The Memory of Butterflies: A Novel

by Grace Greene

  “I wanted only to keep you safe. I’ve never cared what the world thought of me.”

  She stared into my eyes and repeated, “You were protecting yourself. You were desperate to avoid acknowledging her death.” She shook her head. “As long as you protected me from the truth, you could protect yourself from having to face your own truth.”

  “For me, the truth is that finding you on the porch made all the difference to us. You and Gran were my truth.”

  “No, Mom. The truth is that Ellen died.”

  “She died,” I said again, hearing the words more than saying them, feeling the pain, still there but diminished. I looked away from Ellen and brushed my hand against the stone slab. “I put her here.”

  “You have to let her go.”

  “I thought I had . . . when I found you.” I closed my eyes for a few long seconds, then opened them again. “There’s something I need you to understand. I’m not making excuses. Just hear me?”

  She touched my cheek again, brushing at something clinging to it. Not leaves. Her hands came away wet. She nodded. “I’m listening.”

  “Gran thought you were her. Our baby. Our Ellen. When she saw you on the porch, she thought you’d come home to us. I let her have her fantasy while I tried to figure out what to do. And then . . . and then it was too late. Too late for both of us. For all of us.”

  Ellen shook her head. “What you did was wrong. But my father told me about his life at the time, about my mother and her problems. I don’t know what my life would’ve been like if you’d told the authorities, whether I would’ve been stuck in foster homes. I’ll never know. In a way, you stole that from me, too, but I think you also rescued me, even if it was done with lies.” She put her hand to her forehead. “What you did wasn’t right. I’ll never say it was. I think it was dumb luck that it worked out.”

  Or destiny, I thought. Maybe it happened just as it was supposed to.

  “I understand,” I said. “I don’t blame you for being hurt and angry. I’m glad you have your father after all these years, and I’m glad he has you. I know it will be a good thing for both of you, and I’ll always be here for you. Please believe how sorry I am.”

  Suddenly I saw myself through her eyes and knew I was covered in dirt. Muddy tears were smeared across my hands. I could feel them tightening and drying on my face.

  “I’m sorry, too, but this isn’t something that can be forgotten like it never happened.” Her tone had harshened. “I came to tell you—”

  “Ellen,” Liam said.

  We both looked up. Over the stone wall, I had a clear view of the slope. A man in uniform, a deputy, was crossing the footbridge across the creek.

  Swiftly, I looked from Liam to Ellen and back again. Hope could uplift, but it could also hurt. One never understood how painful hope could be until the last shred of it was ripped away.

  Now wasn’t the time for forgiveness. My debt must be paid. But come what may, I was done with lying. I wasn’t afraid. No matter how long they kept me away from here, one day I’d come back. Roger would finish building my house, and I’d come home to Cooper’s Hollow—because I’d never really wanted to be anywhere else.

  From the corner of my eye, movement on the right caught my attention. I turned to see Roger. He came from nowhere, crossing the woods and the slope, waving at the deputy. He moved at a relaxed but fast clip, almost an eager pace. They met midslope and stopped to talk, and then Roger pointed toward the cemetery, and suddenly the officer was looking directly at me.

  So they’d told the authorities after all.

  I meant what I’d said to Roger about deserving whatever punishment might come my way, but my courage fled. It evaporated. My last hope was gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Liam grabbed my arm. “Don’t run away,” he said.

  I met his eyes. “I’ve never been one to run, and I’m done hiding from the truth, too.”

  Ellen had gone over the wall, as if to join the deputy and Roger, but she stopped a few yards from them. She was watching them and waiting. For something.

  Liam dropped his voice, speaking softly. “Ellen came to confront you, to have it out with you. I explained how her life might’ve gone if it had all happened differently, but she said, ‘What might have happened doesn’t justify what was done.’” He looked down at his boots before he returned his gaze to me. “When she saw you here at the grave, I think she understood something she hadn’t before.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Something I tried to tell her. That sometimes there are no rules for life.”

  “There are rules. Laws.”

  “Laws are things politicians write down to make you do what they want you to do. I’m talking about rules. Moral rules but also common-sense rules. Most laws don’t have much common sense built in.” He looked away. “People want black and white, up or down, on or off. They want it spelled out. I’m saying life doesn’t always lend itself to clear, easy choices.”

  I sighed. “I appreciate that, but wrong is still wrong. I would do it the same way if it happened again, but I should’ve tried harder to find you. It’s just that by then . . . I couldn’t bear to lose her.”

  “But you were ready to give her up now, regardless, when you saw how she was hurting and about to make some big mistakes.”

  I looked back down toward the house. Roger and the deputy were walking away, heading back toward the parked vehicles. Ellen, never having joined them, was almost back to the cemetery.

  “What’s going on?” I asked as she came back over the wall. I nodded toward the deputy and Roger. “Why was he here?”

  “The deputy? He came to see Roger about something, I think. One of his workers had a problem.”

  “I thought . . .” I coughed. “The deputy was looking this way, pointing, and I thought—”

  “You thought I reported your crime?” Ellen said. “Or should I say crimes?”

  Nothing could soften the hurt her words caused. I cringed and started to turn away. She grabbed my arm roughly.

  “Do you really think I’d turn you in? That I’m capable of doing that to you?” She released me. “Let’s go,” she said to Liam.

  Confused, I said, “But you were going down the hill to meet him, right?”

  She threw me a scathing look and repeated, “I’m leaving now.”

  “Go ahead,” Liam said to her. “I’ll be along shortly.”

  Ellen hesitated, then tossed her hair back over her shoulder and climbed across the wall again, leaving us there.

  We watched her go.

  “I don’t know how much is Bridger,” Liam said, “or how much is due to the Cooper influence, but she’s formidable, isn’t she?”

  I nodded, finally remembering to breathe. “Yes, she is.”

  “Actually,” he added, “I think she was afraid that the deputy was here for you. I think she was heading down there to stop him, but Roger got there first, and she realized that wasn’t why the deputy had come. She’ll walk it out and calm down. She was scared.”

  “Scared? For me?”

  “Sure.” He picked up a loose pebble from atop the stone wall and examined it. “Something else I think you should know. Roger spoke to her. To us, too, including Mamie.”

  “How is Mamie?”

  Liam smiled broadly. “It’s been like a miracle for her—that is, once she got over the shock. She loves having a young one around. She was talking about going away but now says maybe she’ll stay and housekeep for me if I’ll stay, too.”

  “How are you with that?”

  “It might be a good plan.”

  He stopped. I waited.

  “About Roger. He said not to mention anything to you about his speaking to folks, but I thought you should know.” Liam added, “It’s good to have friends.”

  “I’m sure that’s true.”

  “One more thing I need to tell you.”

  Now what? My nerves were wearing thin.

  “I’m not sure ho
w you’ll feel about this.”

  “Please, Liam. Just throw it at me. Get it said.” I felt tears trying to form. I didn’t want to cry again, and certainly not here in front of this man I’d wronged.

  “It was Mamie’s idea.” He waved his hands. “I’m sorry, I’ll say it plain. Mamie says people will talk about Ellen being at our house, and she’s right. Mamie suggested that maybe we could hint around—just that, a few hints carefully planted—that I’d been home briefly eighteen years ago or thereabouts. Sort of a hit-and-run visit, and that’s why no one had seen me—and you and I had hooked up and . . . well, you can imagine the rest. Then I took off and married Sheryl. You kept your counsel about who your baby’s father was to protect Ellen and our families, but now I’m back, and I know about Ellen. And my daughter and I are getting to know each other.”

  I gasped. I wanted to laugh, but there wasn’t enough oxygen left in me to fuel it.

  He continued. “If you’re OK with it, of course. It makes the most sense, I think. I hope you’re not offended. Mamie reads a lot of romance novels.” He scratched his head. “So, if you don’t mind the story, I’ll run it by Roger? I know it might not look good for your reputation . . .”

  And I did laugh then. It felt good. Delightfully so.

  During June and July, and the early days of August, the house was finished—down to the last detail. Roger came and went. We didn’t speak except to confirm a choice of electrical fixtures and other things related to the project, but gradually the tension eased between us. I had lived mostly in the cabin with my clay, except for when I was at Rose Lane organizing things for the move. Alone.

  Ellen stayed at Elk Ridge with her father. She didn’t come to see me again. It was a different kind of jail that she’d put me in, I guessed. Liam finished carving the porch posts. They were works of art. Each evening, after he left, I examined the progress. Leaves, rough tree trunks were well defined, and that’s what you saw immediately, but as you looked, as your fingers strayed over the shapes and textures in the wood, you began to discover the small animal faces—a squirrel, raccoons, and others—emerging from hiding. Near the base where he’d shaped tall grasses was a rabbit’s nose and one long ear, edging out from between the thin blades.

  After Liam was finished with the posts, he came over the ridge a few times, mostly to let me know Ellen was doing well. On one visit, he told me she was, indeed, going off to college in mid-August. He didn’t speculate on the future, and he offered no reassurance. His manner was kind, if reserved, and that was appropriate. I’d given him a daughter—one he’d lost who was now returned to him. Though perhaps I’d kept her overlong.

  They were getting to know each other. He had discovered Ellen had a mind of her own. She would do what she would do. Of course, she was that way. I’d taught her myself, hadn’t I?

  In the second week of August, Ellen called to say she was leaving for Tech. Hearing her voice on the phone set my heart to racing. She said she was coming by on her way out of town, if I didn’t mind.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’ll be here.”

  I walked out to the porch to watch for her car, my hands resting on Liam’s posts for comfort. She drove down the widened, updated driveway and paused a ways from the house, ironically not far from the spot where we’d huddled in the face of the fire, before pulling the car closer to park. That spot had lost its hold on me. Now it was as Ellen had once said—she remembered being very afraid but not the actual fear. That memory had been superseded by other, sharper events. Because that’s what life was—a series of changes, some painful but sometimes garnering greater beauty despite the pain.

  She came up to the porch, carrying her duffel bag. We hugged, not with the enthusiasm of old, but I reminded myself that sometimes life was about baby steps.

  “On your way?”

  She nodded.

  “Thanks for coming by.”

  She paused and lifted the duffel bag. “Actually, I wanted to drop off a few things. I want to leave them here, if you’re good with that.”

  Breathe in, breathe out, I reminded myself. “Certainly. Absolutely. Do you need help?”

  “No, I’ve got it.”

  “Can I fix you a sandwich or a glass of tea?” When she didn’t answer, I added, “I can wrap it up for you, in case you get hungry on the road.”

  She breathed out a small puff of air. “Sure. Sounds good. I’ll take it with me.”

  I busied myself in the kitchen. I sensed she wanted privacy. Was that good or bad? I didn’t know.

  She carried the duffel bag to her bedroom and then went back out to the car, returning with a couple of large plastic bags. Clothing, I guessed. Seemed like a good sign, then. She stayed in the bedroom longer this time. When she came out, she paused in the main room, her hands deep in her pockets. She faced the French doors for a minute or two, apparently taking in the new deck and the landscaping; then she turned around to examine the main room, and her gaze paused on the hearth. Her eyes slid past it, then back, and she walked over to the stone fireplace.

  I thought she might be memorizing the new house. How much of the old homeplace still remained in her memory? Most of it had probably being pushed out or overwritten long ago. That seemed to be the fate of memories.

  Ellen cleared her throat, then spoke but with hesitation in her voice. “You aren’t the only one who made a mistake. The night the house burned . . . I never told you, but I messed with the woodstove. I promised I wouldn’t, but I did anyway. I was cold. I took some of the pages from my coloring book and put them in the stove to feed the fire. I knew I was breaking a rule, but I did it anyway.” She stared down at the unburned logs in my lovely new fireplace, but that wasn’t what she was seeing. “I never told you because I was afraid I’d . . . that if you found out it was my fault that the house . . . caught fire . . .”

  With all the honesty I could put into my voice, I said, “It wasn’t your fault. I woke up when you returned to bed. I went to check on things and found the stove door open. I closed it. That’s not how the fire started.”

  She turned toward me swiftly, her eyes full of unshed tears. “Seriously?”

  My love was honest even if my words weren’t. “Seriously. The fire was caused by a clogged flue pipe.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sweetheart. I’m as sure about that as about anything. It wasn’t your fault. None of it was your fault.”

  Ellen rested her hand on the mantel, almost as if it were holding her up, and then I saw strength and confidence returning to her as she stood taller. She stepped away from the fireplace, but as she did, she stopped again, staring at the pots on the mantel.

  My latest pots. The glazes were glorious, if I were to say so myself. The textured patterns in the clay and in the glazes kept drawing my own hands toward them, wanting to touch and hold them, as if each time I saw them anew. A while back I’d told Roger my clay work was uninspired. No longer. Over these past few months, I had changed. So had Roger.

  Ellen reached slowly toward the pots. She turned to me, wonder in her eyes, then looked back at them again.

  “These are beautiful, Mom.”

  Mom. My heart fluttered. Was it hope, perhaps? I bit my lip. I remembered how cruel hope could be.

  She frowned. “Is it the new kiln, do you think? What else is different? Maybe a new clay? Or the glaze?”

  She seemed to be speaking to herself, not really expecting an answer.

  I cried, but quietly.

  Ellen was kind and pretended not to notice the tears on my face. Then the clay figure near the end of the mantel, slightly in the shadow of a larger pot, caught her eye. She reached toward it and captured it, cradling it in both her hands.

  It was the child figure, the tiny girl on a stone wall, with butterfly wings coming around from behind her, spilling over the stone on which she sat. The membranes of the wings were fingerlike, curving inward protectively, yet the tips of her wings soared up above her body. She’d been fired for durab
ility, but she remained unglazed, unfinished, and always would, of course.

  “Is she me?” Ellen whispered.

  I smiled and felt new tears squeeze out from my eyes. Was it Ellen? The first Ellen left us—she died—and the new Ellen came into our lives. Did the figure represent the first or second Ellen? Was it me? I knew the answer but didn’t speak it aloud.

  It was three. All three. All different, yet inextricably entwined. Beautiful, but never complete, never perfect. Never truly finished.

  Ellen stared at the floor and shuffled her feet slightly. “I was thinking . . . I don’t know how you’ll take this . . .” She looked at me directly. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Go ahead,” I said, ready to accept whatever was coming my way.

  “I was thinking that lots of kids split their time between their parents when their parents divorce. Do you think that would be appropriate? I mean, I know this isn’t exactly the same situation, but I thought I could spend some time here with you and also with my father at Elk Ridge.”

  Spend time here with me? Was this a step toward mending bridges? It was a big step. My heart fluttered again, almost as if it had grown tiny, delicate wings.

  “Yes, I think that’s a splendid idea.”

  “Good.” She set the figure back onto the mantel. “I left some things in my room for when I come home again.” She made a quick grimace. “If you don’t like how I left them, you’re welcome to rearrange them or whatever.”

  I was busy marveling at how easily she’d uttered the word home and almost forgot to respond. “Excellent, but I’m sure they’re fine,” I said. “I painted your room lavender. Are you OK with that?”

  “It’s beautiful. It makes me think of sunset and sunrise. And Gran.” She walked over to the kitchen counter. “Is this my sandwich?”

  “Yes.”

  She picked up the bagged sandwich and the bottle of sweet tea. “I’d better get going. It’s a long drive.” She paused again. “Labor Day weekend, I’ll be back. Then mid-October for fall break.” She smiled, almost shyly. “Thanks for the car. It’ll make it lots easier to get back and forth.”