Fireflies and Butterflies

By E.M. Waithaka

Vince Mann is dealing with a lot: the death of his father, and then his fiancée not so long after. Eventually, his world begins to mend again in the arms of a starry-eyed production executive named Allegra Gills, her own wounds healed from his guiding hand and belly laugh. But then Vince gets a call.

His fiancée is still alive.

Eve Johnson flutters her eyes in the burn of a soft light after many months in a coma, in a land far away. But as she stares at the curved wedge of the nose of her former lover who made the journey there, she's faced with a crushing reality: she cannot remember him. Allegra's past comes to haunt her. Vince must make a choice. Everything about his past, has to do with his future.

Even his father.          

• Language: English
• Publisher: E.M. Waithaka
• Release date: Jan 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9781540413215

Book preview

Prologue

The leaves rustled and sprinkled streams of light on my face, like a storm of photons where I was lying. I opened my eyes and looked up at the spade-shaped petals hanging from the branches of the impenetrable trees that shielded both our bodies from the sun tearing behind the overcast. The grass was dry, but the earth was still moist from the rain the night before.

Dad? I said.

The word floated away with the breeze, together with the carelessness of the moment.

My father said nothing.

Dad? I called out to him again, our scalps barely touching each other. Two bodies—one short, the other long—like two hands on a clock at twenty-five minutes to noon.

Yes, he mumbled finally, feeling too lazy to flutter his tongue.

I took my time.

Tell me about Mom? I said, preening.

He opened his eyes, my question registering like a check mark on the cross-examination of what to expect in this life. It was a question that had been built on other questions in the last hour of that afternoon. I had just turned fifteen two weeks before, and together with the two inches I had grown since then, my curiosity about everything had heightened into an interest in relationships between men and women.

What about her?

Anything, I said, with a smile and a sigh that was a smug suggestion of what kind of answer I was expecting. What did you like about her?

He took his time, the question requiring a pragmatic answer. An answer that would be used by his son as a lens to view the kind of woman he would end up with many years from now.

A view of the world.

She had thick ankles, he said.

I watched a leaf spiral in its descent from high up the tree, his words spiraling with it. I turned and flipped on my side, resting my temple on my arm like a V, smelling the grass and the dampness hanging over.

That’s it?

I watched him close his eyes and soften his expression.

Yeah, he said.

A filibuster.

Intentionally or unintentionally, he had elucidated everything with a watered-down She had thick ankles.

The question had circled in my mind, assigning it to a higher level of priority than all other questions that afternoon, remembering how he whispered into my mom’s ear and cradled her hand on tranquil evenings.

The silence endured again, letting my eyes wander around the park. Patches formed under the trees, of couples and families picnicking on a Sunday afternoon. The contents from their picnic baskets littered beside them, and the blankets they sat on formed an image in my mind: an image of magic carpets ascending above the grass, transporting them to wherever they pleased. Two years had passed since my father had moved away, and our time together had been reduced to summers in the park and train rides to Van Nuys.

They were the most beautiful ankles I had ever seen, he said, the words dribbling off his palate like a broadcast, racing to catch up with his thought process and translating into something profound.

He opened one eye, and I eyeballed him back, mesmerized by the description he had just offered of my mother.

Everything about her was perfect, he continued. Perfect to me.

At that moment with my dad, beneath it all, under the sun and above everything, all the memories of my childhood were conjured up vividly from the one word he had used to describe my mother.

Perfect.

But as soon as it settled in my mind, a thought formed that wedged a crack into that word. A thought that found its way to that perfect place, in the company of my favorite person in the world.

Then why did you leave?

1

Vince

Something to drink, sir?

The voice faded into my reverie. A waiter was standing over me with a cloth napkin slung over his shoulder.

No, thanks, I said.

He gave a mechanical smile and left, picking remnants on the next table, a vaudevillian act of juggling the tower of dishes on one hand while picking the rest with the other.

A column of concentration magnified into the sphere of my present location, seated for more than twenty minutes on one of the tables at the restaurant. I was anxious of her arrival, as I mildly creased my sleeve and glanced at the minute hand one more time out of habit. The restaurant bumbled, and candles flickered, with the stretch of my patience plugging on my clammy palms.

Eve had done this many times. Made me wait there at Arrivederci. It was our small oyster on the shore of our magnetic compass, and our knees touched when we sat opposite each other. I unconsciously bobbed my head to the smooth jazz playing in the background, melding with the symphony, the cymbals clanging out my anxiety. I unhinged and stuck a hand into the inseam of my coat just to make sure, feeling confident and committed to it—and as if I had premonition of her appearing there, I looked up, and she came into my view, right in front of the restaurant, right on the street. I didn’t have to signal at her, knowing her trajectory would lead her to our favorite spot where I sat. My eyes drank her up, and the taste of her skin from the night before settled pleasantly on the tip of my tongue. The dress under her coat adorned beautifully on her, and I thought about the time I felt liberated by her company, at the Mayor’s pool party on the rooftop of the Grand Hyatt that precious summer. She stood out in her black sequin dress that showed a lot of leg, and the water glowed off her skin.

She was wearing the same kind of dress.

Babe...hey, I said, rising from my seat, kissing her cheek.

Hey, she mumbled, casting her gaze away, hastily removing her trench coat and depositing herself despondently on the seat.

I hesitated and slotted back, watching her eyebrows collapse.

What’s wrong?

Nothing, she replied, branding a fake smile, nervously rubbing her triceps.

Liar.

It’s nothing, she continued, reaching for my hand from across the table. She held on to it and looked at both our hands together and then shifted her gaze, smiling again, trying to guise her gloom. Couldn’t wait to see you.

Eve...please.

Her face fused into an alloyed expression of discontent, her hazel-green eyes burning out her mood, and she relented.

It’s Mom.

I let out a muffled grunt and hung my head.

Not again.

What now?

She sighed and began to complain in a voice that was labored and lethargic, her hands shrinking away from mine. She explained about how they got into it over the phone on the way there. How her mom gave her a hard time about the trip that would see her gone to the middle of God knows where for the next three months. Their complicated relationship made their conversations difficult and strained, as she did an imitation of her mom’s voice, in a falsetto tone, saying how it was not safe over there, hooking her fingers. She griped and cringed at the end of that statement, racking her left hand through her dirty blond hair, her irritation inching two notches higher toward anger management.

I began to scold her mom in my mind for putting a damper on our date. Began to scold her because this was not the first time she was leaving me to my unimaginative wit and hopeless charm to pull the intoxicating beauty sitting in front of me, out of her funk.

She’s just being a mom, you know, I said.

She returned her hands to the table, finding mine again—my hands an extension of hers and hers of mine.

Enough about nothing...tell me something, she said, an outline of her smile softening her features. Something nice, she said as she propped herself on both elbows on the table and clamped on one of my thumbs with a look expecting me to pour heaven on her lap.

Close your eyes, I said, surprised at myself for saying what I said, not really sure why I said it. She gazed at me and deliberated.

Promise not to kiss you.

She laughed.

I wouldn’t mind, she said as she closed her eyes and pouted her lips for the welcome.

I hadn’t planned on kissing her, but the bow of her upper lip tugged at the desire to consider docking mine there. I fought the temptation and, instead, loosed my hands from hers, leaving them there, her arms naked the full length from her shoulders, her skin sending a rise within me. I gave it some time and ran my middle fingers along her arms, starting from her shoulders, both at the same time barely touching her skin, slowly, for the desired effect. It tingled as I went lower, stopping on her wrists.

I leaned back and waited. She called out to me to see if I was still there, her sight taken from her, her other senses suitably heightened. She raised her nose to smell the reek of pesto lingering and turned her head when the waitress brushed by, resting both palms on the table, waiting expectantly for anything.

Vince...

Still here...not yet, I cautioned, unfolding a napkin from under the crystal, and I started scribbling on it with a pen. She chuckled, wondering what I would be doing behind her eyelids.

This is torture, she complained, smiling. Her shoulders had loosened up, and the cloud above us quietly abated.

Mission accomplished.

Okay, fine. You can open.

She opened her eyes to find me holding the napkin up against my chest in her direct line of sight, with a sketchy heart drawn out and the words You have me etched out jaggedly in the middle of it.

Just in case you had any doubts when you’re gone, I captioned, handing the napkin over to her for scrutiny. She studied it for a while and then lifted her eyes.

You...spoil me, you know.

I gave her a look as the waiter came by, prompting us with his pen and pad in hand to make our orders. Eve decanted on her favorite entrée as a number on the menu list without looking at the menu, while I glossed over mine and ordered a penne-pasta dish with spicy tomato sauce. She leaned back and yanked playfully at the pendant hanging from her necklace.

Catalina.

The necklace was the icing on the cake after a six-day getaway cruise to Catalina. We dined at El Galleon and sunbathed in a balmy heat from the sun, spending lavish days in bed and our bodies combusted like sybaritic beings on pleasure island. She had teased me about it. About the gift and the trip, wondering if it was a habit I had formed of impressing and reeling women in like all my other girlfriends in the past. But it was more than that, with the trip cementing an intuition about her. An intuition I hadn’t felt with anyone else, her company filing up on the bucket list of all the other places I wanted to go in this life.

Did you go? she asked.

I continued staring at her and then unhinged.

Yes...

And?

My fingers dribbled on the table like a drum roll for the moment as I thought about the pair of bowling shoes and the other contents I found in the safety-deposit box.

I got this, I said, sticking my hand back in my coat, emerging with an envelope and placing it out in front of me. It was still sealed and had my name spelled out as Vinnie in the middle. She reached for it, studying the texture and weight, flipping it on both sides before returning it to where I had placed it. We both lulled.

Aren’t you going to open it?

I shrugged, returning it back to my coat pocket. Not today.

I was hesitant about making the trip to the bank, with the one-month anniversary since my dad’s passing coming up in a few days. I became anxious when I looked at those contents in the safety-deposit box, all those memories of me and him bursting forth like a floodgate. I didn’t want to know what he had written in that letter. At least not for now.

You look nice, she said, deflecting. What’s the occasion?

This, I replied, with a cheeky grin, twirling my finger to indicate our oyster.

She dug at me.

You’re wearing a tie.

Crap.

So?

You never wear a tie.

I fumbled.

Um.

Not true...I do, sometimes, I cluttered.

She leaned over. Actually...never, she said, the green ocean of her eyes narrowing into a slit.

Just wanted to impress, I said, in my assured voice.

She studied me long enough to see if I could give away clues, the real reason for putting on a suit and a blue-stripped noose that wasn’t my usual ensemble. She calmly grabbed me by the tie and kissed my lower lip, tugging on it as she pulled back. I welcomed the surprise and simmered into it. Into the whole kissing moment, reaching out to her once more because I didn’t want it to end.

Na-ah, she said, waving me back with her finger. You had your chance.

The punishment. It was that kind of behavior that had me fumbling toward ecstasy. The kind of behavior that kept a man interested and conditioned by a woman’s flirting, pining and left bare like an overripe fruit.

The food arrived, my nostrils sedating from the stink as she perked up ready to devour the linguine pasta with clams, mussels, and shrimp in white sauce. We ordered a bottle of wine and laughed heartily over the Pinot Noir and talked about work. The main intention of the night circled in my mind, filling into a pocket of intermission in our conversation, as she playfully waved her fork in her hand, her attention drifting to the hoopla of a large party at the table next to us.

I have something to show you.

Ha! Knew there was something, she tweeted, pointing her fork.

I grinned, watching her poke the last of her shrimp as she nibbled and then dabbed her lips with the napkin. She dropped the fork that gave a clang against her plate, turning her attention to me, as she took a sip, bringing the glass out to her side. I reached back into my coat and pulled out a small neatly folded piece of paper as my heart began to race, sliding it over to her. She unfolded it, scrutinized, and drew a blank.

Should I know what this is?

Take your time, I said, trying to knead mildly on her memory. She stared at it for a while.

Nothing.

Take...your...time, I severed, pacing those three words slowly for effect. She studied it again, and sure enough it didn’t take long.

No way! she said, her face lighting up.

Yes way, I said. Oh yes.

It was a clipped advertisement of a family home, neatly cut out from the San Diego Union-Tribune, with a sign across it reading Sold. It was in the suburbs of Encinitas, one of her favorite beach communities of San Diego County. She had dragged me out on one of those hot Sunday afternoons, a time when we both were doing nothing and wanted to pass time. Well, at least I wanted to pass time and lie on the couch watching basketball, while she wanted to be up and about doing something, anything that didn’t involve a La-Z-boy. We ended up in that location, driving by an elegant home with a For Sale sign perched on the front lawn. It was right at the end of a cul-de-sac. The house was sitting pretty there and calling for an owner. It was a stunning four-bedroom house. She took one look at the house and spoke vividly about living out her dreams in it. I imagined my tools in the garage, while the unkempt lawn needed a bit of work. She twirled in the middle of the hardwood floor in the upstairs bedroom with paneled walls and a high ceiling in her yellow sundress. Streaks of the afternoon sun glazed through into the empty room with floor-to-ceiling windowpanes—the view of the Pacific waters and the greater Encinitas collecting on a scintillating horizon just yonder. She talked, spoke a lot about wanting to decorate, imagining curtains and changing the color of the walls to a beige hue mixed with a tint of orange. It was all wishful thinking, and I seemed disinterested but subtly took it all in, thinking how she would feel. About how it would make her happy living in that house.

You got it, she said, saying it more like a statement than a question.

I thought about it...thought it would be good...for us...our future.

She paused as her cheeks flushed, discerning the impending missile about to make contact with the moment. My heart gave three consecutive hard thumps through my chest and one into my mouth as my right knee buckled, bended, and kissed the ground, more aware of the moment that had arrived than all my other senses. She gasped, looking down at me, while I managed to fish it out from my other pocket in one uninterrupted hand glide and waved it above my other knee.

Eve, I hummed, opening the small velvet box in my hand, and the half-carat diamond sparkled. Marry me? I said, saying it more like a question than a statement.

She had both her palms covered over her mouth, while the whispers and quiet laughter faded as the focus of the room quietly shifted to our table.

She trembled and looked into the box and then beamed into my eyes.

The intensity in her eyes.

This woman.

She uncovered. Yes, of course, silly...yes!

I slipped it into her ring finger with some resistance but pushed it through. Her eyelids welled up as she glared at it, and it endeared to me, our eyes locking, and we kissed, her hand holding the side of my cheek. A quiet sea returned to my chest, drowning out everything around me.

Thank you, she said, coming from it, her hand still on my cheek. It felt warm as I removed it from there, stood up, and sat back down, still holding her hand.

I said nothing.

I didn’t have to say anything...because I had everything.

––––––––

Little over an hour had gone by as we both emerged from a cab and onto a busy corner on Fifth and E, choosing to walk rather than slog it through traffic that was at a standstill. Eve had parked her car two blocks down along Fifth Avenue and then taken a cab all the way to the Hillcrest area where we met for our rendezvous earlier that evening. The night was alive around the Gaslamp Quarter, as bars bumbled and nightclubs bellowed, with lines of revelers goading themselves in premeditated decadence, roping around busy streets.

Well, let’s make this our last walk, she said. At least for a long time to come, that is. Have an early flight, remember? she continued, hooking one arm around my waist, and I draped mine over her shoulder.

I thought we were going to finish this off at my place before you leave for like forever, I protested, voicing my dissent. I was just getting warmed up.

I know, honey, but...yesterday, she said, raising an eyebrow, reminding me of the night before when we made love and tumbled into passionate millennia.

Ah, yesterday.

Tempted to pursue it, I looked down at her and remembered how she hated airport good-byes. The thought of also having to be crow-bared from her body in the wee hours of the morning ate at me. I let it go, having accomplished the main mission for the night, with my new title enlisted suitably on her finger. She surmised on the trip to the airport using a cab, delightfully gazing at the gem that glimmered against the streetlights.

Can’t wait to tell Liz, she said, making a note of how she deliberately left her mom out of it.

I bet you can’t.

My husband-to-be, she crooned, smiling fondly at me as she ran her fingers on the side of my chin. I deflected the motion of her hand halfway through and brought it to my lips and kissed her fingers, feeling them warm. The thought of having to let her go weighed on my mind.

Letting her go then.

I also pondered about the trip, the journey to an exotic location in Central Kenya, where she would conduct her research for the next couple of months. Her excitement about it had been building up, and her dream was finally coming true. That naïve glint in her eyes to explore and experience the beauty of Africa ever since she was a small girl. And now, working as a biologist to conduct her research, she was going to be immersed into it. Into the very heart of the continent. The dry earth that was home to the mix of a complex and beautiful people.

I tugged her hand as we crossed the street, guiding her toward where she had parked. She came up to my side and circled both arms around my waist, leaning into me, the smell of seafood as we passed outside a restaurant gliding balmy under my nose. We got to her car, and she slithered into the driver’s seat and powered her windows down.

Call me when you get home, I said, leaning in, my eyes at par with hers, staring at her while she looked away. She gave the starter a