The Butterfly Garden

by Mary Campisi

  17

  “When the hell are you coming back here where you belong, Romano?”

  Jenny sucked in a deep breath. Relax, relax. She glanced at Grace who was sleeping in the recliner. “Take it easy, Joe. I was just getting ready to call you.”

  “How about that? You were supposed to call me two days ago.”

  “I know, I know.” She lowered her voice, made her way into the kitchen, out of earshot. “I’m sorry, something came up.”

  He blew out a long breath. “So? I’m waiting.”

  “Well,” she looked out the kitchen window, settled her gaze on a lilac bush. “It’s Grace.” How to tell him her sister was falling apart, one memory at a time because of an unfaithful husband? “She’s having a really tough time adjusting to her husband’s death.”

  That part was true, but what was even truer was the fact that Grace couldn’t adjust to the death of her dream. That was the death that tore her apart, made her stare straight ahead, listless.

  “What are you saying, Romano?”

  Jenny hesitated. She needed this assignment; it would gain her much-needed credibility after the debacle with her last job, and it would earn her the respect she deserved. Grace would never want her to turn down this opportunity. She’d tell Jenny she’d only begged her to stay the other night because she was beside herself, that she’d be fine, really. Grace would tell her this even if it were a lie.

  That was Grace, always thinking of everyone but herself, so unlike Jenny, who always thought of herself before everyone else. She opened her mouth and spit out the words. “Is there any way we can postpone the trip a few more weeks?” Maybe in a month Grace would be doing better, more like the old Grace.

  “I can’t wait that long. You know this business; postponing deadlines is like committing suicide. I need you on that plane next week.”

  “I can’t leave her, Joe.”

  “You can’t leave her,” he repeated, his voice filled with disbelief.

  “I’m sorry, I really am. But I have to stay here and take care of my sister. She needs me now.”

  “I need you, Romano. You’re the best damn photographer I have and I need you for this shoot.”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t.” She wasn’t leaving Grace for three weeks.

  He swore under his breath. “Ah, Christ.” Joe paused. “When are you coming back?”

  “I don’t know, Joe. I owe my sister.”

  There was a long pause at the other end of the line and then he said, “Can you get away at all? A day or two, tops? I’ve got a shoot in D.C.; if I send Gravitz to Italy, I need somebody to handle it.”

  “D.C.?”

  “Yeah, big white building, you know the place?”

  She ignored his sarcasm. “When?” The extra money would help and maybe Laura could manage things for two days…

  “Next week. Tuesday, Wednesday. It’s not anywhere near the scope of Italy, but it’s a paycheck.”

  “Yeah, I could use one of those.” Would Grace be okay or would she think Jenny was deserting her?

  Joe’s gruffness interrupted her anxieties. “We’re doing a story on three senators and their families.”

  “Oh.” Laura could keep the girls during the day while Grace rested…

  “…feature stories on the families. One has a kid in rehab. Another has a daughter being treated for bulimia. And, another has a grandchild who’s been diagnosed with ADHD.”

  “What?”

  “You know, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder,” he said. “When the kid can’t sit still.”

  She rubbed the back of her neck. “And these people have all agreed to these stories?”

  There was a long pause. “Sort of.”

  “Meaning?”

  “They’ll tell their stories and we’ll get our stories.”

  No, they hadn’t agreed, not really. Probably didn’t even know that Joe was only featuring the politicians to get to the meatier subjects: substance abuse, eating disorders, attention deficits. Real issues that mattered a hell of a lot more than balancing the budget. Everybody knew somebody who drank too much, took too many pills, ate too little or too much, and couldn’t settle down long enough to finish homework.

  He cleared his throat. “It might get tricky. People tend to guard their skeletons, especially politicians.”

  “Joe—”

  “But the public needs to know these kinds of problems don’t discriminate.”

  “Joe,” she said, firmer. “Who—”

  He cut her off again. “Anything else is bullshit, damn it. But a senator’s daughter who pukes up her guts every time she eats, now that’s real. And that kind of exposure can help every closet puker across the country. It’s a damn national crisis we’re dealing with and you can make—”

  “Joe!”

  “What!?”

  “Who’s going to talk them into the piece?”

  “I’m sending Reynolds. She’s young but she can do the job.”

  “Okay, fine.”

  “You sure you want to do this?”

  “I’ll do it,” she said, wondering how she was going to tell Grace.

  “Be there next Tuesday. Greta will call you with your itinerary. And Jenny,” he said, “I’m counting on you. Don’t let me down.”

  The phone clicked in her ear. End of conversation. Possibly, end of life as she knew it. Don’t let me down. Joe’s words spun in her head, faster and faster, until she thought she’d throw up. She willed herself to concentrate on nothing but the exchange of air in and out. Breathe. Breathe.

  She had to tell Grace. Now. Jenny made her way to the living room where Grace rested, eyes closed, lips pulled into a half-frown.

  “Grace?” she said in a soft voice.

  Her sister’s eyes fluttered open. “I think I must have dozed off.” She let out a big yawn. “What did your boss have to say?”

  So, she had been listening, at least to the beginning. Jenny picked up a pillow, pulled a piece of fringe between her fingers, and said with forced nonchalance, “He said he wants me to go to D.C. next Tuesday.”

  “What about Italy?”

  Jenny shook her head. “I’m not going. My Italian’s rusty anyway, and the showers were horrible the last time I went. You know, rusty water, leaky pipes.” She paused, scrunched up her nose, “Poor sewage system.”

  Grace just stared at her, said nothing.

  “It’s only for a few days,” Jenny rushed on, trying to make it sound like she was taking a trip to the grocery store instead of several hundred miles away. “I’ll make sure Laura can cover for me. I’ll get the house stocked before I go: wheat bread, peanut butter, toilet paper—”

  “Jenny.”

  “And the yogurt with the fruit. Red grapes, too, no seeds. Bananas, but not too ripe.” She grabbed a pad and pencil from the coffee table and began jotting down the list.

  “Jenny, stop.”

  “Just a minute,” she said, adding one dozen large eggs to the list. Was there another margarine in the freezer?

  “Now!”

  She looked up. “Huh?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m making a grocery list so I can have everything ready before I leave.”

  “I’m not an invalid, you know.”

  “I know.”

  Grace leaned over, snatched the pad from her hand. “So, stop treating me like one. Go to D.C. It’s okay. I’ll be fine.”

  * * *

  Grace was right. She was fine. Laura called Jenny the first night and told her she’d taken Grace shopping at the mall, not too long, a few hours, just to look and see if she could find a nice summer outfit, a skirt and top maybe, with a matching scarf for her head. Grace had found four! And then there’d been dinner, and a game of Aggravation with the girls and by nine o’clock, Grace had yawned and said if she didn’t get home she’d fall asleep at the table.

  And the second day had gone much the same as the first, with Laura keeping Grace busy and moving so she
wouldn’t have too much time to think. Laura thought Grace’s overall quietness was the aftermath of grief over losing Grant. If she only knew…

  It was Jenny who couldn’t stop thinking about Grace, worrying that she might have a relapse, curl up in the corner of her bedroom and hide or, worse yet, curl up in a corner of herself, deep inside, and never come out again. But Elliot assured Jenny that she was doing everything she could, they all were, and now, much of what happened was up to Grace.

  Elliot. She missed him. Odd, that a person she’d known such a short time could occupy a large section of her thoughts. He was planning to pick her up at the airport tomorrow afternoon. She’d told him no, she’d driven the minivan; she’d get herself home, but he said he’d be waiting for her by baggage claim. And she hadn’t argued, had actually been…pleased.

  Jenny decided there were three things she really liked about Elliot. Actually, there were about thirty things, but three stuck out above the rest. First, she liked his smile. It was a lazy smile, curving up at the corners, the kind that invited a person to relax and join in. No pressure, nothing forced, just the steady, languorous movement of skin and muscle rolling over and into one another. When he smiled at her like that, her insides turned all gooey, like melted caramel. Oh, yes, she liked that smile.

  The second thing she really liked about him was his hands. They didn’t fiddle. Unlike Jenny’s, which were always in motion, twirling a piece of hair, picking at a hang nail, pulling on pillow fringe, scratching the spot at the base of her neck. Elliot did none of those things. His fingers were strong, capable, devoid of rings, with a faint tracing of hair just below the knuckle. She liked to watch his hands, liked the way he raised them in one fluid motion, graceful and with purpose, not scattered and ill-directed like hers.

  She marveled at the way he carried on whole conversations with his hands crossed over his stomach or resting on the arms of his leather chair. How did he do that when she couldn’t say one word without using her hands, or at least her fingers? She swung them in the air, slashed them across, arced them out wide. When she was younger, everyone told her it was the Italian in her, but she didn’t think that was the reason because Grace came from the same mother and father and she was as calm as Elliot.

  And then, there was his voice. That was definitely at the top of her list. It drew her in, soothed her, encouraged her, in deep, gentle tones. But it wasn’t just the way he said things; it was what he said. And what he said to her. The other night, she’d just stuck a second piece of gum in her mouth, and he’d asked why she did that. She’d shrugged and tried to pretend it was because she loved the taste, which was true, but not the real reason. He stared at her as she went on and on about how the burst of flavor in her mouth was so exhilarating and did he want to try some? He shook his head and told Jenny not to be so nervous around him. She’d stopped chewing, held his gaze, feeling like he’d stripped her bare and could see all of her flaws, from the two-inch scar where she’d had her appendix out to the annoying, red, blotchy spots at the base of her scalp that required a special prescription shampoo to stop the itch. But he went deeper still, past the flesh, into her brain, around her heart, into places she did not want him to see.

  She’d been the first to look away. He didn’t say anything, no questions, no probes. Just a light touch on the back of her hand that shifted to a gentle stroking, and then he’d lifted her chin with his other hand, his thumb and forefinger holding it steady. She saw the want, the longing, the need, in the depths of those brown eyes and knew he saw the same in her own. Her eyes had drifted shut as she waited for the pressure of his lips, remembering the first time he’d kissed her, when he’d taken her home from Angelino’s, and wanting to feel that kiss again, wanting more than a kiss. It was inevitable; she’d known it in some elemental way from the first. His lips brushed hers, once, twice, his tongue tracing her lips, gently probing, seeking. Jenny moaned when his tongue touched hers, wound her arms around his neck and pressed herself against the hardness of his body. She’d been hot, cold, shivering, wanting, needing, and then he’d pulled away, leaving her dazed, confused, and greatly disappointed. He’d touched her mouth with his fingers, and said, “First, we have to be friends. And that means we have to open up and learn to trust one another.”

  She’d swallowed and said nothing.

  Open up? Trust?

  What did that have to do with this need pulsing through her body? Jenny only trusted three people: Grace, Gerald, and Stefan. And with that trust came honesty, sometimes more than they might have cared to hear. Like the time Gerald asked her if she thought his hair was getting thin in the back. Stefan had suggested he see someone about treatments because he could see traces of Gerald’s scalp. That comment sparked an enormous fight between the two and Gerald demanded Jenny act as mediator. She did; she told him when she looked a certain way, she could see gaps, big ones, not just traces of pinkish-white scalp. He’d clamped his mouth shut, stalked next door, and stayed away for three days.

  Could she open up and trust Elliot? The only time she’d ever trusted a man in a relationship had been in college and the guy dumped her, said he was looking for someone more “corporate,” more like Grace.

  But Elliot seemed different. Maybe. No, he really did seem different. Most men, even the honest ones, would tell her friendship was a prerequisite to a deeper relationship as they reached for her breast.

  So what if they did get open, shared secrets, maybe even fears? Then what? She was leaving in the next month or so, wasn’t she? Well, wasn’t she? What was the point of getting involved, especially with someone like Elliot, if she weren’t going to be around?

  Or was that maybe a stall tactic on his part? Maybe he wasn’t really interested in her in that way at all, and he was simply being nice, biding his time because he knew she was leaving. Was that it?

  She was so confused. There was only one person who could set her straight, but she’d cut out her tongue before she asked Elliot Drake.

  * * *

  The plane began its descent. Soon, she’d follow the rest of the passengers down the tarmac to the gate…and Elliot. He’d be there, waiting for her. The trip had been a success, despite the initial reservations of the parties involved. But Stephanie Reynolds had gotten the okay for the stories she’d wanted and Jenny had gotten her pictures. It hadn’t really been that difficult. Stephanie had been honest about what she was trying to accomplish; she hadn’t tried to manipulate the truth and bury it under layers of fancy words that didn’t bear the slightest resemblance to their real objective, and that honesty had done it.

  Will, the seventeen-year-old in rehab for habitual heroin use, was a sad, pathetic testimony to a young boy whose well-meaning parents never taught him the word no. Like so many other baby boomers, the senator and his wife were determined to give their son everything their own middle-class upbringing had lacked. Cars, trips to Europe, endless spending sprees. Only, they gave too much, too soon, too often, and Will ended up with a heroin habit that landed him in an alley, beaten up, naked, and half-dead.

  Allison, the bulimic fifteen-year-old, was a sweet, shy girl with big blue eyes and a body that looked like skin pulled over bones. At ten, she’d been a healthy, rosy-cheeked child with dimpled knees and an extra layer of winter protection around her belly. At twelve, the excess was gone and her parents noticed her increasing obsession with the bathroom. By fourteen, her cheeks were hollow, her skin sallow, and she hadn’t had a period in months. Allison’s parents were shocked the first time bulimia was mentioned in connection with their daughter. How could a bright, beautiful, popular child who didn’t have an extra ounce of fat fall victim to such a degrading disease? They refused to listen to doctors for another year, until at age fifteen, Allison was rushed to the emergency room spitting up blood.

  And then there was Clay, the nine-year-old, red-headed roughhouse who was diagnosed with ADHD. The senator and his wife had raised five brilliant children who went on to receive graduate and postgraduate
degrees from places like Princeton, Harvard, and Rutgers. There had never been an individual on either side of the family who hadn’t excelled in academics. Never. So, young Clay got a label of being uncooperative, undisciplined, and unwilling to buckle down and do what was expected of him when he squirmed in his seat and flicked pencils on the floor. Not until the school psychologist suggested that Clay’s behavior might go beyond stubborn willfulness did the family even consider the term attention deficit hyperactivity disorder.

  Three separate families, one pain. It tore at hopes, crushed dreams, and ripped expectations back to the most elemental level—survival. These families would need to help their children adapt to a different world, not the one they thought would embrace each of them into its fold, but another, far more essential universe that knew and understood. And cared. Will, Allison, and Clay’s parents and grandparents might feel disappointment, anger, maybe even shades of resentment over dreams and hopes lying scattered in barren soil. But they would have to push past the selfishness, tunnel through the grief to emerge on the other side, committed to helping these children adjust and overcome their limitations.

  Jenny believed they would.

  A vision of Natalie crying in the night, clinging to her sister flashed through her head. And Danielle, whose grief had channeled itself through anger directed at Jenny for being the one to tell her she was fatherless. They were only children, trying so hard to adjust to an adult world, with adult situations. And then there was Sydney, another victim of an adult’s carelessness. Thinking of Sydney made Jenny think of Sydney’s father, and just how much she was looking forward to seeing him. She glanced at her watch, took a deep breath. Soon…very soon.