The Patron Saint of Butterflies(65)

I grab the picture of Dad and Lillian back from under the pile and hold it next to the picture of Honey and me. My eyes flick back and forth between the two so rapidly that my head starts to hurt. There’s just no way. It’s impossible. It has to be.

After a while, I throw the pictures down and run into the bathroom. Curling up into a little ball, I fit myself in the space between the tub and the toilet and stare at the white porcelain, trying to clear my head. I think back to the conversation Lillian and I had at the motel, when she asked me about Honey and Winky. Now, suddenly, I understand. Or do I? How can this be happening? What would it mean? The fear is overwhelming, like a heartbeat all its own, a new blood pulsing through every vein in my body.

I reach around and pull my little book from inside my waistband. Opening it to the story of Saint Agnes, I start to read. She went to her execution cheerfully, knowing that she was to meet her Beloved Jesus soon. I read the sentence again, trying to decipher the words behind my tears. Suddenly I close the book and hurl it as hard as I can across the room. It doesn’t have far to go, and when it hits the opposite wall with a smack and then slides down against the floor, a sob breaks out of my chest.

My whole body begins to shake as I think about the punishment we will receive upon our return to the commune.

Dad’s answer—One thing at a time, Agnes. Let’s get you home safely and worry about the rest later— had not been comforting.

In fact, every time I run it through my head, trying to search for hidden clues, I’m filled with dread. Why is it that he can never come right out and say what’s really going on? Why does he always present things under some sort of shroud, where in order to get to the truth I have to pull back layer after layer in hopes of finding it? Is he not who I think he is, either? Has everything been a lie?

“Help me,” I whisper. “Someone. Please. Help me.”





HONEY

The only thing running through my mind as I bolt out of the house is finding Lillian. If I can just find out where King’s is and get her to come home, maybe we’ll all still have a shot at this. Dawn is just breaking as I lunge through her front gate and run down the flagstone path. The air is pulsing with new, frail light. The sky is the color of an eggshell. I look around wildly, trying to determine which direction I should go.

And then all at once, out of the corner of my eye, I see it. A Zebra Longwing. She settles delicately inside the spiky fern for a few moments, collecting nectar with her nose stem. Her gossamer wings, elongated at the tips like fat teardrops, shudder every few seconds. The sun glints off the black-and-white stripes. I hold my breath. I’m afraid she will fly off if I breathe, and I don’t want her to go anywhere. Not after waiting for so long.

But when she is done with the summer sweet bud, she does fly off and suddenly I am aware that I am standing there with no idea what to do or where to go next. Maybe I should go back inside. Try to plead again with Agnes. Tell her one more time that I’m sorry. Why do I always have to be so mean about everything? Calling her a freaking lunatic was going too far. No wonder she never wants to see me again. Why do I get so impatient with her? Especially since I love her more than any other person in my whole life?

I turn around and close my fingers over the doorknob. It’s small and cold in my hand. Lifeless. My fingers don’t move. After a few seconds, I let go and sit down on the front step. I can’t do it. I’m sorry that I’ve said things meanly and I’m sorry that I’m so impatient, but everything, every single word I’ve said about Emmanuel and Mount Blessing has been the truth. My truth. And I won’t go back—I won’t, I won’t—and pretend that it isn’t. Even for Agnes.

There is a scratching sound coming from inside the door. I open it carefully and stare into Mr. Pibbs’s blue eyes. Scooping him up, I sit back down on the steps and turn him around so I can look at his face again. “Hey, buddy,” I whisper. “I’ve got one just like you, only a little smaller. You know that?” The cat blinks his wide eyes and gazes back at me. “Has Lillian been a good mother to you?” I ask. Mr. Pibbs ducks his head and brings his left paw up to his face. With a tiny pink tongue, he begins licking his fur with small, short strokes. I press him tightly against my chest and bury my face into his silky white coat. He smells like wood and smoke and Nana Pete’s perfume. I bury my nose in deeper, trying to smell Nana Pete again. Alarmed, the cat leaps out of my arms and runs for the fence. I don’t stop him. I put my head down and sit there for a long time, not moving.

When I look up again, the first thing I see is Nana Pete’s car. Her car. I run toward it at breakneck speed; maybe, maybe, maybe, yes! God, here are her keys. And that’s how it happens. I don’t know which direction to go in or even if Lillian’s workplace is in Savannah. I don’t even know what to do yet when it comes time to put more gas in the car. I know only one thing as I slip the silver key into the ignition and put the Queen Mary into drive.

It’s time.

My time.

And I am outta here.

Lillian lives on a street called East Gwinnet. It’s a pretty little street with exactly the kind of neat white houses I pictured when we left Mount Blessing. But it’s so narrow that I almost hit the first car that comes driving down the other side. The guy behind the wheel leans on his horn and then sticks his middle finger out at me. I’ve never seen such a gesture before, but I’m almost positive it’s not good. I ease up on the gas a little after that and then brake hard at the end of the street as two women cross in front of me.