Chapter 07
Bats and Butterflies
Author’s Note
This book takes place primarily in Panama, 1995–1997. It is told through recall, not chronology. As I remember Panama, childhood memories surface—pieces of what built me. That is why Joseph appears here. The recall happens in the now.
The examination room felt cold, bright, and clinical. I sat perched high on the table, feeling completely exposed, like an anatomical model on display for a silent classroom. The doctor sat lined up below me.
I scrambled off the sanitizing paper as it crinkled sharply under my slightest shift, amplifying the tense silence. I finally slid down, letting the paper tear beneath my weight.
The doctor began speaking as I dragged a standard chair over to sit directly at his level. Eye-to-eye on the tile floor.
“There’s a ten percent chance that the operation will be a success.
If it is not a success, we need to…
clear out the diverticulitis on your current connection,
retract another one inch,
reconnect an ostomy b—”
I lost my composure, covering my eyes with my hands somehow believing not seeing would stop me from hearing him.
“Stop throwing bats at me! I need butterflies.”
My colon doctor froze.
My daughter’s head jerked up, her hand over her mouth.
My husband, Joseph, was shedding tears the second I said the words.
The doctor looked at all three of us, confused.
It seemed everyone knew what the words meant but him.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“I… need… butterflies.”
There.
That had to be slow enough for him.
Ainsley, my daughter, said, “Oh, Mama… He doesn’t know what that means.”
Joseph added, “It’s just something she says. It’s hard to explain.”
The doctor rolled his stool closer until he was right in front of me.
He steepled his hands, almost like he was praying.
“I need to understand your words,” he said. “It’s important to me.”
I looked at him—and didn’t see a colon doctor anymore.
Are you a story collector too?
I began.
“I was six…”
“Daddy.” Then louder. “Daddy!”
My heart calmed as I heard his footsteps in the hall.
“Lee Ann? What’s wrong?”
“I’m scared.”
Across the room, Terry was dead to the world. Her right arm was thrown up high above the sheets, frozen in a strange, sleep-induced salute. The door creaked open, framing Dad in the hallway light. He looked at Terry’s odd sleeping posture and smiled softly. “That’s a little scary, isn’t it?” he whispered.
He sat on the edge of my bed. His presence gave me the courage to finally speak up about the scratching sounds outside. “Listen!”
Scrape, scratch, scrunch.
“The window is talking.”
“It’s just the wind.”
“No. Listen.”
Scratch, scrunch, scrape.
“It’s worse in that order! Hear that, Daddy? It’s trying to come in!”
“What’s trying to get in?”
“The horrible, awful, scary thing outside!”
“Oh,” he said. “I think I understand.”
Thank goodness!
I was afraid he would think I imagined it. “What do you think it is?”
He questioned me. Oh no. If I don’t come up with something really scary, he’ll be mad that I woke him up. What is nighttime scary?
“BATS!” There! I did it. He knows bats are scary!
“Why bats?” my dad asked.
“Because they are nighttime scary! They look like rats with wings!”
“No,” he said gently.
“Why bats? Why not butterflies?”
“Because butterflies aren’t scary.”
“That’s the point. You are pretending about something you don’t know. You are choosing to make it scary. Pretend it’s butterflies instead of bats.”
“But what if it isn’t butterflies? What if it is really bats?”
“Well,” he said, “now you’ve got me scared! I’m not going to go out there if there are bats! And since it’s dark, I won’t see them if they’re butterflies. So, I guess we’ll both have to wait until morning.”
“But what if it breaks the window and comes in!”
“Those windows have been there a long time. If bats—or butterflies—could break them, they would have by now. You’re safe here. Go to sleep.”
He pulled the covers up and tucked them snug under my chin.
“Yes, sir.” And just like that, I could sleep.
The next morning, after breakfast, my dad came into my playroom. “Hey, Lee Ann—it wasn’t bats or butterflies!”
My face lit up. I had forgotten all about it. “What was it, Daddy?”
“Your mother’s rose bushes blowing in the night wind.”
“That’s not scary at all!”
“No,” he said, smiling. “But I should probably trim them when the time is right.”
I pulled myself back to the present.
“So, you see, Sir… I need butterflies. I’ll handle the bats when I have to.”
The doctor sat back.
“That is a story means much to me. Thank you for sharing. I understand.”
He had a reminder.
Tattooed on my shoulder was an animal—it was half bat, half butterfly.
The operation was a success.
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