text: I think some people move through life with an intense purpose, you know? They’re the type of people when you meet them they just have it together- Just everything. I think my life was formed by a young God, learning how to knit strings of fate together haphazardly for the first time. I think if life was a river, then I’m a fish on the side of the riverbank, trying to walk. People get all sensitive when you talk about not wanting to be here, alive I mean, not like you’d ever do anything because then that would require you to you know- do something. I hope I’m not the only one like that, everyone I’ve talked to in support groups always has this phenomenal story; “And there I was! Holding my newborn son and I knew my life had a purpose.” It was the same for every group, I would patiently wait for them to finish, picking at my ugly thumb until they’d inquire why I’d chosen to stay. And of course, with me being a poet as I am, I’d eloquently respond; " I dunno, leaving seems like a lot of work." I’m not sure why I kept going for a while, it didn’t make me feel better. I mean, there I was; this monotone jerk who would ruin the vibe of the whole thing they had going on. Maybe in some odd way, it gave me a jaded hope, if these self-righteous jerks went through what I did, then maybe I too could one day care about something. Not that I didn’t care about things, I just couldn’t. I loved my mother and my father. But I didn’t really like them, or myself. I sometimes feel guilty, so many others could have been instead of me, but I just couldn’t care that I was alive. I think that’s why I moved to Paris, not for the sights, the culture, or the jobs. But for the people. My Dad had lived in California for his whole life, but my mother was from New York. She’d always like to tell me that Californians were nice but not kind, and New Yorkers kind but very not nice. French people were neither and that’s how I liked it. There was never any small talk at my job just the typical, “Salut.” “Hi, what can I get you?” “Oh you speak English-” “What do you want?” “Oh- a chocolate cross-” “Pain au chocolat- 3.25.” “Oh, ok.” Nothing interesting happens in Paris, I mean there’s always the idiot tourists that get scammed but everything falls into a pattern eventually. Each boring day went by in a blur, I guess if anything I liked it was the place I worked at. Very touristy, so I never had to worry about actually offending any actual locals. I think that the tourists liked that I was kind of rude, it added to- The Parisian Aesthetic I didn’t really pay attention to my surroundings much, other than avoiding the crazies on the street. But I like them I guess, I think they add to the tres chic ambiance of my mediocre neighborhood, or as the French say. Very Chic. *hold for applause* I think then that’s two things I like then, crazy people and my job. Oh- and stupid kids doing stupid things. The concept always seemed so foreign to me, having a feral child was something my mother was always adamantly against. I had been thrown into so many activities as a little girl that I lacked the energy to be a feral child. My dad also refused to teach me anything other than sophisticated vocabulary so the most crazy I’d ever get was saying, “Could I possibly” instead of, “May I perhaps?” I think the parents are mostly to blame, they always ignore their kids and of course, the kids look elsewhere for entertainment. Honestly? By the time I was eighteen, I had done all the living any reasonable person could want. It was just another day, I had gotten there at exactly 7:48am, like always. I went about my day on autopilot, rudely correcting tourists on their French, sometimes very wrongly, just to get a kick out of it. Jean was always there on Wednesday, and he was always obnoxiously nice to everyone. Like the kind of sweet that hurt your teeth and gave you a headache. He always wore these wife beaters but they were from this awful designer brand and cost like 50 euros a piece. He purposefully spoke broken English- of course, unless he was complimenting what looked to be a well-tipping woman. It was a slow day, which drove me insane. I like having something to do when I am left to my own devices or I’d end up insane. I peered over to see Jean checking himself out in the murky sink water. I sighed and threw a towel at him, “Maybe if you’d actually do something about the dirty dishes then you could stop being just a pretty face.” He turned around and smirked at me, “So- you think I have a pretty face?” “Honestly,” I threw my hands up in the air and walked over to the sink. I dipped my arms down and pulled out the drain. I shook the grimy water off my hands and held it in front of him, “you only hear what you want.” The door rudely interrupts us with a chime. “Ah-” he coyly smiles, “I’ll get that customer.” “Oh no she has a child,” I apathetically state, “you don’t want to be a homewrecker do you?” She’s carrying a sweet little girl and is impossibly put together for a mother. “Ello, and welcome to the-uh how do you say-café,” he smiles flirtatiously at her, “You have the uh- ocean eyes no?” Oh my God, he’s pathetic I roll my eyes as he continues to flirt with her shamelessly, she twirls her hair giggling like a schoolgirl. But I get it, if I was a tourist I’d be all over that act. I look over to see if any other customers are lining up behind her. This is a mistake because I make eye contact with the little baby on her hip, she's a sweet little chubby baby, the ones you’d see on a yogurt ad I guess. I don’t know why but there’s something about her little gummy smile across her chubby face that makes me all fuzzy inside. Ok, maybe I can add that one little girl to the list of things I like. Jean is a flirt but he makes orders quickly, at the end of the day his whole act is for his ego and for his pocket. I look out the large window at the front trying to find an excuse to not talk to him. But I’m not sure why, something about today just feels a bit off. I sigh, peering back at the little girl who is now sitting on the lap of the woman, she is smiling as she squeals and gnaws on strawberries her mother brought in an old cookie tin. Normally I’d happily and quite rudely tell the woman that no outside food was permitted but- Babies don’t eat croissants, right? “Aren’t you gonna go yell at that nice lady?” he peers over my shoulder, usually I’d reply in a huff. “Hmm,” I pause and shake my head, strands of my hair falling down my forehead, “actually not feeling it today.” “When do you not feel like rudely correcting tourists,” he scoffs and throws a towel over his shoulder, pretending like he had been working hard, “even though you are a glorified one.” “How long do I have to live here to not be a tourist then?” I raise my eyebrow, playfully inquiring. “Eh-” he thinks for a moment, “since birth.” “Hm,” I returned to examining the baby, anxious to see if she got strawberries on her yellow duck dress. “You seem distracted- what’s on your mind,” he sighs and looks down at me, adjusting his apron, “and I know it isn’t me.” “I just-” I turn to him, rubbing my forehead, “something feels off today- I’m not sure why.” “Maybe it’s the weather?” he liked to hear himself talk as he wiped down the counter, “or there was that weird customer earlier the one with...” His voice trailed off as I focused on the little girl, the patio was out in the sunshine and a soft breeze carried an air of serenity. The mother placed the baby back in the pram as she turned to grab something out of her stylish bag. An azure-colored butterfly danced around the patio, darting from flower to flower. It twirled around and danced with wondrous color. The butterfly landed on the handle of the pram as the baby cooed at it. It reached out to it as the butterfly crawled into its hand, and then in one swift movement. It. ate. It. “Oh my god-” my eyes widened as I grabbed onto Jean’s sleeve, “did-did you just see that!” “What?” I turn back to see the mother leaving the café, a large tote in her left hand, and the pram in her right. I hesitate to try to figure out how to tell her that her precious child- Ate. A. Butterfly. I slid down behind the counter, sweat beading on my forehead, “That baby ate a butterfly!” Jean looks at me in disbelief and concern, he pauses, his brow furrowed, “Is it gonna die?” “The butterfly is definitely dead.” “No!” he threw his hands up and sighed, “The petite baby!” “I-” I pause thinking back to my wasted years at medical school, “maybe!?” “We have to tell her,” I panic and grasp his shoulders, “do you still have the card she paid with?” “Yes,” he throws his apron off, “I’ll look to see if she’s ever had a delivery under the same card.” He scuttles off, leaving chaos in his wake. “Closing early today-” I hissed out to the few tourists in the shop, “French holiday!” He hurriedly runs back out with several addresses written down on his wrist, “It has to be one of these.” We both usher the customers out as he locks up the place quickly. “Excuse me,” a sour woman sneers, “what holiday is it?” Jean throws me an extra helmet from his obnoxiously red bike, I sigh, putting it on I snap my head to the woman quickly responding, “Mercredi!” I snap back to Jean as I mount the bike before him, “You’re delusional if you think I’m gonna wrap my arms around your little waist.” He sighs annoyed, “Fine, let’s go!” We dash and dart down streets, nearly avoiding crazies and tourists. He holds onto me like a scared child scolding me for my rough driving. We’re met with several very confused family members who cannot place her and moreover think I can’t speak French. “Le bebe! Elle a mangé un papillon!! “Quoi!?!” I’m getting increasingly frustrated, I know all too well that we’re racing against time as tears form in my eyes. Jean sees me out of the corner of his eyes, he looks at me all concerned with his puppy dog eyes, “Hey- we’ll find her ok?” “I just-” I shake my head, the tears stinging against my skin, “I need to do something that matters for once.” “Turn-turn turn!” he hastily grabs the left hand of the bike as it scratches up against a broken pipe, “oh, that hurt me spiritually-” “Shush!” I rev the bike, picking up speed, “This is the last place right?” “Ye- '' Before he can finish I drift into the courtyard of a stately-looking house, I begin to run to the door throwing off my helmet. “Not my helmet!” he picks it up brushing off the dirt. My heart skips a beat as the woman opens the door all flustered, she’s holding her baby who is all red in the face and coughing. “Please,” she, very distraught, begins to close the door, “I’m very busy and I just can’t-.” “Your baby-” I pause and catch my breath as Jean examines his bike, swearing fervently, “your baby earlier at La Peche Cafe, she ate a butterfly- I know it's hard to believe but it's true-” Her eyes open wide as she stares helplessly at her baby, “Oh my god- oh my god” She pulls out her phone from her side, making a call to the emergency line, “Hi- yes- my baby is sick and-and.” The baby begins to gag and cry, trying to throw up the butterfly. A lightbulb goes off in my head as med school memories are brushed off. The cobwebs in my mind begin to clear once more. “Hydrogen Peroxide,” I simply state, regaining my nerves and entering doctor mode. “What?” She looks at me like I’m crazy. “Our best bet is to get her to throw up that butterfly,” I place my hand on her shoulder trying to calm her nerves, “hydrogen peroxide in small amounts induces vomiting.” She pauses, nodding along with me, “Ok-ok It's in the sink cabinet, first bathroom on the left.” Jean darts inside, tracking dirt as he tears up the bathroom, a few seconds later he emerges proudly with a bottle of the exact thing. “What’s your baby's name?” I try to calm her as I pour a small amount of the substance into the cap she shakily feeds it to her frantic baby. “Mariposa-” tears run down her face as she holds tight to her baby, “her name is Mariposa!” You have to be kidding me. The makeshift nauseant works as the baby starts to gag before hurling all over the sweet mother's elegant pantsuit. An all too familiar pair of blue wings slide down the front of her blouse. The woman is unfazed by this and begins to sob relieved tears as she holds onto her baby. Me and Jean, not knowing what to do with ourselves, sit on the front steps of this grand house as the mother dotes on her baby inside waiting for more help. I sigh, relieved and slightly smile to myself. I did that- I actually did something. We pause and stare at each other, unsure of how to break the silence. “How did you do that?” He looks at me like I’m something special, “how did you know to give the baby that awful-smelling stuff, the same stuff we use to kill mosquitoes in the fountain?” “Um, before I came to France,” I hesitated before sighing, “I was in medical school.” “Oh,” he pauses, unsure of how to respond, “and you didn’t become a doctor here?” I huff, glaring at him He frantically defends himself, “N-not that’s there’s anything wrong with that!” “I dropped out.” “Oh.” He pauses, clearly curious he squints at me, “...why?” “I-”, I looked up at him, “I was in a dark place. I didn’t care about anything, I was just burnt out and tired. I-I was so tired of being this perfect daughter who never complained- and never did anything wrong.” I traced my fingers along the cool steps and looked up at him, “So I guess I kinda just snapped, and well now I’m here in Paris- with you.” “Wow- I’ve really fallen from grace huh,” I tease him as he rolls his eyes, failing to hide his smile. “Well,” he smiles at me, “it’s too bad, you would’ve been a really good doctor.” “Do you,” he looks at me with concern in his eyes, “do you still feel that way?” “It’s gotten better,” I put my head on his shoulders, “I just feel like I don’t have a purpose-you know?” “Like sometimes I wonder,” I look down at my hands, “is this really it? Is this all there is?” We’re interrupted by the woman sitting down next to me, she’s thrown a towel over the mess on her shirt, “The medics will be here in just a minute.” She has relief and gratitude strewn all over her face. She looks at me with slight scrutiny, “That was very clever you know, not many people know about that.” Jean speaks for me, “Not everyone has been to medical school.” I give him a punch in the side as I clarify, “ Half , I went to half of medical school.” She laughs at us and peers back to me, “You know, Sorbonne is still accepting students, if you ever wanted to put your talents to good use.” “It’s impossible to get into,” I try to conceal my hope, “I don’t think they would accept a dropout.” “Not without a glowing recommendation,” she shakes her head, agreeing with me, “say, from a tenured professor?” “Unlike butterflies,” I chuckle, “I don’t think any recommendations are going to appear out of the blue.” “You know, you always think that you know everything until it's your own kid in danger,” she smiles holding her giggling baby, “I’d love to write a glowing letter for you, it’s the least I can do.” “You work there?” She nods, smiling wide, “I’ll tell them to look out for the butterfly girl.” I’m still not sure why it happened, but I’m glad it did. Because something inside of me comes back to life as if to yell at me; Do something! Do something with your life. Jean drives me to the same boring meetings on the same red bike of his after my medical school classes, the massive scratch is still there. He says it adds character. I’m really still awful at telling my story at the support groups, which I still really only go to for the free muffins. “So, can you tell us why you are here today?” I sigh, knowing the questions that will ensue. “I saw a baby eat a butterfly.”