Butterflies in Glass Cases

CHAPTER 3: Travels

My nervous excitement combined with my nightmares prevent me from clocking any more than one full hour of sleep, but for the first time in years I kind of don't mind.

I spend the hours leading up to sunrise double-checking my packing list before showering and getting dressed. I attempt to head out the door without disturbing my parents' slumber but, before I even reach the first step I pause.

Much to my surprise, Dad is already standing in the vestibule in his old, ratty, navy blue bathrobe, waiting to see me off. Mom, on the other hand, is nowhere to be seen.

As I descend the last few steps, I see a single tear starting to form in his eye. I hadn't considered that my departure would affect him like this, until I suddenly realize that he's now being forced to say goodbye to his second child.

Dad remains in place for a moment as he searches to find the right words, "Patty... your mother. She, uh- She-"

Watching his struggle begins to tug at my heart, so I save him the effort, "-I know. It's okay, Dad."

He gives me a gentle smile as he pulls me in for a brief, yet tender hug, during which he simply says, "Travel safe, Patty Cake."

I smile and try to hold back the tears that begin to surface in response to the nickname he hasn't used since I was seven years old. I remember the only reason he stopped calling me that was because I had stubbornly protested that 'big girls don't have nicknames'. I didn't realize, until this moment, how much I missed it.

I grab my suitcase and exit the house, walking down the concrete path towards the old, beat-up black car that has parked at the curb and left its engine idling.

The car is covered in mud splatter, and the two wheels I can see have no hubcaps. I almost begin to assume that the driver has just returned from some sort of off-road joyride, until I see him step out of the car.

After slowly rising from the open driver's side door on the opposite side of the car, a grumpy-looking, elderly man shuffles his way around the vehicle, revealing his dated chauffeur's uniform that's about two sizes too big for his frail frame.

While he has put the effort into getting into uniform, it's clear that he considers it a mere formality, based on the fact that his top button is undone, his tie is slackened and his shirt is only half tucked.

As I approach the curb, the driver pops the trunk open before turning to begrudgingly stare at the strained zippers on the large suitcase I'm rolling behind me. I offer to save him the trouble of loading my bag, but he curtly ignores me and seizes the suitcase by the handle. Grunting ferociously, he lifts it into the car in one smooth motion and slams the trunk shut with the fervor of a man half his age.

Despite his insistence to go through the motions of loading my bag for me, the formalities cease there. The driver then pivots sharply and shuffles back to the driver's side door, echoing his previous grunt as he bends at the knees to get in.

I slowly open the door to the backseat on the passenger side, giving one last wave to Dad who's now standing in the open front door's frame. I can't help but think of how many times the sight of my father standing outside in his old robe embarrassed me. In this moment though, it's a symbol of love that I haven't felt in some time.

My eyes quickly scan the upstairs windows of the house in the hopes that Mom cares enough to at least glance out at my departure. While I see no silhouettes against the sheer curtains, I choose to tell myself that she's watching, so as to enjoy the moment as opposed to reverting back to the familiar feeling of pain.

I finally get in the car, waving goodbye to Dad as he slowly re-enters the house. No sooner do I have the door closed than the driver pulls away from the curb, and begins moving down the street.