WISH
I awake up crying. Tears run down my cheeks, hot and fresh. It's too much. Not even a dream can stop my thoughts from running wild—can't stop me from thinking about Kusanagi Sensei. Her death is burned into my skull, every time I close my eyes, I see her dead in my arms.
Will this guilt ever pass? I fear it won't.
It takes me fifteen minutes to crawl out of bed and make my way to the bathroom. The water is cold on my palms, stinging my skin as I splash my face, but it wakes me up. Today, is a new day. For a moment there is peace and quiet. Until I finish doing my morning routine and get dressed. My mind starts to wander, again, to yesterday.
Meditation is an option. It would help me hone my senses and tune myself to Mother Nature's presence. Yet, it's not enough. Today, I just need to relax, find another distraction that will not only take my mind off things, but help me find an answer. There has to be a way to stop Vear without anyone else dying and without handing him the butterfly.
I grab my quilt blanket off the beanie chair and head for the living room. The house is quiet this morning. Mom still isn't back from the Andreatte's Main House. We didn't speak to each other last night. Better to start over with a calm state of mind the next day, then get into an argument at the heat of the moment. That's how my family has always functioned.
Our living room is like the rest of the house, comfortable and homey, different from the Main House and our office. Here we can be ourselves. Pictures of my childhood line the fireplace mantel, along with pictures of my parents as young as me. The couch is old, a relic from my middle school years. The chenille material is worn down, pilling around the edges where the shaver can't reach. It's perfect. I've slept on this couch so many times, it feels like I'm back in bed.
I turn on the TV. The news is already rolling, airing out of schedule as it seems to at least once a day. The words "Breaking News" scroll across the bottom of the screen. The anchorman is handsome, a prerequisite for the job it seems, with his hair slick back, parted off to the side, and wearing a suit that Aiya would approve of. There's a tablet lying flat on the desk beside him. He clasps his fingers together as a picture of the woman I just helped last week appears in the corner of the screen.
"Erica Wells, the founder of Second Chances, was found dead last night in her home in New York City. Her death is being ruled as a suicide. An investigation is on-going. Second Chances is most known for their robotic AI Prosthetics. They've served over 300,000 people since 2060 and continue to serve through their outreach programs in third world countries. Arnold Croft, Chief Operator, has offered his condolences, stating, 'Wells was a pioneer. Her ambition to help others surpassed Second Chances. She leaves behind a legacy that will be seen for generations to come."
I can't believe it. That woman and her red purse.
They must have tracked her movements. Who knows how long.
I drop my forehead onto my arm and try not to think about it, but the emotions come anyway. I could've done something. I should've done something. I should've told her to ditch that purse. It painted a target on her back. Now she's dead, just like Kusanagi Sensei. And that prick Arnold Croft is running free, just like Vear.
Choices have consequences. Both of mine ended in two deaths.
The news continues on, never pausing for a brief moment, always spewing negativity after negativity. I can't even remember why I thought turning the TV on was a good idea. To what? Find a distraction. Well, look where that got me. I reach for the remote as a picture of Mars' Settlement displays behind the anchorman.
"It has been leaked from NASA that Mars has received a laser-beam back from deep space. Speculations are pointing towards an old voyager, Trinity, sending signals after two decades. Social Media declares it's our first communication with aliens—"
I turn the TV off. At least we end on a positive note.
The front door opens. Mom walks in wearing the same clothes from last night. She takes off her shoes, puts them on the rack near the hallway closet, and sits down next to me. Her body is warm and soft, sutra smoke clings to her.
Mom drapes her arm over me and I just fall right into her hug. "How are you doing? I'm sorry I couldn't see you last night. Mari needed me to help reinforce the estates perimeter."
I mumble into her shoulder, "I'm okay."
She hums. "I very much doubt that," she says, but I don't respond. If I do, I know I'll start crying again. She gently runs her fingers through my hair, a motherly touch that always puts me at ease. "Mija, I need you to know you did nothing wrong. You're not responsible for Kusanagi's death. She chose to end her own life, and she would've done the same thing, if someone else had gone after her."
She's right. I know she's right, but that still doesn't make it right. Being in Mom's arms like this makes me feel small, again. Sometimes I wish I could go back in time and relive those moments as a child, carefree and innocent. I miss it.
I miss Dad.
I sniffle and wipe at my damp eyes with the blanket. Even as I try not to cry, I still do. "Did you hear what happened to our last client?" I ask, avoiding the subject. "She's dead."
"I did. Our Facilitator messaged me last night," Mom says. "He assured me, Arnold Croft doesn't know our whereabouts and he will take extra measures to cover our tracks."
That's how it always goes. Nothing about the client dying. Protecting our family is the most important in these situations. The Facilitator is our go-between with clients. He sees everyone before we meet to confirm identities, background checks, and sign the non-disclosure agreements. All the works.
He's also the one to clean up the mess.
We sit in silent for a while, listening to the birds chirping outside, eating seeds out of Dad's bird feeders. Mom never could get rid of them. It'd be like removing him completely from our lives. So as a ritual every week, we take turns, filling the feeders, hoping that one of those Red Birds is him in disguise.
The door bell rings and I can already hear Aiya's voice arguing with Ken. Mom squeezes my shoulder one last time, then gets up. "When you're ready to talk, I'll be here ready to listen."
She smiles at me. I give her a smile back. "Thanks, Mom."
Mom answers the door. Aiya and Ken walk inside, taking their shoes off at the entrance. "Sorry to bother you, Mrs. Capri. We just wanted to check on Wish," Ken says.
Mom rolls her eyes. "How many times do I have to tell you, Ken. Call me Lily." She walks by the living room and towards her bedroom down the hall. "Wish's in here. If you guys get hungry, raid the fridge. I'm off to bed before I'm called away, again."
"No problemo, Lily. I brought some snacks." Aiya holds up a duffel bag. I'm sure there's clothes stuffed in there, too, from the size of it.
Mom lifts her eyebrow, but doesn't say anything. Once her bedroom door shuts, Aiya motions to go outside in case Mom is listening in. We slip out through the sliding doors and sit down at the picnic table in my backyard, if you can call it that. The land doesn't have fencing anywhere, merging our yard with the Andreatte's yard with other random spots of wild grass and equipment left behind by the farmers hired to take care of the land.
Aiya drops the duffle bag on the chipped table. The wood has aged, graying over time from being outside in the changing weather; it has seen better days and is filled with memories of my childhood. Mom and dad sitting at the bench like a couple of love birds, eating lunch together, while I run back and forth, taking nibbles here and there of my food. I'd play in the yard with all the make-shift toys and trinkets Dad whittled from wood and leaves and flowers that aren't meant to last.
Dad would sit at the table whittling more, creating puzzles that my little mind couldn't grasp. He'd end up showing me how to solve it after I start sulking. "Life is full of puzzles, my little bubble bee. Do not pout," he'd say, "One day you will see it, too."
He taps my forehead, not my heart or my nose, as if the answer is right there written on my face. Fifteen years go by and I still don't see it. Life is just as complicated as it's ever been. Now more so than ever.
Ken fishes out a blunt from his leather jacket and lights the tip with his finger. He takes a deep inhale, then lets the smoke linger out his nose, clearly needing the stress reliever. Ken hands it over to Aiya's waiting fingers and takes a long drag herself, clearly needing it just as much. She hands it out to me, expectantly, and normally I would, but today I need my head on straight. Instead, I unzip the duffel bag, while Aiya and Ken pass the blunt back and forth between them.
There are a couple of snacks on top of the clothes, but buried further beneath is a glow of gold, shimmering so brightly it reflects against a bag of chips. The paper butterfly flaps around in the jar, slipping on the glass, desperately trying to get out. Relief overcomes me, letting go of the tension in my shoulders. Not gonna lie, for a second, I questioned Aiya's trust. I thought she would hand over the butterfly last night to her mother. Who knows what they talked about in her office. All it takes is five minutes alone with Mari Andreatte for anyone to crack.
It has taken ten years for Aiya to stand up to her mother, another thirteen to stand at equal footing. How many more years until Aiya is above her mother and finally in charge? If anyone deserves the power of this butterfly, it's Aiya. She's a pillar of this household, protecting the staff, looking out for her family members, and treats everyone here as equals. Never below her.
A part of me wants to tell her to just swallow the damn butterfly right now.
Aiya takes another long drag. It's dwindling so fast, already at her knuckles. "So, Ken I were talking—"
"Arguing," Ken interrupts, snatching the blunt resting between her fingers.
"Whatever." Aiya waves him off. "I think we need outside help. There's more to this butterfly than my mother is letting on. I, for one, don't believe it's a god's power hidden inside this bug. If we could get someone to test it, then we'll have more information than my mother and know what we're dealing with."
"And I told you, bringing in outside help will only put Wish in more danger. They could leak that we still have the butterfly to Auntie Mari," Ken says.
True. The Andreatte's have so much money, their wealth will last for five generations. Buying someone isn't beneath Mari Andreatte.
A beep goes off on Aiya's phone. She swipes through it, reading whatever message is there. "What if I know someone who has already been bought?"
Ken stretches out his arms as if he's waking up from a cat nap, clearly more relaxed than ten minutes ago. "Who? And why should we trust them?"
Aiya purses her lips, then says, "Gregori Concerto. Don't give me that look. I know—I know my mother has been trying to set me up with him. But Gregori and I had a heart-to-heart recently, and he works with DNA. He'd find answers that we can't. I think we can trust him."
"Think or know?" I ask. "We can't have any second guesses. If you trust him, then I'll trust him, too, but I hope you understand this could put him in danger."
She takes a moment before answering. "We can trust him."
"Okay, fine. Call him up. But if he can't meet us today, then he's out."Ken stubs the blunt in the dirt. "We're running out of time."