When the doorbell rang that first afternoon after Helen went away, Thomas didn’t even have time to get up from his chair in the kitchen where he was working on his homework to answer it. His father rushed by so fast, he almost knocked into Thomas.
“Stay here,” his father said, closing the kitchen door behind him.
The way he rushed made the butterfly chrysalises rattle in Thomas’s stomach. They felt heavy and solid and Thomas did not want to make any sudden movements, so he stood up slowly and opened the door just a crack to listen.
“Mr. Moran? I’m Officer Celia Grant from the Ottawa County Police Department. Detective Freeman sent me. We found your car, sir. It was at the airport.”
“I knew it! Thank God. Now all we have to do is figure out what flight she took.”
“May I come in?”
His father stepped aside, and once Officer Grant was in the foyer, she said, “It’s not the city airport, but a private airport out by the river.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Hawks’ Run caters to small private planes. It has one airstrip.”
“So…you’re saying Helen took a private plane?”
“No. I…I’m sorry, but we still don’t know what your wife did. We got a call from the security officer at the airport about a car abandoned in the parking lot.”
It was a good thing that Officer Grant did not presume. Maybe they trained that out of you at the school for police officers. Thomas had heard that on police shows: “Just the facts, ma’am.”
“He could see that a purse and cell phone were still in the locked car and the license plate didn’t match anyone’s who works at or uses the airport. So he called us.”
“Where did you say this airport was? I’ve never heard of it. Did you say that Helen left her purse in the car? She’s quite forgetful as a rule. I’ll get my coat.”
“I am sorry, sir, but we’re organizing a search of the area and no one is allowed access at the moment. I do need to go over a few details with you.”
“What do you mean ‘no one is allowed’? She’s my wife. We’re talking about our car.”
“I’m sure you understand the delicacy of the matter. We can’t allow people to walk over the ground and potentially disrupt the search. What will be helpful is if you’d go over what happened yesterday. I know you spoke to Detective Freeman this morning, but in light of this new—”
“I already explained what happened.” Mr. Moran spoke slowly, as if he were talking to Thomas, who’d just told him something fantastical.
“Would you mind going over it again? I need to take notes about what everyone was doing.”
“What possible bearing can that have on—”
“Because your wife is now a missing person. Officially. And while it is just a formality, we need to rule out that any family members were involved. Is your wife’s sister here?”
“No. She left to get a change of clothes at her apartment. Do you want me to call her?”
“That’s not necessary, but it would be good if she could stop by the station. I’ll be there until eight tonight.”
Thomas listened as his father recounted yesterday’s events one more time before he stepped out from behind the kitchen door and said, “You need something that smells like her, don’t you? For the dogs.”
“Thomas. I’ll handle this.”
“Is this…this is Thomas?”
Thomas walked slowly toward the officer, careful not to disturb the chrysalises.
“Thomas, I told you to stay in the kitchen.”
“With your permission, Mr. Moran, I need to ask Thomas a question. It might have some bearing on your wife’s whereabouts.”
“I’d rather you asked me. Thomas is…He gets very anx—”
“How about if I ask you both?”
Mr. Moran turned to look at Thomas. Without saying anything, he was asking Thomas if that was okay, if he would be okay. Thomas nodded. He couldn’t look the officer in the eye, but settled instead on a bright twist of fabric poking out of her jacket pocket. She must have followed his gaze, because she pulled it out and offered it to him, cradling it in the palm of her hand.
“My daughter gave me this,” she said as Thomas picked it up to examine it more closely. “Lily’s too young to understand it’s not the sort of thing a police officer can wear.”
It was, in fact, a butterfly. A tiny blue butterfly whose wings were clipped into the metal prongs of a bobby pin. The sort of pin that Helen used to put up her hair.
“It reminds me of a Karner blue, Thomas. Do you know that one?”
Thomas nodded. He knew it very well. “They are endangered,” he said, handing the butterfly back to Officer Grant.
Putting his arm around his son, Mr. Moran pulled Thomas toward him. There was no point in telling his father about the chrysalises; but since Thomas was their sole protector, he had to pull away and stand up straight.
Officer Grant reached into her jacket pocket again and she pulled out a plastic bag. It was the kind Thomas’s family put their leftover bread in.
“This was on the front seat as well.” She held up the bag. Inside was the Revolutionnaire DVD that Helen and Thomas liked to watch. Before. Written on an orange piece of notepaper torn from the pad on their refrigerator were the words “For Thomas.”
“Thomas?” His father took the bag. “Do you know what this means? It appears to be your mother’s cooking DVD, the one that goes with that food processor.”
“We watched it together. You can learn a lot about cooking even if you don’t own…” Thomas trailed off.
Mr. Moran returned the DVD to Officer Grant and said, “Thomas, please go back to the kitchen.”
Thomas did as he was told, scraping the chair as he sat down. Then he picked up his pencil and bent his head, pretending to study.
“This is a lot to take in,” his father said.
“I know. I’m very sorry. Given what we know about this location…The airport is near a bridge that spans the river. It’s a train trestle really.” Officer Grant continued talking in a low voice. “I’m very sorry to tell you this. Others have used the bridge—well…they’ve jumped off the bridge.”
There was a silence. Then Thomas heard his father say, “How many others?”
“Three over the past couple of years.”
“Which might lead you to the conclusion—easily a false one—that my wife, given her medical issues…”
“We believe it’s a possibility, Mr. Moran. But at this point it’s just one possibility. Detective Freeman wouldn’t organize a land search and call in the mobile tracking unit if we were certain.”
“Of course not. Forgive me. It’s…she’s my wife. I want to search, too.”
“The best thing at the moment is to let the dogs do their work and not be distracted by new scents. Speaking of scents, Thomas is right. It would be helpful if we had something for the dogs to work with. It’s very difficult for them to pick up scents in the cold. Did your wife have a particular perfume she liked to wear?”
Mr. Moran shook his head.
“Maybe what she wore to sleep, then?”
“Do women wear perfume to sleep?”
“No…I meant pajamas.”
“Oh, of course. I’ll get them.”
“Thank you.”
“So, at this point, you have no solid evidence. I mean, someone could have stolen her car and…”
Thomas froze. Was his father allowing for something he didn’t know to be true?
“At the moment, we don’t think there was foul play involved. Nothing was broken. There was no sign of a struggle. I’m…so sorry. For both you and your son, this is frightening and upsetting…I…I’ve found…” There was a pause in the conversation. “There’s a number on this card,” Officer Grant resumed. “It’s for a support group for families of people with…who suffer from…It might help to know there are others—”
“Thank you, Officer Grant.” There was a silence. Then his father: “I’ll go get a pair of her pajamas.”
Thomas was in his chair at the kitchen table, holding his pencil, when his father came in. He sat across from Thomas where he always sat, looking at a small white card. Then he set it facedown, pulled out his phone, and punched two buttons. Speed dial. Thomas knew he was calling Aunt Sadie.
“Why doesn’t she pick up?” Mr. Moran asked the cupboard over Thomas’s head. Turning his phone to the side, he tapped out a text message.
May Day? S.O.S?
Thomas felt the slightest shift in his stomach. The chrysalises! Then an increase in pressure at the bottom of one, a crack traveling upward.
It was far too early. He and Mrs. Sharp had read that it took up to a month for a caterpillar to become a butterfly once it had spun its chrysalis. While that might be true, Thomas knew what he was feeling.
He stood up, holding the back of his chair. Maybe if he lay down it would help.
“Thomas? Are you okay? Take a deep breath to calm yourself. Please. We’ll get through this.”
“I’m…going to lie down,” he said. And he would have gone to his room, but just as he reached the bottom of the stairs, the doorbell rang again.
Thomas held on to the round ball that was the beginning of the stair rail. Frozen. Forcing himself to breathe.
Mr. Moran strode down the hallway and flung the door open.
Giselle burst in and said, “Thomas! I’m so glad you’re home.”
His father stood with his hand on the door, staring at Giselle.
“Thomas?” she said, peering in at him. “Are you all right?”
Thomas felt behind him for a stair to sit on.
“Thomas can’t play right now, Gretchen.” His father was angry. He was being interrupted when what he needed to do was find Aunt Sadie right away.
“I’m Giselle, not Gretchen. And I haven’t come to play. I have something for Thomas.”
“Oh. Well. Thank you for that.” Mr. Moran took the package that Giselle produced from underneath her arm. “Good-bye.”
“Don’t you want to know what it is, Thomas?”
“No, as a matter of fact. He doesn’t.”
Thomas noted this second journey of his father’s into speculation. It turned out to be true that Thomas had other things on his mind, but his father had no way of knowing that.
Mr. Moran pressed the package into Thomas’s arms. It was big and blocky, wrapped in brown paper, and tied with a string. “Take this upstairs with you, Thomas.”
Thomas held the package across his chest like a shield. Holding his back straight, he stood up and took a step backward. Up the steps. Very slowly. Holding on to each spindle in the stair rail.
“As you can see…Thomas isn’t feeling well. He needs to lie down.”
Giselle studied Thomas; though he knew he should not look away, he couldn’t hold her gaze.
“But—” Even she was no match for Thomas’s father, who was herding her back to the open door.
The door closed and his father said, “You’ll be okay?”
Thomas nodded, counting his breath, taking his time stepping backward up the stairs as his father returned to the kitchen and his cell phone. When Thomas reached his bedroom, he eased himself onto his bed, making sure to lie straight so he didn’t disturb the chrysalises.
These butterflies have terrible timing.