She smiled to herself, enjoying the quiet, this moment alone with her art. Their camper trailer didn’t afford many moments alone. Though luxurious compared to the ones the majority of the other troupers occupied, the trailer had exactly two interior doors—the one to the tiny lavatory and the one to this bedroom, located at the back of the camper. In the open area up front was the kitchenette, a booth-style dinette and a couch that folded out to make a bed.
Usually Skye took the couch. But not always. Sometimes they shared the bed, other times her mother offered to sleep on the couch.
Skye missed having her own space. Not that she was accustomed to a palace, or anything. But they had never lived in quarters this tight before; they had never had to travel this light before. Storage inside the camper was limited to two narrow wardrobes, one built-in chest of drawers and several cubbyhole-type compartments.
This summer, her big box of art supplies was a luxury.
Skye cocked her head, studying the image taking shape before her—a monarch butterfly. Skye moved the pencil again, this time automatically, quickly and with certainty, as if her hand possessed a will of its own. The image grew, changed. Within moments she had transformed one of the butterfly’s wings into an ornate, curvy letter.
The letter “M.”
Skye stared at the image, the letter, heart thundering against the wall of her chest, beating frantically, like the wings of a butterfly against the sides of a glass jar. Skye recognized the “M”; she had drawn it hundreds of times before, the first time three years ago. She recalled the day vividly. She had been in art class; her teacher had commented on it. Skye remembered feeling breathless and sort of stunned. She remembered staring at the “M” and thinking it both beautiful and ugly, remembered feeling both drawn and repelled.
The way she felt now.
Skye sucked in a deep, shaky breath. She had been drawing the image ever since, sometimes repeating it over and over, until she had filled the entire page of her sketch pad.
Why? What did it mean?
“Skye? Honey…are you all right?”
At her mother’s voice and the rap on the bedroom door, Skye looked up, startled. “Mom?”
Her mother opened the door and stuck her head inside. “I’ve been calling you for five minutes. It’s almost time for lunch.”
“Sorry. I didn’t hear you.” Skye returned her gaze to the image. “I’m almost done. I’ll be there in a second.”
Instead of returning to the kitchen, her mother crossed to stand beside her. She gazed silently down at the tablet, at the ornate butterfly, and Skye stiffened. She didn’t have to glance up to know that her mother’s expression was frozen with fear, stiff with apprehension.
It always was when Skye drew the “M.”
Skye swallowed hard, fighting the fluttery, panicky sensation that settled in the pit of her gut, fighting the beginnings of the headache pressing at her temple.
Skye moved her pencil over the page, starting on the other wing. Within moments, the drawing was complete.
Still her mother stood staring; still she said nothing.
Her mother’s silence gnawed at her. It hurt. Skye had asked her about the “M” about a million times. Her mother always answered the same way—she said she had no idea why Skye drew it.
Skye brought her left hand to her temple. If that was true, why did her mother act so weird about it?
Her mother touched Skye’s hair, lightly stroking. “What’s wrong, honey?”
She tipped her head back and met her mother’s eyes.
“I keep trying to remember where I saw this ‘M.’ There has to be a reason I’m always drawing it. There has to be.”
“I can’t imagine, darling.” Her mother smiled, though the curving of her lips looked forced to Skye. “It’s just one of those things.”
“One of those things,” Skye repeated, then frowned and returned her gaze to the sketch pad. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“Sure it does.” Claire shrugged. “You saw the monogram somewhere and remembered it.”
“But where?” Skye balled her hands into fists, frustrated, hating the darkness of her memory and the feeling of helplessness she experienced every time she tried to remember.
Like now. Skye drew her eyebrows together, searching her memory for a recollection of anything before kindergarten, for a glimmer of where she had been born or of her father. They were linked to the “M”; she was certain of it.
But how?
She dropped her face into her hands, head pounding. Why couldn’t she remember? Why?
“Sweetheart, please…” Her mother sat on the edge of the bed and gathered her hands in hers. “It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t. Let it go.”
But it did matter. Skye knew it did. Otherwise she wouldn’t find herself drawing that letter again and again.
“I can’t,” she whispered, tears flooding her eyes. “I want to, I really do. But I just…can’t”
Her mother put her arms around her and drew her against her chest. “I’m so sorry. So very sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.” Skye rubbed her forehead against her mother’s shoulder, the pain behind her eyes intensifying. “Are you proud of me, Mom? Are you glad I’m…I’m the way I am?”
Her mother tipped her face up and looked her in the eyes. “How can you even ask, Skye? I’m more proud of you than you can imagine.”
But not of her artistic ability, Skye thought, searching her mother’s gaze. Her mother wished she didn’t like art so much, that she wasn’t so good at it. She wished her daughter would never pick up a drawing pencil again.
Why?
Skye whimpered and brought a hand to her head.
“It’s one of your headaches, isn’t it?” Claire eased Skye out of her arms and stood. “I’ll get your medicine.”
A moment later her mother returned with two white tablets and a glass of water. Skye took them, then handed the half-full glass back to her mother. Past experience had taught them both that if they caught the headache early enough, Skye could beat it. If they didn’t, the pain could become nearly unbearable.
“Thanks, Mom.”
Claire bent and kissed the top of Skye’s head. “Why don’t you lie down for a minute. I’ll finish making lunch, then come see how you’re feeling.”
Skye caught her mother’s hand. “Will you stay a minute? And rub my head?”
“Sure, sweetie. Scoot over.”
Skye did and her mother sat on the edge of the bed and began softly stroking her forehead. With each pass of her mother’s hand, Skye’s pain lessened. Each time she stopped, it returned, full force. And with it the questions that pounded at her.
“Feel a little better?” her mother asked.
“A little. Mom?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“My dad didn’t want me, did he?”
Her mother caught her breath. “What kind of question is that? Of course he wanted you.”
“You don’t have to lie to me. I know how it works. You probably didn’t even know who my father was.”
“That’s not true! Of course I know who—”
“Then why aren’t there any pictures of him!”