Julie's Butterfly

by Greta Milán

  Hesitantly, she ran her fingertip along a bright yellow petal. A single thoughtless touch would be enough to destroy it.

  Bastian’s reaction had been just as thoughtless and had dashed all her hopes in a single blow. Common sense told her she was doing the right thing. The fewer feelings she allowed in, the less she would feel the pain of her disappointed love.

  But her stupid heart seemed to have other ideas as it hammered in her chest, almost as if to say that it wasn’t broken at all, but was still alive and well and strong enough to take what he had to say to her. She couldn’t imagine that anything would change her mind, but did he not at least deserve the chance to be heard?

  “Oh, what the hell,” she murmured to herself.

  She ran into her bedroom and grabbed his first letter.

  CHAPTER 36

  Bastian was a wreck. And that was putting it mildly.

  The new year was five days old, and he had still not heard a word from Julie. He could barely stop himself from setting aside his good intentions and going to see her. Only his iron will prevented him.

  She had to come to him of her own free will. This was a lesson she had taught him herself. Pestering her would achieve nothing; it would only make her feel cornered and scare her off rather than win her over.

  But he was reaching the limits of his patience.

  He had spent weeks writing down every one of his thoughts, like goddamned therapy sessions.

  In his first letters, he had, of course, expressed his deep regret at his reaction. He told Julie how much he really wanted their baby, how happy he was to know that he would be a father, and how determined he was to play a significant role in their child’s life. He had written of the future they could have together if she would agree to forgive him. It was easy to imagine fatherhood once he had conquered his fears.

  But then he began to tell her about himself. How difficult it was for him to express what he felt for her. He had never been a man of words. Because he knew of no better way, he drew on the great Romantics, quoting their poems and sonnets and interpreting them in his own way. He went on to write how much he missed her—even at the risk of sounding clichéd—and how desperate he felt about not being able to see her and touch her every day. He found it difficult to restrain himself from asking questions to which he would probably never know the answers, but the prospect of not knowing how she and the baby were doing drove him to distraction.

  He felt helpless in his attempts to convince her of his love, not least because she had been right from the start. All his moods, his inhibitions, and his reserve had only developed because he had become a bitter, insecure man over the years, a man he realized that, in fact, he couldn’t bear.

  The realization almost overwhelmed him, but it provided him with the motivation he needed to carry on. He wanted to explain to her how he had gotten that way, and so he began to reveal his past, with merciless openness.

  He began by writing about his mother, who had left one day out of the blue because she could no longer handle his disease. He still remembered it like it was yesterday. He had fallen when learning to ride his bicycle. Treating his wounds, she cried more bitterly than he did as he clung to his teddy bear, Fred, pressing him hard to his little heaving chest. She then packed her suitcase and left without a word of farewell. He was five—too little to be told the truth, but old enough to understand that it was somehow his fault.

  That was the first time his heart broke, when the most important person in his life turned her back on him because of his disease. He never had the chance to call her to account, as she had died a few years ago. By the time he found out, his heart had already hardened, but as he wrote to Julie about it, he gave in to the pain for the first time. It took him three attempts to finish that letter. He then drank himself to oblivion and cried his disappointment dry as if he were five years old again.

  Once he had recovered from that nightmare, he told Julie about his father, who had hardly left his side throughout his childhood. He searched through an old photo album for pictures to send her and came across one of himself and his father after a successful fishing trip. His father’s hand rested gently on Bastian’s shoulder as he proudly held a rainbow trout aloft. He was around seven, of slight build, and his hands were bandaged as they had so often been. But his face was radiant, and his father’s eyes shone with the kind of deep affection any father would feel for his son. Although he couldn’t remember that particular day, the picture was proof that Bastian had been wrong.

  His father had always tried to convince him he had nothing to hide whenever he put his hands behind his back, and Bastian had listened to him until he was no longer strong enough to face the consequences. Though ashamed to admit it, he attributed some of the blame for his many confrontations to his father. Only now did he understand that his father had not wanted to cause him additional pain, but to strengthen him in readiness for the outside world. At the time, however, Bastian had felt a failure because he couldn’t cope with the way other people looked at him.

  By way of revenge he had withdrawn more and more from his father until they had virtually no more contact with each other. He had suppressed his guilt by convincing himself that his father was well and happy, enjoying his retirement in the South of France. But the fact was he missed him. He only became aware of this too as he wrote to Julie about it.

  After painting as detailed a picture of his parents as his memory allowed, he told her about his childhood, the things he liked doing and those he would have liked to do. He was surprised to find that a lot came back to him, things he had not thought about for a long time and had buried deep inside himself. For example, how he used to enjoy sitting on the roof and watching the birds—at least, until his father had caught him up there—or how much he had loved caring for the fish in his aquarium. As he wrote, he found that his childhood had not been as bleak as he had convinced himself it was. He had spent a lot of time alone, true, but he came to wonder whether maybe that had been because he liked it that way.

  He remembered two other children, a brother and sister, who lived in the neighborhood, with whom he had spent a lot of time. As far as he recalled, they had been his friends and had never had a problem with his disease. But then the situation at school had become so unbearable because of his defensive behavior that his father decided they should move. That was three years after his mother had left them. The school psychologist diagnosed “impaired primal trust” or some such psychobabble, but Bastian knew better. He had never told his father the true reasons for his behavior, but he wrote to Julie about the cruelty of the other children. He told her these things not in a bid to gain her sympathy, but because he had realized that getting it out in the open provided an important release for him.

  His father had acted with the best of intentions when he sought a new start in another town, but it was only a matter of time before the whole business began again and he was faced with a whole new set of insults.

  Bastian tried to portray his youth objectively, telling Julie how, at fourteen, he had discovered his passion for photography, about his unimaginative dress sense, the music he used to enjoy listening to, and the movies he still loved. Although he didn’t describe his first disastrous love in detail to her, he mentioned that it was the reason for his self-inflicted loneliness and his increasing mistrust of others. He told her how difficult it was for him to trust anyone after that and how he had become convinced that he would only ever achieve peace of mind by refusing to allow anyone to get close. He achieved this by hiding all signs of his disease and employing offense as the best defense and self-preservation tactic. For years, he had been forced to take what others threw at him; now he turned the tables and gave as good as he got.

  He told her how often he had upset people with cynical remarks because he assumed from the start that they would never be able to come to terms with his secret. He was not proud of his coldhearted behavior, but
he had simply grown accustomed to convincing himself that he was better off alone than being hurt yet again.

  That only changed when Felix appeared in his life. He didn’t want to be another cause of pain in Felix’s life, something that Felix perceived from the start and used as a way to gradually coerce his way into Bastian’s life. That friendship was an exception, but it probably saved him from losing the last vestiges of his capacity for sympathy.

  With Felix beside him, his life became a little more firmly anchored. He told Julie how secure he had felt then. He felt OK about things, and he was no longer alone. He was satisfied with his life.

  But he wasn’t happy.

  He hadn’t realized it, however, until he met Julie and feelings began to stir in him that he had no longer believed possible. It had all been so intense with her—the highs, but also the lows.

  They both knew how he had initially kept his defenses up. In his letters, he disclosed how amazed he had been at her reaction to him and how much, despite everything, he had feared the day when she would turn her back on him.

  Dominated by this relentless fear, he had savored every day with her all the more. He described for her in detail all the moments when he had wanted to declare his love for her but had held back.

  Bastian gradually realized that despite his numerous setbacks, not everything in his life had been bad. He was well aware that he had made mistakes, but he had had no idea how long the list actually was.

  At first, he was driven by a desire to give Julie proof of his feelings. He called his father and had a lengthy conversation with him for the first time in years. He then wrote to Julie about the happiness that had flooded through him as he confided his feelings for her to his father and the relief he felt when his father expressed both his delight and his fears with regard to their baby. He also told her of his invitation to the South of France.

  He contacted Dr. Wangenroth and proposed to take his own pictures of his wounds for the doctor’s book. Dr. Wangenroth had been delighted and given him a list of the sequences he needed. It had taken a great deal of willpower for him to stand in front of the camera and take photos of all his defects, but he managed to do it. He took care not to look too closely at the pictures and sent them off before he could have a change of heart. But he had done it, and he wrote to tell her.

  However, there were still some things that were not so easy to put right. Bastian was on the verge of despair, as he had no idea how to make Julie understand that he was genuinely pleased about the baby.

  He had tried to buy the music box that she had looked at so wistfully back in the warehouse all those months ago. The advertising agency had given him the contact details of the vendor, but they told him it had already been sold. Despite his best efforts to turn on the charm, he had been unable to discover who bought it. He searched in vain for something similar, but was eventually forced to abandon the plan.

  Another time, he browsed the baby section of the nearest department store for two full hours yet had left with nothing but a yellow rubber duckling, overwhelmed by all the products on display. He searched the Internet for infant equipment and had a mild panic attack when he realized how many pitfalls awaited those who chose the wrong crib sheets. The risk of crib death woke him in the night and made him want to keep constant watch by his baby’s cradle.

  He eventually bought a brown teddy bear that reminded him of Fred, a safety-approved blue teething ring in the shape of a fish, a small rattle full of colorful balls, and a cute romper covered in a green frog pattern. Imagining his son or daughter wearing it made him grin like a Cheshire cat.

  He sent these things to Julie, saying how much he hoped they could buy the other things the baby needed together.

  But weeks went by, and there was no response from her.

  Bastian rubbed his face in despair. He was sitting in the cozy bistro where he and Julie had eaten together after their trip to the zoo with Luke. He waited there for her as he did every Friday, the evening she had set aside especially for him. And she knew as much, because he had reminded her of it in every letter he had sent her, including the last one.

  A young waiter placed a second pot of coffee down on the table before him, but he hardly noticed. His gaze scanned the busy restaurant, its symmetrically arranged tables surrounded by chairs with dark-red leather seats, its redbrick walls lit with subdued lighting, the singer bemoaning her fate in a husky voice interrupted by the clatter of cutlery and the laughter of the other diners. When the door opened, Bastian instinctively held his breath but was disappointed yet again. Two young women came in and sat down at the table next to his.

  He had been waiting for a little over two hours. He had felt little enough hope when he set out, but now he had sunk into an abyss.

  What was he supposed to do?

  He had delivered his soul to her on a silver platter, showered her with declarations of love and gifts, but none of it seemed to be enough. She accused him of being unable to love her because he didn’t love himself, but in that regard, she was wrong. He loved her. Never in his life had he been so sure of anything.

  But to love himself? The very idea was a source of turmoil. In a fit of despair, he had even researched it on the Internet—he would try anything to convince Julie of his love. He had tried to approach the topic with an open mind, but when he read that he should send himself a love letter, he gave up.

  Everyone had something they didn’t like about themselves. Even Julie had confessed that she wished she were a little taller, when, in fact, she was perfect as she was. Unlike him.

  But deep down he didn’t have all that much against himself; apart from his obvious blemishes and defects, he was more intelligent than many people he knew. He was an extremely reliable friend. He had carved out a successful career as a photographer, and his financial position was sound. He handled his disorder well, overcame the pain successfully. Since beginning his letter writing, he had even come to terms with his fears, or most of them.

  And he loved Julie with devotion.

  He realized that his self-confidence was still lacking. Julie had quickly seen through his veneer of pride, recognizing it as a pretense that had little to do with reality. Sadly, however, that was not something that could be bought from the nearest corner store, and he doubted that would ever change.

  He frowned and stared at his gloves.

  Before exposing his skin to Julie, he had always been convinced that his numerous wounds and scars made him ugly, and other people’s reactions had only reinforced that impression. But she had shown him that she found him desirable and told him that she thought him beautiful as he was. Though he had initially found it hard to believe her, he eventually stopped trying to hide from her. And it had made him feel good, liberated.

  He slowly clenched his hands into fists, studying the soft leather that softly reflected the light. They had accompanied him for fifteen years, protecting him from the inquisitive eyes and snide remarks of other people. Now he realized the sense of self-esteem they had given him was nothing more than a sham.

  Did he want to continue with that charade for the rest of his life?

  He felt his old doubts surfacing as an absurd idea formed in his head. He looked slowly around the bistro. The two young women at the next table were laughing and talking. The waiter hurried past him to a lively group of seven. A little farther away, a pair of lovers were immersed in their own world. A group of older men sat together over an after-work beer. Other tables were occupied by men and women of various ages. There must have been around thirty people in all.

  He considered his gloves again.

  Familiar voices whispered in his mind, reminding him of his fears, almost as if to warn him against his next setback. A cold sweat broke out on his brow, and he felt an unbearable heat rise to his cheeks. His breathing grew shallower as his chest tightened.

  Was he strong enough to accept the reac
tions of these strangers?

  There was only one way to find out.

  He took a deep breath.

  Then he drew the gloves from his fingers and faced his future.

  CHAPTER 37

  Julie tried in vain to concentrate on her studies. Again and again, her thoughts kept wandering off course. It was enough to drive her mad.

  She had been deceiving herself.

  His letters had changed everything. She now saw him in a completely different light. She had had no idea how bitter he had been or how lonely. The knowledge brought a lump to her throat, above all, because it was up to her to change things.

  But her indecision paralyzed her.

  If it were only a matter of the two of them, she would have given in to her own longing without hesitation and at least agreed to meet him. Though she remained skeptical—after all, he had hurt her deeply—with his letters, he had succeeded in kindling a small glimmer of hope. Perhaps he would have helped her get over her disappointment and she would have shown him that she would never abuse his trust.

  They could have fought for each other and perhaps ultimately even reached solid ground. She would have taken the risk, even knowing that all her patience and optimism might not be enough.

  But it was not only about her. In just a few months, she would be holding an innocent baby in her arms. There was no doubt the child would be loved, but it also needed security. That was hard enough in itself, but she worried that she wouldn’t be able to provide it if she allowed Bastian back into her life.

  How could it work when he was a ticking time bomb? If she had to worry that he might go to pieces at any moment, consumed by his old uncertainties? A Sword of Damocles would hang over them all as long as Bastian failed to understand that his fears were unfounded.