The Patron Saint of Butterflies(53)

“What are you doing?” she whispers. “Saying night prayers?”

I am so startled by her presence that I just nod.

“Okay. I don’t mean to interrupt, but I just wanted to ask you a question.” My fingers are frozen around one of the beads, my eyes fixed on the arch of her red eyebrow. I’m not telling her anything about Dad, no matter how much she begs me. “Who has Honey been living with all these years?”

I narrow my eyebrows. “What?”

“I mean … ” She stammers, trying to find the words. “She lived in the nursery with you for a long time, right?”

I nod slowly. “Until we were seven.”

“Right, until you were seven. And then you went to live with your parents, right? In the house they lived in?” I nod again. Her forehead creases. “Ma told me that Honey went to live with a guy named Winky. Do you know anything about him?”

“Not really,” I answer. “He’s kind of … slow. They live in the Milk House.”

“Do you know anything else about him?” Lillian presses. “Is he a good guy?”

I stare blankly at her for a moment. Why is she asking me this? And why would Nana Pete be talking to Lillian about Honey?

The running water from the shower shuts off suddenly. I sit up. “Why are you asking about—” But Lillian stands up, cutting me off with a shake of her head.

“Never mind,” she says, walking back over to her side of the room. Her voice sounds garbled, like a small bird trapped inside her throat. “Good night, Agnes.” I watch as she slides under the covers next to Nana Pete and pulls the blankets over her head.

“Good night,” I whisper, not loud enough for her to hear.





HONEY

Sleep feels as far away right now as Mount Blessing. I turn on the TV, putting the volume on mute so as not to disturb anyone, but pretty soon my mind starts to drift. For some reason, I can’t get Lillian out of my head. I like her. She’s sort of sloppy, or at least it seems like she doesn’t really care all that much about her appearance, and she says things the way they are, even if what she’s saying doesn’t make her look all that good. I like that in a person. I’m so sick of all this striving toward perfection I could puke. After we were done playing cards, I was so disappointed when she stretched and then told us that she was going to bed.

“But it’s only eleven o’clock,” I said, trying to hide the disappointment in my voice. She looked at me—and let me tell you something, she has this funny way of looking at you—and smiled.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “We’ll have lots of time to talk tomorrow.”

“But I want to talk now,” I say aloud to no one. Throwing back the covers, I climb out of bed, unzip my knapsack, and pull out my sneakers.

The main lobby is bright with lights. A man is sitting behind the front desk, reading the funny pages on the back of a newspaper.

He looks up as I pad along the floor. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, pointing to the door. “I’m just going outside for some fresh air.”

The night air is sharp and cool. I inhale deeply, filling my lungs as I look around in the dark. It’s really dark. Just as I am about to turn back around and go inside again, I notice the Queen Mary parked a few cars away. I streak toward it, open the front door with a trembling hand, and scoot inside. Reaching under the front seat, I feel around until my fingers come in contact with Nana Pete’s keys. I turn on the engine, and then switch on the front beams until I can see the shrubs on the side of the motel. Okay. Much better.

I open my hand carefully and stare down at George lying in the middle of my palm. I have been clutching him so tightly that I am afraid he is broken. The chips in his tail and ear are still there, and everything else seems to be in place.

“Hey, George,” I whisper softly. “How are you, buddy? What’s new?”

There is a rapping sound on the side window. My head jerks around so suddenly that I pull a muscle inside my neck. “Agnes!” With only a sliver of light illuminating her wide face and her bare legs sticking out from under Nana Pete’s long brown cardigan, she looks like she is about three years old. I wrap George up tight again in my hand, roll down the window, and lean out toward her.

“God, you scared me!”

She cocks her head and pulls the edges of Nana Pete’s sweater under her chin. “What are you doing out here? It’s freezing. Do you know what time it is?”

I shake my head. “I just needed some air. It’s not that cold.”

She studies me, waiting for me to say something more, but I don’t. “Were you going to run away?” Her voice is wobbly.

“What? No!” I open the door and get out of the car. “I wouldn’t do that, Agnes. I promise. I wouldn’t leave you. Ever.”

She stares at the thick yarn weaving in and out of the cardigan sleeves. “You were ready to back at the hospital.”

“Oh, that’s just what I said. But I didn’t mean it. Not really.”

“Can I ask you something?” she asks.

I nod. “Yeah, anything.”

“Did Winky ever do anything to you? Like hurt you at all? I mean, since you’ve been in the Milk House?”