Butterfly of Venus

by Susan F. MacKay

  He looked concerned. “I’m sorry. Here I am going on about me. What about you? How are you? What did the doctors say? When will you be out?”

  “I’m fine, Declan. I’ll have a scar, but that’s the worst of it. They’re letting me go home in a few days. But there’s something you need to know.”

  “What? What is it? Is there lasting damage? How bad is the scar? What can I do? Is there anything I can do? Tell me. I’ll do anything. It’s my fault this happened. I should never have got involved with Natasha.”

  Elizabeth put her finger to his lips, shushing him. He seemed vulnerable and lost, like a little boy, although his manliness was apparent. Elizabeth traced her fingers tenderly along his strong jaw.

  Declan’s deep blue eyes clouded with concern. “Tell me.”

  Elizabeth took a deep breath. What she was about to say was life-changing for both of them. There was no other way to tell him. She just had to blurt it out. “I’m having a baby.”

  Declan looked at her as if she’d made an announcement in Mandarin. “What?”

  “A baby. I’m having a baby.”

  “You can’t be.”

  “It’s hard to believe, I know. I’m as surprised as you.”

  As Elizabeth would later describe it to Effie, the emotions on Declan’s face seemed to be gradually locking away behind a series of clanging gates until she was left looking at a cold, impassive stare of blue ice.

  “I had a vasectomy.”

  “Not until we’d been together several times. Like in Paris.”

  “You told me you were on the pill.”

  “I never said any such thing. It’s not good for women my age. I haven’t taken the pill since my twenties.”

  “I’m in my twenties.”

  “I know. Believe me, I’m well aware of your age.”

  Declan leaped from the bed as if it were red hot. “Get rid of it.”

  This was the last thing Elizabeth had expected to hear. It stunned her into momentary silence. Then, her voice shaking, she asked, “Can we at least discuss it?”

  “There’s nothing to discuss.”

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Plenty. There’s plenty the matter with me that you have no idea about.”

  “So tell me.”

  “No, no, no. You know I never want to have a child. Ever. That should be enough. Do you hear me?”

  “Well, I’m having one, apparently. And it happens to be yours.”

  Declan’s voice was low and menacing. “You used me.”

  Elizabeth gasped. His words sliced through her like a razor through a vein. “No, Declan. That’s not true.”

  “You just wanted to get pregnant!”

  “Don’t say that. That’s horrible of you. I never thought it would happen.”

  “But you were willing to take the chance.” Declan paced back and forth. His voice grew louder as he became more agitated. “One egg. One sperm. One young sperm. Why didn’t I get the snip earlier? Or maybe—” He stopped abruptly.

  Elizabeth’s blood was starting to boil. “What, Declan? What were you going to say? That maybe it isn’t yours?”

  “How would I know? Maybe it isn’t.”

  “You bastard. You fucking bastard.” Elizabeth grabbed the empty pop can Declan had left beside her bed and threw it at him. “DNA, Declan. I’ll get a lab report sent to you. It’s the last you’ll ever hear from me.” Elizabeth summoned all the energy she could muster to scream, “Get out!”

  Several nurses appeared at the door to see what the commotion was about. Declan looked like a caged animal. Without stopping to pick up his guitar, he pushed past them and was gone.

  Elizabeth was exhausted and shocked. She hadn’t expected Declan to dance for joy, but neither had she expected such vehemence, such cruelty. He hated her. He hated their baby. But why? Nothing made sense. Hot tears slid down her cheeks. One of the older nurses, who’d overheard the confrontation, wrapped her arms around Elizabeth. Is this what it’s like to have a mother? thought Elizabeth. Someone who’s there to hug you and let you cry when the whole world goes wrong? She broke down and sobbed.

  “Give him time,” soothed the nurse. “It’s been a shock for him, too. Maybe he’ll come around.”

  Elizabeth wasn’t convinced. She blew her nose into a proffered Kleenex. “Maybe,” she said. But the more she thought about it, the angrier she became. Maybe Declan had used her to get ahead. Big deal. But how dare he suggest the baby wasn’t his? How dare he tell her to get rid of it? She began to feel protective of the life growing inside her. She would look after it. She would care for it. She would love it. She didn’t need any bloody Declan Thomas. She and the baby would be just fine on their own.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Two weeks later, Elizabeth was ready to go back to work. Effie had been as good as her word and had flown up from New York to stay with her. When Elizabeth told her about the pregnancy, Effie was first aghast, then, when Elizabeth insisted she was fully prepared to raise a child alone, pleased about the prospect of being an aunt. She fussed over Elizabeth with cups of hot chocolate and takeout from the city’s finest restaurants. Planning details for Effie’s upcoming wedding helped take Elizabeth’s mind off her pregnancy and what an incredible bastard Declan had been. She was not going to waste another second thinking about him.

  But then she got a call from Jayce Corning. Declan had disappeared, vanished like a shadow. Jayce had a big recording session booked, but Declan didn’t show up. He wasn’t returning calls or texts. He’d moved from his apartment and hadn’t left a forwarding address. Jayce had even tried calling Declan’s mother, but she hadn’t heard from her son in several weeks. Jayce was frustrated, and worried. By the time she hung up, Elizabeth was worried too. Declan would never blow a second chance with Jayce. Something must be seriously wrong. Even though Jayce had already tried Declan’s mother, Elizabeth felt certain Joan Thomas must be able to provide some insight into her son’s mysterious behaviour.

  Joan received Elizabeth’s phone call with kindness in her voice. She hadn’t heard from Declan, but she felt sure he’d be in touch. Yes, she remembered Elizabeth from her husband’s funeral. When Elizabeth asked to meet, Joan suggested they have tea and gave Elizabeth her address.

  Joan lived in a charming older brick house on Beatrice Street, in the city’s west end. Smiling warmly, she ushered Elizabeth into a sitting room filled with modern art and orchids. The delicate tropical flowers were everywhere. Elizabeth couldn’t help but admire them. Her own experience with orchids had been disappointing: they never bloomed again after the initial flowers fell off the stalk. “What’s your secret?” she asked, indicating a spectacular plant with a dozen purple flowers.

  “As with raising a child, benign neglect,” answered Joan. She chuckled warmly when she saw Elizabeth’s confused expression. She pointed to the plant and explained, “Most people fuss over them too much. I water them when I remember, but never more than once a week, and give them light. That’s all they seem to need.”

  Everything about Joan’s house suggested taste and style. Tea, in a bone china pot with matching teacups, was prepared and waiting to be poured. Joan indicated for Elizabeth to sit on a leather couch, while she folded herself gracefully into an overstuffed chair. “Declan talks a lot about you,” said Joan. “If you don’t mind my saying so, he seems rather fond of you.”

  Elizabeth wasn’t sure what to say, or how to go about saying it. “Yes . . . I’m fond of him as well. But the point is, he’s disappeared.”

  Joan poured tea and handed Elizabeth a cup. “Help yourself to milk and sugar. I’d be concerned if it wasn’t the sort of thing he’s done before.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Several times in the past, when he’s been under stress, he’s taken off. He has to be by himself to sort things out. I’ve grown u
sed to it, so I no longer worry.”

  “How long does he leave for?”

  “It depends. Usually a few weeks. Once he was gone for a year.”

  “A year?”

  Joan nodded and took a sip of tea. “Yes, but he did call. I expect I’ll hear from him soon.” She appraised Elizabeth with sparkling dark blue eyes that reminded Elizabeth of Declan. “You look very well, Elizabeth. In fact, I’d say you have a glow. Would I be wrong to think you are expecting?”

  Elizabeth gulped. “No. You wouldn’t be wrong.”

  “Congratulations. When is your baby due?”

  “December.”

  “How wonderful. A baby around Christmas. Such a gift.”

  Elizabeth wanted to tell her Declan was the father but couldn’t find the right words. It seemed wrong to tell a woman almost her own age that she was carrying her son’s baby. What if Joan had the same reaction as Declan and ordered her out of the house? She decided to change the subject. She pointed to a photo in a silver frame, set up on a mahogany sideboard, of a young woman holding Declan as a baby. Intense blue eyes clearly marked them as mother and son. “That’s a lovely photo of you and Declan.”

  “Thank you. Except that’s not me.”

  Elizabeth looked from the photo to Joan and back again. Were her eyes deceiving her? There was no doubt they were the same woman.

  “That’s Jean, my twin. She is—was—Declan’s mother.”

  “I thought you . . .”

  “Strange, isn’t it? When Declan looks at me, he sees his mother, but in fact, I’m his aunt.”

  “What happened to Jean?”

  Joan sighed and took a sip of tea. “We were certainly identical in looks. We could even fool our own mother. But when it came to behaviour, we couldn’t have been more different.”

  Elizabeth was intrigued. “How so?”

  “Jean had a rather . . . how shall I put it? . . . wild side. She was never diagnosed, but now I believe she suffered from bipolar disorder.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “By the time we were in our teens, she was frequently out of control. She had wild flights of fancy, during which she’d run off, followed by bouts of deep depression. When she was nineteen, she got pregnant.”

  “Declan?”

  Joan nodded. “Jean never said who the father was, just that he was a musician she met in a bar. I daresay he never knew.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I’m afraid this next part is disturbing. Are you sure you want to know?”

  Elizabeth nodded.

  “Jean was determined to keep the baby, so our parents helped set her up in an apartment. Unfortunately, postpartum depression kicked in. Coupled with her illness, she was unable to cope, but she didn’t tell anyone.” Joan paused, collecting herself. She took a deep breath. “She hanged herself from a beam in the apartment.”

  Elizabeth shuddered. “How dreadful.”

  “Yes. It was particularly traumatic for Declan. He was a toddler.”

  Elizabeth was incredulous. “You mean he was there?”

  “Three days alone with his mother swinging from a rope.”

  Tears filled Elizabeth’s eyes.

  “We hadn’t heard from Jean, so my father went around. Declan was starving, covered in filth. He’d managed to push a chair beneath Jean. He was standing on it, hugging his mother’s foot. Excuse me.” Joan reached into her purse for a Kleenex to blow her nose. “Amazing how these things still hurt after so many years.”

  Joan took another deep breath and continued. “Declan came to live with us. Then, when I got older and married, my husband and I adopted him.”

  Elizabeth was choked up. “How was he, after that?”

  “Nightmares. Bedwetting. And he spoke a strange private language for a while. We sent him to a child psychiatrist. Her theory was that, when Declan was alone with Jean for all that time, he entered into a fantasy world in which she was still alive. Then, when he saw me, I became the object of his wish fulfillment. He convinced himself his mother was alive again.”

  “When did you tell him the truth?”

  Joan paused for a long time, looking at the photo of Jean holding Declan. She seemed to be deliberating about what she was going to say. “We didn’t. Not for many years. We couldn’t see what good it would serve. I destroyed all photos of Jean and me together. I must have missed one. When he was around sixteen, Declan found it.”

  “So you had to tell him.”

  “Yes. He was extremely upset. That was the first time he took off. Eventually, he came to understand that we’d deceived him out of love. He said as far as he’s concerned, I am his real mother, but he’d never risk passing on Jean’s illness.”

  Elizabeth was quiet. Declan’s vehemence about not wanting children and his cruel reaction to her pregnancy now made sense. “This trait of Jean’s, this illness, it’s genetic, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Declan has it, but thankfully in a mild form. We kept a close eye on him while he was growing up. He never had any truly manic episodes, but, as I say, when he’s under stress, he tends to disappear.”

  “I see.”

  Joan leaned forward. She said gently, “And your baby? Are you worried that it might have this gene?”

  Elizabeth let out a small gasp. “Did you know, or did you guess?”

  Joan smiled in a loving way. “I’m pretty good at stringing things together and making sense of them. And I saw how Declan looked at you at the funeral.”

  “You know Declan had a vasectomy?”

  Joan raised her eyebrows. “No, I didn’t. He talked about it, but I didn’t know he’d gone ahead. So how did you . . .” Joan’s voice trailed away.

  “We were together in Paris, in the spring, before he had it done.”

  Joan put down her cup, looking thoughtful. “I see. Do you have other children, Elizabeth?”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “This is my first, and last.”

  “It’s the only child Declan will ever have as well. And some people say there’s no such thing as divine timing.”

  Elizabeth felt enormous relief and affection for this understanding woman.

  Joan moved from her chair to sit beside Elizabeth on the couch. She gave Elizabeth a hug. “Does Declan know you’re expecting?”

  “Yes. He’s pretty upset.”

  “Give him time. The baby will be fine. It’s only right that you know what happened to Declan so you can keep a close eye on her as well.”

  Elizabeth glanced at Joan. “Her? Do you know something I don’t?”

  Joan laughed. “Just a feeling.”

  * * *

  Effie’s wedding took place in August at the Boulevard Club beside a sparkling Lake Ontario. As Elizabeth walked Effie up the aisle towards a beaming Stevie, Effie whispered, “I’ve heard of a pregnant bride, but never a pregnant best man.”

  Elizabeth didn’t stay long at the reception. The pregnancy was making her extremely tired. Eddie picked her up and drove her home, but not before stopping to pick up a gallon of strawberry ice cream, Elizabeth’s new vice. She flopped on the couch and rubbed her hands over her growing bump. She felt a swift kick, followed by a rippling sensation as the life inside her turned around. “Okay, okay, it’s coming,” Elizabeth said aloud, removing the lid of the ice cream container. She turned on the television and sat back to watch local news, sighing with pleasure as the first spoonful of ice cream slipped deliciously down her throat. She half-closed her eyes in contentment, lazily reading the crawl across the bottom of the screen as the announcer droned on about traffic conditions.

  Wait! She shot up in alarm. What had she just read? She pressed rewind to read the crawl again. Oh no. It said, “Natasha Khomeini, charged with attempted murder and grievous bodily harm to ATM president Elizabeth Harding, released on $50,000 b
ail.” Elizabeth sat frozen and disbelieving in her seat. How on earth had the crazy bitch come up with that kind of money? She vaguely remembered Declan mentioning something about Natasha’s father being well off. Panic and fear seized Elizabeth. Natasha was mentally ill. She wouldn’t give a damn about breaking bail and losing her father’s money. She hated Elizabeth as much as she hated Declan. What would she do if she knew Elizabeth was pregnant by him?

  Elizabeth jumped at the sudden ring of her cellphone, her nerves frayed. She glanced anxiously to see who was calling and was relieved to see it was her lawyer, Gretchen Sweetwater. “Hi, Gretchen,” she said. “I just got the news about Natasha.”

  “That crazy judge should’ve retired ages ago.”

  “What should I do?”

  “Be careful. Keep a low profile. That’s all you can do. But that’s not what I’m calling about.”

  “Oh? What, then?”

  “Franco will settle for two million.”

  “Nice of him.”

  “It beats going to court. You could easily run up that amount and then some.”

  “What about the proof he’s gay? The tape?”

  “Not admissible. It’s stolen property, taken from Franco’s house without his permission. I’m afraid it could all get rather messy, and messy for a lawyer means a lot of work, and that means—”

  “I know. Six hundred dollars an hour.”

  “That’s just for me, never mind the clerk. Much as I’d like to bill you, honey, I also have to give you my best advice.”

  “Okay, Gretchen. Tell him it’s a deal.” Elizabeth sighed and hung up. When had her life become so complicated? At least one matter had been dealt with. Now she had to deal with the rest. She dialled Effie’s number.