Butterfly

by Rochelle Alers

  She still blamed Jerome for not being as vigilant as he should’ve been. However, she was certain that would change with Dahlia living within earshot.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Seneca had been awake for hours, yet she couldn’t force her legs to move so she could get out of bed. It was as if she was temporarily paralyzed. It didn’t take the IQ of a rocket scientist to tell her that she was exhausted—totally burned out.

  Butterfly had strutted up and down runways on every continent, with the exception of Antarctica, for thirteen years. She’d appeared in fashion-week shows from Amsterdam to Zagreb.

  Butterfly had become a multimillion-dollar supermodel who’d didn’t know how much she earned until Booth mailed her the requisite 1099s. What had remained constant were the checks that were transferred from her account to her brother’s for their mother’s care. Dahlia, now fifty-five, was a shadow of her former self.

  She had begun the practice of going to D.C. during her downtime, only because her mother didn’t recognize her and therefore couldn’t order her out of her house.

  Robyn had finally graduated from college the year before. She’d dropped out in her sophomore year in an attempt to break into modeling. Although she’d signed with a leading modeling agency, designers were reluctant to use her because they didn’t want another Butterfly. Robyn blamed Seneca for not using her influence to help her, and had stopped speaking to her for several years.

  The sisters reconciled after Robyn, who’d become engaged to a legislative aide, asked Seneca to be her maid of honor. The wedding had become a media spectacle because supermodel Butterfly was a part of the wedding party. Seneca’s gift had been a check for the down payment on the property Robyn and her husband had planned to purchase.

  Seneca had discovered recently that everything annoyed her: loud noises, ribald laughter and people who invaded her personal space. And those people were the media. There had been a time when she’d pose and preen as if on cue from a director, stopped to scrawl her signature on napkins, scraps of paper, even skin, but that too had changed. The reporter who’d harangued her constantly about being married to Phillip Kingston was currently serving a year in jail. He’d violated his order of protection and had continued to stalk her.

  A sad smile parted her lips. Phillip Kingston. Other than Britney Spears, they probably were in the running for shortest celebrity marriage. Phillip had shocked the sports world when he decided not to renew his basketball contract, citing that his passion for practicing medicine had surpassed playing ball. Gordon didn’t appear fazed that he’d lost his most valuable client, because he hadn’t had to go looking for big-name clients—they’d come looking for him to represent them. Seneca moved, rolling over to pick up the cordless phone on the bedside table. She dialed seven digits and felt a surge of courage when she heard his voice. “Hello, beautiful.”

  “You ought to stop, Booth.”

  “Why should I, when it’s true?”

  “Dial down the bull, Booth.”

  “What’s going on, Seneca?” His voice had changed, becoming sober.

  “I’m retiring from modeling.”

  “You can’t!”

  “I can, Booth! I’m tired, burned out. I’ve been awake for hours, yet I can’t force myself to get out of bed.”

  “Look, baby—”

  “Don’t fuckin’ baby me, Booth! You hear me, but you’re not listening to me. I’m not eating, losing weight I can’t afford to lose. I’m five-ten and my weight has dropped from one twenty-five to one-ten. I’m willing to bet my next check that most doctors would tell me that I’m dangerously close to being anorexic.”

  “I hear you, baby. What if you take some time off?”

  Seneca stared at the bedroom ceiling, her eyes tracing the design of the crown molding. “How much time are you talking about?”

  “Three months. Six months. You tell me.”

  “Six months,” she said.

  “You’ve got it, Butterfly. And to let you know I support you, I’m offering my vacation home in the Dominican Republic. You can stay there for as long as you want. I’ll let the staff know you’re coming, and everything you want or need will be at your disposal. Let me know when you’re ready to leave and I’ll have my assistant make travel arrangements.”

  Seneca thought about Booth’s offer, her sluggish mind clearing as if jolted by an lightning bolt. “What if you put out a press release announcing my retirement? I go into hiding for six months, and when I resurface you can capitalize on the media hype.”

  What she hadn’t told her agent was that her future plans did not include returning to the runway. She’d earned enough money to support her current lifestyle. There was no mortgage on her condo, she hadn’t made risky investments and she was debt-free. Even if she didn’t work another day in her life she would be able to live a comfortable, uneventful life.

  “You’ve missed your calling, baby. You should consider a second career in television. You’d do great as a correspondent with one of those entertainment shows like The Insider, Entertainment Today or Extra.”

  “No, thanks, Booth. I’ve been the topic of their salacious innuendos much too often to join their ranks.”

  “How would you like your own talk show?”

  Seneca paused. She’d always wanted to be behind the camera, not in front of it. However, having her own talk show was something she’d possibly consider. Since the Cadillac spot she’d shot with Phillip, which took the honor of being the sexiest Super Bowl commercial, she’d become a much-sought-after model/actress.

  Booth had secured contracts for her for cosmetics, jeans, perfume and luggage companies. She’d appeared in ads for Chanel Boutiques, Patek Philippe, and all of the major designers, including Yves Saint Laurent, Michael Kors, Gucci, Marc Jacobs and Giorgio Armani. Her face on the cover of Vogue had introduced her to the world; however, it was when her swimsuit-clad body appeared on the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, not once but twice that she was acknowledged as a sex symbol.

  “That’s something I would consider,” she told the agent.

  “Let me work on it, Seneca. It just might take six months before I hear anything. Now, when do you think you’ll be ready to leave?”

  “Not until next week. I have to go to D.C. to see my mother.”

  What was there to think about? It was winter in the northeast. Snow had lingered on grassy surfaces after a storm had dumped more than eighteen inches of the white stuff on the tristate area the week before. She had to stop her mail and alert the cleaning service that she would be away for an extended period of time.

  “I could arrange for you to fly out of Dulles International instead of you coming back to New York.”

  “That sounds like a plan. I’ll call you a couple of days before I finish my business in D.C.”

  Booth Gordon gently replaced the receiver in the cradle when he wanted to slam it down. When he recognized the number that had appeared on his private line, he’d thought Seneca Houston was calling to chat. It was something they did every couple of months. However, her pronouncement that was she was retiring was totally unexpected. Even at thirty-three, after thirteen years in the business, she hadn’t lost her edge; she was still was the world’s top supermodel. When girls were asked about role models, Butterfly’s name was always at the top of the list.

  She’d become a celebrity without the negative baggage that followed many young women who’d become victims of their own success and carefully scripted hype. Seneca had walked the red carpet at various media events with A-list actors, athletes and the occasional bad-boy hip-hop performer. All of her high-profile liaisons were put together by the agency’s publicity department, and Seneca had become the consummate actress in whatever role they wanted her to play.

  Booth suspected she was seeing someone in New York but had managed not to involve himself in her private life. His attorney had taken care of her annulment from Phillip Kingston, quickly and quietly. However, there had been one persistent
reporter from a leading tabloid who was like a dog with a bone when he’d uncovered information about Butterfly and King Phillip’s secret marriage. His subsequent investigation was stymied when documentation attesting to the Vegas marriage was mysteriously deleted from the records when a computer virus attached itself to the files, causing the system to crash.

  Disclosure of their short-lived marriage would’ve proved damaging if word of Kingston physically abusing women were made public. In the end it had become a moot point when Kingston quit basketball to attend medical school. Booth hadn’t been bothered about losing Kingston because of his disdain of domestic abuse—whether verbal or physical. Seeing his mother verbally abuse his father on a daily basis would stay with him for the rest of his life.

  Booth didn’t want to lose Seneca, not because he would lose twenty percent of everything she earned but because he was using her account to launder money for his cousin. She was his only client who didn’t call and hound him for her checks.

  He’d hired a PI to do an extensive investigation, including DNA testing, on Carter Browning. The tests revealed that Carter was his uncle’s son and his cousin. It had taken a while, but one night when his younger cousin had had too much to drink he’d let it slip that his client was a member of the Russian mob who was involved in everything from drugs to human trafficking.

  When he’d asked Carter for the damaging tapes, the younger man refused to return them, claiming they were his insurance just in case any “shit jumped off.” In the end, Booth had to admit that he’d been out-hustled by an Ivy League–educated preppy thug. Joan Powers had gotten her revenge. Wherever the duplicitous bitch was, he hoped she would burn in hell.

  Seneca maneuvered the rental car into the driveway leading to the rear of the property, where Jerome had built a charming two-bedroom apartment for their mother. She didn’t see Maya’s minivan and assumed she’d gone out. All her children were now in school. The money she gave Jerome to take care of their mother allowed Maya the luxury of being a stay-at-home mom.

  The clothes she needed for a tropical climate were in the luggage in the trunk of the car. She planned to drive the rental to the airport and leave it before boarding the jet Booth had arranged to take her to Punta Cana. Reaching into her tote, she removed a set of keys. She’d asked Jerome to make her a set of keys to the apartment. Seneca unlocked the door, wrinkling her nose when a foul odor hit her. Dropping her tote, she closed the door and walked through the foyer and into the living room, the odor growing stronger.

  Seneca felt her knees go weak when she stood at the entrance to the bathroom. Her mother sat on a hospital potty chair, her wrists secured to the arms of the chair by restraints. Dahlia’s salt-and-pepper hair was uncombed and she was thin, much thinner than she’d been during her last visit.

  Curses, raw and savage, spewed from her mouth when she saw the condition in which her mother had been left. Moving quickly, she undid the restraints. “It’s okay, Mama,” she crooned when Dahlia looked up at her with the familiar expression frozen on her face.

  She managed to get her mother into the tub to bathe her, beginning with shampooing her hair. Dahlia’s hair was short, so she toweled it dry instead of using a blow-dryer. She guided her to a chair in the bedroom, raising her feet to the footstool, then stripped the bed and changed the linen. Seneca put her mother into bed, covering her with a lightweight comforter.

  Some of her white-hot rage had subsided when she’d cleaned the bathroom and lit a scented candle to offset the cloying odor of feces. Seneca knew if Maya had been there she would’ve kicked the bitch’s ass. Her trifling sister-in-law hadn’t returned when she’d managed to get Dahlia to eat a small portion of oatmeal to which she’d added an overripe banana.

  “It’s okay,” she repeated, gently wiping Dahlia’s mouth with a warm facecloth. “I’m going to get you out of this hell.”

  She remembered researching skilled nursing facilities when her mother’s condition had taken a drastic decline, but Jerome had reassured her that he and Maya could care for her. She’d trusted her brother to keep his word, but apparently he’d lied. There were dishes in the kitchen sink that had to have been there for days. And how could Maya go out and leave her mother-in-law tied to a chair?

  Opening and closing utility drawers in the kitchen, Seneca found the sheet of paper listing the facilities. Thankfully, she’d visited each one to assess the level of care. She dialed the number of the one she’d starred. The admissions director confirmed that they had a bed and that if she brought in the patient they could begin the intake process. A staff neurologist would evaluate Dahlia to ascertain the level of care she required.

  Seneca liked the facility because it was clean and modern and the doctors and nurses who were on staff were experts in geriatric care. After packing a bag with clothes and personal items Dahlia would need, she dressed her for the weather and assisted her out to the car. Maya was arriving when they were leaving. She got out of the minivan cradling shopping bags bearing the names of upscale shops.

  “Where are you going?” she called out cheerfully as Seneca backed out of the wide driveway. Maya wore a three-quarter bottle-green shearling that had to have cost more than a thousand dollars. One thing Seneca had learned to recognize was quality when it came to clothes.

  She forced a smile when she wanted to get and put her hands around the woman’s neck, squeezing until she stopped breathing. “I’m taking Mom for a drive.” Her tone was so sweet and syrupy that Seneca almost laughed aloud. “We’ll probably stop and get something to eat before we come back.”

  “You know she doesn’t eat much.”

  Seneca nodded. “I know. That’s why I’m going to try and order something she likes.” She waved. “I’ll see you later.”

  Seneca sat, shocked, when the doctor detailed the results of Dahlia Houston’s medical examination. “You should be thankful you brought your mother in when you did, Ms. Houston. She doesn’t have Alzheimer’s disease but something much worse. Your mother has frontotemporal dementia, or what we call FTD. It’s typically a fast-progressing neurodegenerative disease that can lead patients to experience speech and memory difficulties.”

  A shudder raced throughout Seneca as she digested this information. “When you mention frontotemporal, I take that to mean the brain.” The doctor nodded. “Can the condition be slowed or corrected with surgery?”

  “I’m sorry, but the disease is incurable and will only get worse with time. Your mother requires twenty-four-hour care.”

  “What about medication?” she asked.

  “Some patients react favorably to selective SSRIs, or serotonin reuptake inhibitors. They are the same drugs used to treat depression and anxiety.”

  “How many years do you expect people who’re diagnosed with FTD to survive?”

  “A rough estimate is five to ten years. What I don’t know is how long your mother has had the disease.”

  “It started, or we became aware of it, about ten years ago.”

  “Maybe your mother is one of the luckier one who will beat the odds. I’m hopeful, because there are new drugs coming out for these types of disorders, and an increase in research into curing the disease. I give you my word that your mother will be well cared for here. We have a complete open-door policy where we encourage family members to stop in any time of the day or night to look in on their loved ones.”

  Smiling, Seneca offered her hand. “Thank you, Dr. Marks.”

  “You’re welcome.” He pushed a pad across the desk stamped with the logo of a pharmaceutical. “Would you mind giving me an autograph? My teenage daughter will think I’m the coolest dad in the world when I tell her that I talked to Butterfly.”

  Taking his pen, she scrawled her signature on the square of paper, then drew the facsimile of a butterfly underneath. Pushing to her feet, she walked out of the doctor’s office and to the room where her mother had been assigned. The facility, situated on two hundred acres in northern Virginia, looked like a small priva
te college with apartment-like dorm rooms. She’d requested a private room for Dahlia. Medicare and Os car’s pension would cover most of the cost, while Seneca would subsidize the balance.

  She found her mother sitting in a chair watching a flat-screen television. Seneca smiled. “Mom?”

  Dahlia looked at her, her brow furrowing as she tried remembering who she was. “What a pretty girl.” That said, she returned her attention to the images on the screen.

  “Stay well, Mama,” she whispered.

  Seneca felt a gentle peace, knowing her mother was going to get the best medical care available. She returned to the parking area to retrieve her car. Her hands grasped the steering wheel in a death grip as she followed road signs leading back to D.C. Her first impulse was to check into a hotel near the airport, then call Booth to let him know she’d taken care of her business and she was ready to leave the country. But that couldn’t happen until she confronted her brother and sister-in-law.

  Maya answered the door, peering around Seneca. “Where’s Mom?”

  “She’s in bed.” Seneca didn’t tell her which bed.

  “Come on in. I just put the kids to bed.”

  “That’s okay. I’m not going to stay long. Where’s Jerome?”

  “He’s in his study marking papers. I’ll get him.”

  Seneca sat down on a butter-soft leather sofa. The renovations and furnishings had turned a formerly dilapidated house into a showplace. She didn’t stand when Jerome walked in and leaned over to kiss her cheek.

  He sat on a matching chair, Maya hovering over his back. “Maya told me you took Mom out today.”

  Her face was a mask of stone. “I did. In fact, I took her out of here.”

  Jerome leaned forward. “What are you saying?”