The Patron Saint of Butterflies(15)
A faint ringing sounds from inside Nana Pete’s leather bag. “Pardon me,” she says. A muscle in Dad’s cheek moves as she begins rummaging through her bag. The ring gets louder as she pulls out a thin silver box. We stare as she flips open the top of it, gazes at something for a moment, and then shuts it again with a click. The ringing stops.
“Cool!” Benny breathes, leaning over Nana Pete’s lap. “Is that a phone?”
Nana Pete laughs. “Of course it’s a phone, Benny!” I watch out of the corner of my eye as she flips the top up again and holds it out for him to see. “It’s a cell phone! Haven’t you ever seen one of these?”
Benny and I shake our heads. Mom clears her throat.
“Mother.” Dad sits forward a little in his seat. “Please. Put the phone away. You know things like that are not allowed here. And turn it off so it doesn’t ring anymore.”
Nana Pete slides the tiny phone back inside her purse and, exchanging a look with Dad, crosses her pink rattleskinsnake boots at the ankle. “Fine. But are you really serious about not leaving here for the rest of the afternoon—even to visit with your old mother?”
Dad sighs and glances apologetically at Mom. “Mother. Keep your voice down, first of all.” Nana Pete presses a finger against her lips. Dad closes his eyes briefly, as if searching inside for an untapped source of patience. “As I said before, Ruth and I are in the middle of planning the details of the Ascension March, which is taking place here Thursday evening. It’s a very, very big deal, one of the holiest days of the year, and this year Emmanuel has asked me and Ruth to lead all the team meetings.”
Mom casts her eyes down at the floor. “To be asked to plan such an event is an enormous honor,” she says.
Dad draws his thumb and index finger over the sides of his mustache. “I remember telling you specifically about this whole thing the last time we spoke on the phone, Mother.”
“Which would have been when?” Nana Pete asks, reaching under the leg of her pants to scratch her shin. “Eight months ago?”
“Yes, eight months ago. Don’t you remember? I explained everything to you then, from start to finish.” Dad rubs the tops of his knees, as if to stunt the flush that is creeping up along his neck. “Ascension Thursday is the root of our deepest beliefs here, Mother. I know you know that. And for you to just show up—without warning—and expect us to realign our plans according to your whims is just … just incredibly rude!” He leans back into the couch, red-faced from his outburst, and wipes his lips. A long silent moment passes as Nana Pete stares at Dad. No one moves.
“Well,” she says finally. “You’re exactly right, Leonard, come to think of it. I shouldn’t have come swooping down on you out of the blue. I’ve had some things come up unexpectedly over the past few weeks that I thought I would share with you. But you’re right. I should have at least called. My needs are no more important than yours. They can wait.” She reaches down and tugs at the bottom of her white button-down shirt until the wrinkles disappear. Then she places one palm on my knee and one on Benny’s. “I won’t stay long. A few days at the most. And while I’m here, I won’t get in your way. I promise. But will you give me some time with the children until I leave again?”
Dad’s face softens at his mother’s conciliatory words. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Of course,” he says. “But it is Ascension Week, which means the children must stay quiet. No running around the grounds like they usually do with you. You’ll have to take them back to the house and visit there until dinnertime.”
“Fine,” Nana Pete says. She gets up, pulling Dad to his feet, and kisses him hard on the cheek. He looks uneasy. “Have you called Lillian?” she asks in a low voice. “Even just to say hello?”
Mom looks up sharply.
“You just never know when to stop, do you, Mother?” Dad drops Nana Pete’s hands. “Let’s go, Ruth,” he says. “We have work to do.”
…
Nana Pete takes my hand as we walk out to her car. Benny has already raced on ahead and climbed inside. I run my thumb gently over the raised green veins on the surface of her hand. They are soft as velvet.
“Why do you always bring up Lillian, if you know Dad’s just going to get mad?” I ask gently.
Nana Pete tilts her head and studies a turtle-shaped cloud. “Oh,” she says finally. “That’s just what mothers do.”
I don’t press her. The only thing I know about Lillian is that she is Dad’s younger sister and that there was some kind of falling out between them years ago. To this day, I’ve never heard Dad talk about her, and for some reason, he has forbidden Nana Pete from discussing her at all with us. Still, I can’t remember a single visit where Nana Pete hasn’t mentioned Lillian to Dad at least once.
“So why did you come now, instead of in August like you usually do?” I ask.
“Well, I can’t come in August, Mouse. My doctor wants to do a few tests on me then, so I won’t be able to travel for a little while.”
I stop walking. “Tests?” I repeat. “Why? What’s wrong?”
Nana Pete laughs. Her teeth are the color of dimes. “Now, don’t get yourself in a tizzy, darlin’. I’m not getting any younger, you know. And this is what happens when you get to be my age. My doctor just wants to check out this old body of mine to make sure everything’s still ticking.”