Paper Butterflies. Lisa Heathfield

my fingers along the crumbs on my plate, smudging dropped bits of chocolate cream.

      ‘More?’ Kathleen asks.

      I laugh slightly. ‘I need to leave space for a sandwich.’

      ‘But the cake isn’t finished.’ Just like that, the look is back. Her eyes burn into me.

      She puts another slice on my plate. I look down at it. If I eat it, I’ll feel too sick to remember the special taste.

      ‘Eat it,’ she says. Megan looks at me. She has a glimmer of panic in her eyes.

      I pick up the fork and push it into the cake. Slowly, I spoon every last bit into my mouth, until I’m sure I’ll be sick.

      ‘Have a drink,’ Kathleen says. I want liquid, but it’s too sweet.

      ‘Eat.’ There’s more chocolate cake on the plate in front of me.

      ‘I can’t,’ I whisper.

      ‘Eat,’ she says.

      ‘I’ll be sick.’

      She’s beside me so quick that I jump back.

      ‘If you vomit, you’ll eat that too.’

      I pick up the fork and force the cake into my mouth. I gag slightly on the sponge and I have to work hard to make it go down. My tummy is cramping – it doesn’t want it.

      ‘She’s disgusting, isn’t she?’ Kathleen says to Megan.

      ‘Yes,’ Megan agrees.

      I don’t want to cry, but I can’t stop myself. I can feel the tears rolling uselessly down my cheeks.

      I want to see my bike. I want my dad to come home and take me away from here.

      The sweet smell sweeps through my nose. I gag again and am almost sick. The salt from my crying is in my mouth too.

      ‘More,’ I hear her say. My fork scrapes the plate and goes past my lips, again and again and again, until I have to stand up and run for the bathroom.

      I won’t be sick, I can’t be sick. I lock the door before she can get to me and I curl up on the floor. Everything hurts. My head feels like it will crack open. My stomach is filled with a thousand burning bricks. My throat is sandpapered raw.

      I lie on the floor and I cry and I cry.

      I want my mom. I want her to come out of the water and come back to us. And my dad will love me enough and Kathleen would never exist.

      There’s a tap at the door, so gentle.

      ‘June?’ It’s Kathleen’s voice trickling underneath it. ‘Happy birthday.’

      My dad is keeping his promise. He has to get his bike from the back of the garage, but I don’t mind waiting. I’d wait all day if it means I can get on my bike.

      Kathleen stands in the front doorway. She’s leaning on the frame, her arms crossed in front of her, a big smile on her face.

      ‘Do you need help, Brad?’ she calls out. He doesn’t reply. There’s clattering coming from the garage and I doubt he can hear her. She shrugs. ‘I guess not.’ She smiles at me.

      But there’s something, just at the back of her eyes, that I can see. I look away. Out here, I’m safe. Just by being here, my dad protects me.

      He appears from the garage. ‘Sorry, pumpkin. Took me ages to find the pump.’

      ‘That’s fine,’ I say. His front wheel looks a bit wonky.

      ‘Are you sure you’re all right on that?’ Kathleen asks.

      ‘It’s straight out of the showroom, this beauty,’ my dad says, slapping the frayed seat and laughing loud enough for the birds to hear. ‘Ready, June?’

      ‘Yup.’ I begin to put my foot on the pedal, when I see her out of the corner of my eye, coming closer.

      ‘No going too fast,’ Kathleen says. She hugs me and kisses the top of my head. ‘Look after each other.’

      ‘We will,’ my dad calls as he wobbles off down the road. I go after him quickly and I don’t look back.

      My bicycle makes me free. The wind pushes against my cheeks and arms. My legs pedal round and round and round and I’m so happy I could fly.

      ‘You’re all mine,’ I whisper to my bike. The whirr of its wheels calls back to me. It loves me too.

      The road disappears beneath my feet, taking me further away from her. I want to call to the clouds, shout out to the sky.

      I watch my dad not far ahead. He’s hunched over, looking forward. He’s my dad and he gave me this bike and I love him love him love him.

      His T-shirt moves slightly in the wind.

       Today, I’ll tell him. Today, I’ll tell him everything.

      He turns off to the left, towards the towpath. My heart squeezes cold and I want to stop.

      ‘Not this way,’ I say, but I’m not loud enough for him to hear.

      It’s bumpy under our wheels. I can see the river in the distance, a thick line of black. I never admit to him how much I don’t like coming here.

      He looks back briefly and tries to put his thumb up, but it makes him wobble, so he carries on looking straight ahead.

      The water is here and my dad follows the path, so that the river runs along the side of us. I won’t look at it. I won’t hear it. I’ll see only his wheels going round and round. If I go slightly to the side, I can see the spokes spinning so fast that they almost disappear.

      I know we’re not far.

      I see it in the distance and suddenly I can’t and won’t take my eyes away.

       I love you, Mom.

      I hadn’t meant to cry today. It’s difficult to see, but I can’t wipe my eyes without the bike toppling.

      The little wooden statue of a heron, stuck tight into the grass, looks out, motionless, over the water. I can see the flowers that Dad and I tucked next to it.

      My fingers pull the brakes and my bike slows until I’m right next to my mom’s heron.

      Up ahead, I hear my dad stop. The path crunches louder as he makes his way back. I look up at him.

      ‘Our flowers are dying,’ I tell him. The petals are curling, their colours fading.

      ‘They’ve been here a week,’ he says.

      ‘I wanted them to last longer.’ They were for my mom, three different bunches, for each of the years without her.

      My dad leans over to try to hug me, but our bikes make it awkward and his arms are heavy.

      I won’t look at the water.

      ‘Shall we keep going?’ my dad asks. He’s sad and this was our happy day. I nod, even though I want to stay here, with my mom’s heron staring out, looking for her.

      He begins to pedal slowly away and I stay close behind him.

      ‘Shall we go to the High Point?’ he calls over his shoulder.

      ‘Yes,’ I shout back.

      It’s not far to bike and the bottom of the hill is close to the path.

      ‘There’s no way I’m biking up that,’ my dad laughs. It stretches green and steep, the war monument perched proudly on the top. ‘But I’ll race you!’ And he’s off, way ahead of me.

      ‘That’s cheating.’ I put my bike down gently next to his and I’m running like a leopard. I’m getting closer to him. My legs ache and my breathing burns, but I love it. I push myself faster, but he gets there first. He’s lying on his back,