YA The Girl Who Threw Butterflies by Mick Cochrane

Author:Mick Cochrane [Cochrane, Mick]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: ePub Bud (www.epubbud.com)
Published: 2009-02-23T16:00:00+00:00

12. ABRAHAM LINCOLN'S EYES

hat night Molly dreamed about her father again. He was dressed in the shirt and tie he wore in the obituary picture, and Molly understood that he was dead. His eyes were open, he was alert, he was seated at some sort of desk, but he was dead. Molly knew it just by looking at him. She knew it in that way you know something in a dream. His eyes were huge and mournful. They were Abraham Lincoln's eyes.

She understood what a terrible thing it was to be dead. All this time she'd been thinking only of herself. How much she missed him, how hard it was not to have him in her life. But she'd never really given any thought to her dad. At the funeral the preacher said he'd gone to a better place. But in Molly's dream he did not seem to be in a better place at all. He was seated stiffly in some chokingly formal pseudo living room. It was not a place where someone actually lived. It was more like a furniture store display, or a stage set. There was dark carpeting and heavy curtains. It was the funeral home, Molly realized.

Molly wanted to speak to her dad, she wanted to hear him speak. No matter what he might say, she wanted to hear the sound of his voice. In the early days and weeks after his death, she'd been able to hear his voice clearly in her head. Lately, though, she was afraid that it had faded away.

It was hard for her to speak. It was as if her mouth were full of Novocain. But finally she was able to get something out. “Dad?” she said. “Dad!”

She waited for her father to respond. To hear his voice. She stared into his face, into those sorrowful eyes. She understood somehow that he wanted to say something but couldn't. He stood slowly. He was a tall man, a shade over six feet, and now, in her dream, he seemed even taller. Her father turned suddenly and, with two quick, graceful strides, disappeared behind a dark curtain.

Molly woke up shaky, her heart pounding. As a little girl, she'd had her share of nightmares, dreams of monsters and skeletons, dreams of being chased, dreams of falling. This was quieter, but more disturbing. It felt hushed, but final.

At breakfast, Molly kept thinking about her dream. She couldn't shake that image of her dad. She couldn't forget the depthless sadness in his eyes.

“Mom,” Molly said.

Her mother was standing at the kitchen counter, her back to Molly, carefully preparing the one perfect cup of coffee she drank each day, carefully pouring hot water through a cone-shaped filter into her mug. It was a daily ritual that seemed to require a great deal of concentration. “What, honey?” she said. “What is it?”

What is it? Molly didn't really know. She didn't know how to say it, whatever it was. And what was her mother going to do about it?

“Never mind,” Molly said.

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