The Butterfly Garden

by Mary Campisi

  “How...long did you know?” Jenny asked, still dazed by her confession.

  “Which time?”

  Jenny’s world started spinning, swirling out of control. She tasted the aftermath of her linguine and calamari working its way up her throat. “There was more than one?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “There was another one, three years and four months ago. Her name was Lisette, but I never actually saw her.”

  How could this be happening? How could Jenny be sitting in the dark, in the corner of her sister’s bedroom, listening to Grace confessing her husband’s infidelities? Jenny swallowed twice, trying to work up enough saliva to speak and push her half-digested food back where it belonged. By the third attempt, she managed to croak out a few words.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” That’s what she really wanted to know. Why didn’t Grace tell her own sister that her world was imploding? Why did she let everyone continue to believe everything was fine? Wonderful? That she had a perfect marriage?

  A perfect husband?

  A perfect life?

  “How was I going to tell you, Jenny?” she asked, her voice rising with each word. “What should I have said? My husband’s sleeping with another woman, please pass the ketchup?” She blew out a long, heavy breath. “Natalie was two years old when I found out about the first one. I thought about leaving him then, I really did, but I couldn’t.” She closed her eyes and when she spoke again, her words were soft and hypnotic, as though she were reading a story from a book. “I told myself I stayed with Grant because the girls would be devastated if we split up. But that’s not the whole truth.”

  She paused, went on. “I wanted the dream. White house, picket fence, children and a man who couldn’t live without me. I wanted it so bad I was willing to do just about anything to get it. We never talked about the affair after that first night when I found out. It was something we agreed on. Start fresh, don’t bring up old hurts. New beginnings. I read every book I could get my hands on about putting the spark back in your marriage. Love and Marriage Can Equal Great Sex. How to Pleasure Your Mate. Keep the Love Alive. You name it, I read it. I even planned romantic meals, wore red lipstick. Grant seemed to want to try, too. He came home with flowers and cards and a diamond-and-ruby bracelet. And they were beautiful and I was touched.”

  A tear trickled down her pale cheek. “But I could never erase the image of the letter she wrote him, every graphic detail of their last sexual encounter, what they did, what she was going to do to him the next time they were together. It was branded in my brain, like Lady Macbeth and that damnable spot of blood. Weeks could pass when I didn’t think about it and life would be almost like it was before, and then something would happen that would bring it all back, like one of those zoom lenses on your camera. It could be anything. Maybe Grant was running late or the woman in front of me at the checkout counter was young and attractive and I’d think, Is that what she looked like? Is that her? Or the new bank teller’s name was Lisa, reminding me of Lisette. One small, insignificant event would start a chain reaction that plummeted me into days of depression.”

  Another tear fell and then another, sliding down the path from cheek to chest. “And not once,” she said, her voice cracking, “did we discuss it.”

  “I wish you had talked to me,” Jenny said. “Just tried. It wasn’t right for you to keep it all inside.” She laid a hand on Grace’s knee. “No one should have to live like that.”

  Grace shrugged. “I couldn’t talk to anyone. That would have meant admitting we had a problem. I…I just couldn’t.”

  “I know,” Jenny said, but she didn’t know. Not really. Actually, not at all. Everyone was used to Jenny with her multitude of problems. It was natural, even normal, to see her dangling from some crisis line or other, albeit usually minor but blown up larger than one of her 16x24 glossies. Even Gerald and Stefan had taken to questioning her about her latest turmoil, whether it be something as aggravating as lost luggage in Bangkok or more significant, like a blind date who turned out to be a cross-dresser. It was always something and it was always happening to Jenny. Grace said it was because she plowed forward, jumping into every situation without testing the water and, worse yet, most times not taking time to make sure there was even water to jump into.

  Well, Grace was probably right; Jenny did tend to be a bit impulsive. And that impulsiveness did sometimes create “situations” that needed to be resolved. That’s when she called her sister or visited Stefan and Gerald, to devise a bailout program.

  But Grace, falling apart, messed up?

  “About six months ago, I started to relax,” Grace said. “I wasn’t so paranoid if he walked in the door fifteen minutes late or if I called his cell phone while he was on an errand and he didn’t pick up. I actually started to believe him when he said he loved me. But then one night I woke up around two in the morning and he wasn’t in bed.” Her voice dropped to a whisper as though someone were blocking the air in her windpipe. “I jumped up and my heart started racing, and I knew. But then I thought I was crazy because I found him in the study working on a brief. I felt stupid, like I was cheating him, cheating both of us of another chance, so I told myself I was going to stop checking up on him, start trusting him. That’s why I planned a surprise for our anniversary, lunch and a hotel room.” She swiped at her cheeks. “What a fool I was.”

  “Grace—”

  “No, let me get it all out, because I don’t know if I can do this again. I tried, Jenny, I did. Laura talked me into buying a piece of lingerie,” she half-choked on a laugh, “so there I was, standing in the middle of Chantel’s with a pink teddy underneath my clothes and then I see them. First, I see Grant and it doesn’t register right away, but then I see her, and then I know.” Pause. “And she was beautiful.”

  “Don’t do this, Grace, don’t torment yourself.”

  She looked at Jenny, her eyes bloodshot and swollen. “And she looked so familiar, like I should know her from somewhere…like I’ve seen her before.”

  “Grace, please.”

  “…and I couldn’t take my eyes off of her…and then it hit me.”

  An image of Heather Eastman standing on Grace’s front porch, stuffed into a jersey dress flashed through Jenny’s head.

  “She looked familiar because…because she looked like…like you.”

  “Me? Me?”

  “She looked like you, Jenny, same hair, almost same color eyes, tall…gorgeous…I saw her.”

  So did I, Jenny wanted to say. But me? Well…maybe…maybe…

  “I always knew he thought you were beautiful,” she paused, cleared her throat. “I remember the first time he came home with me from college. Remember? He couldn’t stop telling me how stunning you were, how…exotic…even though you were still in high school.”

  I don’t want to hear this, I don’t want to hear this.

  “…and later, when you were always flitting off to Europe or some other adventure for your photo shoots, he used to comment on your bohemian lifestyle, your ‘wild side,’ as he called it. He acted like he didn’t like it, as though he thought it was inappropriate, but deep down, I think he did. Sometimes, he’d say, ‘You should be more like Jenny. You don’t see her cowering in the corner, afraid of her own shadow, do you? She hops planes to Athens, or London, and you,’ he’d say, ‘you won’t even take an overnight trip in a car.’”

  “Oh, Grace, I’m so sorry.”

  “Maybe he was right,” she said. “Maybe I was too afraid to live my own life, afraid to make a mistake, maybe that’s why he found somebody else.”

  “How could you even think that?” Jenny stroked her sister’s hand. “You are so strong, Grace, so confident, in charge—”

  “I’m afraid,” she interrupted. “That’s why I try to control everything, keep it all manageable, tried to keep my marriage manageable, too, after the affair.” She stumbled over the next words, “But it was all just a lie, and sooner or later it had to explode. I should’ve seen th
at, should’ve been stronger, but,” her voice cracked, “I really did love him.”

  “I know.”

  “I just wanted to get away. From him. From the memory of her kissing his hand, him touching her hair. From everything. But he kept talking. He wouldn’t stop. And the more he went on, the faster I drove.” She dragged her hands over her face as though she were trying to reshape it, change herself into someone else. Anyone else.

  “When he told me he loved me, I went nuts. I started screaming.” Her eyes were squeezed shut and Jenny knew she was reliving that moment before the accident. “He grabbed for the wheel and jerked it…That’s the last thing I remember before I woke up in the hospital.” Grace opened her right hand, studied her fingers. “I did everything I was supposed to do. Everything. This was not supposed to happen.”

  “I know.” Guilt pushed Jenny down, tried to steal the air from her lungs. Grace didn’t deserve this. Jenny was the one who’d defied convention, tested boundaries, flipped off rules. “I’m so sorry. I wish this hadn’t happened to you.”

  Grace’s lower lip trembled. “Why couldn’t he have just loved me enough not to do this?”

  What could Jenny say? She drew Grace into her arms and, for the second time that night, consoled her.

  “Don’t leave me, Jenny. Not now…please. Please don’t leave me.”

  * * *

  “Hello?”

  “Elliot? Hi. This is Jenny. I’m sorry to call so late, but I really need to talk to you…it’s about Grace.” She took a deep breath, pushed out the words. “Something’s happened. She needs to see you again, tomorrow if possible.”

  “What’s going on?” His voice touched her like a fleece blanket on a winter afternoon, wrapped tight and tucked in at the toes.

  “Oh, just about everything right now.” She tried to lighten the tenseness in her voice with a quick laugh, but it fell out like a squeak. Sometimes humor was best left at the door, especially when there were important issues to discuss. Like how was Grace going to get through her life, hour after hour, day after day, without thinking about her dead husband’s betrayal? And what about all the well-wishers? How was she going to look them in the eye, accept their most sincere condolences for the loss of her husband, when what she really wanted to do was scream that he was nothing but a lying bastard and she was glad he was dead? How was she going to do that and still keep sane?

  “Talk to me, Jenny.” She liked the way he said her name, dragging the n an extra half-second so it kind of rolled into a lazy familiarity.

  She’d promised herself she would protect her sister. She would not betray her, would tell no one about the true state of her marriage or her husband’s philandering ways. Pretend, that’s what she would do, pretend they were the happiest, most devoted couple in the neighborhood. No, the city, or maybe the world. She would offer a faint smile and nod sadly when people said it was unions like theirs that inspired love songs and greeting cards.

  She would pretend until Grace was strong enough to accept the truth, and then, Jenny would stand by her side, help her face her new life.

  Truth. Lies. All rolled into one, like the insides of an egg roll, hard to pick the tiny pieces of shrimp out of the cabbage, no matter what utensil a person used. After a while, you gave up and stuffed it all in your mouth because you couldn’t tell where one stopped and the other started. Sometimes, that’s how little difference there was between a truth and a lie. And sometimes, it was much greater, like the difference between a Java Jolt and a Colombian Decaf.

  But if she closed her eyes and scrunched down on the floor next to her bed, the feel of thick carpet between her toes and spaces between her words, she could see the truth. It was there, flashing before her in vivid shades of blue and green and yellow. I will not betray my sister. She used to believe that meant burying Grant’s crime with him and never speaking of it to anyone. But Grace’s knowing changed everything. Her knowing was killing her, like an open wound, draining life, one memory at a time. She needed help and Jenny was the only one who could make sure her sister got that help.

  “Talk to me, Jenny,” Elliot said again.

  “It’s really bad. There are ...” she hesitated, “things that happened.” Why did this have to be so difficult? Why couldn’t that jerk have kept his pants zipped? Jenny fished around in her shirt pocket and pulled out a piece of bubble gum—sanity dipped in strawberry. She peeled off the wrapper and popped it in her mouth, savoring the first burst of tangy flavor exploding on her tongue. Relief.

  She sighed and started again. “Grace and Grant didn’t have the ideal marriage we all thought they did,” she said, trying to think of a way to say what she had to say without really coming out and saying it. It was hard enough referring to sexual things with Elliot Drake. Probably because there was something in the way he’d looked at her tonight, with that intense stare, probing, exploring her perimeters, that was almost sexual. Not that it was, but almost. Or it could be. At least from her perspective, but who knew what a man who plumbed people’s brains every day would think. Maybe he’d have no perspective, everything would be grossly analytical and she would be simply one more glob of gyrus and cortex.

  But Jenny’s take on the situation was that talking about sex in a direct or indirect manner, between married or other parties, with Elliot Drake, was going to make her turn the color of her very pink T-shirt. At least two phones and several miles separated them. At least there was that. She cleared her throat and took the plunge. “They had some problems in their marriage. No one knew, but it was bad.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  “The kind that kills a marriage.” She chewed hard. “Rips it apart, sucks out the inside, and leaves the shell. That’s all Grace had left, just the shell. But she held on because she didn’t know what else to do and now I think even that’s ready to crack.”

  “Maybe she did the best she could at the time.”

  “Yeah,” Jenny said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Maybe she did.”

  “How can I help?”

  “She needs somebody to tell her it wasn’t her fault.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “Not the accident,” she said. “The other. The thing that tore them apart.”

  “That wasn’t her fault either,” he said.

  She cleared her throat. “Well, I know. But I think in some way she feels that she fell short, blissful expectations and all that. Who would have known twelve years ago that they’d end up like this?”

  “There is something to be said for avoiding fortune tellers and tarot cards.”

  “And crystal balls,” she added.

  “Definitely crystal balls,” he repeated. His voice was warm and comforting and very masculine. She wanted to wrap herself in his words and listen to him talk as she drifted off to sleep. She could do that, she realized. Drift off to sleep with his soothing tone lulling her.

  “Can you bring her in tomorrow afternoon?”

  Jenny lay down on the floor, stretched out, her head resting on the crook of her elbow, a strand of hair falling over her face, blocking out everything but the voice on the other line. “Sure. What time?”

  “Why don’t you bring her in around four?”

  “Okay. Fine.”

  Silence.

  “Jenny?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you all right?” His voice dipped even lower, making her insides do weird flips.

  “Sure,” she said. She was fine, really.

  “If you need to talk, I’m here.”

  That got her attention. “I’m fine.”

  “Well, if you ever want to talk…” A very long pause filled the line before he continued, “I was talking about on a personal level,” he said in a quiet voice. “As a friend.”

  She clutched the phone, hard. “You want to be my friend?”

  “I’d like to.”

  “Why?” She brushed the hair from her eyes and pushed into a sitting position.

  He laughed and her
insides felt like forty miniature marshmallows melting in a pan of butter for Rice Krispie Treats. “Why what? Why would I want to be your friend?”

  “Right,” she said. “Why would you want to be my friend?”

  He laughed again and the last of the marshmallows swirled into the others in one white, gooey confection. “Because I’ve never met anyone quite like you, Jenny Romano.”

  A smile snuck onto her lips. “Just friends?” Her mouth went dry. She pictured him sitting in that red leather booth at Angelino’s, his long fingers wrapped around his wine glass…

  For some crazy and inexplicable reason, part of her wanted him to say “Oh, no, Jenny, I want to be much more than friends with you. So much more.” And then there was the kiss, a mere brush of mouths, yet hinting of a deeper longing …

  But there was another side, the dark, scared side, that wanted him to say, “Oh, no, Jenny, you could never need anyone. You’re so self-assured, so self-sufficient, so self-contained, that I want nothing more than to be your friend.”

  This man said neither. He side-stepped the question altogether with, “All great relationships start with friendship.”

  Well, there it was, out in the open. They were going to be friends and...maybe something else. Or maybe not. Part of her was relieved with his answer, the other part, disappointed.

  “Jenny?”

  “Okay,” she said. “So, we’ll be friends. And you’re not going to try and analyze me or play shrink?”

  “You give me too much credit,” he said, and she pictured his lips twitching like they did when he was amused. “Even with all of my education and experience, I doubt I’d know where to begin with you. I don’t think anyone’s ever figured you out.”

  Jenny smiled, a very smug smile. “Right you are, Dr. Watson. Right you are.”

  They both laughed and then he said, “So, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Tomorrow.”

  There was a click on the other end of the line and the dial tone humming in her ear. Something had happened just now, something between the spaces and words of that conversation. She could feel it, low and hard, thrumming through her body, radiating from her arms and legs, calling her to awareness. She couldn’t identify it, or analyze it, nor did she want to. But it was there. And now, everything was different.