking. Instantly the past five minutes were erased, and Rachel walked through the art room as if she were in a fairytale.

  “Do you have permission to be in here?”

  She spun around. A teacher stood in the doorway, hands tucked into the pockets of her paint-stained smock. Rachel didn’t trust her voice, but she had to ask. “Is this your art room?”

  “Has been for thirty years, teaching eighth and ninth grade art. If you don’t mind my asking, what are you doing here?”

  Rachel searched for an answer but everything she could think of sounded pathetic. A girl at lunch said something really cruel. My best friend saved me, or embarrassed me, I’m not sure which. My mom died. Instead, she shrugged her shoulders.

  “Hmm.” The art teacher’s gaze rested on her. “What’s your name, hon?”

  She glanced at the door and lowered her head. Was she in trouble? Should she apologize and escape and hope the teacher wouldn’t remember what she looked like? As the teacher waited for an answer, Rachel forced herself to look up. Soft lines around the teacher’s mouth and eyes deepened as she smiled. She was probably somebody’s grandma.

  “Rachel.”

  She peered over her glasses as if she expected more.

  “Rachel Blake.”

  “Nice to meet you, Rachel Blake. I’m Mrs. Swane.”

  Mrs. Swane pressed a finger to her lips and seemed lost in thought for a moment. Then she removed a newspaper from under her arm. “Rachel Blake.” As if meditating on the name, she repeated it softly as she turned pages. When she found the page she was searching for, she laid the paper on a table in front of her. “This Rachel Blake?” Her finger underlined the name in print.

  The top of the page read “Obituaries.” A few lines above the teacher’s finger was her mom’s name in bold black print. Rachel’s vision blurred as she read the words: “. . . survived by her husband Lt. Samuel Blake and two daughters, Rachel and Olivia.”

  Mrs. Swane’s teacher voice found its grandmotherly tone. “Are you an artist, honey?”

  As Rachel nodded the tears that filled her eyes broke free and rolled down her face, plump and wet, one after another.

  “I could tell.” She reached for Rachel’s hands and inspected her fingers, which were stained with the paint from earlier that morning. She squeezed tenderly before letting go. “Well, Rachel. You didn’t find my room by accident.” After a thoughtful pause, Mrs. Swane said, “Why aren’t you in my art class?”

  Rachel couldn’t find her voice to explain that she was bored in art last year because it was too easy and that she didn’t make room for art in her schedule this year and that suddenly she regretted it.

  The teacher put an arm around Rachel’s shoulders, and without acknowledging her tears or discussing the death of her mother, she gave Rachel a tour of her classroom. She discussed her favorite artists, showed off student work, and asked Rachel about her preferred medium. When the bell rang to end the lunch hour, art students filtered into the classroom. Rachel wished she were one of them.

  “Maybe you should head to class, so you won’t be tardy.” Soft lines deepened in the teacher’s face again.

  Rachel was reluctant to leave, but somehow the idea of going to science was now tolerable.

  “You’ll come back to see me, won’t you?” Mrs. Swane walked her toward the door.

  Rachel hesitated then decided she must ask before she lost the chance. “Can I come back tomorrow?”

  “I’d love that.” She scrawled Rachel’s name on a hall pass, left the date blank, and handed it to her. “This will keep you out of trouble if you get caught on the second floor during lunch.
Keep it in your backpack. And, Rachel, bring some of your work.”

  Rachel had spoken hardly ten words the entire conversation, but already she was planning everything she would say tomorrow.

  CHAPTER 8

  By the end of the week, Sam was beyond exhaustion, although he hadn’t done much of anything. His mornings began with taking the girls to school. Then he’d come home and meander from room to room, or settle in his recliner to channel surf or doze to make up for nights of sporadic sleep. He avoided thinking and didn’t answer most phone calls. He found he wasn’t good at small talk when friends or people from Maggie’s church called to check on the family. Conversation was stilted, even with Erin. People wanted to hear he was okay, the girls were okay, everything was okay, but not the truth, which he feared would spill over if he allowed himself to really talk. I can’t do this, he might confess. Until now, Sam had relied on his strength, his instinct. He’d never questioned his ability. But his steely exterior had never been put into a blazing furnace and liquefied. It should have been me, he wanted to tell someone. Maggie and the girls would have been better off. She would have known what to do. And then there was the confession he feared most, which he would never allow to surface. When his mind betrayed him and tried to give it life, he crushed it like a wrecking ball at a demolition site.

  The clock revealed he had survived another day alone, and soon it would be time to pick up the girls. His biggest decision of each day was still before him. Which casserole would he thaw from the many delivered by the neighbors and church ladies? He was incapable of making decisions more important than that, although several loomed overhead like a cement cloud. The real estate office was a big one. What did he know about running the business? And what about his own career? He’d worked so hard to make a place for himself in the department, and though he never spoke it aloud, he was still determined to be chief some day. Or was he? Was that even a possibility now? How could he put in the time it would take to work his way up, or face the dangers of the job, and still be the father the girls needed? And mother.

  In spite of fourteen years of parenting, he felt grossly under qualified. He could interrogate a murder suspect, but he couldn’t force Rachel to talk. “Fine” was her new word of choice. How are you doing? Fine. How’s homework? Fine. Will you help with the dishes? Fine. And she was fine, secluded in her bedroom. But Sam worried she wasn’t fine at all. She was just like him, disappearing within herself. Yet, that was how he preferred to cope, so shouldn’t he let Rachel do the same? And Olivia—he could call out a lying witness, but he couldn’t make himself deal with Olivia’s fictional world that still included her mother. For one thing, Olivia seemed to cope better than any of them. She slept at night, she played, she laughed. Part of Sam didn’t want to disturb that. The other part was very disturbed by it. But right now, it was easier to leave it alone.

  Sam walked into the kitchen and stared at everything, at nothing. Body and mind, he was bound in a straightjacket, each movement, each thought constrained. Wherever he looked, Maggie remained—her favorite mug beside the coffee maker, her handwriting on the grocery list stuck on the refrigerator. No matter what room he entered, it was the same. The faint scent of her perfume lingered in the master bath. And her chair. When Sam walked into their bedroom, he half expected Maggie to be there, curled up with a book. Sometimes he imagined her laying a finger on the page to keep her place as she raised her chin to invite a kiss and ask him about his day. The little reminders pulled pain to the surface, forcing him into an endless battle to push it back down. Enough already. How long was he going to go on like this? Maggie was gone and he couldn’t do anything about it. But he had to do something, something besides sulk away every minute of every hour of every day.

  He opened the freezer, grabbed a foil-wrapped package, and set it on the counter to thaw. He turned and followed his feet to the bedroom as they commanded. He snatched his cell phone from the nightstand, exhaled through his mouth, and punched in a number. After four rings, voicemail answered.

  “Hey, Wade. It’s Sam Blake. Just wondering what’s going on with the Simms case. Think I might come by the office in a few minutes. If you’re not involved, maybe I’ll see you there. If not, I’ll talk to you later.”

  He thrust his shoulders back and attempted to ignore the knot in his stomach. Was he ready for this, ready to step back into the world? Part of him insisted, eager to escape everything that made him think of Maggie. Yet another part feared being away from all that kept her close. But as each day passed, he was drawn deeper into a darkness inside himself. How far would it go until he wouldn’t be able to pull himself out? His fists tensed. “I’ve got to do this.”

  Sam pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt.

  “You’re doing the right thing, Sam.” During the week of her new existence, Maggie had grown accustomed to one-sided conversations. “You need to get back to the office, to your investigation, think about something else for a while. I’ll be here when you get back.” Of that Maggie was certain, although she still had questions without answers. Especially one. How could she help Sam, or Rachel, when they didn’t even know she was there? Sam was so closed up, he would never know. Only when she lay beside him at night did he seem to have the slightest response. He rested more soundly, but only for short periods at a time.

  Rachel, however, responded much differently. Maggie’s presence agitated her. When Rachel was home, she seldom left her bedroom. If she was working on homework when Maggie entered the room, Rachel would shove her book off the desk or pound the computer keyboard before slamming the lid. She could be sketching, focused and intentional, but as soon as Maggie approached, Rachel would scribble vigorously and tear through the paper. But nights bothered Maggie most. When she sat beside Rachel, she would fight in her sleep, kicking, tossing, tearing at the covers.

  One night Maggie thought she finally broke through. Rachel lay still as Maggie sat beside her, enjoying the peaceful moments she was finally able to share with her daughter. But when she leaned over to kiss Rachel’s cheek, she discovered a path left by tears that had rolled down and puddled into a wet stain on the pillow. Maggie wiped a new tear as it fell, whispered “I love you,” and reluctantly left the room. So, she began most nights with Olivia, cuddled beside her to sing her to sleep or sitting in the rocking chair near her bed, guarding against bad dreams or waiting for the smile that occasionally appeared while her little girl dreamed. Once Olivia was asleep, Maggie would slip into bed next to Sam.

  Sam grabbed his car keys off the dresser and stopped. He gripped them in one hand and pushed the other through his hair.

  “Go.” The thought of him leaving left Maggie empty, but it was necessary. “I miss you already.”

  Sam turned and she followed him from the bedroom to the kitchen to the garage. She remained after he closed the door, waiting for the car engine to start and Sam to back into the driveway. As the sounds moved farther away, an unwelcome sensation overwhelmed her. Faintness washed through her, leaving her hazy, listless. She panicked. Was this it? Was her time up? Olivia’s giggles, Rachel’s anger, Sam’s emptiness. It was too soon. She wasn’t ready. She desperately clung to her promise to Sam, a promise she couldn’t break twice.

  As quickly as it started, the sensation faded, and heaviness settled in so deeply she labored to move. She searched for an explanation. She hadn’t yet been in the house alone, without Sam or the girls. In her death, did they give her some semblance of life? Was she sustained by their presence? Without them, she was weak, and for the first time since she returned home, Maggie needed to rest. She gripped the edge of the island for support as she started through the kitchen toward her bedroom.

  She stopped. As she passed a dish towel near the sink, her hand had brushed against it. Was it her imagination, or did the dish towel move? She touched the edge of the towel and pushed her hand forward. The dish towel moved. She pulled her hand back. The towel moved again. Sam’s coffee cup was in the sink. She nudged it. The spoon in
side rattled. But what did that mean? Last night she had tried to cover Olivia, but she couldn’t grab the blanket. And when Sam had fallen asleep watching TV, she couldn’t use the remote control. The picture frame beside Sam’s bed remained the only object she could hold, but even then only while everyone slept. Maggie picked up the dish towel, folded it, and placed in neatly on the island. New questions surfaced, and maybe, she hoped, so did new possibilities. Rachel.

  Maggie summoned the faint wisps of energy she sensed in her body and channeled them so she could begin her task. As she walked to her daughter’s bedroom, her movements were leaden. She dropped into the desk chair, relieved, and stared at the dark computer screen in front of her. This was a good idea. How couldn’t it be? As unwanted answers to that question threatened to bombard her, Maggie suppressed them, determined to succeed. She rubbed the mousepad to wake the laptop from sleep mode. When the screen appeared, she opened a new document and prayed she was doing the right thing. She placed her fingertips on the keyboard and gingerly pressed down.

  My sweet Rachel,

  Olivia is right. I’m here. I don’t know how, and I don’t know for how long, but I am here. I haven’t abandoned you, and you have to believe I would have never chosen to go. As much as you still need me, I still need you, too—and Olivia and Dad. My family. And as broken as we are, at least we are together, and now you know. I may not be able to love you in the same ways, but I love you just as much as I always have . . . and always will.

  Love, Mom

  Maggie sat back in the chair to review the message. Did she say enough? Too much? The few lines on the screen looked nominal compared to everything she could say, everything she wanted to say. But after she read her words again, she was satisfied she had written what Rachel needed to hear most.

  Her heart eased. Tension drained from her shoulders as she rested in the quiet of her daughter’s room, absorbing the serenity that would dissipate with Rachel’s return. Her art easel in the corner, her camera waiting on the dresser, the sketchpad beside her computer—neglected mementos of the life Maggie longed for her daughter to revive.