Chapter 20
THE next two weeks dissolved in a fog of loneliness, despair, and Twinkies. I guess I’d developed a taste for them during my misadventures with Donny and Cal that never quite went away. And since they were about the only thing I could stomach nowadays, my mother indulged me. Apparently she figured a Twinkie habit was par for the course when you had a mental case for a daughter.
So even though I’d promised Jessie weeks of chillaxing and vegetating, I’d dodged all of her calls and visits with one lame excuse after another. Because despite the fact that I would eventually have to crack and rejoin the outside world, for just a while longer I needed to mourn the loss of Mick. I wasn’t ready to let him go.
In the meantime, though, when I wasn’t sleeping, or crying, or choking down Twinkies, I was glued to the internet, Googleing such vague topics as first love, broken heart, and loneliness—which, I must say, yielded some interesting results, but unfortunately nothing that could actually help me regain my sanity.
I had just finished a rather fruitless search on the consequences of Twinkie overdose, when a brilliant idea hit me (thank you, God): I could learn about the Monarchs; I could trek down to Mexico; I could be with Mick again—assuming he made the trip too, and we were both there at the same time, and…
A rush of pure joy washed all the details and complications from my mind. Because all I wanted was another chance. Some more time. A proper goodbye. Mick deserved that much, and so did I.
With renewed hope, I banged out the closest spelling of my destination I could manage: MEE-CHO-AH-KAHN. And all I can say is, God bless Google and my sweet, sweet Mick’s perfect pronunciation. Because immediately, I found the correct spelling of Michoacán and a plethora of websites on Monarch butterflies. Bingo.
Now I fully admit, I am not the science-y, nature-y type. But I found this NOVA page about Monarchs and, well, I was hooked—and not just because Mick likes them either. What sucked me in was how these fragile little creatures go to such extraordinary lengths for the chance to mate. Each year, the newly transformed butterflies migrate about two thousand miles from Canada and the United States to the mountains of Mexico, where they spend the winter before they fly back to Texas and reproduce in the spring. And the crazy thing is, nobody really knows how they make the journey. Some scientists say they use the sun, or the mountains, or the earth’s magnetic field, or even their own internal clocks to guide them. Of course, the brainiacs are free to debate the how of the Monarch migration all they want, but what I was interested in was the why. If you asked me, the obvious answer was love. Maybe the Monarchs were driven to create something beautiful together—like another generation of butterflies—before their fleeting lives were stomped out by Mother Nature. And in that creation was love. There had to be.
So by now any rational person would probably agree with my mother that I’d lost my mind. I mean, what sane human being would propose the idea that butterflies endure a perilous, epic journey for love? It’s ludicrous. And maybe it was just the Twinkies talking, but I believed my own nutball theory. I really did. After all, I was considering making an epic journey of my own, so I could relate. And in my case, there wasn’t even a frantic need to reproduce. I could only imagine how desperate I would have been for Mick if my last chance to make a beautiful mark on the world was swiftly slipping away.
It’s kind of weird, really, but thinking about those crazy butterflies put me in a dramatic mood. Suddenly the idea of doing something over the top romantic—of making a grand gesture—exhilarated me. I decided to go for it. I’d meet Mick in Mexico. I’d surprise him. And if I actually made it there on my own, I’d surprise myself too.
Before I lost my nerve, I ditched the NOVA site and pulled up the Greyhound bus schedule. Because if I was going to run away with Mick, I had to start nailing down some details. With a hint of apprehension, I punched Punxsutawney, PA into the departure field and Michoacán, MX into the arrival field and crossed my fingers.
But of course my effort was a spectacular failure. So for a few dimwit moments, I stared at the computer screen like the arrival field might just magically fill itself in with the right information to get me where I wanted to go. When nothing miraculous happened, though, I finally decided to try the only other location in Mexico that was popping into my head: Mexico City. Hey, at least it actually had the word city in its name, which would probably make Greyhound’s website very happy.
Anyway, after another breathless moment, I got my first glimpse of what I’d be in for if I followed through with my quest: two and a half days (give or take) and about twenty-five hundred miles on a total of six busses. And that was just to get to Mexico City. I still had no idea how I’d get from there to Michoacán—and then to Mick.
To say the details were intimidating would be putting it mildly. I mean, I was mortally terrified at even the thought of such a challenging solo journey. But I loved Mick, and I’d do things for him I’d absolutely never do under normal circumstances.
Plowing full speed ahead, I pulled up a map of Mexico on the computer. But just then a loud rap on the front door interrupted me. Shit. I was the only one home, since my parents had finally dared to go back to work and leave me alone. Maybe if I didn’t answer, whoever was outside would just go away and let me continue disintegrating in peace.
Or not.
When the door banged again, I pulled my curtains back, hoping to see a band of religious freaks I could legitly ignore. Instead, though, I caught the profile of the buff FedEx chick as she catapulted back into her truck.
Huh? That was weird. The Mental Hygienist usually only ordered stuff off the internet at Christmastime. And even for her, it was a little early for that.
A mysterious package? Hmm. I threw my rumpled bathrobe over the disheveled mess of an outfit I was wearing and shuffled down the stairs. And I was about five feet from the door when a sick feeling hit me out of nowhere. It was that stupid fortune from the rest area. The damn thing had said something about an unexpected package and bad luck infesting my pathetic soul. Shit. Was there a bomb in there waiting to kill me? Maybe Cal or Donny—or one of their slimy vermin friends—wanted to rub me out, so I couldn’t testify in court.
I opened the door a few inches and peered outside. And sure enough, right on the doorstep was a plain box—hand-addressed to me—with no return address. Great. Now what should I do? Call the bomb squad?
I stuck just my arm outside and snatched the thing one-handed. So far, so good. No kaboom. Then, handling the box like it was a priceless heirloom, I carefully tiptoed to the dining room and sat down at the table.
It was just me and the box, and the box was winning. But as I stared the thing down in search of clues, one small detail stood out: a postmark from Portland, Oregon dated August thirteenth. The problem was, I couldn’t think of anyone from Oregon who would’ve sent me anything, so I was pretty much back to square one.
Unless…
My heart started thumping like crazy. Mick. It had to be Mick. He’d sent me something. A present. As I tugged the tape from the bottom of the box, my irrational bomb fears transformed into an odd mix of dread and excitement.
And all I can say is, it was beautiful. Stunningly beautiful. Mick had given me a treasure box with a gorgeous floral pattern on the lid. I took a deep breath and flipped it open, utterly unprepared for what lay inside.
On a fluffy bed of milkweed sat an exquisite pendant on a delicate silver chain. The jewel was deep orange, patterned with thick black lines that reminded me of Honeycomb cereal, framed by a white polka-dotted border.
I swear, I didn’t mean to, but I let a couple of stray tears escape my eyes at the sight of it. After all, it looked more like a piece of fine art than jewelry for my plain, old ordinary neck.
With my jagged thumbnail, I pulled the clasp back and hooked the ends of the chain together at my collarbone. And I’m pretty sure it was just my imagination running wild, but when I pressed the jewel to my chest, it
felt like it was radiating warmth, like Mick’s love was flowing through it to me. So for maybe a whole minute, I sat there alone in the quiet dining room with my hands clasped over my chest, my eyes closed, and a whisper of a contented smile on my lips, until…
I heard a car in the driveway. And since I couldn’t have my parents—or even Will—finding out Mick had contacted me, I hurriedly grabbed all traces of his gift and fled to my bedroom.
And once my door was safely locked, I plunked down on the floor and spread my treasures out before me. That’s when I noticed something that took my breath away. From under the milkweed, the ragged edge of a piece of notebook paper peeked out. Mick had written me a letter.
Of course, my heart went back to thumping like I’d just run the hundred-yard dash. I wanted nothing more than for that letter to explain how Mick and I were going to be together forever. But I was terrified it was a goodbye. A permanent one. I swear to God, I almost threw the thing in the trash without even reading it to spare myself the pain of Mick letting go of me in his own handwriting, in his own words. But I had to know. I had to know exactly how he felt about me. And I had to hear it from him.
Dear Flora,
I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. I feel terrible about everything that happened with Donny and Cal, and I can’t help thinking you must blame me for getting you mixed up with them in the first place. I hate them for what they did to you. I mean it. Please believe I never would have introduced you to them if I had any idea what they were capable of. You’re too important to me.
With everything that’s happened, I hope you’re doing okay. And I hope your parents don’t hate me too much. Please explain to them that you are the most precious thing in the world to me, and I never would have knowingly put you in harm’s way. I hope they can understand how much I love you.
Do you like the jewelry box? I made it for you as a reminder of the wonderful times we spent together at camp. Did you know there’s a Roman goddess called Flora? I painted the top of the box to match a Botticelli painting of her, but I’m not sure it came out exactly right. I hope you like it anyway.
The butterfly necklace was Penny’s idea, because she felt bad about what Donny did and also because she knows how much I like Monarchs. We collect the wings when they die, and the girls turn them into jewelry. Please think of me when you wear it, and think about Michoacan and our future.
For the next few months, my family is going to stay put in Oregon on my mother’s cousin’s farm, and I’m going to try to get my license. I want so desperately to see you again. As soon as I get my license, I can get a job out here and save up for a car. Then I’ll be able to see you whenever I want. I can’t wait.
Until we can be together, please remember all the good times we had in just those few short days. And imagine how happy we would be if we could have that every day. That’s what I want, Flora. I want us to be together. Just you and me. Forever. You asked me once if I believed in fate, and I don’t think I did before I met you. But now I do. I know we were meant for each other. Please take care of yourself until I can hold you in my arms again. I love you more than words.
Mick
If you’ve never been totally happy and totally sad at the same time, I recommend that you try it. It’s a life-changing experience. That’s how I felt when I read Mick’s letter: bittersweet. Because part of me believed his happily-ever-after version things, while another part of me saw heartbreak and tragedy written on the wall.
I must admit, there’s one big difference between Mick and me: He’s an eternal optimist, while I’m a natural-born buzz-kill. I swear, I could even find something wrong with world peace. I’m that bad. But maybe Mick could change me. Maybe he could teach me how to see things differently. Maybe he was that good.
I closed the jewelry box, rewrapped it, and tucked it under my bed. What had Mick said on my birthday, when I couldn’t see the butterflies? I shut my eyes and tried to recall him leaning over my shoulder, breathing on my neck, whispering in my ear. Pretend you see it, I heard him say. Expect a butterfly. And that was exactly what I intended to do.
ALSO BY MAGGIE BLOOM . . .