The Fall of Butterflies (3 page)

But it does. Because you're not supposed to say good-bye
to your dad just because of “should.”

Whoever made up those rules can kinda just suck it.

Did you know my mom even sent me a Princeton sweatshirt? As if the whole thing was a fait accompli. Pembroke, then Princeton.

Right now this sixteen-year-old is most definitely not wearing a Princeton sweatshirt but walking through the café car and thinking “I need a drink.” But don't worry. She doesn't drink. Because if a girl like her starts drinking, well, let's face it, she's about two clicks away from skid row to start with.

So it's not out of the realm of possibility that she'll end up in the gutter by September.

And it's already August 31.

W
hat happens is . . . you go from small town to small town, a few stops, a few thoughts of a stop, and then not a stop. Sometimes you'll get someplace big. Davenport. Rockford. Chicago. And then there's a lot of hustle and bustle and everybody going crazy trying to get their stuff, check the seats, check the overhead, check under the seats, maybe even the aisle. They are checking, checking, checking. But it's just a bunch of garbage, really. There's nothing here you actually need. Maybe your driver's license and a few bucks. But that sweatshirt, and that
Us
magazine, and those Cheetos? You don't need them. You think you do, but really nobody does. Just leave them.

By the time the train pulls into Chicago, the café car
bartender has made his intentions clear. He would like to have lunch. In Chicago. With me. He said something about deep-dish pizza but I'm pretty sure he has something else in mind. Another kind of dish.

I'm
way
too young for him, but that never seems to stop them. When your boobs decide to make their appearance, all of a sudden every Tom, Dick, and Cletus starts giving you the hungry eye, and next thing you know you have to start making up excuses so some deranged licky-mouth doesn't try to shove you into the back and make a dishonest woman of you.

PS: I'm sixteen. Nobody with a full-time job and the beginnings of crow's feet should be asking me out for deep-dish pizza.

Of course, it's never Gabriel, it's never that cute boy Alex from the grocery store checkout who is interested. Maybe they don't like deep-dish pizza. Or maybe they don't like me.

But, the thing is . . . I have a little problem. Call it maybe a personal fault.

Curiosity.

I know, I know, curiosity killed the cat. Everybody says that. I can't believe you and your lack of originality.

But it's the next part of the phrase that's the kicker. Do you know it? It's: “Satisfaction brought him back.”

I don't know why this cat is a male. Everybody knows cats
are girls. From now on I am officially changing the way I say this. Here goes:

“Curiosity killed the cat. Satisfaction brought
her
back.”

There. Try that on for size.

When I was little my curiosity made the day-care teacher think I had been dropped on my head. I hadn't been dropped on my head, my dad assured her. But she couldn't understand how I could just sit across the playground from the jungle gym, staring out at the street the whole time. But, you see, there was a lot of action. The comings and goings of the big people. One time there was even a mom fight in front of the Piggly Wiggly. Involving an Easter basket. Very heated.

But now, right now, my curiosity problem is leading me through the vast marble splendor of Chicago's Union Station. There's vaulted ceilings and pillars everywhere, eggshell-colored but not dark enough to be beige. This is the kind of place you imagine Al Capone shooting up. Or someone from
The Bourne Identity
running through and someone chasing them and everybody freaking out. Although in real life no one would freak out. They'd probably just keep staring at their phones. Tweeting about “cray-cray chase in st8ion.”

Movie writers are gonna have a hard time with this pretty soon.

I mean, what's a chase scene if everybody just keeps updating their status? Or recording it on their phone? Or tweeting it? Honestly, I figure we have about twenty years left as a species. Twenty years until the oceans rise enough to kill everybody and we all just stand there recording it as it washes us away.

You watch. On your iPhone.

So this guy is meeting me at a place called Fat Sal's Deep-Dish.
Tr
è
s romantique.

He kind of looks like if you crossed Steve Buscemi with Brad Pitt. I know, weird. But what I'm trying to say is . . . he's got bug eyes and he looks supertired but then has blond hair and bright-blue eyes. So he's kind of like ugly-cute, in a way.

He's trying to pretend to care about my well-being.

“Now, your train leaves in two hours, so be sure to get back to the platform by three fifteen.”

And that's true. My train does leave in two hours. But if this guy really cared about my well-being he would not have invited me to Fat Sal's Deep-Dish, that's for sure. He would have invited me to stay on the train and given me a magazine. Maybe even a lollipop.

“You're gonna love this pizza! Ever had Chicago deep-dish?”

He's very enthusiastic.

“No, sorry.”

I don't know why I should be sorry I've never had this stuff that everybody brags about. It's like people from Seattle talking about coffee. Like they invented it. Like it's the apex of human evolution. Enough, already, Seattle. It's a beverage. Step off.

I don't know, either, why I'm here other than the aforementioned combination of boredom and curiosity that have previously been my downfall and the intense lack of fucks I have left to give.

Also, it helps that I won't be alive soon.

Might as well live it up! Deep-dish pizza for everyone!

Although now it occurs to me this guy might actually be dangerous. Maybe this wasn't such a good, devil-may-care idea, anyway. Maybe this guy is wanted for murder, serial murder, and this is his shtick. The hook: deep-dish pizza.

Cold feet, commence. “You know, I really should be getting back. I don't wanna miss my train.”

“You have two hours—” he argues.

“Yeah, but, I tend to space out sometimes. Trust me. I've bumped into lampposts before.”

“Is that right?”

He leans in now, whispers.

“So . . . you smoke pot?”

Oh, here we go. This is what they do on TV, right? Get the drugs involved, or the booze. Try to get a girl a little
off-balance so she'll make a bad decision. My dad warned me about this rap. Thank fucking God.

“Yeah, no. I'm Catholic.”

Like that has anything to do with anything. Yes sir, I'm the only Catholic to ever even think of sinning because the Pope told us no! We are all clean as the driven snow!

“Oh.”

“Also, I'm sixteen.”

His eyes widen. Then he gets this sad-puppy look. “Sixteen? Are you sure you're not . . .
eighteen
?”

I mean. Gross.

“Look, I better go.”

“Aw, c'mon . . . You haven't even tried it yet!”

“Um, no.”

“Okay, fine.”

Now he just looks pissed. Guys always turn real fast, I've noticed, once they see they don't have a shot. It's like the curtain flies up and you realize right away what a shit bag you've been talking to the whole time.

“Well, nice meeting you. Sorry you didn't get to strangle me or whatever.”

He looks up, annoyed.

“Don't flatter yourself. You're not even that good-looking.”

“If you're saying I'm not good-looking enough to strangle, then I will take that as a compliment, thank you very much.”

See what I mean? Two minutes ago this guy was national treasure Tom Hanks. Now?

Never trust a man who cares so much about deep-dish pizza.

On my way back to the platform, there's a gift store. There's a mirror on the back shelf I am trying to avoid, now that I know I'm not good-looking. In this tiny establishment you can buy all sorts of things to tell the folks back home you were in Chicago. Shot glasses. Mugs. Fridge magnets. And I'd buy one, too. If I had any folks back home.

I do not have folks.

I have folk.

Singular.

Dad.

And he does not want a fridge magnet to show I went to Chicago.

About now, he's probably wishing Chicago never existed.

And, about now, I am wishing I never existed, too.

D
o you ever have the feeling that you're supposed to do something? That there's this big, dark thing hanging right above you, dangling like a carrot, but it's invisible and unknowable and you have to kind of figure it out because if you don't figure it out, boy, you blew it?

Or worse, maybe you do figure it out. Maybe you figure out that big, mysterious thing you're supposed to reach for and you just can't do it. You just
don't
do it. Like you stare it right in the face and say, “I can't.”

Then for the rest of your life you know what you are.

A do-nothing.

It's like this fear that pecks away at my brain, sometimes, lying in bed at night. What is the thing? What is this thing?
Will I ever figure it out? Is there even a thing? There has to be a thing. Doesn't there? Otherwise, I'm a do-nothing.

My mother, on the other hand, is a do-
something.

She has made it.

Everybody knows who she is and freaks out about her and freaks out even more once they figure out she's my mom. It's obnoxious.

My dad doesn't get to be a do-something. That happens sometimes. Not everybody gets to be famous. Or a renowned something-or-other. Or even a vaguely known something-or-other.

Somehow my dad just kind of missed the boat. Maybe he didn't have that killer instinct or
whatever it is
you need to elbow everybody out of the way and fly up into the stratosphere.

Or maybe he just wasted too much time being a dad. My dad.

See, while my mother was off chatting with heads of state and captains of industry, my father was teaching me how to ride a bike. And perfecting his slow-cooker recipes. And googling step-by-step instructions on how to sew a hem.

So maybe it's my fault.

And here's the other thing. He's still in love with my mom. My dad. He tries to pretend he's over it, but he mentions my mom about three times a day and what she's doing
and what award she just got, and how I should care and call her and congratulate her. It's all under the guise of keeping me posted, but make no mistake: he's obsessed. It really breaks my heart. I just want to shake him and say, “Get over it! She sucks, let's just face it!” But he goes on and on about her latest, greatest achievement and something-doing. You can imagine that the fact he never got to be a do-something isn't exactly lost on him. Like maybe it just makes him a little bit crazy.

It's the kind of crazy that repeats itself. It's a kind of grinding gear that goes around and around in a loop. Like this: “You know, you should call your mother because she just got an award for blah-blah.” Then, wait two minutes. Then, “You know, you should call your mother because she just got an award for blah-blah.” Like, on a loop. Over and over.

And obsessive thoughts. Like a kind of dread. Over and over. About everything. About her. About dry-cleaning chemicals. About smoke detectors. About stranger danger and seat belts and all the things that can go wrong in a world that fits inside a toolshed.

“Whatever you do, don't forget your jacket, Cakey-pie.”

Oh, yeah. My dad calls me Cakey-pie. It's because somewhere along the line I developed a dessert habit. Look, it's not something I'm proud of, okay? I just don't seem to be able to resist cake,
or pie
, the way most people do.

My affliction extends to other baked goods. Cupcakes, cookies. God help me, cronuts. No one can resist a cronut. Not even the Pope.

But in defense of my slightly fixated father, there was something he didn't have to stretch to get obsessed by. There was something my mother gave him to fulfill his feelings of blind, pulsing dread.

She ran off with his best man.

Yup, that guy at the wedding who gives the speech about how great the groom is? She ran off with that guy.

There. I said it. I never really like to say it, 'cause I never really like to think about it. Like, I just like to make it small and put it in a box and put it far, far away. But every once in a while, it unpacks itself and comes slithering back to meet me, through the corners and crevices of my shoulders and earlobes, and there it is. The dumb fact.

Your mom cheated on your dad.

With his best man.

And then ran off with him.

There's a stabbing kind of thing about it. A real “fuck you” in it. You gotta wonder what kind of person would do a thing like that. I'll tell you what kind of person. A broken person. A person who would grab a life vest from a child on the
Titanic
.

So, even though my mother is a do-something and
everybody thinks she's the bee's knees and maybe my dad repeats himself a little bit, like that guy in
Rain Man
, I stayed with my dad after the split. My mom says I broke her heart or something, but she's just being dramatic. She's the kinda person who talks big but then misses the Christmas recital.

My dad is the kinda person who is early to the Christmas recital, brings flowers to the Christmas recital, and would practically get up onstage and perform the whole Christmas recital for you if you let him.

So, yeah, I stuck by my dad. And, yeah, it's a humble life. By which I mean we are broke-ass. He mostly works at the pharmacy, and we won't be moving into the Ritz anytime soon. But, still, I'd rather be broke-ass than be, well,
her.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking there's going to be some kind of happy family reconciliation at the end of all this. There's going to be some moment where the music swells and all of a sudden an understanding is reached and my mother comes back from Europe and everybody hugs each other and there's maybe a dog involved who we laugh and scruff on the head.

Welp, I'm sorry to break your heart, but that moment is never going to happen. This story is
not
about that. My mother got me in to Pembroke, and that is the end of that. If I graduate with honors, there is a five percent chance she might possibly come to the graduation. That is all. There
are no heartfelt apologies, no slurpy revelations, no classical music swells as we ride off in a one-horse open sleigh.

And that's okay.

But, let's get one thing straight. I still do
not
want to be a do-nothing. No sir. I wanna be that person who grabs great things and wrestles them down.

But I also just want that nagging desire, that compulsion, to stop. Just stop. Just fucking stop. Stop tugging me, telling me I have to do more, I have to be more, I have to do something or I'm worthless, or I'm nothing or I'm nobody.

There was a kid who used to sit in the sandbox. He used to sit there all day and build castles in the sand and smash them to smithereens and build them again. Happy as a clam.

I would do anything to be that kid.

But I can put a smile on my face now. I can put a smile on my face knowing that all that will be over soon. As the train pulls out of the station,
chugga-chugga-chugga
, off over the plains, heading east, I can put a smile on my face knowing once I turn out the lights, that thing—that thing in me that is my mother—can never get me again.