Butterfly Tattoo (13 page)

“Good,” I say, brushing at my dress. “Now if we can just keep all those average days on our side, we’ll be doing all right.”

***

Five seconds after sailing through my office door on Monday morning, I’m still feeling a happy buzz from my date with Michael. That is, if it was a date, and I’m not entirely sure on that point. It’s the bisexuality thing rearing its ambiguous self again, which always leaves me wondering if maybe our whole deal isn’t only friendship. And once I go there mentally, then a host of additional anxieties come popping out from nowhere, so I prefer to be in my happy place, at least temporarily.

We’re going to the Dodgers game with his group of friends later this week. This seems like a fairly big deal, to introduce me to his circle—a crowd I know used to knot neatly around Alex and him—but I’ll choose not to be intimidated by that fact.

“My friend Casey’s got an extra ticket,” he explained, standing with me out in the drive last night. “Would you want to come?” Some part of my algebraic mind easily deduced that this “extra ticket” in Casey’s season package used to belong to Alex once upon a time, but I just smiled and said I’d love to tag along. Then there was an awkward moment when I sensed that he really wanted to kiss me goodnight, but neither of us could quite seem to make it happen. So we stood there, him scuffing his loafers on the concrete and me chattering too much about the Dodgers. Could we do a better imitation of being thirteen?

It’s not even 9:00 a.m. yet, but down the hall I can already hear Ed storming at someone on the telephone. As head of development at our production company, Ed rarely talks quietly. He projects. He furies. He dominates. At least two hundred and seventy-five pounds, and a solid six feet two or more, he’s one of the biggest teddy bears of a man I’ve ever met. His office is filled with so much cigarette smoke that it’s more like an incense-filled temple, and my eyes never fail to water whenever I enter.

Grabbing the Julian Kingsley proposal from my desk, I head decisively toward Ed’s office, where I wait outside the door for him to notice me. Glancing up from his phone call, he waves me in, saying to someone, “Well, don’t call me again until you got it figured out, okay? I’m serious! Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he grumbles at the person, and I wonder if it’s some arch-nemesis from the corporate side until he says, “I love you, too. Bye.” His wife. Check.

“Whatcha got?” he asks, leaning so far back that I momentarily fear his swivel desk chair might topple unceremoniously into the award-filled bookcase behind him.

I give a Cheshire Cat smile. “Something that’s going to make your Monday very, very happy.”

He lifts an eyebrow, goatee turning up at the edges in a devilish grin. I can’t help feeling a thrill as I hand him Julian’s proposal, the option recommendation on top, knowing I’m about to score major points with my boss.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he declares, fumbling for his pack of Marlboros without looking. “How in hell’d you pull this off?”

Briefly, I wish I could take all the credit, but this is my best friend’s moment to shine. “Trevor, actually. He and Julian are old friends.” Ed’s black eyes lift upward. “Trevor was his assistant back in London. Kept all his correspondence, did research for his early novels.”

“Bosom buddies, eh?” Ed assesses caustically, his own particular conclusion about the matter already reached. He flips the pages of the proposal quickly. “Who else has this thing?”

“No one. Our exclusive ends today.”

“What’s it gonna take?”

Chewing my lip, I contemplate the figures I’ve been mentally crunching since Saturday. “Near as I can tell,
Beautiful, But Me
closed at a ceiling of almost a million. Just ballpark.”

Ed whistles loudly. “Damn, that’s a lot of money.” He drags on his cigarette for a contemplative moment, the Marlboro temple filling with a little more hazy smoke. “Ah, hell. Do it. I don’t want this one to get away. Start low, work your way up. Who you dealing with? TMA?”

“His literary agent’s in England, but yes, they’re co-agenting the film side.”

“Do it. Tell me when it’s closed.”

This stuns me; the other times I’ve optioned properties, Ed has been a control freak, obsessively watching over all my movements. “Are you sure?” I’m unclear about his motives, and feeling skittish about being offered this sudden freedom on such a big deal. He waves me off with his cigarette, leafing back through the proposal, this time ready to give it his true attention. “Yeah, yeah. You run with this one, babe. I trust you. Show me what you can do.”

O
kay
. This absolutely reeks of a power moment. He just lent me his knee, and hoisted me up the corporate ladder by a few critical rungs. And Ed can do that; he’s got enough muscle to make me if he so chooses. Raking a hand through his disheveled hair—it never ceases to amaze me that a slob like Ed can wield such a mighty saber—he glances up. “O’Neill, is there a problem?”

“No, not at all.” I shake my head. “I’ll get right on it.”

Is it my imagination, I wonder, stumbling like a zombie out of his office, or has my whole life just taken a fairly surreal direction? As if everything that was on a disastrous, or at least mediocre, course for so long is now completely going my way.

Only problem is that the heroine of
every
movie always has a sunshiny, riding-high moment like this one—right before the end of Act One, when her entire world goes to hell in a hand basket.

Still, I think I’ll keep walking on sunshine, thank you very much. I’ve had enough freaking trauma and rain to last all three acts.

Chapter Eight: Michael

“I don’t know why we have to keep coming here,” Andrea whines as we step into the small Burbank office where we meet our therapist once a month. The receptionist closes the door behind us with a hushed promise of the doctor’s imminent arrival, leaving us in silence.

“How come we do?” My daughter stares up at me like she half-expects a reprieve, a look I pointedly ignore. We don’t have a choice about being here today, and it’s not like I’m wild about it either. But I do want a breakthrough with her, which means I’m willing to put up with almost anything to get to that.

“So why, Michael?” Her breathy voice grows more impatient. “Why do we have to come?”

“Because it’s good for us,” I explain wearily, searching for a way to rationalize dragging her here despite how useless it often seems. “Kind of like spinach. Not all that tasty, but it makes us stronger.”

The corners of her mouth turn downward into a scowl, forming what Alex always termed her “disagreeable face”.

“Spinach is yucky,” she announces, obviously missing my point as she flops on the sofa. “Totally yucky.”

I close my eyes, rubbing the bridge of my nose to subdue my tension headache. “Like exercise, then.”

Maintenance, that’s what Dr. Weinberger calls it. I just call it a joke: no matter how often we come, we never seem to make much progress. Honestly? I think maybe he gave up on us after the first six months. He tells me to be patient, but I never have been much good at that game.

Dropping onto the sofa beside her, I grab
Variety
off the coffee table, and slap it nervously against my knee. Andrea opens a copy of
Highlights,
flipping right to the picture puzzle. She traces her fingertip diligently over the page, searching out clandestine candlesticks and slices of bread. Too bad she can’t locate our good doctor. No sign of him yet, which means we’re left to our own anxious devices; perhaps time alone together in purgatory is part of Weinberger’s grand plan.

“I don’t like it here,” Andrea complains, not looking up from the magazine.

Trying to be the adult, I ask, “Why not?”

Through auburn lashes she pins me with an I-can’t-believe-you’re-such-a-dork gaze.

“Maybe he’ll have more of those rings,” I suggest, resorting to blatant bribery. “You know, those sparkly ones you like so much.”

She sighs, rolling her eyes intolerantly. “Michael, those are baby rings.”

“You didn’t think so last fall.” When we first started coming here, she collected them weekly, tucking them into her jewelry box like captured treasure.

“I’m a lot older now, Michael.”

“Well, then maybe I’ll buy you an ice cream after.”

“We’re going to the Dodgers game after.
Remember
?”

“Of course I remember,” I snap irritably, even though for a moment I did forget that I have something approximating a date later tonight. “I’ll buy you an ice cream there,
okay? At Dodger Stadium.”

She smiles, the brilliant sun unexpectedly brightening the dark sea of our moment together. “Hey! Maybe Rebecca will take me to get it!”

And there it is again, when I least expect it. Rebecca O’Neill, the Rosetta Stone to my daughter’s troubled hieroglyphs.

***

“School’s out in a few weeks, right?” Dr. Weinberger asks.

He looks to Andrea, but she just stares into her lap, toying with the zipper of her Barbie backpack, making it clear that I’d better answer. “Yes, that’s correct. End of the month.”

“Any great plans this summer, Andrea?” Weinberger rubs his fingers over his salt-and-pepper goatee.

Andrea answers with more lap staring, then gives an indifferent shrug.

I answer for her again. “Thinking of a road trip.” I cut my eyes sideways to gauge my daughter’s reaction. “Back East. Maybe.”

“Excellent,” Weinberger says, nodding. “To see your father?”

“He’s ministering at a church in Texas,” I say, avoiding eye contact. “Thought I might take Andrea to see him. So he can meet her.”

“And what does your father say about this plan?” he asks.

“Haven’t laid it on ole George just yet.” Weinberger smiles in understanding because he knows that my father and I are permanently on the outs.

Andrea surprises me by speaking up. “He won’t like me ’cause he didn’t like Daddy.”

“He’ll love you.”

“But he never liked Daddy,” she argues. “And everybody liked Daddy.”

“Andie, sweetheart, that’s a different story, okay? A whole other situation. He just didn’t understand Daddy.”

“Why not?”

My stomach clenches, my whole body flexing with coiled fury.
Because he’s a cold-hearted, judgmental bastard who wouldn’t know goodness if it jumped up and bit him on the ass?
Fortunately, I manage to keep quiet and count silently to ten.

Still, I’m not sure how to answer her question; after all, Andrea knows little of my father, little of how his emotional distance mapped out my youth and defined it. Finally, I settle on this: “Some people in this world don’t understand love, sweetie. Not like we do in our family, okay?”

“I think what your father is saying, Andrea,” our counselor clarifies, “is that sometimes there are issues for gay couples.”

“But Michael might not always be gay,” she pipes up, helping. “He told me so. So maybe now his daddy will be okay with me.” Her innocent hopefulness as she glances back and forth between us makes my heart twist inside me.

“I don’t think it’s quite that simple,” I explain with a cough, ignoring the curious expression on my psychiatrist’s face. “But I know he’ll love
you
. I do know that.”

“But how do you know?”

“Because I do.” Because you’re pure and precious and I won’t let him hurt you, not like he did me.

“That’s not a real answer,” she counters with all the saucy muster of an eight-year-old.

“He’ll be meeting his granddaughter,” I explain gently. “And think of how much Grandma Richardson loves you.”

She presses her stubby fingers into her eyes, closing them, and I wonder what I’ve said to bring out her avoidance maneuver. The Eyeball Gouge is something that we see here frequently at sessions; whenever she gets uncomfortable or upset she blocks us out this way.

“Andrea, is that hard for you?” Dr. Weinberger asks, tapping his pencil against his notepad. “Talking about your grandparents?”

She sucks in a quiet breath, dropping her hands so that she stares right at him. “Michael’s father isn’t really my grandfather. That’s all.”

“Families are defined in lots of ways, Andrea. You come from an unconventional one, but I’m reminded of something that Michael said during one of your very first sessions here. ‘Family,’ he told me, ‘is wherever we find it.’”

The words are a battle cry, summoning some lost spirit in me, the urge to fight for my family. That’s the only possible explanation for me blurting, “Why don’t you call me Daddy anymore?”

The minute the words are out, I know I’ve pushed too hard. I’d know it even if our doctor weren’t piercing me with his steely gaze; even if I didn’t see the way my daughter’s face flushes with angry blotches that always betray her emotions.

“Michael, Andrea may not be ready to answer that question yet.”

“Can we be done now?” She snaps to her feet so fast that the pink backpack clatters to the floor noisily.

“Your session isn’t over, Andrea,” Weinberger admonishes as she drops to her knees, scooping up the spilled Barbie detritus. “There are twenty more minutes left today.”

Over her shoulder, she tosses me an angry blue-eyed look, an accusatory gaze I’ve come to know well over the past year.

“I miss you, baby doll,” I murmur, searching her face. “I miss being Daddy, that’s all.”

“But you’re Michael,” she says firmly. “That’s who you have to be.”

“
Have
to?” I ask, confused, and her pale eyes widen. I think she’s said more than she intended. “I used to be Daddy.”

With an eerie calm, she announces, “I can’t call you that anymore, Michael.” Then, without even pausing, she turns to Dr. Weinberger and announces, “We’re going to the Dodgers game tonight.”

She begins raking Barbie clothing into her bag, focusing all her attention on the task as though nothing has transpired. Clearly our moment has passed, and there will be no further connection. My throat goes tight as she chatters with forced cheeriness about going to the game, about the Dodgers lineup, and whether we have any hope of making the playoffs this season. Like me, she’s a true-blue fan of the Boys of Summer. At least I’ve passed on one crucial trait. Still, that doesn’t make my heart ache any less. In fact, it aches all the more for having come so painfully close to getting some answers out of her, only to fail yet again.

“And I get to have ice cream with Michael’s new girlfriend,” she adds conclusively, zipping up her backpack.

I’m betting she tossed that one in just to screw with me. Yeah, one look from our doctor, and I know I’ll hear about
that
comment during my individual session at the end of the week.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” I grumble, wishing like hell that this headache would subside. “Rebecca’s a friend.”

“But you said you like her.” She settles neatly on the sofa again, hands folded in her lap.

“Right now she’s still just a friend.”

My psychiatrist scribbles something on his notepad. Maybe his
gay
patient taking up with a woman might not be memorable enough otherwise, but somehow I doubt that. Judging by the expression on his face, I’m guessing he finds this turn of events pretty damn notable.

But I don’t even care, because there’s only one burning issue in my mind, something that’s been eating at me for a year now—ever since Andie left the hospital.

It was just two days after the accident, and we were heading to Santa Cruz to bury Alex. As I wheeled her out to Marti’s car, parked along the curb at patient checkout, she looked up at me and asked for a Coke. I remember noticing that her skin looked translucent, she was still so pale. A single blue vein on her temple stood out, and for a moment, standing there in the blinding late May sun, I thought it was a bruise, and lifted a finger to brush a coppery strand out of the way.

That’s the first time she ever called me Michael.

“Can I please have a Coke, Michael?” she asked dully.

“Of course. I’ll go back in and get you one,” I promised numbly, leaning low to kiss her cheek, but she turned away from me, so that my lips grazed her braid instead. I knew that she’d turned away on purpose, and I could deal with that. But nothing had prepared me—nothing possibly could have—for my sudden demotion from Daddy to virtual stranger. To a man I’d never known in relation to my child: a man named Michael.

Standing helplessly beside the car door, a thin rivulet of sweat rolled down beneath my shirt collar, and although I itched to blot it away, I didn’t. Instead, I thought of Katie Hathaway, a girl I loved in high school; the only girl I think I ever truly loved. When she dumped me after Basic Training, she left me standing in a Greyhound bus station in Columbia, South Carolina, my whole body nervous and damp beneath my crisp, impressive uniform that I’d thought she would like so much. Katie took a bus for seven hours just to tell me goodbye, then got on the very next one back to Virginia.

Andrea never spoke again that whole day, not all the way home from the hospital, not on the drive to Santa Cruz, where we were heading to bury Alex. She just stared out the window beside me, silent. I kept cursing myself for feeling so helpless—and swearing that she’d only made a slip, calling me by my first name that way. If I’d had any idea then that I would spend the next year aching to hear her call me Daddy again, I think it would have broken what little was left of my heart.

“Michael, any last questions?” our therapist asks, and I get the idea that this isn’t the first time he’s asked me that. Must’ve drifted so deep into my head that I missed it the first time.

Just one question, but I won’t voice it out loud, not now. So I shake my head, and he rises from his desk, reminding me of my Friday appointment.

Yeah, I have a burning issue all right, Dr. Weinberger. I wish someone would tell me why it is, with Allie gone and the father count reduced by one, that I can’t be Daddy to my little girl anymore.