I open my eyes and the walls are white, very white, like clean teeth milk pearls moonlight. The sheets -- they are white, too. But scratchy. The air is, too. Not white. Scratchy.
Butterflies can see in red and green and yellow. I mean those are the colours they can see. I like butterflies. It’s because of their wings. Sometimes I wish that I had wings because it means you can fly and I’ve always wanted to fly. Don’t know where I’d go, though.
It’s funny, the way eyes start to focus and the world gets a little less blurry. There are a lot of edges. Maybe too many -- pointing slanting cutting. I want my eyes to flutter closed and let the world become blurred once more but there are voices now and the edges of the voices are piercing in my ears.
(She’s awake) someone says and not quietly.
The reply is softer and gentler. (Thank you. I can take it from here.)
I realise that my hands are covering my ears and I slide them down to my cheeks because it is quiet again. I like the quiet and I think this gentleman does too because he sits on one of the (white) chairs beside the bed with his eyeglasses perched on the bend in his nose and he doesn’t talk for a moment. He isn’t very old but he uses a walking stick and it rests against the arm of the chair and I wonder if it will fall.
Once I had a dream about trees. I don’t know how to climb a tree but in my dream I did. I climbed higher and higher until there were no more leaves, just me and the breeze and the sky and the clouds.
(Good morning, Mona)
The gentleman is staring at me. I wonder if his walking stick was once a tree and if so, did someone climb it? Or maybe it just rested by itself. I hope not. I hope that tree was never lonely.
(It’s a beautiful day outside today. Would you like me to open the curtains?)
It’s the word outside, the way his mouth sort of smiles around it, that makes my ears prickle and I think I should answer but I don’t know how or even what to talk about. He stands and he walks a little hunched and ruffles at something until a rain of yellow soft light pours in.
(Much better) he says and sits down again.
There is a question at my lips but when I open my mouth my throat constricts around the words and suddenly I wonder why the question was so important anyway.
Instead I remember the way he said Good morning, the way his words floated up, up, up in the air and his voice danced with something like hope.
(Good morning) I murmur, but my voice hitches and scratches uncomfortably against my tongue. His smile is big wide toothy warm. It reminds me of the sunlight pouring through the window.
(My name is Neville Longbottom) he tells me. There is some weight in those words, the way he draws out Looongbottom and I must have had a dream about a Longbottom before because the word fits snugly in my ears.
His voice is gentle quiet soft. (I am a Healer.)
I thought he was a Longbottom? Perhaps they are the same thing. His words are too difficult to measure.
(Butterflies can taste with their feet) I say.
(Can they?)
(Yes.)
I sneeze. He hands me a cloth and I rub at my nose until it feels warm.
(I have some music for you today.) He pats a stack of parchment resting at the base of the chair.
In my dreams there is always music. I don’t know the song, or maybe there is no song, just music. It’s more of a hum hum sound than a la la la, the kind you can feel in your heart.
(Would you like to see?) he asks.
Sea blue. It’s my favourite colour because it’s soft and bright at the same time.
He places the stack of parchment on the bed near my right hand. It casts a shadow over the white white sheets so part looks more grey than white. My fingers shrink away from it and curl into a tiny fist.
(It’s not going to hurt you.)
I know that. Don’t I? It’s only when I hear his voice, earnest and careful, that my heartbeat slows and my fingers unfurl over the parchment. It’s softer than I thought it would be.
I wonder if this is what the wings of a butterfly feel like.
I lift the parchment up to my eyes and there are tiny squiggles that gallop across the page only they aren’t squiggles they’re notes and I know them just like I know about the butterflies and trees and for some reason I’m smiling. The word Reverie is written at the top of the page and I don’t know what that means but I can hear the music they make in my ears and I tap my fingers on the blanket and for a moment it almost feels like hard glossy ivory beneath my fingers. I hum along but it’s only an accompaniment -- the real music is inside me, something I can feel.
(I used to play this song) I say, but I don’t know why I chose those words when there is only here and now and dreams.
He smiles and when I look in his eyes I know he can hear the music, too. (It’s beautiful, isn’t it?)
(I like it.) But the word like isn’t wide and warm enough for this song. (I love it.)
(I find it easier to organise my thoughts with music) he says. He is quiet for a moment -- we both are. It’s the music.
When my fingers stop tapping and the song is over he takes something from his pocket and shifts it in his fingers.
(Would you like one?) he asks. It’s small and wrapped and he places it in my hand. The wrapping says Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum on it but the words they mean nothing. It smells sweet, though, and I hold it up to my nose and keep it there.
I tell him thank you with my eyes.
(I used to give them to my mum when she was here) he tells me quietly. (The sweets -- they were like her music.)
I listen to the bubble-gum but I don’t hear anything so I hand it back to him.
He shakes his head. (Keep it.)
My fingers close tight around until it feels soft and squishy against my palm like it was always there. I think about his words and I break them down into slow sounds but one of them doesn’t make sense.
(What is here?) I ask.
He stares at me but I can’t read his look.
(I used to give them to my mum when she was here) I repeat, my voice lilting to fit the tone and depth of his voice. (What is here?)
The man he shifts in his chair and I wonder if he knows the answer or maybe I have stumped him because I don’t remember anyone else sitting in this room with me.
(St. Mungo’s) he says finally. His eyes are on his cane and I know that he is thinking, perhaps of trees. (She wasn’t well.)
I wonder who she is and I wonder what is a St. Mungo’s and I want to ask but the words won’t come because I am looking at his face and it looks tired, tired and sad.
(Trees are the longest living creatures on earth) I whisper, hoping that it steadies something inside him the way it does for me.
He looks up at me with a smile that isn’t happy. (Yes, they are.)
The man leaves before I can remember why he came and I sit for a moment and look at the fading golden yellow light in the window and time it stops for a moment.
I reach for the parchment and stare at the notes and the music starts again, softer this time and slow. I close my eyes as I play this time and when the music ends I hear words in my ear. I love you.
The sound frightens me because it’s lower and quieter and warmer than the music and I don’t know where it came from. But like the music, my ears find comfort in the sound, in the words and their periwinkle silk feel.
There is a soft rat tap tap on my door and the gentleman he pokes his head in.
(There is someone here to see you) he says. His eyes they are like shields and I wonder what he is hiding from.
I do not want him to open the door because I do not want to see someone I don’t know. And I think he knows this because his mouth looks smaller and thinner and he opens the door slowly, so slowly that I think for a moment it will never open.
Another man steps in and he has yellow tufts of hair on his head and his eyes they are blue, sea blue, and I smile because that is my favourite colour and that is why the gentleman brought him to me.
(She’s smiling!) His voice is loud and brass on my ears. (She knows me. She recognises me.)
(She doesn’t) the gentleman says in a voice that sounds like a warning, as the man with sea blue eyes sits in the chair and scoots it towards me with a screech.
(It’s me, love) he says.
(I am not a love) I tell him. My tone is full of edges and loudness and his eyes widen.
(I’ve missed you) he whispers, and his eyes turn downward.
My hand moves to touch the corners of his eyes and smooth out the creases and then his hand covers mine and his skin is rough and prickly but I do not move.
(I like sea blue) I say.
He does not listen to me and his eyes look like they will cry. (I thought you said she was better today.)
The gentleman sighs and rubs the side of his head. (Better, Lorcan. Not well.)
(Do you remember me?) the other man asks. (Do you remember me, Mona?)
His question it hurts my head and so I look at his eyes instead and smile a little and hope that this is enough.
(She was playing music today) the gentleman says. (Tapping it out on the bed sheets. And she’s talking more in conversations. I don’t have to keep boring her with stories, which is probably better for the both of us.)
(Did you tell her about your retirement from teaching? About why you took the job here? Maybe she’ll remember more if you do.)
(She remembers nothing, Lorcan, and what she knows doesn’t return because of the stories I tell her. If you can’t accept that, perhaps you shouldn’t come.)
He looks away from me with a frown and darkening eyes. (How does this not faze you? You -- you of all people should know what could happen to her. What is happening to her.)
The gentleman is quiet for a moment and it’s only hot hot anger in the air and it makes me uncomfortable.
(The longest lifespan of a butterfly is ten months) I murmur.
The man with the nice eyes chokes on a sob and I nod because it is indeed a sad fact, even more sad because sometimes after they die collectors pin the butterflies to a board on the wall and put them on display for everybody to see and I think if you love something you need to sometimes just let it be.
(For her) the gentleman finally says. (That is the only reason I am not falling apart. For her.)
The sea blue eyes meet mine and my hand falls from his cheek and so does a tear. (I love you, Mona.)
I love you.
The words they are nice and I want to ask him how he thought of them but he leaves and the gentleman sighs and sits down in the chair which must still be warm because so is my hand.
(I’m sorry) he says.
His eyes look tired and so I lift up another sheet of music from the pile and I play it and we sit and listen quietly together.
The sky is now dark velvet blue. My eyelids are heavy and my head throbs, not in the music sort of way but the gentleman is still here and I don’t want to sleep. Not now, when dreams seem as fleeting and transparent as clouds compared to the real and hard-edged awakeness.
(It’s been a long day) he says. His right hand is resting on his cane and his eyes are resting a little above mine and I wonder if he can see the moon above my head and if so is it a perfect whole or the sliver of a crescent?
(Don’t go.) The words they bubble to my lips before I even register in my head what they mean.
He looks surprised but his hand moves from the cane to the armrest of the chair and he smiles a soft shine of a smile.
(I can stay a little longer. Enough time for a bedtime tale or two.)
And he does. He tells me stories of his students who used to come visit him at something called the Leaky before school started. He tells me about this one girl Clarice who fancied him when he first started teaching and left him perfumed notes but then she stopped when he had an allergic reaction to one of the flowers she’d attached. I do not know what a Clarice or a Leaky is but I listen and I don’t let my mind wander.
(And then there was James Potter -- oh, he made me laugh) he says softly, his laugh low and deep beneath his voice.
I smile happy and light and for once I don’t try to think about what he is saying but rather the melody of his words and I feel them somewhere deep inside my chest.
(He and his cousin Molly were inseparable -- reminded me of their uncles. It made it difficult to dock points from them, and I think I may have been a little lenient some of the time. Inadvertently, of course.) He looks at me and the smile hasn’t left his eyes. (But you were my favourite student, of course. There was never any question.)
There is a careful shielding look on his face and I think that maybe he is worried that he offended me by calling me a Student which I am not but he hasn’t and I think that he can see it in my eyes.
(You used to sing) he tells me quietly. (And you sang beautifully.)
(Sing) I repeat, pausing to let the word settle in my mouth.
(You would tell me that you were going to travel the world) he says, and his eyes look faraway like he is not thinking about his words just letting them spill. (With Lorcan, of course. I don’t think you would have gone anywhere without that boy.)
There is a question at my lips but when I open my mouth my throat constricts around the words. My arms they shiver a little and my heart pounds as though I’m scared but I’m not sure of what.
–Who am I?†I whisper, and the question sinks into the air and frosts over.
He looks at me and his eyes are sad, so sad, but he exhales the answer like a breath only calm and measured. –You are still her. Somewhere inside, you are still her. And nothing will change that.â€
My eyes close but I can still see him sitting there because it’s no darker than the night. –Good night, Dad,†I say because the words they just come and they fit so smoothly into the air and I don’t know if it’s the right thing to say or not but it feels right.
A hand ruffles my hair and I feel a kiss brushed on my forehead. –Good night.â€
The walls are white blinding bright light. My cheeks are cold frost wet. And everything is much too sharp.
(She’s awake. And the curtains have been drawn open all night.)
(I know.)
(Longbottom, her Healer won’t be pleased, especially as he’s given you free reign on almost everything else concerning her care.)
(Yes, I realise that. Thank you.)
Shapes and blurs grow less abstract and an older man hobbles toward me with his walking stick and a smile. I wonder if I would need a walking stick if I walked or if maybe I wouldn’t walk but float a few inches above the ground.
(Good morning, Mona) he says.
I wipe at my cheeks because they feel wet and uncomfortable as though I’ve been crying but my eyes are dry.
A butterfly cannot fly if it gets wet. It will simply flutter its wings in vain for a few moments but the weight of the water is too much for the delicate wings and it will soon quiver and fall down, down, down to the ground.