Ladybird, Ladybird . . . Page 2

  I shut it, giving it a shake to engage the lock. Hearing the familiar clank, I then held it in one hand, fingering the metallic lock with my other. I gently traced the traditional shape, a circle with a rectangular slit bleeding from the bottom. I forced my hand into the pocket of my stiff jeans and retrieved the key I’d found in the barn. I took a deep breath as my hand shook with anticipation. It always shook. No matter how many keys I’d found, it still filled me with the same childish wonder it had the very first time I’d opened it.

  Slowly, I introduced the brass key to the metallic lock. It slid in perfectly, as though the lock were made solely for this key, just this one time. I twisted the handle, and the box, like magic, suddenly grew heavy with new contents. I reveled in the reality of it and dreamed of the origin of whatever was inside. As always, I decided that the origin was Heaven, where I knew Mother had to be.

  Carefully, I nudged the lid from the base of the box and opened it, revealing other-worldly contents. When I was a child, the box had held toys or sometimes candy. As a young girl, I received makeup and, from time to time, a simple object my mother knew I’d enjoy.

  Tonight, though, it was something different. Tonight her gift meant more. I needed more. A miniature tree had grown right out of the wood of the box. Small, waxy leaves bloomed vibrant green. Each leaf twisted and moved as though on a breeze, a soft rustling accompanying its dance. In the center of it all sat the very same ladybug that had graced me on the combine, spotless, happy, and contentedly watching me as it had before.

  I wondered what it meant and why such a gift had transcended this reality to the next then back again in the box from my mother.

  Since my sixteenth birthday, the previous year, the keys had grown riddled with hidden meaning, making more of the simple gifts I had once received. It was as though my mother were trying to tell me something, to make me think more deeply with each key and each year that passed. She was guiding me somewhere, much as Fate guides everyone, though mine was more noticeable. I was always scared of what her riddles meant, afraid that, one day, I would be faced with a major life change. I didn’t understand what the tree or the ladybug foretold, but I knew it was the harbinger of something greater.

  I looked at the ladybug, wanting so badly to envelope it in my arms, but knowing its size made such a task insurmountable. The bug was a new, perplexing development, its meaning buried in hours of future research. It crawled slowly over the leaves before stopping to brush its head with one leg. Its wings parted momentarily then settled back. I placed the box on my bedside table and crawled under the covers, not bothering to remove my clothes. Turning on my side, I watched the ladybug until sleep overtook me, knowing that, at least for tonight, the ladybug would stay with me.

  TWO

  In the morning I awoke to banging on my door. I sat up with a start.

  “Girl. Get up. Time for school.”

  The door rattled again, my father’s frustration toward his coming day of work made worse by an assured hangover.

  “Coming, Papa,” I replied.

  “Don’t call me that,” he spit.

  I heard his footsteps turn and walk away. He always walked away when I called him Papa. I shut my eyes for a moment before opening them and looking to the bedside table. The box had disappeared, as if in a dream. It wasn’t lost or stolen, just back under the bed where it belonged until another key was found, its contents erased.

  Last night’s key had nearly made me forget about my failed date with David, and as I remembered it now, dread washed over me. As much as I wanted to believe he was different and as impartial to my reputation as he claimed, I knew in my heart he had joined their side, the side of those who hated and feared me.

  I didn’t know why my fury burned as it did, but didn’t everyone’s fury burn in some way? I sighed. Typically, not in such a literal way as mine. The Devil. I was the Devil for sure. But wasn’t that what my mother was often trying to tell me: That I wasn’t the Devil at all? Still, I knew it wasn’t that easy. Heaven surely didn’t seem to have a lot to do with it either.

  I tried to forget about my fire and focus on the riddle. There was more to the spotless ladybug than it appeared. Why was it spotless? Symbolism was always my mother’s favorite way of communicating with me. Rumor had it that it was her favorite way of communicating in her life on Earth as well. She loved puzzles.

  I slid from bed, thinking the stiff jeans I wore to sleep had made my legs more numb than usual. I shook them, gently pounding my thighs with a loose fist. Standing, I stretched my back and made my way to the door. I unlocked it and peeked into the hall. It was empty. I couldn’t hear any swearing from the kitchen. My father had already left for the field.

  I made my way down the hall to the bathroom and quickly stripped down for a cold shower. My father refused to use the water heater, claiming it was a waste of money and that a cold shower was the best way to wake up anyhow. Sometimes, my mother would grant me the luxury of a warm shower from somewhere beyond. She had the ability to do that. But, this morning, the water seemed colder than ever, and I knew it was she who was making it so. Sometimes, she liked to push me. In my mind, I knew she was just trying to be a mother.

  I hastily bathed, barely allowing the conditioner to rinse from my hair before shutting off the water. Shivering, I reached for a towel and found none. I groaned, cursing myself for forgetting to grab one out of the linen closet, assuming there were any clean ones to grab. I pulled back the shower curtain and, not wanting to trust my hunch that my father had left for the field and go out to the linen closet naked, reluctantly pulled my jeans back on. I fought to get my shirt over my head and down my damp body. It clung to my back uncomfortably.

  With a deep breath, I ran back to my room, hair dripping onto the floor. Inside, I quickly stripped down for a second time, hating that the added discomfort of clingy, wet clothes had been unnecessary since my father really had left for the field. I let out one big shiver before wrapping myself with a towel that had been left to dry on the back of an old sewing chair in the corner. Standing before the mirror that hung crooked on my closet door, I found myself hating what I saw. It’s not that I thought I was fat or ugly or even dull, but I hated myself for just about everything else—things outside of my control.

  I was smart, beautiful, and all the other things most girls couldn’t admit about themselves. I had confidence. I had to. If not, then I’d undoubtedly die of depression. With no one giving me love but a mother who was possibly just a figment of my imagination, who knows what I’d be by now if not dead. I would gladly join Mother if given the chance. Who in their right mind could endure what I had?

  No human friends, an abusive father, and a curse that made all that even worse. I was broken. And nobody liked broken.

  I grew fed up with my personal disgust and snatched a brush off my desk. I began pulling it through my hair to release the tangles, not bothered by the pain as I’d endured it every day of my life. I had hair like my mother, long, wavy, and very full. It was blonde and frizzy and as much as I hated it long, it looked worse short. No amount of conditioner would ever save me. Though the brush was a gift left in the box by my mother, presumably to make this task easier, it didn’t.

  Bored with brushing, I found my eyes flitting across the room. Everything I loved was from my mother. My father had given me nothing but a desk, a bed, a sewing chair, and a side table. The rest either had been bought with what little money I made selling bales of wheat straw at the end of summer or was what Mother had materialized from the other side and allowed me to keep.

  She had to be real. Otherwise these objects wouldn’t exist.

  I finally had to give up on my hair as time grew short. Quickly, I fished through my closet for a clean pair of Wranglers, of which I was happy to find a plethora. They were cheap, not to mention the one thing I could always count on. I pulled them on and lazily settled for a plain, white tank top. It wasn’t as if there was anyone left to impress. If I hadn’t made friends
by now, I wasn’t going to make any this year, and the same went for a boyfriend. It was better to start anew next year, as a senior.

  When I shut the closet door, something fell with a clank, ricocheting off the handle and coming to rest on the cushion of my desk chair. My brows slowly stitched together. “Two?” I mumbled. “Two keys in just twenty-four hours?”

  My mother really was trying to tell me something.

  I walked to the chair and pinched my fingers around the key. It was rusty, scratched, and . . . wet. It left a mark on the cloth of the seat, trying my patience. I moaned and wiped the key on my jeans then wiped the cushion with the hem of my shirt. I was surprised by the amount of water the key was leaking. It wasn’t clean water, but rusty, ochre-colored water, tainted with silt that hopelessly stained everything it touched. I rolled my eyes and gave up caring.

  “Thanks, Mother,” I murmured. No one answered. No one ever did.

  I glanced at the clock. I didn’t have time for this. But, then again, when the supernatural came calling, you didn’t tell it to wait until after school. I could still make the bus. I was going to be fine.

  I fell to the floor and fished for the box, finding it just where I expected it to be, under the bed. I brought it into my lap and quickly placed the rusty key in the lock. When I twisted it, the wood instantly began dripping with water, completely spoiling my jeans. I shook my head and took a deep breath, trying to stay calm as I felt my body heat rise. Don’t get mad, I told myself. She’s your mother.

  Opening the lid, I was again met with the small tree from before, its leaves blowing in an imaginary wind and its roots soaked in a small river. The branches stretched wide to shade the tiny roots. From among the leaves, my ladybug emerged, staring, adjusting, and staying silent.

  “Hello again.”

  The ladybug stood still.

  “I don’t get what you’re trying to tell me.”

  The little wind of the box grew stronger, and I noticed the ladybug hold tightly to a tiny leaf about its size.

  “Don’t let my mother push you around.”

  The wind tapered off, and the sound of the tiny river relaxed. I looked up to the ceiling, hoping that was the right direction to look for my mother.

  “I’ll figure it out. I swear,” I promised her.

  The sound of the river disappeared as the weight in my hand lifted. Looking down, I saw the small tree and river were gone. I grasped at what was left. The ladybug was lying on its back, legs frozen. She was dead.

  I slammed the box shut, removed the key, and threw it across the room, filled with sudden resentment and hate. “I told you I’d figure it out, Mother!” I screamed. “Why did you do that?”

  I was furious, as though lightning had struck from nowhere. The ladybug had made me so happy, and she had killed it. The Devil was right. I was the daughter of the Devil. I stood up and stormed in a circle, finding that when I came back to center, the box was already gone, along with the key.

  “Screw this,” I whispered under my breath, grabbing my bag and barreling down the stairs. I could hear the bus approaching down the dirt road, its brakes strained. Quickly, I threw Axon a flake of hay and ran at a dead sprint toward the mailbox, just in time to catch the bus, along with a wave of speculative glares. To make it worse, my pants were still soaked.

  THREE

  At school I kept my head down and shoulders arched. In Spanish, David ignored me as I expected he would. I felt the familiar sting of rejection. At lunch, I found refuge at my regular spot in the library. At the strong suggestion of the school therapist, Father didn’t allow me to possess fictional books, so this was the only time I could indulge myself in fantasy. I was halfway through a book about angels, pages dog-eared from my slow progression through the story the past month. I had to finish before the end of the school year, or by next year, the story thus far would be forgotten.

  I turned the pages furiously. Angels were my fascination, mostly because of my mother. She was my angel, though today the term was beginning to lose some of its glitter and glory. I thought about the ladybug and felt a surprising sense of sadness about its short life. It was an angel to me in a way, though it had lasted only a day at best.

  I shook the notion away and concentrated on one sentence at a time, sighing as the main character found refuge in the arms of her angel. I wished real life were like that, but David was no angel. Neither was Mark, Chris, Erik, or Brian. None of them could save me. I had a feeling that no one ever would.

  Shutting the book as the bell rang, I was satisfied with how far I’d gotten. Four more days was plenty, maybe too much. I left the library and made my way to fourth period, biology. Walking in, I found most students were already seated at two-person stations. One station had three students. Though I tried not to allow it to bother me, it still stung. I knew it meant no one wanted to sit alone with me, at least not voluntarily. They’d rather crowd together than do that.

  Each student held a small, clear plastic box before him or her, eyes fixed on the contents. Glancing down at my feet, I approached the empty station and dropped my bag to the floor. I sat and looked into my own plastic box. There was a stick inside, and on that stick sat a ladybug. At first I thought maybe it was a joke, but no one else knew about the coincidence except me. I looked nervously around the room, peering more closely at the other students’ boxes. Becky, the girl I had nearly burned bald in third grade, had a butterfly in hers. Another student, Scott, who chose to hate me based on rumor instead of first-hand experience, seemed to have a beetle.

  With a fluttering heart, I looked back at my ladybug. Naturally, it was spotless. Leaning close, I tried to see it as my ladybug, the one my mother had needlessly killed. I wanted it to be my ladybug, but to my dismay, it was noticeably bigger than the late one had been and more than likely from this world, not the next. Still, there was nothing random about this. Mother was sending me another message and driving it hard.

  Ms. Rosin entered the room, and everyone fell silent. She smiled sweetly. I liked Ms. Rosin. She reminded me of what I thought my mother would be like. It was a feeling I had, the same connection I’d felt for nine months in my mother’s belly. I knew what kind of person Ms. Rosin was in a way I couldn’t explain but couldn’t ignore either.

  “If you haven’t already noticed, there is a box in front of each of you containing an insect.” She raised her hands in the air, her auburn hair loosely tied behind her head, swinging with the motion of her hands. As her hands fell, her gaze came to rest on the station with three students. Her eyes narrowed, lips becoming a thin, disappointed line.

  I felt her judgment like messages plainly written in the depths of her beady, determined eyes. She often hid behind glasses that were thick and obscure, but looks such as that seemed to burn right through. After a substantial pause, her gaze danced across the aisle and met mine. It lightened considerably. She tilted her head and gave me a familiar look. It wasn’t quite pity—there was more to it than that—but it was similar enough to make me feel ashamed. People noticed and girls giggled.

  Her mood turned dark at the sound of the chattering. Her gaze on me broke. I felt a chill replace what little warmth she had been conveying, and the whole room seemed to grow dim. She paced, small feet clicking against the linoleum floor, causing students to wince. Her small size meant nothing. Even the largest football players cowered, maybe even more so than the rest. Being large made them clear and easy targets.

  She stopped, leaning casually against a station toward the front, a red-tipped, manicured finger caressing one student’s plastic insect cage. The sultry move of her long, softly rounded nail didn’t match the grim look on her face. I could see the admiration and love she felt for what was inside the small cage but also the determination to make her point. “And if you haven’t noticed, each one of these insects has a certain differentiation in its identification.”

  The students looked down at their cages, heads twisting about with a renewed interest in their insects. To m
y surprise, she had managed to intrigue them.

  She sighed. “It is a ‘defect,’ though I don’t prefer to call it that. For all intents and purposes, you will refer to it as its ‘flourish’ instead.”

  The students all nodded, understanding what she was getting at.

  “We don’t know why nature chooses to create such magnificent flourishes . . . a butterfly with uneven markings on its wings . . .” She looked at me. “A ladybug with no spots…” Her gaze held with mine. “But they happen both in their world and in ours.” She clasped her hands before her, gaze still locked with mine. She smiled. “There’s nothing wrong with it, and it’s certainly nothing to be afraid of.”

  I swallowed. My body heat rose as I felt centered out. The class once again noticed where her gaze was fixed. I dropped my eyes as they all turned to look at me, knowing the beautiful blue of my eyes was slowly burning to dark umber. The same girls began to giggle, a brave move. Ms. Rosin frowned and looked away from me. “I want you to research and note each of your insect’s differentiations. Myths, omens, good luck . . . bad luck . . . I want everything your fingers can possibly internet search on paper, in your own words.” Her voice had grown sour.

  Students moaned.

  “It’s the last week,” Becky grumbled under her breath, loud enough that the teacher could hear.

  Ms. Rosin approached Becky’s station, the station with three students. She rudely mimicked Becky’s voice, head tossing side to side. “I don’t care. It’s still school.”

  Becky looked shocked, jaw dropping. When Ms. Rosin turned her back, Becky stuck her tongue out at her, showing her embarrassment, her cheeks flushed.