Waiting for Butterflies Read online

  And then, movement on the screen captured her attention. One by one, starting with My sweet Rachel, the letters Maggie typed began to fade. She hit the enter key to stop it, the backspace, the escape key, then any key her fingers contacted. She pounded on the keyboard, but it didn’t matter. She clicked the save icon, the print icon, before it was too late. Frantically she retyped the letters as they disappeared. But within moments, only a black cursor blinked in the middle of a blank, white page. Maggie lowered her head and her shoulders drooped, crushed in defeat. She fought to suppress a sob caught in her chest.

  Then she saw paper in Rachel’s trashcan, a wadded piece of notebook paper. Would it work? She salvaged it, rustled through the clutter in the desk drawer for a pen, and began her message again. As the ink flowed freely on the page, Maggie tensed as if walking a tightrope, knowing each letter, each word, inched her closer to the end. But just as the letters on the computer screen began to fade, so did the ink on the paper. Each word Maggie wrote erased the word that came before, leaving only a blank trail behind her pen. She had barely written Rachel’s name when her attempt to reach her daughter was once again sabotaged. She slammed the pen on the desk, crumbled the paper, and threw it back in the trash.

  She was livid. Why was she here if she couldn’t communicate with her family? She had so many questions, so much she didn’t understand. She glared at the empty computer screen, the mocking cursor, the empty page. And then, a new idea surfaced. Maybe there were answers to be found. Once again she manipulated the mousepad, but this time she navigated to the Internet. She moved the cursor to the search box. Where to begin? She drummed her fingers on the desk. Life after death? She typed the phrase and scrolled through a list of results—secular explanations of eternity, religious explanations of eternity, a review of a rapper’s album. One result lured her: Are Ghosts Real? She smirked. “Am I a ghost?” The notion hadn’t occurred to her. The girls’ mother? Yes. Sam’s wife? Yes. But a ghost? She snickered but clicked the link anyway.

  A website appeared, surprising Maggie with its professional appearance and lack of animated phantoms floating across the page. The photo of a man she assumed was the author roused suspicion though. She didn’t want to stereotype, but if he didn’t live in his mother’s basement, he surely lived in somebody’s basement. Yet, she couldn’t resist scanning the topics listed in a column on the left side of the screen.

  “Trapped Spirit. Hmm. I don’t feel trapped. Haunting Spirit?” Maggie decided to test that one. “Boo!” She snickered, shaking her head at the crazy idea. “Possessed Spirit. Well, I don’t feel entirely like myself, but I’m pretty sure what’s here is all me.”

  But the next topic caused her to pause. Her voice softened. “Lingering Spirit.” She let the cursor hover while she glanced at the final topic in the list, Angelic Spirit. “This is ridiculous.” She scoffed, yet she couldn’t resist. She clicked the word lingering.

  “A spirit may linger for a number of reasons.” Maggie mumbled as she skimmed. “It may have an urgent message or an unfinished task. It may be a young spirit unwilling to leave an unfulfilled life or a spirit in need of atonement before it can move into the next world. Sometimes, a spirit simply does not know that it has died. A spirit is usually confined to the area of its demise, yet it is believed some spirits return to a location of importance.”

  Maggie closed her eyes and recalled the fragrant lavender place, the diamonds showering down on her weightless body, the little boy beckoning her. Even now, something inside her yearned to return. Then she remembered Olivia’s cry and the immediacy she had to go to her child. Olivia. Rachel. Sam. Her unfinished task? Her home—her location of importance? Maggie opened her eyes and continued.

  “A lingering spirit is usually nonmaterial. That is, it cannot be seen and it cannot interact with the physical world or make itself known in the presence of the living. In rare cases, some lingering spirits develop an ability to interact with the physical world. As such, these cases appear to share one commonality: the spirit’s reason to linger is an unfinished task and the interaction is directly linked to that task.”

  Develop an ability to interact . . . Did that suggest she could gain more control over her existence? If so, how? Was it a matter of determination, will power? Or would her spirit simply grow stronger over time? She chided herself for considering all this mumbo-jumbo, and then chided herself again. After all, she was here, wasn’t she? She looked at the pen she had used, the paper she wadded. She considered the dish towel on the island, Sam’s coffee cup in the sink. Was her ability developing now? Then she remembered another phrase on screen: in the presence of the living. Maybe this wasn’t something new. After all, someone had always been home with her which, apparently, prevented her from interacting with anything. Except for the picture on the nightstand. Could the picture be directly linked to her unfinished task? Did that explain why she could hold the frame in her hands? Maggie contemplated. Then she shook her head to bring herself back to reality. “This is ridiculous. How would anyone even know this stuff?” Still, she couldn’t resist scanning the remaining information.

  “The nonmaterial nature of a spirit, and its ability to interact with the physical, also explains a spirit’s ability to pass through solid forms unimpaired, such as a wall or an unopened door.”

  Maggie laughed. “And who would write this stuff?” The name beneath the picture of the website author read Paulie Milton. “So, if I’m a ghost, Paulie—”

  She raised her hand and reached forward. “I can put my hand through that wall.” She shifted a doubtful smile to one side, and slowly extended her arm until her fingers touched the surface. She pushed. She laid her palm flat and pushed harder. She couldn’t pass through the solid form. Maggie raised an eyebrow. “Well, it’s a good thing I tested your theory before I tried walking through a closed door, don’t you think, Paulie?”

  Still, Maggie considered the information and weighed it against what she knew. She couldn’t deny the similarities. She clicked the back arrow to return to the homepage, and the list of topics reappeared. “Angelic Spirits. Angel.” She repeated the word, curious how an angel differed from a lingering spirit.

  She clicked again and the page appeared on the screen. “An angelic spirit . . .” Maggie glanced at the author’s picture. “So you say, ‘materializes into human form and moves about freely for the purpose of assisting those in need. Although the recipient of such assistance can be a person once known by the spirit, more often the recipient is a stranger unaware he is interacting with an angel. Thus, the existence of stories such as a fireman pulling a person from a burning building even though the firefighters had not yet arrived. Unlike the lingering spirit who is attached to its world by emotion, the angelic spirit is attached by purpose, who it can help, and how much it can accomplish during its existence.’”

  Maggie clicked the red “x” at the top of the screen to close the browser. “That settles it. I’m not an angel.” She leaned back in the chair, hollow. She didn’t want to be an angel or a ghost or a spirit. She wanted to be a mother, a wife. She wanted to wrap her arms around her daughters, to feel Sam’s arms wrapped around her.

  The reserves she had gathered were depleted. She looked at the time on the computer screen and estimated how long until her family would return. So what if she could move a dish towel or use the laptop when the house was empty? It didn’t bring her any closer to the people she loved. And she didn’t like being alone and feeling lifeless. Only when someone was here did her house feel like a home—albeit a broken one. Slowly Maggie rose and walked to her bedroom. She laid her head on Sam’s pillow and breathed him in. Turned on her side, she studied the picture on the nightstand and let herself get lost in the memory.

  CHAPTER 9

  It was lunch time and Rachel shoved her way through the hall with Kristen immediately behind her.

  “Rachel, just stop and listen to me!”

  The plea in Kristen’s voice had no effect. Rachel marched forwa
rd, determined to get to the art room before another second was lost. On the day she showed Mrs. Swane her artwork, Rachel was perturbed to find another girl in the classroom. She was eager to share that part of herself with the teacher who so quickly gained her trust. As soon as she stepped through the door, Rachel spotted the stranger and closed up. But Mrs. Swane wouldn’t allow it. One piece after another, she celebrated Rachel’s talent and invited the intruder into the circle. Rachel learned the girl was Cricket, and every Tuesday and Friday the art room was Cricket’s escape, from peers, Rachel supposed, or family, or maybe even from Cricket herself, which she judged by the pink hair, thick eyeliner, and many silver hoops piercing her eyebrow and lip. But all judgments were denied when Rachel glanced at the piece Cricket was working on—a pastel portrait of a man and a little girl looking into each other’s eyes, the little girl’s dimpled hands pressed against both his cheeks. The scene lived and breathed on the easel. When the bell rang to end lunch, Mrs. Swane invited Rachel to join them on Friday. And now it was Friday, and waiting for this moment was the only thing that kept Rachel going all week.

  “Our science presentation is due today, Rachel! I know your life stinks right now, but you said all week you’d have your part done and we’d practice the presentation at lunch! You can’t do this to me!” Kristen’s voice competed with the boisterous hallway.

  “It’ll be fine, Kristen.” Long strides increased the distance between Rachel and her friend. “Just do the stuff on digital photography. You did your part.” She reached the flight of stairs and glanced back. Kristen stopped chasing and threw her hands in the air. “But what about you?”

  Without response she raced to the second floor, two steps at a time. What was Kristen’s problem? Her grade wasn’t at risk. And Rachel didn’t care about the science project, at least not enough to revisit her old hobby. Nope, she was done with that. She didn’t want to think about her darkroom. She didn’t want to think about photography. She didn’t want to think about her mom. That story was over, and she refused to rewrite it for anyone.

  Rachel slowed her pace as she approached the art room door, which was open just a crack. She peered in. Cricket stood with her back to the door, working at an easel. There was no sign of Mrs. Swane. Rachel stepped inside and waited. After a few seconds, Cricket turned around.

  “You standing there watching me? That’s kind of creepy.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Just stop watching me.”

  “I . . . uh . . . wasn’t watch—”

  “There’s all Mrs. Swane’s extra supplies.” Cricket pointed to an open cabinet in the corner hidden behind the kiln. “You can see what’s there.”

  Rachel wanted to run to the cabinet like a little girl after the ice cream truck, excited to see all the flavors she had to choose from, wondering which she would end up with. Instead she forced herself to walk slowly, not to seem too enthused. She pulled open a cabinet door and peered inside, eager to discover the unthinkable treasures within. Oils, acrylics, chalks, plaster, mosaic tiles, and that was just at first glance. Paper and brushes and looms and colored pencils crowded in there, too. What might she find if she dug to the back of the deep shelves?

  Where to begin? She moved some art supplies aside and uncovered a piece of scratch board. She picked it up and held it in both hands, staring into the blackness for the image waiting to be revealed, waiting for her to give it life. She found a blade among a cupful of old paint brushes and dull pencils. With supplies in hand, she chose a seat at the table closest to the door and sat with her back to Cricket.

  Rachel opened her backpack to find paper and a pencil so she could experiment with a sketch before committing to the scratch board. Cricket’s voice made her jump.

  “Just because I don’t want you watching me, it doesn’t mean you have to sit all the way over there.”

  Rachel peered over her should. Cricket was looking at her.

  “Oh. Well, I didn’t want to bother you.”

  “Sitting by me doesn’t bother me.” Cricket’s mouth cocked to the side. “But standing behind me in an empty room when I don’t know you’re there, well, that’d bother anyone, don’t you think?” Her eyebrows arched to punctuate the question.

  Rachel offered a half grin as an apology and moved to the table next to Cricket’s easel.

  “That’s magnificent.” Rachel pointed to the portrait.

  “Thanks.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever done anything that good.”

  “I don’t know.” Cricket argued. “The stuff I saw the other day was pretty cool.”

  “Really? Thanks.” Rachel savored the compliment, although none of her artwork ever captured life—emotion—the way Cricket’s portrait did. “Who is that?”

  Cricket was quiet. Rachel glanced at her, wondering if she heard the question. When she opened her mouth to repeat it, Cricket spoke.

  “That’s my dad. And me. I was three.” She handed Rachel the photo she was working from.

  The image was grainy, probably taken with a disposable camera, but the angle of the shot was good, and the composition—

  Rachel handed the photo back. She wasn’t going there. No more photography.

  The girls worked quietly. Rachel attempted her third sketch but scribbled it out as she had the others before it. Instead of holding a pencil in her hand, she felt as if she were gripping a jumbo marker in a mitten. She wiggled her fingers. What was wrong with them? Why wouldn’t they work right?

  “So, your mom died.”

  Rachel froze. The words rushed her like an avalanche. Her mind screamed run, but her body was too heavy to move. Her chest collapsed on her lungs, making it impossible to breathe. Only her heart survived, thudding violently against her ribcage.

  “Mrs. Swane told me.”

  Instant fury ignited and heat rose up Rachel’s neck, into her cheeks. Mrs. Swane? How could she? Although she barely knew the woman, Rachel was convinced if anyone understood her, the art teacher did. She didn’t press her the first day they met or ooze sympathy when she realized who Rachel was, daughter of the deceased Maggie Blake. Instead, Mrs. Swane removed her from a situation, pulled her into her own world, and talked about art. She had rescued Rachel. Hadn’t she?

  Cricket looked at her, but Rachel couldn’t stop the hot tears from forming. She jerked away sharply and stared toward the second story window, imagining how it would feel, how it would sound, if she could crash through the glass.

  “It’s okay. It happened to me, too.”

  It happened? Rachel shifted her gaze from the window to Cricket.

  Cricket pointed a thumb at her masterpiece on the easel and looked into Rachel’s eyes.

  “You mean, your dad?” Rachel’s whisper pushed passed her rage and ushered in a new feeling.

  “Yeah, and it really sucks.” She pulled out the chair next to Rachel and plopped down.

  For the first time in a week, Rachel felt something for someone beside herself. She had been drowning, choking on the grief that swelled inside her that she thought only she experienced. Her dad couldn’t feel what she did. He was an adult. And Olivia? Olivia infuriated her, living in her make-believe world. Mixed with empathy, Rachel felt something else. Was it relief? Gently, the slightest bit of heaviness lifted from her chest. She wasn’t the only one.

  “My dad died last year, cancer.” Cricket crossed her arms on the table and rested her chin on top. “I had Mrs. Swane’s class before lunch. After … you know … I hated going to the cafeteria, sitting at the table, listening to all the meaningless drama stupid teenagers think is so important. One day I couldn’t resist telling them how stupid they were.” She grinned. “Needless to say, it didn’t take long for me to lose friends. But I didn’t care. They didn’t get it. Even my best friend didn’t know how to be a friend when I needed her most. So, one day I asked Mrs. Swane if I could stay in here during lunch. And now I guess she figures you might need a place, too.”

  Maybe Mrs. Swane ha
dn’t betrayed her after all. Rachel had so many questions, but she wasn’t sure if she should ask, especially since the last thing she wanted was for anyone to ask her anything. But she had to know.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  Cricket raised an eyebrow.

  “Was it hard, your dad dying of cancer? I mean, were you there?”

  “Every day. And it was awful. He was in a so much pain and watching it, being there, was . . .”

  Rachel’s chest fluttered as sobs threatened to surface. Tears spilled over her lashes, but she wiped them away.

  “But I wouldn’t give that up.” Cricket’s voice quivered. “We cried a lot as time got closer, but we talked a lot, too, said things we probably never would have said.”

  “But you—” Rachel’s voice sounded far away but the words were right there, waiting to escape. “You got to say good-bye?” She held back no longer. A sob stole her breath and shuddered through her chest.

  Cricket’s eyes filled as she covered Rachel’s hand with her own. A clock above the teacher’s desk ticked off each second. Birds, perched on a branch outside the window, chirped in the autumn sunshine.

  Cricket exhaled. “It gets easier, I promise.” She turned Rachel’s palm up, pressed something in it, and closed her hand over it. “But until it does, this will help.”

  But it would never get easier. Because there was one thing Cricket didn’t understand. Her dad had cancer. She wasn’t the reason he died. Rachel winced and forced her secret deeper into the black pit in her heart where she kept it hidden.

  The bell rang. Cricket grabbed her backpack and hesitated at the door. “See you Tuesday?”

  Rachel nodded. As Cricket disappeared into the hallway, Rachel opened her hand to see what she had placed inside. It was a small white pill.