Butterfly Tattoo (20 page)

“No, Laurel, you’re wrong about that.” My voice is surprisingly quiet, but I don’t feel quiet inside. “See, I
did
need you. But that was a year ago, not now.”

She reaches for me. “Michael, I made a terrible mistake,” she says in a rush. “I want to try to heal that.”

But I jerk my arm away. “We can’t bring Alex back,” I blurt, staring hard into her eyes. “And we sure as hell can’t undo your
mistake,
Laurel. It’s as much a part of this scene as Al’s death is.”

“Michael,” she answers carefully, “you may not believe this, but I love you. That never changed. You’re the only brother I have left now.”

“No, Laurel, see, I’m not your brother!” I cry, unable to stop the flow of my rage. “I ain’t your brother and I ain’t your friend, and I
sure
as hell ain’t your lover.”

“Okay,” she answers numbly. “Okay, Michael, I understand that you’re angry.”

“Hell yeah, I’m angry,” I answer with forced quiet, knowing Andie’s right down the hall. “You tried to take my daughter away from me. We lost Alex and that’s what you did to his memory.”

She nods, pursing her lips like she’s fighting hard not to cry. “You have no idea how many regrets I have. Don’t you see it’s why I’ve come?” Her voice is defeated and small; she twists a finger through the ends of her hair, and whispers, “Alex is dead, but you’re still here, Michael. At least I can make that peace with you.”

“Thank
God
he never knew,” I say, lowering my voice when I hear a slight noise from Andie’s room. “Never knew how you tried to tear his family apart like that.” Her wide eyes well with tears, but she says nothing. “Yeah, so see the way I figure it, Laurel, I’m definitely not your brother.” I press past her, toward the door, but then I turn back. “I’m nothing but the guy who’s stuck with you from now on.”

***

“Hello?” At the first sound of Rebecca’s voice on the phone, I swear I’m going to lose it completely. A vise closes around my throat and I can’t speak, my whole body trembling.

“Michael? Is that you?” she asks, and that familiar accent’s a salve on my open wounds.

Kicking the door of the surfboard room shut, I clear my throat. “Hey, Becca,” I reply in a quiet voice.

I close my eyes and half-whisper, “Laurel’s here.”

“How’s it going? I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

Blowing out a breath, I lean my forehead against Allie’s long board and wish that Rebecca knew it all, the whole sad, broken story of Laurel Richardson and me. “Pretty much sucks so far.” Sparking pain erupts behind my eyelids, and I massage my neck, determined not to get another migraine.

“What’s happened?”

“Rebecca, can you come over? Tonight?”

“If you want me to, sure. Of course,” she answers. “But do you think that’s a great idea? Shouldn’t you have family time first?”

I want to tell her she is like family, but it’s way too early for words like that.

“I can’t do this alone,” I answer, resolved. “I can’t do this shit alone anymore, period. I miss you and I want to see you tonight, and screw Laurel if she’s got a problem with that.”

“Okay, Michael,” she soothes, voice gentle as a feminine caress. “Okay. I’ll be there in an hour.”

“And Rebecca? There’s something you should know.” I’m thinking of
all
the things she needs to know, all the secrets hardwired into this family.

“Okay, tell me.”

So much she should know, so much that might change things between us all, but I settle on the most pressing matter in my mind: what I’m feeling, hidden away in this clandestine room, safe for the moment with my girlfriend. “I think I’m falling in love with you,” I confess, bracing myself for her to rebuff or laugh at me, for her to tell me it’s far too soon for an admission like that.

My cell phone line only crackles with electric silence. “I just, well, just wanted you to know,” I stammer, pacing the length of the small room anxiously. “I thought you
should
know, before you came over tonight and all, ’cause Laurel sure brings out my dark side these days.”

“We all have a dark side, Michael,” she answers evenly. “You’re not unique in that.”

“But you don’t know what an asshole I turn into around her.” And that’s really what has me more upset than anything right now, the way I shouted at her in the guest room a while ago, the way I shut her out when she was trying to bridge the gap between us.

“Does she deserve it, you being an asshole?” she asks. “Does Laurel deserve that?”

“She deserves,” I heave a weary sigh, “a lot of things.” My love, my gratitude, my supreme hatred. Reaching out, I trace my fingers along the rails of Allie’s favorite board, perched right on top of the rack, and presto, like it’s a magic talisman, we’re up in Santa Cruz, late July. Laurel’s sprawled on the sand beside me in her bikini, telling stories on her brother while he just lazes on my other side, belly-down, listening.

They laugh, giddily remembering some near-forgotten tale from their childhood. Their voices fall into easy harmony as sentences and stories are finished, back and forth between them while the sun marks time down the length of the sand. Me, right in the middle, the cavernous loneliness that had dogged me all my life swept mystically out to deepest sea. I had a sister and a brother and a lover and a family, all wrapped up in just those two that afternoon.

“Michael,” Rebecca interrupts, “don’t you know by now that you can’t scare me off?” Her soft voice pitches low, like maybe she’s hiding out, too.

“What if you don’t know everything?” I press, needing to gauge what her reaction would be.

“If you were going to freak me out, that would have happened a while ago.”

That one actually makes me chuckle out loud. “Yeah, good point you make there, O’Neill.” I mean she’s in this thing with
me
, after all—and here I am hiding in a closet from my gay lover’s sister, after all these years.

“I’m in the closet.”

“What?” she asks, clearly confused. “I thought Laurel knew you and Al—”

“No, no, I mean literally. I’m calling you from a closet in the back of the house. I wasn’t ready for Laurel to know about…well, me.”

“You being with a woman.”

“Yeah, so guess I’m in the closet literally and figuratively, matter of fact. It’s the bisexual dilemma, you know.” An inexplicable wave of sorrow washes over me. “We’re always in the closet with somebody.”

“But you’re ready for me to come over tonight? You’re sure?”

“I can’t be away from you and do this, Rebecca,” I explain. “Can’t keep the truth about you from Laurel, either, ’cause like I told you, I’m falling pretty hard here.”

“Well, Michael,” she replies, comforting as an unexpected summer rain. “At least that makes two of us that feel that way.”

And before I can even answer, she hangs up the phone.

Chapter Seventeen: Rebecca

By the time I arrive at Michael’s place, his house is dark except for the light over the kitchen sink, illuminating the window like a magic lantern. As I head up the flagstones to the front door, the shadowy interior reminds me of a movie soundstage with all the key players standing hushed in the wings, breath held, waiting for their cue.

There’s the drifting aroma of charcoal and burgers grilling, and I realize everyone must be out back, but I ring the bell anyway. When nobody answers, I test the knob and enter. I know my way here now; I’m comfortable. It’s becoming a kind of safe haven for me, I think, stepping confidently inside and walking toward the darkened sunroom that leads to the deck.

Outside, through the sliding-glass doors, I spy Andrea at the table with Laurel, their heads bent together, coloring. I mean, that has to be Laurel, even though she’s nothing like I expected. She has a cascade of inky black hair, like spun silk, flowing straight down to her lower back—and she has this statuesque quality, an elegance that I’ve never felt I possess. Without any rational explanation, jealousy riots through every fiber of my being, based on nothing but a single look at Alex’s sister.

I thought she’d have red hair and freckles and be a little gawky. I thought she’d be earthy like Marti and put me at ease. But this woman wears beauty like a mystic aura, and I know instinctively that my own broken loveliness won’t ever compete.

“Didn’t hear you come in,” Michael says from behind me, causing me to jump.

“Oh!” I cry, spinning toward him guiltily. “I rang the bell, but—” I point toward the porch in explanation.

“You were watching her.” He’s staring beyond me to where Laurel inclines her head toward Andrea’s, lost in some secret world. I thought this was my domain, that I was the only one who could make the sacred connection.

“She’s beautiful,” I admit.

Stepping behind me, he draws me near, back against his strong chest, so that we watch them together from this hidden sanctuary. We’re voyeurs, lost in the shadows; their theater is ours to see.

“I used to think so,” he answers cryptically, his body tensing against mine. “Is that why you were watching her? Because she’s beautiful?”

I consider making excuses, but confess, “I think I’m nervous, Michael. It was easier to stand here and watch.”

“Why nervous?”

“She’s your family. Really,” I explain, voice catching, “and so that makes me feel a little weird, I guess. And she doesn’t know about me—you said so earlier on the phone—and that makes me feel weird too.”

“Don’t worry about that.”

“But she
is
your family. Don’t you care what impression this will make?”

He yields a derisive grunt. “She’s not my family anymore, I can assure you of that.”

“What’s the problem between you two?” I’m surprised that his usual gentleness has given way to something almost savage, and it unsettles me despite his earlier warnings on the phone. He’s off-balance with her here; he’s hoping I’ll be able to right that. “I just wonder if you shouldn’t prepare her,” I continue. “For the fact that you’ve got someone new in your life.” I’m the interloper, the one trying to step into Alex’s shoes, and I’ve never felt more inadequate to the task than standing here, tucked safely into the dark quiet of Michael’s house. I feel dwarfed by his height—too fragile to meet Laurel; too delicate next to him; too feminine. The litany of inadequacies seems endless.

“Let’s go outside,” he answers, brusque, stepping toward the sliding-glass doors.

“Michael?” I try, but he cuts his eyes at me. There’s this simmering anger there that I don’t expect.

“Rebecca,” he snaps, “no time like the present for Laurel Richardson to get the facts.”

I follow Michael onto the deck and Laurel’s eyes meet mine, mild surprise registering in their translucent depths. “Rebecca!” Andrea cries, waving at me with far more liveliness than usual. “Michael didn’t say you were coming over.”

“Well, sweetie,” I pause, wondering if Michael’s going to answer for me, but he’s busy closing the door. “I guess it was kind of a last-minute plan.” My mouth pulls, tight and trembling, as I work at smiling. I hope the strange, twisted expression on my face doesn’t seem unfriendly.

Laurel doesn’t appear to notice, standing and extending one delicate ivory hand. “Hello,” she says, and the first thing I observe is how all that regal beauty echoes in her voice. Then, before I can say more, Andrea bounces in her seat, blurting, “Rebecca is Michael’s new girlfriend.”

“Oh,” Laurel answers, her black eyebrows hitching upward. Surprise, confusion, concern—I’m not really sure how to interpret her expression, but I clasp her hand boldly. “Nice to meet you,” I say, and she gives an ethereal smile. There’s a jangling sound, her layered bracelets tinkle and chime with the motion of her wrist. Looking down, I notice a silver cross, larger than the other charms on her bracelet, weighing the rest down like a leaden anchor.

Michael steps beside me, gesturing between us sternly. “Laurel, Rebecca O’Neill.” She nods as we shake hands, then there’s this unmistakable awkwardness. She must be sizing me up, must be noticing my scars and my peculiar face. I drop my head, allowing my hair to fall across my cheek like a carefully concealing curtain.

Laurel takes her seat again, and with slow precision she sets down several crayons, two red ones in varying shades, as Andrea excitedly narrates Laurel’s arrival today. “Then we went to the Farmer’s Market,” she tells me, all jittery with enthusiasm, “and drove right by the Chinese Theater because I wanted Aunt Laurel to see it. I mean, she’s seen it before, but still.”

Michael smiles at his daughter. “Never can get too much Mann’s Chinese.”

“Did you get out and walk around?” I ask, keeping my head positioned so the scars are concealed from her aunt.

Michael answers brusquely. “Too hot to get out today.” He brushes past me and down the steps to the yard. There’s something cocky to his gait, a kind of irritated swagger I’ve never seen before. “I’ve gotta check the burgers,” he explains without so much as a glance at Laurel. “Be right back.” Talk about body language.

And talk about me feeling vulnerable as he moves down into the yard, leaving me alone on the deck with Laurel and Andrea.

It’s the first time I’ve ever felt exposed around him, when I’ve felt anything other than safe. For a moment, I stand hugging myself, wishing I hadn’t worn my vintage Lily Pulitzer capri pants. Hot pink with butterflies seemed like a hip idea an hour ago. Now, compared to Laurel’s fey, flower-child chic, I seem garish—cartoonish even, with my ugly scars and ridiculous clothes.

Laurel watches Michael with a wistful expression that even I, a stranger to her, can easily decipher. “I wonder if he needs any help,” she says.

“He seems a little stressed,” I observe, hoping that my outsider’s interpretation will comfort her somewhat. In a strange way, I’m already rooting for her, wanting there to be peace between them, even though I have no idea what she did to hurt him. I trust her—like I did Michael from the beginning—on pure instinct. And despite that, I also understand that whatever she did, it warrants his pain.

“Michael’s been really crabby all day,” Andrea says, watching him seriously, chin in hand.

“Here,” Laurel offers, drawing a chair out for me. “Come sit with us. I had no idea Michael was dating anyone.”

Michael might not like it, but I decide to be honest. “I wish he’d told you.”

“Yes, well, Michael likes to keep things…interesting. And we haven’t exactly been talking much recently.”

“Rebecca’s an actress,” Andrea interjects, a look of pride on her face that moves me.

“That’s not exactly true anymore, sweetie.”

“But you’re on television all the time.”

I’m opening my mouth to explain the difference between reruns and an active career when Laurel answers, “I
do
recognize you. Rebecca O’Neill—of course, now I see it.”

Somehow the idea that she knows who I am, coupled with Andrea’s unabashed pride in my former profession, embarrasses me. I can’t look at either of them, and feeling my face burn with emotion, I glance toward the grill again to see if Michael’s coming back anytime soon.

Laurel gestures to a bottle of wine, a pricey label that I’ve never seen around here before. “Shall I pour you a glass?”

“Yes, please.”

Laurel slides the chilled glass of wine my way. “When did you and Michael begin dating?”

“A month ago. Roughly.”

“Michael’s not gay anymore, Aunt Laurel,” Andrea interjects, laughing and scowling all at once. “Isn’t that weird?”

Now my face is really burning and I’m a little ticked at Michael for abandoning me to handle this awkwardness on my own. Andrea resumes coloring. “Michael’s kind of like my friend Gretchen’s daddy who turned out gay all of a sudden,” she explains. “All the kids in class were talking about it. Only, Michael says it probably wasn’t all of a sudden.” Her frown intensifies, becomes more perplexed. “It’s sorta the same with Michael, I guess. Only he turned out
not
gay, huh, Rebecca?”

Great. I’m dating the
ungay.
Is that like the undead?

Laurel gives me a brief but undeniably sympathetic look. “Sweetie,” I answer cautiously, “I think Michael’s the one who can answer these questions.”

“Relationships between grownups can be complex sometimes,” Laurel adds.

“Oh, I understand about being gay,” Andrea answers with a knowing nod. “Michael and I’ve talked about it a lot. And Daddy explained it to me some, too. When it would come up with my friends at school.”

“What did your daddy tell you?” Laurel asks, leaning forward.

“That we were a family. Even though maybe people didn’t always understand that.” Her expression becomes contemplative. “And Michael always says love is what counts.”

Tears sting my eyes and I look again to the yard. The man of the moment seems to be lost permanently at the grill right when I need him most.

“You know, I should use the bathroom,” I announce, needing to escape. “I’ll be right back.”

Laurel watches me as I excuse myself, an inscrutable expression on her face, but not an unfriendly one. I even think that she seems like a potential ally, as she gives another one of her ethereal smiles when I leave the table.

Inside, I feel my way through the dark house, but instead of winding down the hallway toward the kitchen, I wander into Michael’s bedroom. Flicking on the overhead light, I squint beneath the hazy glare of the antique fixture. There’s a cubicle-sized bathroom off the corner of the bedroom, and I walk toward it, thankful for the break from the tense scene outside. This relationship feels so hard sometimes. Michael’s own daughter doesn’t fully grasp his bisexuality—so what does Laurel think? That he’s just walking on the
tame
side for once? I’m not even sure how well Laurel and Michael knew one another before Alex’s death, much less what went wrong between them.

Applying fresh lipstick, I stare into the medicine cabinet mirror; it’s a tiny bathroom, tiled black and white, circa sixty or more years ago. It’s also a
man’s
bathroom, in its coloring and simplicity—in fact, I’d go so far as to call it a
gay
man’s bathroom, in its immaculate styling and clean, almost severe, lines. Along the taupe walls are framed black and white prints, grouped artistically, and I find myself staring right into the eyes of Alex Richardson.

Laurel has those same eyes. Beautiful like his, so clear and open and fathomless. The picture of him is exactly eye-level to me, and it’s a close-up—Alex in a simple black turtleneck, leaning forward so that he stared right into the barrel of the camera lens that day. So that he’s staring right into my eyes
this
day.

There are secrets here, I think, peering into Alex’s wise, comprehending eyes. I don’t understand how to handle them.

You are strong, he whispers near me. Strong enough for them all.

Shivering, I gaze into his cool eyes again. And yet I find such warmth there. Looking up, I discover another black and white picture, this one of Michael holding Andrea on his lap. She’s only a baby, smiling and toothless, snuggling close to her lifeline. Michael’s hair is disheveled, standing on end like he’s just woken up; he’s young and arrestingly handsome, gazing at his daughter in pure adoration, cup of coffee in hand.

Maybe it was a Saturday morning and they were relaxing together, enjoying family time; maybe Alex jumped up to grab the camera, as all new fathers are wont to do, eager to capture a priceless moment. But unlike most parents, I think Alex realized somehow that his life was fleeting—one reason this home is covered with photographs taken by him. He made sure his family was documented, archived for posterity.

He made sure of that because they
were
a family, exactly like he told their daughter. Maybe more of a family than I’ve realized until now: only there’s this gaping, empty crater left in the middle of them where Alex used to stand.

Slipping through Michael’s bedroom, something makes me hesitate, and I notice another grouping of framed pictures on his dresser. Maybe I’m searching for more clues to understanding this family’s mysteries, or maybe I’m searching for more Beautiful Alex pictures, I’m not really sure. What I discover is a faded photograph of a woman, from that era when Kodak added a white border to each image, imprinted with a date stamp on the edging. But I don’t need help pinpointing the time period—the woman’s rayon party dress, cat-eye glasses and glamorous style clearly date the picture to the mid-1960s. She’s a redhead, too, like Alex. Maybe this is his mother? She’s holding a baby crooked in her arm and beaming at the camera. A new mother, obviously.

There’s something in her smile that puzzles me, though, something familiar and vaguely troubling. Holding the frame within my hands, the woman begins to remind me of Andrea, I realize. So I’m right: this picture must be of Alex and Laurel’s mother, what with the red hair and that same delicate smile of Andrea’s. But why is she only holding one baby—and more importantly, what about this image unsettles me so?