A lot can change in more than a year. And he originally promised he’d be back in six months.
“End of May, sweetheart,” he promised again last week. “Less than six weeks left to go.” But how many times in the past eighteen months had I heard that?
“By fall, JL, I promise.”
“By Christmas.”
“Just a few more weeks.”
Then, the inevitable phone call, and the same old explanation that the company still needs him, that there are options in his contract he can’t avoid.
Followed by more of Mom’s tears, and her slipping further and further into oblivion.
* * *
I move the cursor back to the beginning and hit play again. The video starts over and I try to focus on the man’s calm English accent as he moves me through the instructions: “Use the paper clip to gently restrain the butterfly around its abdomen … now that you have it immobilized … use your toothpick to dab a dot of glue over the break site…” Like it’s no big deal that I will kill the poor thing if I mess up. Like he’s explaining how to fix a flat tire.
Shit.
I take a deep breath, fighting the inclination to close my eyes. I’d better move faster. I’m already too far behind. I press the metal loop down over her abdomen, and her wings pulse instinctually—once, twice, against the restraint like a heartbeat.
“… glue over the surface of the cardboard splint … dry a minute or two to set. Now, using your tweezers, and making sure the wing is lined up perfectly, carefully place your card stock splint over the fractured area … no ability to redo, so take your time … dusting powder gently over the wing to counteract excess glue.”
Is he kidding me going so fast?
I need to pause the video, but don’t have a hand free, so I plow forward, coaching myself aloud. “You’ve watched it four times, JL. You’ve got this. You already know what to do.”
I’m shaking so badly, I whisper the steps aloud: “Glue. Splint. Powder. Breathe. And you’re done.”
“When the glue is dry,” he says, “gently remove the butterfly from the cloth surface. It may even be stuck … release it free. It’s good to go!”
It moves on to the next video, Twenty Child Stars You Didn’t Know Passed Away, and I haven’t even dabbed the glue yet.
I take my time, ignoring the noise in the background, as I move the small cardboard splint to its wing. I place the splint gently down over the break and sprinkle some powder from the bottle.
Voila! Right?
I lift the metal loop and wait.
The poor creature doesn’t move at all.
Tears spring to my eyes. I should have known better than to try to fix anything.
I slam my laptop shut, chuck the mangled paper clip in the wastebasket, and lie back onto my bed, wishing Max were here. Max, not Aubrey. Aubrey has made her intentions perfectly clear.
She prefers those other girls now.
The phone rings down the hall, and I wait to hear if Mom will get it, but she rarely does. Maybe she’s not even home from her appointment with Dr. Marsdan yet. She’s up to two or three times per week with him.
I roll onto my side, fighting the urge to call Max. He’s at work and I don’t want to bother him. My stomach flutters. I still can’t believe I’m dating Max Gordon.
The phone rings again. Only Dad and Nana still call our landline, and Dad barely does. It’s probably a sales call, some scammer pretending to be from the IRS.
If it’s Nana, I’ll call her back. I’m not in the mood for her, or to tell her I already lost one of the butterflies. It’s not that I don’t love her. I do. But I’m tired of her head-in-the-sand cheerfulness, the way she deflects and pretends, acting like everything with Mom is okay. Shooing away the truth like some pesky fly.
“It’s only a rough spell, honey. Your mother has always been given to histrionics, even as a girl. She’ll be fine. And Dr. Marsdan is the best. He helped my friend Marcy’s daughter. She’s good as new. He’ll fix her in no time. Plus, everything will be better when your father gets home.”
My eyes shift to my desk, to the photo, to my open laptop, to the mess of glue and cotton balls and underneath. To the habitat Max helped me put together a few short weeks ago. The day Aubrey was last here, the day the larvae arrived. And the last time we made any pretense of hanging out.
She made it clear what she thought of me that day. The minute she said that stupid thing about the Jezebels.
LATE MARCH
TENTH GRADE
I unpack the box from World of Butterflies—the cultures, the clamp lamp, the reagents and plants Nana and I ordered for the caterpillars to snack on—leaving all sorts of labels and pamphlets and instruction sheets strewn about my bedroom floor, and gently lift the two small remaining boxes out, one marked Greta oto/Glasswings, the other Delias hyparete/Painted Jezebels. I place them on the floor in front of us.
“What are these?” you ask, picking up the first box too aggressively. I take it back from you.
“Glasswings, Aubs,” I say. “And the others are Painted Jezebels. Wait till you see how cool they are.”
You think I don’t notice how you roll your eyes before you get up and lie back on my bed, your cell phone held above you in the air. You’re texting fast. A group chat that obviously doesn’t include me.
I could ask who, but I know. Instead, I focus on lining up the culture cups next to the boxes of larvae, which will be tiny and weird, since they’re only in their first or second instar phases.
You used to care about this stuff, too, think it mattered. You used to be interested in all the research I did to help them emerge. Now it’s beneath you, or something.
I try not to feel bad, look to Max for some sort of enthusiasm or support, but he’s oblivious, sitting hunched at my desk, head down, singing, and concentrating on assembling the habitat.
“Blue-eyed son … darling young one.” He suddenly sings out loud, too loud, his muscles flexing under his plain white T-shirt, his head bobbing to whatever song he has blaring enough that I can hear it through the earbuds. Some piece of classic rock, not far from the type of stuff my dad listens to, or would listen to if he were still home.
“Tongues were all broken … guns … swords…” Max sings, dropping every few words, others lifting awkwardly into the air, which makes you glance up and roll your eyes again, before returning to your oh-so-important texting.
Why are you even here, Aubrey? I want to ask, but I don’t want to make things worse. Besides, it doesn’t matter what you think. I love it when Max sings, especially when it seems like he’s singing to me, his deep, raspy voice breaking through like he doesn’t give a crap what anyone thinks of him.
Not you. Not me. Not anyone.
I turn back to you, and watch you watching him.
“What?” you finally ask, and I give you a look.
“Nothing. It’s … I’m stressed about this, Aubs.” I motion at all the packages, the equipment, the moving parts I have to get right if I want these boxes of larvae to turn into full-blown tropical butterflies in a matter of weeks. “At least he’s helping. I thought you were going to help. Wanted to help. I thought you were excited.”