The Memory of Butterflies: A Novel

by Grace Greene

  At first, I didn’t breathe. I wondered what would happen to my poor grandmother now that I no longer had the mental or emotional wherewithal to care for her. Then the child moved. Her shoulders jerked, her feet crossed, and one hand, a small fist, moved up to rub her eye.

  In a heartbeat, I crossed the few feet between us. I fell to my knees. Her eyes were brown liquid with amber flecks, and her rosy, chapped lips were pressed together tightly, quivering, as she struggled not to cry.

  She must have a person, a parent, someone, nearby. Maybe up at the main road? Had there been an accident and she’d wandered down?

  I gave her a closer look. Her face was dirty around the edges as if someone had taken a wet rag and given it a lick and a promise but no real washing. Her nostrils were a little crusty, but noses could run when it was cold. Black dirt lines were ingrained beneath her fingernails. The flesh of her fingers was cracked, almost like mine had been when I’d worked in the wet clay in winter. I thought this might be what was called chilblain in a Dickens book I’d read for school.

  “It’s OK, sweetie. Where’s your mommy or daddy?” I reached toward her, and she drew back.

  Her shoulders hunched, and she seemed to draw inward.

  I wanted to run up to the road and see for myself, but I couldn’t leave her here alone. She might wander off into the woods, and I’d never know what happened to her. I looked at the door. Should I take her inside? What about Gran?

  “What’s your name, sweetie?”

  She pursed her lips, squeezed her eyes shut, and shook her head.

  The door opened. Gran was there, up and using her cane and feeling well enough to be curious.

  “Where’d you go, Hannah? I—” She broke off. “Why look here. Hey there, sweet girl.” She paused, she frowned, and then Gran broke into the biggest smile I’d seen in two years. Her whole face lit up. “Well, there you are, my sweet Ellen. Where’d you get to, honey?”

  Chills raced through my body. Feeling wrenched by her tone and words, I cautioned her. “Gran, I don’t . . . this isn’t . . . I don’t know who this child is.”

  “Ellen. Our sweet baby Ellen. Gran’s got cookies, little miss. Can you smell ’em? Come in here where it’s warm.” She let go of the doorjamb and held out her spotted, wrinkled hand.

  The morning was a tad chilly, but it was nowhere near cold, and this child was dressed in bulky clothing. She gave Gran one long look, then scooted out of the chair. The child went straight to her, taking the offered hand.

  What was I supposed to do? Snatch her back?

  For now, it seemed well enough. Gran would come to her senses soon. She was indulging her own imagination and avoiding pain that seeing a toddler might cause. Gran took flights of fancy from time to time. Aggravating sometimes but always harmless. At least the child was safe for the meanwhile.

  I slipped on my outside shoes and walked across the yard to the driveway. I thought of driving, but if something were going on in the woods between here and the main road, I’d likely miss it in the car. I walked fast downhill to the low point in our drive and then up the slope to the main road. It was a fair walk, and when I stepped onto the asphalt, I stood there looking both ways. No one was in sight. Not a soul. Not a single car passed. I walked along the narrow dirt shoulder far enough each way to see around the curves. Finally, a car did go by, and then a truck. They barely slowed.

  I had plenty of time to consider, and the only thing I could think to do was call the sheriff’s office when I got back to the house.

  After that? What would happen?

  My Ellen would’ve been about this age, this size. Except for the dark eyes and darker hair, this could be her. My heart gave a tug. No wonder Gran was confused.

  What if the little girl was abandoned here on the state road? Had found her way down our driveway?

  “Nonsense,” I said. No one drops off a child the way they might do with a dog or cat that had become inconvenient. If no family claimed her, the sheriff and social services would take her and find her a reasonable home. I mean, for heaven’s sakes, look at Gran and me—an old woman who’d passed her expiration date a long time ago and a youngish woman who’d been fatally broken before life had even given her a real try. Stuck out here in this Hollow. Cocooned out here. Not that Gran wasn’t an amazing woman, but she took most of my time. No sane authority would allow me, twenty-one and with no means or prospects, to take charge of a child not my own.

  This worry was pointless. This child’s people would be searching for her. Or suppose she’d been kidnapped?

  I looked up and down the road again, almost expecting to see kidnappers returning. Driving dark, dangerous cars and armed, no doubt. I stared up the road. Would I fight them? I would. I would welcome a fight that had a ghost of a chance of being won.

  No kidnappers, then. Maybe hikers or tourists. They didn’t deserve a child if they couldn’t be bothered to keep track of her when in the woods.

  I was being ridiculous. It was because I dreaded having to do what I must, and I feared for Gran, body and soul, if it came to taking the child away right at the moment.

  Back down the driveway, and at the house, Gran and the child were seated at the kitchen table. Gran had pulled out the cookies. Only crumbs were left. A half-filled glass of milk was on the table in front of the little girl, and she wore some of it as a mustache.

  From the kitchen doorway, I asked, “Did she tell you her name or why she was on the porch?”

  “Her name’s Ellen, silly.” She turned to the child. “Still hungry?”

  The child’s blue jacket was hung on the back of the chair. I picked it up and checked the pockets. Something crumpled, a tiny noise deep in a pocket.

  I felt it again. Something there. I reached in and pulled out a note.

  I recognized George Bridger’s hard, tight scrawl. It read:

  Liam’s girl needs a home. Her mama left her. I’m sick. Going to the hospital and likely not coming back. Take care of Trisha. Regards to Clara.

  The last time I’d seen Mr. Bridger was in the autumn. September? He’d mentioned his son was coming to visit. Liam. Liam had left years ago. Mr. Bridger had mentioned his daughter-in-law, too. Had they ever arrived? They must have, judging by this note.

  Likely, he’d said. Was there a possibility Mr. Bridger would return home? Was he asking me to take charge of the child until he knew for sure? Or was he asking me to do a favor for him as an old family friend? Whatever the reason, this was not an everyday kind of request.

  I pressed my hands to my chest to calm my heart.

  No, this was not merely a favor he was asking. I saw the child with such clarity it was like heaven itself had etched her features. He could’ve dropped this child in town on his way to the hospital. George Bridger had meant this twofold—as an answer to his problem and as a gift to us.

  It wasn’t a gift we could keep. This was someone’s child. Liam and his wife’s. But where were they?

  Gran reached for her cane and pushed up from the table. “Ellen and I are going to read a story.”

  “What?”

  “I promised.”

  The child scooted around me, still unsure, and when Gran’s bulk hit the bed and it sagged, I helped her get her swollen legs up onto the mattress. The girl—Trisha, I reminded myself—stood at the foot of the bed like a statue.

  “Prop the pillows, Hannah.” Gran was intent. “Get the ones from the sofa, too. We need extra.”

  I did as she instructed. Gran patted the bed beside her and held out her hand. The child scrambled up and scooted into the crook of her arm.

  “Fetch us a book, will you?” Gran waved her free hand in the direction of my room.

  The storybooks. They’d been mine, and my mother’s before me. They’d been in the bookcase in my bedroom for many years. The bookcase next to the crib. The crib I’d never taken down because taking it down meant . . .

  Acceptance. Surrender.

  Gran was talking to the child in a soft,
comforting voice. I went to my room. I grabbed a few books and took them into the living room. The child looked up at me and held out her hands.

  And grabbed my heart with her tiny fingers. It actually hurt.

  My hands shook as I gave her one book and put the other two on top of her little legs.

  While I was there, I eased off her shoes and put them at the foot of the bed where she could see them.

  “Gran. Are you two comfy?”

  She patted the child’s hand and said, “My great-granddaughter and I are perfect right here together where we belong, aren’t we, sweet Ellen?”

  Trisha, aka sweet Ellen, nodded with a smile that about killed me. Blind and gasping, I found my way to the kitchen and fell against the counter. I needed air. I floundered through the back door and caught myself on the stoop railing. I slid down to sit heavily on the step. I put my face in my hands.

  Beyond me, across Cub Creek and near the edge of the forest where the hill began to rise in earnest, were the resting places of my loved ones who’d already gone on. Gone. My Ellen . . .

  This child wasn’t my Ellen. Trisha was George Bridger’s granddaughter. But Gran suddenly had a spark in her I hadn’t seen in two years . . . not since . . . Maybe longer. In fact, not since Grand had passed.

  One task at a time, I reminded myself. The first was to go see about Mr. Bridger.

  I called back into the house. “Gran, I’m taking a walk. Keep an eye on . . . on the child?”

  “We’re fine. Take your time.” I heard a child’s high-pitched giggle follow Gran’s words.

  Laughter. There hadn’t been any of that in this house in . . . how long?

  The path was level in areas but steep in others. Louisa County was mineral-rich and mica schists ran through it. The tree growth was old, and Cub Creek cut through the small valleys. It didn’t pay to tackle the walk up to Elk Ridge with tears in your eyes because the footing could be tricky in spots. So I dried up my distress along with my tears. I stopped at Ellen’s grave and straightened the small clay bear I’d placed on top of it, then I began my trek, but empty-handed.

  No cobbler for George Bridger this time.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Without the old man sitting on the porch or working about the yard, the place seemed more desolate than ever. Or maybe it was more than that—a feeling that embodied emptiness.

  The Bridger house had never been as fancy as the big brick mansion house at Cuckoo and of less historical significance, but it was memorable. Approaching it from my side, the Cooper side, and coming up Elk Ridge, was like coming through a wilderness where you might run into anything—coyotes, maybe even a bear, though rarely. The main approach to the Bridger place was from the other side, and it was a reasonable, if unpaved, road. His road didn’t dip and curve like ours. His house had a nice porch, and I’d heard about the pretty parlor and lovely wood paneling in most of the downstairs rooms. It had a true upstairs where the bedrooms were. It was vastly different from the small house where Gran and I lived.

  I peeked around back before trying the doors. No cars. No sign of anyone.

  The outside had grown shabby in recent years, but that was to be expected. I didn’t know how old Mr. Bridger actually was, but he had more than a few years on him and was living alone . . .

  The front door was unlocked.

  It was May. Despite the warmer days, the nights were cool. The air inside the house was musty, though he hadn’t been gone very long. To the hospital, he’d said. What had happened to his son and daughter-in-law?

  It was easy to see where Mr. Bridger spent his days. Small piles of clutter began at a sagging chair in the living room and grew as they defined the path through the dining room with its amazing fireplace with the inset mirror. I’d seen some fancy houses when I was working for Babs’s cleaning service, but nothing quite touched the elegance of this deeply grained wall paneling and the mirrored fireplace.

  The kitchen was usually where a person’s truth lived, and that was true here. Mr. Bridger hadn’t washed a dish in a long while. It was early in the warm season, but likely there were insects living amid the disorder. I could hear mice scurrying, unseen, around the room, happy with their home. I flipped the light switch. The power worked. The chill throughout was pervasive, with the walls and furnishings still holding on to the memory of winter. The heat was by woodstove and fireplace, and those ashes were long cold. That was a good thing, I thought, in terms of keeping the kitchen mess from stinking worse than it did.

  I could only presume Liam and his wife had brought their child to his daddy’s place and had left her here. Hard to imagine what need would drive such a decision.

  Gran and I lived simply, but we lived clean and decent. This house had the feel of a time warp. Stepping in here was like stepping into a place where life had stopped years ago. Nicer than our place, bigger than our place, but it felt abandoned. Forgotten.

  Judging by the condition of the main floor, Mr. Bridger had lived down here and slept on the sofa. He might not have gone upstairs much anymore, but his family must have while they were visiting. I faced the stairs. They were steep, narrow, and dark. I hesitated.

  Hoarders had chronological piles. If the child had been living only downstairs, her clothing would’ve been atop the piles. I would’ve seen her belongings.

  I held tight to the stair rail. The steps looked sound, but it was too dark to see for sure.

  All the bedroom doors were closed. Closed off is what they felt like. I opened the door to the front bedroom. Mr. Bridger’s room, yes, but I was right. He’d been sleeping on the sofa downstairs. The room was furnished and probably had a fortune in antiques, but there was nothing that felt “recent” about it. I walked in, mesmerized by the stained glass window. I’d never seen such a thing except in church, and Gran and I had left off going a while ago.

  The light fell on the glass panes from outside and filtered into the room to paint my hands and arms with a myriad of colors. The colorful glass pieces, joined together by dark leading, depicted lilies and butterflies. The window was positioned to capture the morning sun. The sun-infused color streamed in, lighting the room. What a way to start each day, I thought, with this glory greeting you.

  Reminding myself to be respectful, I backed away and pulled the door closed behind me. My business here was about the child and Mr. Bridger. Not to be nosy.

  The next room must’ve been Liam’s because it had the look of a boy’s room. Mr. Bridger had married late in life, and Liam’s mother passed when he was young. A boy, growing up in this house with only George Bridger as a parent, must’ve had a difficult time of it. I felt empathy for him. We’d both had grievous losses. Many did. Everyone handled them differently.

  There were several posters on the wall, plus a faded football program from the high school we’d both attended but at different times. The bed was roughly made, as if in a hurry. How long ago, it was impossible to tell. That was about all the room told me. No indication of where he’d come from, what he did for a living, or why he’d left—back then and now.

  The next room was where the child had slept. Only a small body had mussed this sheet and coverlet. The room and furnishings looked scary—or would look that way to a child. No kid stuff, no fluff. A bed in the corner and a dark wood dresser and a creaky cane chair. A grim place. Not right for a child.

  I checked in the drawers and found a few clothing items that surely belonged to the little girl. Left-behind stuff. I took what there was because it was more than we had for her. It fit easily in one small bag. I searched in her daddy’s room again for anything that might belong to her. I found a child’s book, a woman’s headband, and nothing else.

  For no good reason, I stopped in the kitchen and rinsed and stacked the dishes. I collected the trash and bagged it. Despite the mess, it went quickly, and so I washed the dishes, leaving them to dry in the drainer. Finally, I swept the floor and added that litter to the trash bag. If Mr. Bridger did return home, then he’d have a
nice surprise. Because he might come home, right? His note had been uncertain, really, hadn’t it?

  As I washed and cleaned, I considered. The only right and reasonable thing to do was to keep the little girl safe until he returned, or until we knew for sure he wouldn’t.

  Trisha. I tried speaking the name aloud, but it sounded wrong. Gran had already fixed on the name Ellen. Would it be so wrong to call her that? Would the child care? It wasn’t likely to do her any harm for a short time. Forcing Gran back to reality would be cruel. She would find her way back to the truth on her own. Surely she would, given time.

  “Wait and see” seemed to be the wisest course. Meanwhile, if I kept the child safe and happy, then we were doing our old friend’s bidding and helping the child at the same time. Liam was bound to show up soon.

  Many doubts traveled with me as I crossed the ridge and descended the path back to our house.

  The child’s mother, I dismissed. I didn’t know anything about her. But Liam, I knew him, yet I had no idea how to reach him. Presumably the sheriff could figure it out, but only if I told him, and if I did, the law might not choose to respect Mr. Bridger’s wishes, and that would likely kill Gran and let down Mr. Bridger.

  By the time I reached home, I had decided what to do. I would call the hospitals and see what I could find out about Mr. Bridger. Until then, I’d keep my own counsel. We saw few people. Only Gran and I, and Mr. Bridger, knew baby Ellen had been born and then lost. Gran seemed to have misplaced the knowledge, for a while anyway. Mr. Bridger wouldn’t talk out of turn about anyone else’s business.

  If Mr. Bridger recovered and returned home, or when Liam turned up—well, I could feel pleased, knowing I’d helped out a longtime family friend and neighbor. In the meantime, would it hurt to let my grandmother have her small fantasy?

  When I reached home, I came in the back door quietly, not sure what I’d find. Gran was asleep, and the child was snuggled against her. They fit like two pieces, snug and tight. I hadn’t realized the degree of tension in the child’s face until I saw her now, unafraid and secure.