The Butterfly Lampshade Page 7

  For a little while, I sat there in front of the paper, being with it. When I finally flipped it over, it appeared to be a classroom handout from a science unit. Boxes contained printed illustrations of various beetles, labeled in a sloppy hand by an unreadable name in the top righthand corner. Mandible, abdomen, legs; longhorn beetle, weevil, stag.

  The breeze fluttered its edges. I did not know then of course that this paper would extend its role in my life, that there was more to happen with it and its beetle emergence, but I could still feel rising off the page a luster of importance, and when I picked it up, I did it carefully, as if it were animal skin parchment, folding it in half like a teacher might before handing a solemn child a note to bring to the principal. I took it slowly back to my own backpack, where it fit in the front zipper pocket next to some dried-out markers and loose pen caps. My uncle, still on the phone, smiled at me again. He was listening to something long. I was young, and did not really know what it meant that he was waiting to be a father, that this was one of the biggest days of his life, but as I sat down on the roots of the nearby maple, I do remember flashing on Vicky for a second, fetal Vicky, unnamed baby, and how she was not yet in the world, but soon would be, and how once Vicky was out she too would be loose, like all the kids, and all the cars, and all the mothers, and everyone.

  By the time my babysitter came out to find us, apologizing, tugging a green suitcase on rollers, my uncle was napping on the side steps, his head resting on the railing, snoring a little, and I was holding tight to my backpack, still sitting on the maple roots.

  “I’m ready,” the babysitter said, and my uncle shook awake, and they both walked me to her car.

  13

  As we approached the parking lot, teachers were emerging from the school, heading to their own cars. Mrs. Washington from the front office clicked by, wearing some kind of flamingo purse on her shoulder; the principal with the black-framed plastic glasses looked to the ground and spoke intently by a wall to the gym coach. These were the celebrities of my life. Mrs. Washington waved as she drove off: “Have a good weekend!” My uncle stood next to me with a hand on my shoulder as the babysitter settled her bag into the trunk. “I’ll see you in a few days,” he said, “Francie,” and the babysitter opened the passenger door for me, and the car, smelling of grapes, with fake leopard-skin seat covers, and a pink-haired troll hanging by a string from the rearview mirror, absorbed me inside.

  14

  The steward/cousin my uncle secured for me for the train ride would turn out to be, as promised, extremely nice, and dependable, and also tall and lanky with a giant Adam’s apple so knobby it had made me laugh. At night on the train, he reminded me that he had the sleeper next door and all I had to do was knock if I needed anything, anything at all. “I sleep lightly,” he said. “If you have nightmares and need company or whatever. We can go to the hall or back to the seats. Please don’t worry about waking me.” He didn’t smile, but his neutral face was warm. Still, even with kindness so palpable, on the train, in the hallways, I never knocked on the steward’s door in the middle of the night to have him read me passages from his whaling book largely because I did not need to. I had been right about the train, and its pace. I loved my sleeper car, and any disturbances I felt or had to cry out were things I wanted to manage, anyway, on my own. By that point, I’d eaten the butterfly, and was soon to hold the beetle in my palms, and visitors were coming on and off the train, asking for things, and the whole trip was like a dream fog, me moving down the line drawn in the dirt by Uncle Stan’s stick, from pebble to pebble, a line which itself had surely washed away with the rain I’d heard tapping on the roof of the babysitter’s apartment as I lay tucked under the slippery chenille blanket on her couch, golden butterflies circling on the lampshade beside me.

  Soon after the train ride was completed, I was settling into my new home in Burbank, California, sitting in the kitchen nook, eating a bowl of cereal, when the steward’s father, Tony, Uncle Stan’s cousin, a man I’d never met, made some joke on the phone about my mother and the loony bin. Uncle Stan had been using speakerphone, chatting about his life, holding the baby as he talked, and so we all heard everything, and he looked at me chewing up my cereal bits, and at his wife, sitting across from me with her alert eyes, wrapped in her wool cardigan, and quietly hung up. “I’m so sorry,” he said, shaking his head. From what I understood, he sent news through the family mill that he would like an apology and waited for Tony to call back, but Tony did not believe in apologies and thought my uncle was being too sensitive. Time passed, grudges thickened, and the two of them, steward and Tony, became a ghost branch on the family tree. This was a source of sadness for my uncle, but it made some kind of basic sense to me. The steward shepherded me to Los Angeles, and then dissolved. In my child’s mind, that was the whole of his existence anyway.

  15

  Do you like the radio?

  It’s okay.

  I know this must be so confusing, Francie.

  Is this your car?

  Yes.

  It’s green.

  It is. I like green.

  Do you always drive this car?

  I do. Do you like it?

  I do.

  I’m glad. That’s my lucky troll. We’ll have a couple good days of just you and me before the train ride. It’s Friday! Weekend ahead. I know a great pancake place for tomorrow morning. Do you like pancakes?

  Yes.

  We’ll get in line early. They have the most amazing syrup. It’s a kind of special berry, you know those marionberries? Marionberry. They’re those really long blackberries, so long and skinny, like someone pulled a blackberry and stretched it. Delicious. And we will talk to your aunt and uncle every day, okay?

  My mom?

  She can’t talk to you just yet. As soon as she is better and she can talk, you will definitely talk to her. That’s the glove compartment.

  Can I open it?

  It’s messy in there. You don’t usually sit in the front, do you?

  What’s this?

  Just Advil. Yeah, that should stay there. I probably should’ve put you in the back but it’s so messy, too. Would you rather sit in the back?

  No.

  Sorry, that’s just an old fork. I don’t know why that’s there.

  Shrina?

  Yes?

  When do I go?

  Sunday. Sunday morning.

  And will I talk to my mom then?

  Not yet, Francie. God. I’m really sorry. They said not yet. Probably not by Sunday. It’s going to take her a little while to feel better enough to talk.

  What’s this for?

  Those are the papers I need for the car. Insurance and stuff. Careful. I do need those.

  Is this gum?

  Yeah, I think it’s kind of old.

  Can I have a piece?

  I think it’s too old. I mean, oh, okay. If you really want. Sure.

  Where do they live?

  Your aunt and uncle? In Los Angeles. Didn’t they tell you you were going to live with them? For now at least? Just push it back up to close it. Push and close. Thanks. Let me just park. This is me, right here. You see the little window on top? Have you ever been to a loft?

  No.

  Then I will get to show you one. I’m so glad.

  They told me. He told me.

  He seems really nice.

  The gum tastes weird.

  Just spit in my hand, Francie. There you go. Come up the stairs. Let’s get you settled.

  * * *

  —

  This is the living room, Francie. This is the kitchen. It’s really small. Up there is the loft. I sleep up there. Can you see the bed?

  Yes.

  It’s called a loft, that whole upstairs area on top of the ladder. Are you hungry?

  No.

  I migh
t have some cookies. Do you like cookies?

  Is this your lamp?

  The butterfly lamp? It is. Do you like it?

  Yes.

  Have a seat. On the couch, or chair. Wherever. Make yourself at home. Have you ever heard that expression?

  No.

  It means, feel comfortable here. Like—make it like it’s your own home. Where is that bag of cookies. I mean, what do you do at home most days, when you come home from school?

  Play cards maybe.

  Cards. I don’t think I have cards.

  Watch a show.

  I have a TV, over on that table, under the fringy scarf—do you think there’s a show you like on now?

  I don’t know.

  Do you know how to look for it?

  No.

  Okay, hang on. I’m going to get the cookies first. Food first. I was always so hungry when I came home from school. I swear I would eat a whole loaf of toasted bread with butter. Cookies, cookies, cookies. Where are you, cookies! Crackers, no. Do you like crackers? Oh, here! And, plate.

  Plate, plate, plate.

  Exactly! And, wait. Let me get you a napkin.

  I like the lamp.

  I’m so glad. My mother got it for me when I was a little girl. Here, let me turn it on.

  The butterflies are so red.

  Aren’t they?

  And golden.

  And, here you are. Why don’t you come on over. Milk? I have some soy milk.

  Okay.

  Go ahead and sit—the couch is good. This couch is very soft. I pick my couches for softness. There you go. I swear I sat on every couch in the store! They were ready to throw me out. Help yourself. Have as many as you’d like.

  It’s good.

  I’m so glad, Francie. Have you had soy milk before?

  I don’t know.

  It’s vanilla flavored. Do you like vanilla?

  Yes.

  Okay, let me just listen to my messages for a minute. You good?

  Yes. Thank you.

  Of course, sweetie.

  Where did your mother get the lamp from?

  Just listening for a second. Hang on. My brother called. He’s in New York.

  The soy milk is good.

  Good, good. And, erase. And then—my bank. E-rase. And, then Susie. My friend.

  Is that Susie from school?

  Different Susie. Hang on. And, erase.

  Did she make the lamp?

  My mother? I believe she bought it at a department store. Did your uncle say he’ll stay at the hospital with the baby tonight?

  What is the name of the store?

  I don’t know, probably Robinson’s. She used to really like Robinson’s. Why?

  Is there a Robinson’s near here?

  You want to see where my mother bought the lamp?

  Yes.

  Why, Francie?

  I like it.

  That’s so nice of you. I’ll tell my mother. She’ll be very pleased. What do you like about it?

  The butterflies on it.

  You want one of your own.

  Yes.

  This was years and years ago. I mean, I don’t know if they have them anymore. I don’t even think Robinson’s exists anymore. Does it? But—you’ll be sleeping on this couch. You can sleep right next to it.

  Here?

  I can leave it on at night if you’d like. Do you like a light at night?

  Okay.

  Great. You can watch the butterflies if you wake up. It’s a soft bulb. It’ll be perfect. Did you have enough cookies?

  Yes, thank you.

  Great. Let’s find your show. I need to do a little work but you can watch and I can work and then we’ll hang out. How does that sound?

  Good.

  And we’ll talk to your aunt and uncle later with an update on your mom. And the baby!

  Shrina, when I go, can I take the lamp?

  You’ll have a brand-new cousin! Wow. You will be such an amazing help to them.

  Can I take it with me?

  Sorry, take what with you?

  The lamp.

  Take the lamp? You mean with you on the train?

  I could put it in a box.

  Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry, Francie. It’s just—it’s a gift from my childhood. I feel like I should keep it.

  That’s okay.

  I’m sorry. I should probably just give it to you—

  Okay.

  But it’s like the only thing from a certain time, from when my parents divorced. Just it’s special to me. I’m so glad you like it. You can visit it anytime.

  Me?

  Of course, you. It could be your special lamp to visit.

  But how?

  I mean, whenever you are in town, you can come visit it. Is this the show?

  No. Will I be in town?

  Oh, I’m sure you will. Your aunt and uncle will bring you up here to see your mother.

  Isn’t it far?

  I mean, yeah, it’s a little far, but they will come up here. Of course they will. This one? The squirrels?

  I don’t like that one. When will I visit?

  I don’t know, Francie.

  Every week?

  No, probably not every week. Maybe every month? Every other month?

  And then I can visit the lamp.

  The lamp, anytime. You can come see it every visit, absolutely.

  Even on a weekend?

  Definitely. Definitely on a weekend.

  That one’s okay.

  This one? The lions?

  Yes.

  Here you go. Okay. It’s ready. You ready? Do you want to talk more?

  No. Why are you crying?

  I’m not crying. I don’t know, am I? Just a little. I just—I just want you to have a good trip. You’re a good kid.

  I’m not.

  You are, Francie. You are very good.

  I just imagined something bad.

  You did? What did you imagine?

  I can’t tell you.

  Of course you can. You can tell me anything.

  You were burning in a fire.

  Oh, sweetie. Really? Oh, wow. You’ve had a tough day.

  And you were yelling a little I think. And burning.

  It’s okay. It’s okay. Where did you see something like that?

  And I was laughing or something.

  Did you watch a show for grown-ups?

  I just saw it in my mind.

  Okay. Okay. Well, you didn’t burn me, see? I’m fine. I’m regular temperature. I’m not hurt at all.

  Are you sure?

  I’m sure, I’m sure. Look, I’m fine. Okay? Would you like me to watch with you a little bit?

  I maybe also threw a knife at you.

  I will watch with you a little bit, okay?

  This one is good. This is where they go to school.

  I would really like to watch it with you.

  The teacher is funny. She’s a rabbit.

  We’ll just sit here together and watch it.

  Okay.

  Okay.

  Sorry I said that. I don’t really want you to burn up.

  I understand, Francie. It’s okay. I don’t plan on burning up. Let’s watch the show.

  16

  “I have had many female inspirations in my life so far, including my theater teacher, my mother, and an amazing nurse who helped me in the hospital when I tore my shoulder ligament. But my biggest inspiration is, without question, my sister. She moved to our house when she was eight years old because her mother suffers from mental illness plus an early head injury. I was only a baby at the time, so I always remember her with us, but sometimes she will tell me stor
ies about her other life, when she was a little girl living in Portland, and what it was like with her mother then. She said mostly it was nice, but when her mother wasn’t well, she’d start knitting blankets all the time, or ask Francie what her name was. Or once, her mother (my aunt) handed her a half-opened jar of pickles to give as a present at a birthday party. My sister hid it under the stairs and went to the party without anything.

  “My mother always took me shopping before friends’ birthday parties. We went to toy stores together, and as we browsed the aisles, she asked me what I’d like to get for my friend, and sometimes I’d even get something too.

  “My sister laughs when I tell her she’s my hero. She even snorts a little, like it’s not true.

  “She’s fun, and easy to be with, and I’ve never seen her do anything truly worrisome, but soon after she arrived at our house, when I was a very little baby, she asked our mom to put a lock on her door. Not a regular lock from the inside, for privacy, but on the outside. To lock her in. When our mom asked why, she said she just wanted to feel safe in there. She said that sometimes she sleepwalked and she didn’t want to leave the room in the middle of the night and fall down the stairs, though no one had ever seen anything close to that happen. Our mom didn’t like it, but she ended up buying the lock because Francie doesn’t ask for much. For years, Mom was the one who opened her door up in the morning, but when I was old enough and had to get up earliest for school, it became my job to unlock Francie from her bedroom. Every morning my alarm would ring, I’d get out of bed, and the first thing I’d do would be to walk over to her door and turn the little locking device so that she could come out.