"A Butterfly's Echo" by Sean MacKendrick

Cara made it to the railing first, a few seconds ahead of Brooke. Although her lungs felt like they were going to explode, Cara did her best to breathe evenly, to make sure everyone knew that she could have run up all those stairs faster than that if she wanted, it wasn’t even hard.

The two sisters leaned on the cold metal rail and blinked at the cavern below, trying to spot bats or other cave creatures. Nothing moved other than a few trickles of water. 

In time, Mr. and Mrs. Trudeau joined, not bothering to hide the fact they were gasping for air. Mr. Trudeau sat on a small bench next to the rail and coughed at his shoes. It echoed back to them a half second later.

“Ha!” Cara shouted. Ha, the cavern replied.

Brooke said, “Hello!” and waited for the sound to bounce back. It didn’t.

Cara gave it another try. “Hello, cave!” The cave returned her greeting. Brooke frowned.

“This is stupid,” Brooke said, loud. She pretended not to listen for an echo, but her scowl deepened in the silence.

Fifteen minutes and a few pictures later, they all left together. When they arrived at the SUV, Mrs. Trudeau said, “What did you think? Did you guys like it?”

“Yeah!” Cara saw her sister’s face and said, “But why didn’t Brooke’s voice echo like ours did?”

“That kind of stuff never works for me,” muttered Brooke.

“Physics,” Mrs. Trudeau said. “Some pitches just don’t echo. Or, I guess, you just can’t hear them. Like a duck! Did you know that you can’t hear a duck’s quack echo?”

Brooke said, “I’m not a duck.”

Mrs. Trudeau rummaged through the plastic bag of snacks, looking for something or other. She said, “Of course, you aren’t a duck. You’re our beautiful butterfly.”

Mr. Trudeau said, “OK, let’s get going. We need to check into the hotel and hunt down some dinner.”

#

“Cara!” Mrs. Trudeau stomped down the hallway, late in the morning. “I told you to get up. I’m not going to tell you again.”

Brooke always woke early. She stayed quiet in her small dark little room waiting for her sister to drag herself out of her own room across the hall. Brooke lay on her side and watched Mrs. Trudeau open Cara’s door and turn on the lights. Cara muttered something meaningless, thrashing the bedcovers. Her feet hit the floor with a thump.

“Get moving, young lady.” Mrs. Trudeau walked away.

“Good morning,” Brooke said to the disheveled lump moving into the hallway. Cara had taken her blanket and wrapped it around herself. “Can we play soccer today?”

Cara squinted and nodded. “Mm hm. Yeah.”

“Yay!” Brooke threw aside her sheets, hopped from her bed and yanked open her dresser. “Where are my blue shorts?”

Cara shivered and pulled her blanket closer. She yawned. “Are you going to ask Mom and Dad to join a team this summer?”

Brooke closed the drawers in the dresser and moved to her closet. “I think so.” She kicked aside a pile of clothes. Dust stirred, wafting into the air.

“I think they’ll say yes,” Brooke said between sneezes. “They said I could play if I practiced enough.”

Cara yawned again. “You should be on a team. You’re good.”

“Cara, put that back.” Mrs. Trudeau had returned, carrying a basket full of laundry. “You know you need to make your bed on the weekends.”

Cara pulled her blanket up to her chin. “I don’t see why I have to make it at all.”

“Because you do,” Mrs. Trudeau said. “It’s as simple as that. Please stop arguing with me.” She set the laundry inside Cara’s room.

Cara made eye contact with Brooke and rolled her eyes in an exaggerated motion, crossed them, and stuck out her tongue. Brooke laughed behind her hands and looked back at her own bed. It was already made, even though Brooke couldn’t remember making it. The covers were pulled tight and smooth.

#

“Do you think I’m imaginary?”

Cara opened her eyes. She had nearly fallen asleep and it took a few seconds to realize she was in bed and her sister was talking to her.

A gap in the curtains let in enough light to illuminate Brooke, propped up on her elbow facing Cara.

Cara said, “You can’t be imaginary. That’s for make-believe. Like, you could pretend you have a giant talking panda as a friend, but it wouldn’t be real. You’re real.”

“Are you sure?” Brooke looked at her hand, spreading her fingers. “Nothing works for me.”

“What do you mean?”

“The hand dryer didn’t turn on in that bathroom. The grocery store door doesn’t always open for me. My echo doesn’t work.” Brooke picked at a thread in the blanket. “Maybe I’m not real.”

“That’s dumb. You’re real.” Cara closed her eyes. “I’m going back to sleep.”

#

Flat noodles with butter and mountains of parmesan sat waiting for dinner. Cara’s favorite. She made it halfway through a second plate before realizing Brooke hadn’t eaten yet.

“Hey, mom? Can we do cereal tomorrow night?” Cereal was Brooke’s favorite. They never ate it for dinner because cereal was for breakfast.

Mrs. Trudeau was refilling her glass with water. “Cereal is for breakfast,” she said.

Brooke gave a small nod. Maybe as a thanks to Cara, maybe just to say, I knew that.

“Just once?” Cara said.

“Maybe.” Mrs. Trudeau scooped a spoonful of steamed vegetables onto Cara’s plate. “If you both finish your zucchini, I’ll think about it.”

Cara didn’t like zucchini and her mother knew that. Well, too bad, she was going to eat every bite. Cara put two pieces into her mouth and chewed with a grimace. “Thanks, mom.”

Mrs. Trudeau gave her a hug from behind. “You’re stubborn but I do love you.” She kissed the top of Cara’s head.

Brooke’s eyes were boring into Cara’s.

“Don’t you want to hug Brooke?”

Mrs. Trudeau stopped, halfway back into her chair. She stood.

“Of course I do.” She approached Brooke from the side and hugged Brooke with one arm. One quick squeeze and Mrs. Trudeau sat down, smiling.

Brooke stabbed a noodle and tried to twirl it around her fork.

Mrs. Trudeau said, “Cereal for dinner! Aren’t we fancy?”

Mr. Trudeau said, “Eat your vegetables, now.”

#

“I need these markers.”

Mrs. Trudeau squinted at her phone. “Markers aren’t on the list.”

“No, but I need these.” Cara held the package of sparkly gel pens out for Brooke to admire. Her face made an expression that said, help me out here.

Brooke took the pens. She said, “They’ll help Cara write better.”

Cara’s expression scrunched into irritation. She grabbed the package back and set them down. “Never mind.”

Brooke rubbed her finger where the plastic edge had scraped it when her sister pulled the package out of her hands. “When do I go to school?”

“Hey, yeah,” Cara said. “She’s supposed to start going this year.”

Mrs. Trudeau sighed and pushed her grocery cart down the aisle. “Next year.”

Brooke ran her fingers along the school supplies. “That’s what you said last year.”

“Next year.” Mrs. Trudeau wrestled the cart around the corner. “Let’s go find you guys some ice cream!”

#

“That’s enough sugar.” Mr. Trudeau took the shaker from Cara’s hand and poured a healthy stream into his coffee.

Cara stirred her oatmeal and spooned a glob into her mouth. While she chewed she said, “I met someone named Cassidy yesterday.”

Brooke said, “I didn’t meet anyone yesterday.”

Mr. Trudeau sipped his coffee. “Who is that?”

“She was picking up this boy Graham from school. She said she used to babysit us.”

Mrs. Trudeau dropped the cup she was rinsing into the sink. “Cassidy Ruth from Fort Collins?”

“I guess so. She said her family just moved here and she recognized my name from when I was a kid. She asked about Brooke.”

“She knows me?” Brooke sat up straighter and smiled. “I don’t remember her. What does she look like?”

“You two were very little,” Mrs. Trudeau said. She locked eyes with Mr. Trudeau. “How lucky someone like that ended up close to us even after we moved so far away.”

Mr. Trudeau downed his coffee. “You know what? I have some time later today, I’ll come pick you up after school. Speaking of, it’s past time you headed out.”

Cara looked at the clock and gasped. She ran to the door and heaved her backpack into place.

Mrs. Trudeau said, “Have so much fun today!”

Mr. Trudeau said, "Don’t miss the bus.”

#

“Mom?”

Brooke looked through the fridge, found nothing. She wandered the house for a bit.

“Mom? Can I play on my phone? I’m bored.”

The door to her parents’ room was closed. Brooke tried the knob. Locked. She went back to the living room where her phone lay dark on the end table.

“I’m going to play for just a little bit, if that’s OK.” A lack of an answer was as good as a yes. Brooke tapped the side button and the screen lit up, asking to be pointed at her face.

Brooke held the phone out and held it directly in front of her. The phone waited a moment and then dimmed again.

Brooke tapped the phone back to life and failed once more to get it to recognize her face. She tapped in her backup code, but the phone refused to acknowledge her efforts and the numbers on the screen didn’t react. The phone dimmed again.

“Mom?”

Faint music drifted in from the closed bedroom door. The sort of music Mrs. Trudeau liked to play while she dozed in the bathtub.

Brooke went back to her own bedroom, sat on her bed, and waited for her sister to come home.

#

“Cara? Are you OK?”

Cara nodded but didn’t look up from the floor. She removed her shoes and walked to her room without saying a word, her face drained of color. Brooke picked up Cara’s backpack where she had dropped it by the front door. She hung it up before Mrs. Trudeau could see it and make a fuss. Then she put Cara’s shoes on the shoe rack.

Mr. Trudeau came home later, making loud whooping sounds about the danged heat out there. He filled a glass with ice water and flopped onto the couch. Cara emerged from her room. Her face had regained some color, but she still looked unhappy.

“Hey girlie,” Mr. Trudeau said, crunching on an ice cube. He hadn’t said hi to Brooke, who was already sitting in the living room and had been for some time. Mrs. Trudeau came in from the backyard, hair plastered on her face. She pulled off her gardening gloves and scrubbed her hands at the kitchen sink.

Cara sat next to Mr. Trudeau and squeezed him in a tight embrace. He smiled, then frowned. He said, “You doing OK?”

Cara released him and pulled a pillow into her lap. Her chest heaved with each breath. She looked up at Brooke.

“Vee’s brother is sick.”

“Who is Vee?” Mr. Trudeau asked.

Mrs. Trudeau entered the living room, drying her hands. “Vee is a boy in Cara’s class,” she said.

“He’s my friend,” Cara said. “His brother is sick. He’s worried he’s going to die.”

Mr. Trudeau took a gulp of water. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “I’m sorry, muffin. What’s wrong with him?”

Cara was still looking at Brooke. Her eyes shimmered. “Did something happen to Brooke? I can’t remember. I always get so close to remembering.”

Now they were all looking at Brooke. Water dripped onto the couch, from the glass in Mr. Trudeau’s hand, from Cara’s eyes. 

Brooke gripped the arm of the couch. “Is something wrong with me? Did I get sick?”

Mrs. Trudeau ran an arm over her face. She said, “Nothing’s wrong with you. Cara, you stop that.”

“But why?” Cara choked out her words. “It’s so hard to pretend sometimes.”

“I’m sorry about your friend but Brooke is fine, and we are not talking about this,” Mrs. Trudeau snapped.

Cara buried her face in her hands.

Mrs. Trudeau said, “Now. Do you need help with any homework this evening?”

Mr. Trudeau watched the glass sweat in his hand and said nothing at all.