The Patron Saint of Butterflies(67)

Without looking at it, Lillian lays the calculator down carefully on the counter. “What are you talking about?”

I open my mouth and then shut it again helplessly. I know she has heard me. “We … you have to come home, Lillian. You just … have to … come.”

She is moving toward me, shaking her head back and forth, as if to stop a ringing in her ears. The only sound left in the room is the whir of the ceiling fans overhead. “Honey,” she says, slowly moving toward me. “Is this some kind of a joke?”

I shake my head and take another step backward.

“What are you telling me? What’s going on? How did you even find this place?” Her eyes are scary looking, like Agnes’s just before she freaked out on me, and each question that comes out of her mouth grows more and more shrill.

Willa decides just then to intervene, and taking Lillian by the shoulders, leads her firmly out the front door. “C’mon, Lil,” I hear her say. “Let’s do this outside.”

I follow, glad to be rid of the men’s heavy glares, and catch the tail end of whatever it is Willa is saying to Lillian: “… Is she your niece or something?”


Lillian whirls around just as I stop dead in my tracks. Her eyes rove over my face, searching, it seems, for … what? I hold the tip of my tongue between my teeth and bite down hard. She had laughed to see her hair on me. Saffron red with the same tiny curls just around the ears.

“No,” she says finally, not taking her eyes from mine. “She’s not my niece.”

“Then who—,” Willa starts, but Lillian cuts her off.

“Get in the car, Honey.” Her eyes are flashing and for a split second she looks exactly like Nana Pete did when she ordered me into the car in front of the Milk House. “Right now.” I slide into the front seat, barely closing the door as Lillian puts the key in the ignition and guns the engine. “You got everything under control here, Willa?” she asks, leaning out the window. Willa nods, clutching her shirt collar at the base of her throat. She looks alarmed. “I’m going to be a while, I think,” Lillian says tersely. “I’ll call you.” She squeals backward out of the lot and then throws the Queen Mary into drive. “Start talking,” she orders, looking at me out of the corner of her eye. “And don’t stop until you’ve told me everything.”





AGNES

I’m still in my little curled-up position between the toilet and the tub when the door slams downstairs. I lift my head. It feels fuzzy, like it’s been stuffed with cotton. Am I dreaming? Has all of this just been one long, horrible dream? There is a pounding of feet on the steps followed by a cry in the next room. “Ma! Oh, Ma!” It’s Lillian. Her voice sounds broken, on the edge of cracking down the middle. “Ma! Ma!” It’s the saddest voice I have ever heard and I stuff my fist into my mouth so that I won’t cry. Then I hear another voice. I strain forward, my heart pounding loudly in my ears.

“Where’s Agnes, Benny?” It’s Honey. I lean my face against the door and push my knuckles farther into my mouth. She’s back. A few seconds later, she is pounding against the door. “Agnes! Come on out. It’s me!” But I don’t move. Right now, the tiny bathroom feels like the only safe space left in the world.

For a long time, the only sound in the house is Lillian sobbing. It’s a terrible sound, like a baby crying, and it makes my heart feel lopsided, as if part of it has been scooped out. After what feels like hours, the sounds of slow movement begin again. Honey comes over to the door once more and begs me to come out, but I tell her to leave me alone.

“Well, will you let Benny in, then?” she pleads. “He’s scared, Agnes. For real.”

I open the door a crack and let my little brother inside. He rushes toward me and collapses in a heap against my legs. I put my arms around him and hold him tightly, resting my cheek against the top of his head. “It’s okay, Benny.” I take slow breaths. Mom and Dad will be coming soon. I have to get ready. “It’s all going to be okay. I promise.” Through the thin walls, I can hear Lillian and Honey speaking in hushed tones. Suddenly Lillian’s voice rises.

“Here? They’re coming here? Now?”

I bite my lip and curl over my little brother until we are both tight as a little ball.

“Agnes? Benedict?” There is a blur of movement as Benny lurches out of my arms and runs out of the bathroom door. I can hear him run down the steps, hear Mom cry out, “Oh, Benedict! Benedict! Oh my God, how are you? How’s your hand? Let me see your hand! Oh my God. Oh, let me look at you!”

“Where is Agnes?” Dad asks. There is a pause as Lillian says something to him, and then the pounding of feet on steps. Through the window, the sky is a dull gray color. I can’t even imagine what time it is. I think hours have passed. We must have fallen asleep. I stand up on shaky legs, glancing at my reflection in the mirror as I do.

It’s the strangest thing. For the life of me, I don’t know who the girl staring back at me is. A friend, perhaps? Someone I used to know? I jump as fingers tap the door softly, not taking my eyes off the mirror. The eyes are bigger than any eyes I’ve seen before. And empty, as if I can see directly through the iris, the pupil, the cornea, all the way back into nothing at all. There is another tap at the door.