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Papillon

She was hauling the last battered box out of the closet. She barely noticed the soft scrape it made as she dragged it through the dust and dried moth wings that carpeted the hardwood floor. To her it was nothing more than a buzz that was swallowed in the gray static that filled her brain, melding with the sound of her own heartbeat, the hum of the ancient air-conditioner that tried to cool the house in vain, and the nagging little voice that whispered blame and regret in her ear. Heath could hear the scraping though. In his mind it had amplified, filling the room, echoing off the bare walls. It was the same muted, insistent sound Rhoan had made as he ran his half-chewed nails down the wooden door, over and over and-

“For the love of God, Holly, either pick it up or let it be!” Heath snapped.

She stopped, barely even registering that she’d heard him at all. He took a deep breath, choked back a sob, and was about to apologize when she turned around and looked at him. She had a look on her face as if she could see into the twisted depths of his heart and rip them out, exposing them to the damning light of day. The moment hung there, trembling in the air between them.

He was caught there, a small wild thing cornered by a predator with hunger in its eyes and blood on its breath. Just when it seemed the whole house would explode from the tension, her accusing blue eyes clouded over again, and she turned her attention back to the box. Heath left the room, wanting to run but too cowardly to try. “Huh. So that’s where he learned that look from,” he muttered to himself as he lumbered down the stairs.

He had it backwards. Holly had been on the receiving end of that look on numerous occasions. Rhoan had it down to a science, and though it didn’t cross his tiny features often, when it did, the effects were devastating. He usually did it when he found out that his brother was going out to do something and he couldn’t go along. Rhoan became very cross when he was separated from his twin, and the only way to banish the storm clouds from his face was to get Colby to promise to come back soon.

“Would you please bring your brother something back so he won’t feel left out?” Holly would croon, smoothing down a wisp of Colby’s flyaway hair. Colby would nod obediently and Rhoan would smile and say thank you in his way, giving one-armed hugs and rambling in a language only he could understand.

She didn’t know what was in the box, and she wasn’t exactly curious. But he knew that she had to sort out what had to go to the Goodwill, what went into storage, and what Rhoan was allowed to take with him. The tape that held the top closed was old and brittle, it made a pleasant ripping sound as she pried it open. Old toys meticulously collected from trips to McDonalds and a hundred other grease ball fast food chains. These were headed straight to the trash, only soft toys or toys with no moveable parts were allowed at Singing Pines. A few old children’s books that Colby had outgrown long ago but Rhoan still loved to hear at bedtime. There were some of Colby’s drawings that had been retired from the refrigerator but were too nice to simply throw away. And buried down at the bottom were the photo albums she swore she had gotten rid of.

“Holly don’t do it don’t look don’t look please don’t look…” she whispered to herself. Her fingers betrayed her, turning the pages one at a time, each page deliberately making another wound in her heart. Chaz’s pictures always looked artificial somehow, like they were posed even when he caught impromptu moments on film. Holly and Rhoan splashing in the shallows of the lake. Colby trying to teach Rhoan how to fly a kite. Holly in a bathing suit a little too revealing for a mother (Jesus, had she ever been that thin?) putting the candles on the twin’s birthday cake. Each snapshot a small taste of joy long forgotten. Her hand paused at the last page. She knew what was there, and she willed herself to shut the book. It was a futile effort, because the memories rushed at her anyway.

“Ok Colby, I’m gonna set the timer here, and when I say ‘Go’, then you push this button here, and run over to us as fast as you can. Got it?”

“Can Rhoan push the button too?” Colby asked. Chaz cast a dubious look at Rhoan over his shoulder. Holly was trying to tame his hair for the photo, but he squirmed so much in his wheelchair that she couldn’t get it quite right. “Rhoan won’t be able to run back in time to make it in the picture.” Chaz explained patiently. “So you’ll have to do it alone this time, ok?”

Colby wasn’t going to give up so easily. “But I can push him in the wheelchair, I’m fast, and Mommy lets me push him at the mall sometimes, please Daddy, pleeeeaaassseee? With sugar on top?”

Chaz adored Colby. That’s all there was to it. Of course he loved Rhoan, but he always held a special place in his heart for Colby. Colby was destined to be a miniature version of his father, a scientist, one that could be made in his image. Chaz looked at Rhoan more like a colt with a broken leg: useless, deformed for life, but too cute to be put out of its misery. So Holly put everything she had into loving Rhoan.

She loved Colby too, but she didn’t put as much work into because he had more than enough coming from his father. Chaz couldn’t have been prouder when Colby started catching butterflies in jars and bringing them home to show Rhoan. They would sit for hours, Colby prattling on about various facts he’d learned about this species and that, Rhoan simply staring at him and hiccupping every once in a while. Mostly they would sit in silence and watch the creature flutter wildly in the jar, uselessly beating its wings against the glass.

Holly jokingly told him once that every time he held a butterfly captive he was preventing someone from going to heaven. “The butterflies are the souls of the departed you see,” she said with a smile, “and they turn into butterflies so they can fly with the angels”. He never caught a butterfly again. Even when white butterflies danced in front of his face while he and Rhoan played in the backyard, he would merely give them a heartbroken glance, and then go back to what he was doing. Holly didn’t dare tell Chaz what she’d done. She let him believe that Colby was losing interest in the subject, as young boys sometimes do. So he didn’t understand why Colby screamed when he came home one night with a small glass case filled with butterfly and moth specimens, their fragile bodies neatly pinned and labeled.

            Holly shoved the last bag into the trunk and gave Heath a hug and a quiet thank you for helping her pack. He nodded and quickly walked back to his Jeep. He was so glad to be out of that house he could have cried. He had spent two long months in that house with his sister and his nephew, and he couldn’t take it anymore. But now he could go back to his quiet condo and his favorite bar, back to his cubicle and most importantly, back to conversing with sane people. Back to the land of the living.

Holly, meanwhile, was on her way to Singing Pines. She had to meet with Dr. Marukawa, drop off the last of Rhoan’s things, and finally finish unpacking the rest of her things at her new apartment. She drove her little gray Volvo on autopilot, barely registering the other cars around her. The only thing that filled her mind was-

[Talking with Mrs. Crothers on a sunny afternoon, walking Colby back from soccer practice. He kept pointing across the street, there was a butterfly caught in the wire fence, Mom, go get it, it’ll rip its wing, Mom, Mom can I go please? Exasperated, waving her permission distractedly, talking about something so trivial (A roast pork recipe?) and hearing the music blasting not really paying attention until something in her gut twisted COLBY! And turning running screeching rubber glass my baby!]

      She snapped out of her dark reverie in time to notice she had missed her turn and gone three exits out of the way. Grumbling, she turned around and made her way back to where she was supposed to be. She pulled into the long winding driveway, noting that the pines that were the namesake of Singing Pines were few and far between, and the ones that were there were scraggly and dull. Holly giggled for a moment.

“Welcome to suburbia.” she muttered. “Where they cut down the trees, then name streets after them.” She pulled into a handicapped parking spot, parked, and then walked into the carefully neutral lobby. She hated that lobby with a passion. It was very tastefully done in beige and light pinks, supposedly to soothe the nerves. It always made Holly nauseous.

The only bright spot in the room was an oversized quilt depicting a group of smiling cartoon children under a rainbow made of brilliantly colored butterflies. She couldn’t bear to look at it. It always reminded her of the day she found Rhoan in the backyard, his head thrown back to the sky, and caterpillars crawling out of his mouth by the hundreds. When she started to shake him and whack him on the back to get rid of them, he gave her a look as if to say “You haven't seen anything yet, honey”. That was the day she locked him in his bedroom. It was two weeks after Colby died. It was the day before Chaz left.

        Dr. Marukawa unlocked the door and peeked his head in. He then turned to Holly and gave her the thumbs up sign: Rhoan was in an amiable mood. She quietly walked over to his wheelchair and rolled him out of the room. He simply stared ahead, giving no impression that his mind was on the same plane as the rest of the world. The drugs would make sure that he would be subdued for the rest of the afternoon. Dr. Marukawa suggested that parents take their children on one last afternoon out. It helped both parties make final goodbyes and made parting a little easier for both. Holly was allowed to take him on a stroll around the grounds, and then have lunch with him in the Singing Pines cafeteria.

Things were going according to plan. Holly babbled on and on about nothing, knowing he wouldn’t understand a word, concentrating on putting on foot in front of the other, counting the number of times the wheelchair squeaked. She focused on the little voice inside her head that chanted condolences like a mantra: This is for the best you can’t handle him alone this is for the best. Ignored the other little voice that intrusively threw nasty snarling truths in at random: This is for the best he’s a little freak you can’t handle him alone devil spawn this is for the best unnatural.

She wondered idly why she was putting him in the backseat of the car. “I’m not supposed to be taking you off the grounds, it’s a great big no no,” she chirped. The next thing she knew she behind the wheel, singing along to the radio with an off-key “la la dee la”. Her face hurt, and she didn’t realize why until she looked in the rearview mirror and noticed that she had such a wide smile it looked like her face was going to split. “Hanny! Where are we going, Hanny! Huh? Where are we going?” she screeched. Rhoan remained silent. “Oh no, Hanny! Don’t get quiet on me now! Not after all that! What, did you lose your voice Hanny? Huh? Speak up, Hanny! Can’t hear you baby, can’t hear you, I’m flying!” She snapped her hand her hand to a beat only she could hear.

Rhoan had almost snapped the door in two. He had gotten out of his wheelchair and was fluttering around his bedroom, scraping at the door with his good hand. When scraping didn’t work, he howled “C-Coooowbieeee!” hour after hour, until his throat got tired. Then he went back to scraping and fluttering. And when he looked at her, it was as if he knew, knew it was her fault that his other half, his healthy half, was gone. That condemning look was almost permanently etched on his 11 year old face, except when it was twisted by blind rage. Holly found caterpillars crawling around the house every other day.

By the time she reached the lakefront, the sky seemed to light the water on fire with reds, oranges, and purples. Holly gently took Rhoan out of the backseat and put him in his old wheelchair. All the tourists had packed up their grills and picnic blankets and gone home; the teenagers wouldn’t be there for another hour or two. She rolled him down to the water’s edge, then farther, farther into the water until he floated out of his wheelchair and she could support him without too much trouble.

The only sounds were the cries of the seagulls and the soft pounding of waves against the shore. They floated out more towards the center of the lake, until Holly could only just touch the bottom with her toes. She rocked Rhoan there, just as she used to when he was a little boy, murmuring a lullaby, “If happy little bluebirds fly, beyond the rainbow, why, oh why can’t I?” she sang softly.

Rhoan looked up at her and screamed “COWBIE” with all his might. One word, abrupt and true, cutting through the fog and the static and making everything sharp and clear. She looked up at the fiery sky, took a slow, deep breath, and held Rhoan under the water as she cried. Holding him close as he shuddered and twitched, crying out in wonder as a thousand black butterflies flew from his mouth and let the falling droplets from their bodies create a rainbow in the setting sun.