The Patron Saint of Butterflies(32)

Nana Pete blots her face again with her handkerchief. She is sweating profusely.

“Are you all right?” I ask. She nods and then looks around the empty grounds. There is no one in sight.

“Change of plans, darlin’. We’re not going to wait for the Ascension March tomorrow night. We’re leaving in the next hour, as soon as Leonard and Samantha go back up to the Great House. We’ve got to get Benny looked at in a real hospital and we might as well split for good while we’re at it. Go get packed and meet me at the bottom of the hill in thirty minutes.”

I hold her gaze for a full moment before I realize she is dead serious. “What are you going to tell Agnes?”

Nana Pete looks away for a second. “You let me worry about that,” she says. “Now go.”

I’m in a dead run, halfway up the side of the hill leading to the Milk House before I realize that I’ll probably never see Winky or the butterfly garden again. The thought brings me to a screeching halt, as if someone has just yanked me backward with a length of cord. For a brief second, I consider turning back around and telling Nana Pete to go ahead without me, that I can’t do it. But that’s crazy. I’ve never wanted anything more than this in my life. There’s no way I’m turning back now.

Still, when I come over the rise and see Winky’s outline hunched over the butterfly bush, I feel like I might faint. There’s no way I can face him. Instead, I sneak back down the other side of the hill so I can get inside the house from the opposite side. I try to move quickly, but my legs feel stiff, like wood. I don’t have any kind of suitcase or carrying case, so I just empty the trash can and cram as many clothes as I can fit inside the liner bag. George and my butterfly notebook are the last two things to go in. I stuff George inside the toe of my sneaker and push my notebook all the way to the very bottom of my bag, where it won’t get crinkled or ripped. There. Done.

I tiptoe over to the window and press myself flat against the wall, leaning over just a bit until I can see Winky. His back is to me, and he is on his hands and knees, tamping down more of the new compost from Mr. Schwab under the butterfly bushes. My head races with possibilities. Should I tell him the truth? Or maybe just part of it, that we’re taking Benny to the hospital, but that we’ll be back? If I told him everything, would he tell someone eventually? I close my eyes. Oh my God. What should I do? Maybe I’ll just go out and pretend like nothing’s going on at all. He’d ask about the garbage bag full of clothes probably, but I could toss that on the side of the house so he wouldn’t see it and then go back for it afterward. I glance down at my watch. Only ten minutes left. I can’t afford to waste any more time.

And then, all at once, I know what to do.

Reaching into my bag, I pull out my butterfly notebook, sit down on the edge of my bed, and start to write.

When I’m finished, I tiptoe back downstairs, creep over to Winky’s bed, and stick the note underneath his TV. My eyes sweep the inside of the house slowly, taking in every last detail. I know this will probably be the last time I am ever inside it.

“I love you, Winky,” I whisper.

Then I turn and run.

“We can’t just leave,” I hear Agnes saying as I creep back inside the Field House. Her voice is trembling. “Believers aren’t allowed to leave the grounds unless they work in town. And Benny’s sleeping. Mom and Dad said that I was in charge of him for the rest of the night. I have to—” She stops as I push my way into the room and then looks at me, annoyed. “What, you know about this?” I nod.

“We’ll be back in a few hours, Agnes,” Nana Pete says, pulling a cardigan sweater off the back of a chair. “No one will even notice that we’re gone. But I’m taking your brother to a real hospital to be looked at by a real doctor. God only knows what kind of damage Emmanuel did to his poor fingers.”

“But Dad said he healed him,” Agnes protests. “He said it was a miracle.”

“Agnes.” I take a step toward her, trying to keep my voice calm. “Listen to yourself. This is the real world we’re talking about, not some martyr story out of your saint book. Your brother could really be in trouble.” She cuts her eyes at me.

“Actually, darlin’,” Nana Pete says, moving around the room now with startling speed, “the only miracle here is going to be if your brother survives through the night without losing his hand altogether.”

“It’s true,” a voice behind us says. Claudia is standing in the doorway, her dark hair framing lips white and thin as paper. “And when you get him to the hospital, make sure to let the doctors know that Emmanuel used ether to knock Benny out. They’ll need to check his blood count.”

Nana Pete claps her hand over her mouth. “Ether! Where in God’s name did he get his hands on a bottle of ether?”

Claudia shakes her head. “I don’t know where he got it. Ether hasn’t been commercially available for years. But what really worries me is how much he may have used. I don’t know too much about the effects of it on children, but it’s not something I would fool around with.” Claudia looks at Agnes steadily for a moment. “Your brother might never be able to use his hand again, Agnes, if he doesn’t get real medical attention. Listen to your grandmother. She knows what she’s doing.” Agnes has a skeptical look on her face.