Butterfly Ginger

by Stephanie Fournet

  “Then why not let us have this? I want this chance. I want more than this chance with you,” Nate said, squeezing her hand. “I want everything with you. To be with you. To marry you. To have children and grow old with you—”

  But at his words, her face crumpled, and she pulled her hand away.

  “Children? Oh, God, Nate…” She covered her face as her voice broke on his name. “That’s the last thing you want with me!” He watched, horrified, as she burst into tears.

  “What are you talking about? Of course, I want children with you.”

  As soon as the words were out, he realized how badly he did want them. Children. Blue-eyed angels with caramel-colored hair. Lots of them. But she sobbed even harder. Unable to stand it, Nate reached over and pulled her into his lap. She didn’t fight him. In fact, her body seemed to sag against his as she lost a battle to her weeping.

  He ran his hands up and down her back, trying to make her feel with his touch how needless her worries were. Her hands moved up and wrapped around his neck, and still she cried, burying her face against his chest.

  “It’ll k-kill me to lose you again,” she sobbed.

  Nate squeezed her tighter, fear lancing through him. What the hell was she saying?

  “You’re not going to lose me, Blythe.”

  “Yes, I will. When I tell you, you won’t even be able to l-look at me.” She clung to him, suddenly fierce, almost manic. Nate fanned his fingers across her shuddering back, covering as much of her as he could. He breathed deeply to calm his own racing heart in hopes of calming her. Her anguish terrified him, but he couldn’t picture anything that would make him want to let go.

  Blythe clutched at his shirt, now wet with her tears, and he felt her press frantic kisses against him. She moved to his neck and kissed him madly. It should have felt wonderful, but her desperation scared the hell out of him.

  “Blythe…” He kissed the top of her head, wanting to bring her out of her frenzy. She pulled away at once.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” She pushed herself off his lap and stood, wiping her eyes roughly against her sleeves. “It’s not fair for me to touch you.”

  Nate made to stand. “Angel, what—”

  “No.” She held up a hand to stop him, her chest heaving. “Stay right there. I have to do this, and if you touch me, I won’t be able to.”

  “O-okay.” Nate held up his hands in surrender. “I’d be lying if I said you weren’t freaking me out. Just tell me what you want to tell me. It’ll be okay.”

  But she just shook her head and wiped her eyes again. She’d stopped sobbing, but tears still streamed down her cheeks.

  “It won’t be okay.” She was trying to compose herself, but her breath still shook. Finally, she inhaled deeply and swallowed. “I did something… something terrible after we broke up.”

  “Blythe, we’ve been over this—”

  “No, we haven’t. Please, Nate, let me finish,” she begged. Her eyes were desperate, and he saw that her lips trembled before she pressed them closed to still them.

  “Okay, finish so we can get to the part when I reassure you that everything is alright.” Nate spoke with more confidence than he felt, but he was glad to get the words out. Whatever she’d done when they weren’t together had nothing to do with them. It had nothing to do with their future.

  Her expression changed then to one of pity.

  “I won’t hold you to that,” she said softly. “The day after we broke up? The day after I went back to Tulane…” She started, but she couldn’t seem to finish.

  Nate remembered that day.

  Please tell me that you love me.

  The message had sliced him open, and he’d confessed his love aloud in his room a thousand times. But he’d made himself wait to text back. He made himself picture Blythe on Tulane’s campus, surrounded by people who were smarter than he was. People who could touch her life and open doors for her. People who could hand over her dreams.

  Don’t come back.

  He’d hated writing those words. It had been almost impossible to send them, but he had. And not a day went by after that he didn’t wish he could call them back.

  “I remember…” His voice barely a whisper. A hint of nausea swirled in his stomach, a kind of intuition that warned him of danger to come.

  Blythe locked eyes with him.

  “Nate… that day… I found out I was pregnant.”

  The words landed in his brain and wiped it clean. Who he thought he was and what he thought he knew vanished.

  “What…?”

  Blythe watched him, anguish in her eyes.

  “I was pregnant.” Her voice was just a scratch of a sound, dry and empty.

  For a moment, the possibility of a child teased him. Because he’d pushed her away, she’d kept it a secret — a blue-eyed son or daughter — and raised the child herself, and any second now, the little one would run into the room and straight into his arms.

  But as much as he wanted it to be the truth, everything in Blythe’s eyes told him it wasn’t.

  “What did you do?” The words came out harsh, and Nate heard in them an anger that was just announcing itself. Because there should have been a child. Their child should have stood in the room with them. “What did you do, Blythe?”

  Her eyes shut against the question.

  “Please don’t make me say it…”

  This can’t be happening. This couldn’t have happened. Nate was on his feet. The scrape of the chair brought her eyes up to his again.

  “Tell me that you gave it up for adoption, Blythe.” Fear and anger were closing in on him fast. “Tell me that we have a little boy or a little girl out there somewhere with a family they adore.”

  “Nate…” She broke down again, but her tears just enraged him.

  “Tell me that you made the same choice Lila made. Lila. A woman who can’t eat peas and carrots on the same day. Tell me that she isn’t the better person.” He couldn’t stop. Even as the words left his lips, he knew they were awful. He knew they would slay her.

  And they did. Blythe crumpled to the floor as if she’d been struck. Her back shook with sobs, and no sound came from her for the longest time. When her inhale finally ripped through the room, she sounded half-strangled, but he couldn’t stop.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” It came out as a shout, and through his anger, a tiny voice told him he’d always remember the way she cowered at the sound. “Why didn’t you tell me, dammit? We could have changed everything!”

  He wanted to tell her that he deserved to know. That she never had the right to make that decision on her own. That she’d robbed them of a child. Nate couldn’t remember being so angry in his life. It was like a stranglehold, directing every thought, every movement. He couldn’t shake loose. He wanted to yell until the yelling became weeping, and he could mourn what he’d lost. But that might take hours. It might take days.

  He had to get out of there.

  Nate backed out of the kitchen, backed away from Blythe and her agony. He backed away from her guilt and her shame, something she didn’t deny. He wanted nothing to do with it. He reached her front door and escaped under the blanket of night and denial.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  SOMEHOW, BLYTHE MANAGED TO GET OUT of bed Wednesday morning. It took a fair amount of self-talk. She had to remind herself that she wanted to keep her new job and, if nothing else, she wanted to keep her apartment. After all, it was better than living with her parents.

  So she pushed herself up, grateful that she had a job and a place of her own, and she dragged herself to the shower. The near-scalding stream was a blessing, too, so she gave thanks for hot showers.

  She tried not to think of how the pressure in her head felt like a Mylar balloon had inflated itself in her sinuses. Or how her eyes felt sunburned. Or why every joint in her body seemed to scream. She’d cried so hard the night before that she was sure she’d given herself whiplash. She ached worse than after her car accident.


  But it wasn’t anything that Advil couldn’t make better, so she was grateful that she had a bottle in her medicine cabinet.

  When Blythe crossed her apartment on her way to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee, she encountered Nate’s cut flowers, and she stopped in her tracks. She stood frozen for a minute, debating about throwing out the still beautiful bouquet, but she decided against it. She needed it to hurt as much as it could. The more she let herself feel her heartbreak now, she reasoned, the faster the clotting around the wound would begin and the sooner she could heal.

  Heal or at least go numb.

  Blythe knew that she deserved to lose Nate — lose him for good — so she didn’t fight it. It hurt just as much as she feared it would. More, really. Nate’s anger and the way it burned her alive shocked her with torment. But now that he knew the worst, now that the worst had happened, she had nothing left to fear — except time.

  She didn’t tease herself. If she hadn’t gotten over Nate in six years, she guessed she’d never truly get over him, but at eighteen she’d learned that even when your heart is broken beyond repair, life still goes on.

  Life will go on again, she told herself as she turned into the kitchen, the scene of her trial. But when her eyes landed on the Dendrobium Orchid on her window sill, she broke down again.

  Nate Bradley. He was it for her. Blythe knew the truth like she knew her own name or the feel of breath in her lungs. She’d never stop loving him, and she’d love no one but him for the rest of her life. There was no sense in fighting that truth. But it meant she needed to get used to being alone because she’d never again be able to love him up close.

  With these sobering thoughts, there was no way she could eat breakfast, but coffee was a must. She dried her eyes and loaded up the coffee pot before heading back to her room to dress.

  An updo and waterproof mascara were other necessities that would help her get through the day. Blythe had no doubt that her tears would find her at her desk or walking to and from work. She’d already decided not to take the bus. Walking seemed the gentlest choice.

  She picked out her clothes with softness in mind. A gray infinity scarf from Old Navy. A loose violet tunic and fitted black capris. Her ballet slippers from last night. She wouldn’t win the prize for most fashionable, but at least the fabric against her skin would brush with comfort.

  With a thermos full of coffee, Blythe headed out the door and made herself pick up her mantra of thanksgiving. She gave thanks for the cool autumn air. The crunch of sycamore leaves on the walkway outside of her apartment. As she walked down Lee, she gave thanks for the beauty of the yellow Victorian house with the great front porch and the camellia bushes in the yard. She gave thanks for the ash gray cat that darted into the Jewish cemetery just as she passed.

  Blythe dug a tissue out of her pocket as she passed the elementary school where children hopped from SUVs and raced each other into the gym.

  “I’m sorry.” She whispered the words out loud. A welcome tugging in her chest followed the words, and she stopped on the sidewalk.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, again, feeling the pull a second time. Blythe realized that she’d never spoken aloud to her unborn child; she’d never had the courage before.

  But, now, the center of her chest held a new kind of ache, one that was soothing and painful at the same time. The words were impossible to utter, impossible to hold back. She forced herself to walk on before she could collapse on the sidewalk.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t choose you,” she said as Lee intersected with Jefferson, and she passed The Juliet Hotel. “And I’m so sorry I didn’t tell your father about you.”

  She stopped herself, not able to dare more than that, unwilling to utter anything else for fear of the state she’d be in when she got to the office.

  Blythe was grateful that the reception area was empty when she came in. Being the newest hire, she always wanted to get to work early — ahead of most of her co-workers. It gave her a sense of control and continuity that she wanted to maintain — especially today. Still, Gretchen was often in her office with the door propped open when Blythe came through. Today was no different.

  “Morning.” Gretchen greeted her with a smile and then did a quick double take. “Blythe, you look terrible. Are you feeling okay?” The question and her obvious concern threatened Blythe’s composure again, and she made herself swallow hard and breathe before answering.

  “I’m okay… Just some stuff,” she managed. But Gretchen was out of her desk and standing in front of her before she could escape.

  “Stuff?” she asked, her brows drawn together in sympathy. Blythe could only nod. “You sure you don’t need the day off?”

  It was a kind offer, but Blythe knew that her best option for moving forward was to stay busy. “No, thanks. I’d just like to lose myself in work today.”

  Gretchen crossed her arms and regarded Blythe for a moment. “Okay, but if you change your mind, just say so.”

  “I will,” Blythe answered, knowing she wouldn’t. Gretchen turned back toward her desk and picked up a file.

  “Well, then, if you want to get busy, here’s our new client. He needs a billboard, a phone book ad, business cards, and brochures. Whatever logo we create he’ll also use on his website.”

  “Who is he?” she asked, taking the folder from Gretchen.

  “Dr. Jeff Saddler. He’s opening his pediatric practice. His tagline is ‘Newborns to Eighteen and Every Step in Between.” Gretchen frowned again. “Blythe, are you sure you’re not sick? You look white as a sheet.”

  Blythe gripped the folder in her hand and tried not to sway on her feet. Images flooded her mind. Newborns in their little pink and blue caps. Toddlers in bunchy diapers. The gap-toothed smiles of six-year-olds. All the moments she had stolen from her child. From Nate. From herself.

  For a second, she considered handing the folder back to Gretchen, mumbling an excuse about illness, and escaping to her apartment, but Blythe knew that her days of running away from her greatest sins were over. Her reckoning had come.

  “I’m fine,” she muttered weakly, and before Gretchen could question her again, she turned and headed for her desk. She didn’t have an office of her own, but Eliot had tucked her in a corner behind a brick pillar. Even though it wasn’t really secluded, she felt far enough out of the way of the common space to avoid too much attention. She dropped the file onto her desk, set down her coffee and her bags, and sunk into her chair.

  Blythe didn’t open the folder. She knew it would contain a picture of a young doctor, the address, a phone number, the domain name of his website, the tagline Eliot or Ian had come up with, and perhaps a few notes about Dr. Saddler’s education, work history, and professional philosophy. Right now, she didn’t need those things. Instead, she grabbed the sketchpad that sat on the corner of her desk and flipped to a clean page. She took a sharpened pencil from her KRVS mug and wrote the words she’d spoken only minutes before.

  I’m sorry I didn’t choose you.

  I’m sorry I didn’t tell your father.

  Below the words, she sketched a child’s eye, round and all-seeing. She opened the second drawer of her desk and took out her Prismacolor pencils. She chose Dark Umber and Espresso and shaded until she blended the color of Nate’s eyes.

  I’m sorry I never heard you cry, or laugh, or sing.

  I’m sorry I never rocked you to sleep.

  I’m sorry I never read you a story.

  An abstract image took shape next to the lines. It suggested a swaddled bundle cradled in feminine arms. A tear splashed on the page beside it, and Blythe kept writing.

  I’m sorry I’ll never teach you to swim, or ride a bike, or drive a car.

  I’m sorry I’ll never send you to timeout.

  I’m sorry I’ll never take you camping.

  She drew a red bicycle with streamers on the handles. The streamers seemed to lift in the wind, and Blythe had to wipe her eyes a few times before she could add a
child’s helmet dangling from the handlebar.

  I’m sorry you won’t have a dance recital, or a soccer tournament, or a senior prom.

  I’m sorry you won’t have to write a college essay.

  I’m sorry you won’t have your first kiss.

  By the time she sketched the pair of ballet slippers and the soccer ball, her Kleenex was soaked through, and she’d filled three pages in her sketchpad. An hour had passed, and she’d been oblivious to the receptionist’s ringing phone, the sound of heels crossing the distressed wood floors, or laughter from the breakroom.

  Blythe looked up and checked that the path to the ladies room was clear before she quickly made her way across the office. She locked herself in a stall, covered her face with her hands, and sobbed and sobbed. But the tears she shed weren’t just for the life she’d taken or the love she’d lost; they were for her, too. She wept for the years she’d run from her shame. She wept for the faith she’d lost in herself. She wept for the end of her innocence and the hatred she’d harbored for her own soul.

  It had gone on long enough.

  “Forgive me,” she whispered into her own hands. Blythe wanted to be forgiven. She wanted forgiveness from her child. She wanted it from Nate. She wanted it from God, wherever he was. But she needed it from herself.

  She leaned against the stall as a strange thought occurred to her.

  If I were someone else, would I forgive Blythe Barnes?

  She hesitated to answer her own question. She didn’t want to trick herself into excusing everything she’d done. What had happened wasn’t okay, and it never would be.

  If the tables were turned, could I forgive Nate?

  Blythe knew that she could never expect his forgiveness, but the thought of him asking for hers sent a flood of warmth through her heart. She would never deny him any pardon. He’d be forgiven before he’d even ask because she couldn’t imagine Nate being anything other than devastated with regret.

  Just like she was.

  Blythe closed her eyes and pictured her eighteen-year-old self-standing in front of her. She pictured the girl who’d been so distraught — so destroyed — that she’d woken half the dorm with her keening.