Jack Kerouac is Dead to Me - Gae Polisner Page 0,46

acts like everything is fine, like she’s better. I’ve seen it before. It’s a trap—this mother who seems present, who asks questions. This mom who seems halfway normal. This version of her is way more dangerous.

“JL?”

“Glasswings,” I answer. I stand up, to gain some distance. “Those clear ones are the Glasswings, and the grayish-white ones are Painted Jezebels.” I sit on my bed and open my history book. Anything not to let my heart believe what she’s saying. “There were four of those to start, but one died earlier. I flushed it down the toilet.”

I’m being purposefully harsh and callous. That’s not what I did. I carried it out to the garden.

On the end of my bed is the small stack of envelopes she walked in with. A reminder of what she is, and is not: her endless letters to a dead man.

I gather them up and bury them at the bottom of my wastebasket.

“The Glasswings are from Central America. Nana picked them,” I say, only to distract her from what I’ve done. “They feed on nightshade plants, then store the toxins, so prey can’t eat them.”

“They’re so beautiful,” she says. “So fragile. I’m amazed you know how to take care of them.” I let my eyes go to her as she pushes up from the floor, and moves toward me, reaching her arms out. I let her do it, embrace me. I can’t help it. This day has been long and exhausting. I don’t have the energy to ignore her. “My precious, precious girl,” she whispers into my hair, “you’re growing up so fast. If I’m not careful, I’m going to miss it all.”

I tense against her chest, even as I feel my resolve melting. Her soapy smell winning me over. The sweet, slippery promise of her love.

“We should do this more,” she says, stroking my hair. “Spend time together, take advantage of it being just us girls.”

“I’d like that,” I whisper.

“Your father will be home soon.”

I push away and look at her funny. Has she spoken to him? I thought it was early September now. Four more months, he had said. But I’m guessing it’s only her wishful thinking. Her believing what she wants to believe.

“I’m trying,” she says. “You know that. I know I’ve been depressed. But I’m feeling much better. Dr. Marsdan says it’s a matter of finding the right combination of things.”

“I know.” The cloud of hope fills my chest once more. “We can let them out if you want,” I say, nodding to the habitat.

She claps her hands together, and sits on the floor again, and I walk over and pull the mesh flap aside and relocate an orange slice from a perch to the outside top of the habitat. Almost immediately, a few butterflies emerge.

“That’s a Jezebel,” I say, pointing. “They fly higher than the Glasswings. Closer to the ceiling. It’s instinctual, because their food sources are high up in the trees.” My mother’s eyes follow, big with childlike wonder.

I tap on the mesh where the Jezebel whose wing I repaired stays safely inside. “And this one, here,” I say, showing her, “she had a broken wing, and I fixed it.”

“No kidding?”

“Made a splint out of cardboard. I watched a video,” I explain.

“Well, that is completely remarkable,” my mother says.

I kneel next to her, and she turns and tucks a strand of hair off my face. “Do you know how truly special you are? You are so much more than I will ever be, Jean Louise. Beautiful and special.”

“I am not,” I say. “All my friends always say how pretty you are. That you look like a movie star. They think you’re my sister. Max can’t take his eyes off of you.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t say that,” she says.

“It’s true.”

“Jean Louise, please, that’s terrible…”

Anger rises in my throat. Is she serious? Does she think me saying it aloud is the problem? Maybe if she wouldn’t walk around half-naked.

“Come here. Please. Let’s don’t.” She pats her lap, and I give in, sitting against her, like I would when I was little. I rest my head back and look up at her. We’re both messes, aren’t we? She wraps her arms around me, as the butterflies circle above.

I close my eyes, and think of how it would be to fall asleep like this, listening to her breath, to her heartbeat, to her voice sharing hushed promises—promises I know, even at not-yet-sixteen, she can’t keep.

EARLY JUNE

TENTH GRADE

I slide my tray along the metal rail staring