The Memory of Butterflies: A Novel

by Grace Greene

  Gran quieted. I fixed us both fresh toast with butter and jelly. I left hers on a plate beside her bed and put her coffee there, too. I helped her move from the kitchen to her bed and settled her in, propped up well so she could eat and drink. My nausea had passed, maybe in part due to relief now that Gran knew the truth. I carried my coffee and toast out to the cabin, ready to be alone for a while.

  I sat at the wheel and gave my dilemma some thought while I nibbled at my toast. When the toast was eaten, I brushed the crumbs from my fingers and centered the wedged clay on the wheel. I wet my fingers in the water bucket, and the spinning started. The hum of the motor below the wheel pan established a rhythm. My wet fingers, slipping along the clay body, strummed the one-note tune, but within that single note were variations unimagined and songs uncounted. Sometimes those songs had words, and I heard them in my head. Soon I was humming along in harmony.

  When the shaping was done, I stopped the wheel, took my wire, and worked it carefully under the edge of the soft clay pot, pressing it close to the base, and then pulled it toward me with a smooth, deft movement. When the pot was freed, I carried it over to the shelves and found a prime spot for it to dry. Drying had to happen slowly. I dampened cloths in a water bucket and wrapped them loosely around it.

  Clay required timing and patience. Whether to work it or leave it be to dry properly—the process was driven by the needs of the clay. The potter was a tool whose wants and needs were extraneous. It was a humbling occupation. Plus, a potter had to have a true disregard for messy hands.

  I took another lump of clay, one I’d already wedged. Wedging clay was powerful and violent. It eliminated the air bubbles that made the clay body weak and prone to exploding when fired. I liked to wedge clay when I was feeling upset or angry, so I usually had clay, already wedged and wrapped, ready to hand.

  Wetting the wheel, I pressed the clay onto it, hard, then beat at it with my fist to make the suction right. As the wheel began to spin, I worked on centering the clay with my hands. I dipped my fingers in the water again and went to work shaping. The focus, by necessity, blocked my extraneous, darker fears and worries. As I pressed into the lump of clay and worked my thumb and forefingers down and then up, over and over, to create the walls, I realized Gran was right about telling the boy. He—no one else but him and me—had the absolute right to know.

  The next morning, I bathed and washed my hair. It was long, halfway down my back, and would dry straight and shiny without help, but standing in front of the medicine cabinet mirror over the sink, I saw the ends were uneven. I took Gran’s sewing sheers and pulled the tresses forward over each shoulder and trimmed up the edges. I wanted to look respectable, someone worthy of inclusion in another family. After fixing breakfast, I dressed in slacks and a dressy top. It was early days yet, and the slacks fit fine.

  I drove over to the boy’s house. Some other woman was cleaning it now, I assumed. I hadn’t been here since that woman was me. The grass was green and freshly cut, and not a leaf marred it. When the leaves began turning, they would fall, but they would fall as colorful, crisp ornaments to be whisked away as soon as possible. My experience with these people, and those like them, was that they weren’t mean, but they were self-directed and self-focused. They weren’t the sort of human beings tenderhearted people should get in the way of.

  There was no sign of life. No car was in the driveway. But there was a four-car garage, so the empty driveway meant little. I knocked on the front door and waited, then rang the doorbell. My gut was thumping. I felt it throughout my body and tasted the bile in my mouth.

  No one answered. Light-headed, I stepped back and leaned against a post. Relieved more than disappointed, the gut-thumping diminished, but I felt teary now. Had I cherished hopes after all? Maybe that these people would be kind and welcoming?

  Maybe I had hoped Spencer would be glad to see me despite what he’d said. I didn’t love him, no pretense there. My good sense and morals had been crushed by a crush, enhanced by alcohol and proximity, and a new life was not an uncommon result. But we could make this right. We could make a life together. This wouldn’t be the first baby that resulted in a happy marriage.

  No one was home, and I was in no rush. If I returned home too quickly, Gran wouldn’t believe I’d tried. I sat on the concrete porch steps to rest and gather myself.

  Hinges squeaked behind me. The storm door, its etched glass perfect and shiny, opened a few inches.

  “Hello?” his mother said.

  I stood. “Hi. I don’t know if you remember me?”

  She tilted her head. Her hair looked freshly colored, and her hand resting on the doorframe displayed her manicure.

  “Oh, sorry. You’re Anna, right? You cleaned our house?”

  “Hannah, ma’am. My name is Hannah.” I cleared my throat, suddenly suffering from a burning stomach again. “I wondered if your son might be home?”

  “My son?”

  Apparently more explanation was called for.

  “Well, yes, ma’am. We went to school together, and we . . . he and I talked the day I was cleaning your house. Might I speak with him?”

  Her eyes had grown cold. I didn’t know if she was suspicious, or protective, or if I was boring her.

  “I need to speak with him.”

  “Hannah, you said? Well, Hannah, my son is at college. If you’re friends, then I’m surprised you don’t know.”

  Dismay hit me. My eyes wanted to close, and my body tried to turn away in shame, but I refused. I forced my distress from my face, mentally smoothing away the hurt, and straightened my posture.

  I cleared my throat. “Yes, ma’am. I knew he was already in Charlottesville for school, but this being the weekend, I thought he might be home . . . with the university so close.”

  “He isn’t. I’ll be happy to pass on a message to him, if you like.”

  My thoughts and fears all stuttered and stammered around in my brain. I tried to sort out the best response. Meanwhile, my nausea increased. Black specks danced before my eyes. I held on to my stomach, trying to keep it all at bay.

  I managed to say, “Could you ask him to call me, please?”

  Between the floating specks obscuring my vision, I saw in her eyes how badly she wanted to say no. I saw her suspicion. Her lips shaped to say no, but instead she said, “What’s your number?”

  “He already has it. I guess you didn’t know that, did you?” Then I turned and barfed. I missed the door and the porch, but the neatly trimmed bushes suffered. I would’ve been embarrassed, but the immediate relief the vomiting brought made it worthwhile. If not worthwhile, then surely inevitable, and the sense of well-being flooding through me in its wake gave me strength.

  “Sorry, ma’am.” I nodded as I wiped my lips and chin with my sleeve and turned for the car.

  The woman’s mouth hung open, then she slapped her own hand over it and bent a little at the middle. Vomiting can be catching, I knew. I also knew Spencer would never call because he’d never get the message, and part of me was happy. Gran had the honesty she wanted—at least I’d tried—and I wouldn’t have to wonder if his family would have welcomed a new little one and me.

  I stopped cleaning houses before I was far enough along to draw questions. I had a little money saved up, and it didn’t take much to keep us fed. Mr. Bridger, who lived over the ridge, shared his venison with us, and sometimes a squirrel or rabbit. Gran and I grew veggies and canned them, and I’d kept that up after she got too sick. We had electric for the lights and propane for cooking, and the man in town mostly handled the bills. If I were laid up for a few days after having the baby, we’d manage well enough.

  On a visit to Gran, Mildred saw my condition and had another, sterner word with me.

  “You need to see an ob-gyn.”

  I set my lips to closed and scowled at her.

  “It’s not only about you. You’re pregnant. You owe it to this baby to give it the best start possible.”

  My stern expre
ssion may have wavered because Mildred pressed harder.

  “I’ll make the appointment.” Mildred moved close to me and put her hand on my arm. She lowered her voice. I was forced to lean toward her to hear better.

  “This doctor is near Charlottesville. You won’t run into anyone from around here. I know you want to keep your business private.” She glanced at Gran, and Gran nodded.

  I didn’t respond, but Mildred saw my doubt. After she left, Gran pressed the subject further.

  “She’s right, Hannah. The babe deserves the best. And you, too. It’s no easy thing to have a baby. You need to be at your best.”

  When Mildred called the next day with an appointment time and an address, I agreed to go. She gave me directions. She offered to drive me. I told her I could handle it.

  I found the doctor’s office with no problem. I was early, and the parking lot was all but empty. I sat in the car trying to get up my nerve. I’d rarely been to a doctor for any reason, and this felt far too personal and intimate. On the other hand, intimacy had led to this whole thing, so that felt like justice of some sort.

  That morning the sun shone brightly in a pure-blue sky. A flock of birds flew overhead, low enough that I could hear them squawking through the rolled-down window. Other cars drove into the lot and parked. Several women emerged from the cars and gathered near the office door. They wore pink and blue scrubs. They must work for the doctor. One of the women laughed loudly and turned toward my car.

  She couldn’t see me, not with the glare of the sun on my windshield, but I saw her and recognized her as the mother of a girl I’d gone to school with. The girl and I weren’t close friends, but we’d known each other for years, and her mother would know me in a heartbeat.

  I tried to tell myself that she wouldn’t know why I was here. It could be for one of those wellness visits, right? At this point, I was thicker in the middle, but it wasn’t obvious. All the same, Mildred had figured it out pretty quickly, hadn’t she? And this woman might come in the room with the doctor for the examination. Even if she didn’t, my records would be right there in their files. I imagined how natural it would be for her to mention to her daughter over supper, “Guess who I saw today?” And the next reasonable question would be, “Why?”

  My fingers gripped the steering wheel so tightly that my joints ached.

  I’d learned it well from my grandparents—the value of privacy and self-reliance—and I wouldn’t let my Grand down now. Likely, some of my own pride was at stake as well, though I didn’t want to admit to it. I didn’t have much in life, neither possessions nor social position, but I had my reputation as a decent, practical, respectable young woman who minded her own business, and I didn’t want to be the subject of anyone’s gossip. I was a Cooper from Cooper’s Hollow, and that’s who we were.

  I drove home. Gran welcomed me as I came through the door and started to ask about the visit. I shushed her. Her smile dimmed, and she rubbed her hands over her face, but she didn’t persist.

  Mildred called later that day and asked why I’d missed the appointment. I was honest with her. I owed her that.

  “I saw people I knew. Someone who worked there. I’d like to keep my business as my business.”

  “We’ll try another doctor.”

  “No. Thank you for your concern, but definitely no. Babies have been born for centuries without doctors. I’m young and healthy, and I’ll take my chances.”

  There was a long pause, a moment of silence wherein I let Mildred gather her thoughts, hoping we could resolve this now and put it aside.

  “What about your baby?” she finally said. “You have a responsibility to your child.”

  Out of respect, I’d given her the opportunity to speak her mind, but this was enough.

  “We’ll be fine. Thank you for your concern.” I said it firmly, leaving no doubt there was a period at the end of the sentence and an end to the conversation.

  Mildred showed up a few days later with prenatal vitamins and books about pregnancy, childbirth, and bringing up babies. She began checking my blood pressure along with Gran’s. I allowed her to do that, and it seemed to ease her mind.

  The book she’d given me about childbirth was almost enough to send me running back to the doctor’s office. I was curled up on the sofa, reading, and Gran was in her bed doing the same. I must’ve made a noise because she asked if something was wrong.

  I looked down at the picture of the crowning baby and slapped the book closed. “No, ma’am. It’s all good.” I stood up and walked toward the kitchen. “Thirsty? Can I get you something, Gran?”

  “Hot tea would be nice.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” In the kitchen, I stood at the back door. We’d left it cracked open for fresh air. I clutched the book to me and stared out across the yard and the creek. Beyond the creek and amid the trees on the far side was the cemetery. Its stone walls had been there long before Grand and Gran, and maybe before Grand’s grandparents, too.

  For untold years, women had been having babies. There was no disputing the value of doctors and hospitals and all the conveniences, but in the end, babies were conceived and born with or without them.

  My reasoning wasn’t without flaw. I knew that.

  I closed the door and put the book on the counter while I filled the teakettle. I felt assured. All would be well for both my baby and me. We’d do just fine.

  Before my baby was due, I drove up the interstate to the next town. My house-cleaning savings were tucked in my purse. I wandered through the infant section in Walmart and picked out what I deemed most likely to be needed early on. I did everything I could to make sure we were ready for the big day.

  My baby was born in late February. It was a cold, bitter, rain-spitting morning. Per our calculations, we’d been planning on an early March delivery, but when the contractions started and didn’t let up, Gran called Mildred. Mildred lived a few miles up Cross County Road, nearer Mineral, so we were lucky there was only rain.

  Mildred arrived ready to do business. No more suggestions and second-guessing—she set to work helping me deliver my baby.

  The contractions weren’t pleasant but not as bad as I had feared, though the last one made me yell. That was it. A push or two and Mildred was holding the baby and looking almost surprised. Her all-business demeanor vanished as a smile transformed her face.

  “A daughter,” she declared as she wiped the baby’s face, then wrapped her in a soft cotton baby blanket. “Sometimes fast births have their own challenges, but you’re one lucky mom, Hannah Cooper. This little girl is pinking up nicely and already eyeing me. She’s small but perfect. I’ve seldom seen an easier birth, especially for a first baby, but some women are built for it. It’s all in the hips. I’m glad for you, but make no mistake, you are truly fortunate.” She smoothed the baby’s blanket and placed her in my arms.

  “Thank you, Miss Mildred, for your help.”

  I touched my baby’s hand and her cheek. I untucked the blanket from around her feet and inspected them, too. She was perfect, as Mildred had said. I was glad my baby was a girl. She’d fit right in with this household of women.

  “I’ll register the birth for you when I go into town. What will you call her? Have you decided?”

  “Her name is Ellen,” I said, caressing her cheek and fluffing her soft cap of very light-brown hair tipped with gold. “Ellen Clara Cooper.”

  Gran beamed when she heard it. Her first name was Clara and her maiden name was Ellen.

  Mildred wrote down the name, then fixed her gray eyes on me. “And the daddy? What’s his name?”

  “No need to list him. We’re good as we are.”

  “I have to list someone. If I don’t, they’ll put unknown.”

  “Then so be it. Let people think what they will.” I tucked the soft baby blanket up under her chin, and she turned toward my fingers. “Ellen, daughter of Hannah Cooper, great-granddaughter of Clara and Edmund Cooper. That’s good enough for anyone.”

  Mild
red shook her head but bent forward to place a light kiss on my forehead.

  “You’re hardly more than a baby yourself. I’ll have social services come out and visit. They’ll be able to offer assistance.”

  As with Mildred’s suggestion of going to the doctor, Gran didn’t object outright. I was shocked at her. I fixed my stare on Mildred and said, “Don’t. We are fine as we are. I won’t let them in. We don’t need them, and if we ever do, I’ll summon them myself.”

  “Hannah,” Gran admonished.

  “No, Gran. You know about babies, and I’ve read the books Mildred brought. Between us, we’ll do fine. When I’m fit to drive, I’ll take her to see a pediatrician. I’ll be a good, responsible mother.” I leveled my gaze at Mildred. “I appreciate all you’ve done for us, truly, and I mean this sincerely—you are welcome to drop by anytime you wish to check on us in case you think we aren’t up to the challenge, but otherwise, we have everything we need.” I looked down at the newborn in my arms and whispered, “Aren’t I right, my sweet Ellen?”

  Ellen slept and ate and cried and laughed and thrived. Her eyes were blue, and her hair stayed wispy and curly. When I rubbed her forehead and scalp lightly with my palm, she’d close her eyes and her lips would part, and her expression was pure and angelic. That, and rubbing the soles of her feet, were her favorite things, and would always soothe her when she was gassy or fretting.

  Gran hovered nearby. She tutored me in diapering, burping, and all such things. What she couldn’t do was to spell me at night, so if Ellen didn’t sleep between feedings, I didn’t, either, and I was tired. During that first week, Mildred had brought a baby car seat and secured it in Grand’s car. She drove Ellen and me to visit the pediatrician. The result was gold stars for all of us.

  For the first two weeks, Mildred dropped by daily, but as time wore on, she was reassured by Ellen’s progress and my ability to manage despite the sleep issue, and she eased off on the frequency. I was pleased and proud. It felt like a seal of approval.

  One day when Ellen was three weeks old, I was sitting on the porch with my feet up. It was early March, but the air was mild and the breeze was fresh and gentle. The cradle was next to me. Ellen was sleeping on a soft cushion with the blanket snugged up around her cheeks and looking cozy. I was half-asleep myself, listening to the woods and the creaks of the house and the soft sound of her breathing. The noise of a truck approaching woke me. I sat forward, wondering if I should rush Ellen inside. She’d been up half the night, and I was loath to wake her before time to feed her. By that point, the pickup truck was rounding the curve and in view. It was the grocery delivery. Eva Pullen did deliveries as a business. Gran had been placing orders for years, and Eva would do the shopping and deliver the groceries. I was surprised to see Eva driving and not her son, Anthony, who’d been taking over her delivery routes in recent months. I figured the reason for that was obvious—and sleeping in the cradle.