Chapter Twenty-Seven

Jameson

“Here, drink this,” Walker says, shoving another tiny bottle of vodka at me.

I take it and tip it back, swallowing it in a single gulp before passing the empty bottle back to her and grabbing a second from her backpack. That, too, is gone in a flash.

“Okay. Much better,” I murmur, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

“James, are you sure you don’t want to just take Jax and go home?” Henny asks for the fifth time.

I shake my head stubbornly. “Nope. I am not going to miss Bailey in the parade. Jackson is fine—I just needed a little something to take the edge off. But I’m good now,” I assure her.

Jackson is, in fact, better than fine. He’s on the little airplane ride, rising and falling in five-foot increments, sandwiched between Bryan and Scott. I can hear his squeals of delight every time their blue aircraft circles past the bench where we’re sitting.

“I can’t believe he’d be with that trashy Maddie,” Henny says. “What’s Win thinking? She’s like twelve years younger than he is.”

Walker isn’t so composed as the topic of Win and Maddie comes up. She clamps her lips together into a hard, straight line, and her eyes grow frighteningly stormy before they appear to narrow in murderous contemplation. “Mother. Trucker,” she mutters in a deadly tone.

“Okay, okay, can we just take a breather here on the whole Win/Maddie/double homicide scenario, please? I need to get calmer, not more worked up.”

Henny’s face lights up. “Oh! Oh, I know exactly what you need! Come on,” she coaxes, jumping up off the bench and pulling me to my feet. “Come, come, come!”

“What? Where are we going?” I protest. “I don’t want to leave Jackson again…”

“Not to worry,” Henny assures me, typing a text even as she leads us away from the kiddy rides and down another row of attractions. “I’m texting Bryan. He and Scott will take Jax to the teacups next. We’ll be done before they are.”

“Done with what?” Walker asks, joining me in trying to keep up with our oldest sister.

“You’ll see!” she calls back over her shoulder as we follow her past the funhouse, around the Matterhorn, and through the airbrush T-shirt stands. “Here!” she declares at last as we stand outside of a huge, gauzy tent.

The butterfly house.

…

Before she died, our mother was a great believer in signs and omens. She’d pick up pennies off the sidewalk (pennies from heaven), take note of any feather she came across (evidence of the angels around us), and point to each and every cardinal (a sign of love from beyond the grave). But, by far, her favorite and—according to her—the most powerful portent of spiritual intervention was the butterfly.

In her mind, every gossamer-winged creature from a simple moth to the brilliant monarch butterfly was a symbol of hope, faith, and transformation of the soul.

“Someday, a long, long time from now,” she’d say when we helped her plant the summer annuals in the front yard, “you girls will be on your own. But you’ll never be alone. You’ll always have one another…and when you really, really need me, just look for the butterflies.”

We didn’t get it then, just dismissed it as our mother getting all sappy and emotional. We’d chuckle and roll our eyes. But then, not too long after that summer, she was gone, leaving the four of us with our father. In the years since she—and, subsequently, he—died, we’ve amassed a huge jar of “pennies from heaven,” regularly gift one another with cardinal-themed gifts, and keep an eye out for the odd feather, floating down from the clouds.

Right now, I’m standing in this tent-turned-oasis, complete with a gurgling fountain, soft lighting and soothing music. As I look up, I see them everywhere—butterflies of all shapes and sizes, hundreds of them—fluttering and flitting and sitting on the netting that tops the tent. I exhale on a sigh and feel, with blessed relief, the exodus of my anger and fear and stress and pain. When I inhale again, I’m filled with a calm that I’ve not felt in months…maybe years.

My sisters are somewhere, exploring and having their own unique experience as I hover close to a quiet, empty corner. I close my eyes and extend both arms out, palms toward the sky, and I wait. It doesn’t take long. Within a minute, I feel a tickle on my left forearm. When I open my eyes again, there’s a stunning creature in black and yellow. I gasp and then freeze, not wanting to scare it away. I’m still staring at it, transfixed, when another one lands on my right palm. This one is orange and white and black. No sooner have I noted that one, then another, and another and another have all alighted upon my arms, my fingers, my shoulders, my hair.

They simply rest there, opening and closing their rainbow wings occasionally, scooting a millimeter this way or that—one pushing off every now and then to deliver its message to someone else. I breathe…in…and out. In…and out. I close my eyes and feel the tears slip down my cheeks, a salty zing on my lips as they pass by, unchecked, as I remain rooted in this position.

“Oh…Oh, sweet Jesus,” I hear Henny say from somewhere close by. “Walker…look! Look at Jameson!”

“What the…” Walker responds in muted awe.

In…and out. In…and out. I smile through the tears and allow the butterfly wings to brush it all away.

“Thank you, Mama,” I whisper so only she can hear. “Thank you.”