The Butterfly Garden Page 4

  “How do you expect to do that, Mom? You can’t even walk right now.”

  She sniffed, cleared her throat. “How can I expect you to understand? You’ve never been a mother, never stayed up all night with a sick child. You couldn’t possibly know the pain I feel right now.”

  How many times had Jenny heard that story? Twenty-five? Twenty-five hundred? After one, it all sounded the same, blending together into one gigantic heap of nothingness. Jenny had never given birth; therefore, she was incapable of real emotion.

  “I’ll call you every day and report her progress,” Jenny said.

  “You?” her mother choked out. “Why would you do that? Where’s Grant?”

  Jenny opened her mouth to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Grant’s dead.

  “Jenny?”

  “He’s dead,” she breathed. “He was with Grace.”

  “Dear Lord, no,” her mother cried, her voice trailing off in agony. “Please, no.”

  Jenny blinked hard to keep the tears back. “I haven’t made any funeral arrangements yet. I guess I’ll do that tomorrow.” It made her queasy to think about it, but there were no other choices. They were the only family Grant had.

  “He was like a son to me,” her mother said in a ragged voice. “Poor Grant. Poor Gracie. Oh, those poor babies.” She repeated the litany for what seemed like a full five minutes, interrupted only by an occasional sob or gasp for breath.

  Jenny closed her eyes and listened, her heart growing heavier as the seconds ticked by. After what seemed like two eternities, her mother sniffed one last time and blew her nose. “Jenny,” she said, her words clipped and business-like, “Call Laura Montgomery and make arrangements with her to care for the girls until I can get there. Whatever it costs, I’ll pay her.”

  “Mom, I told you, I’m staying. I’ll take care of the girls.”

  “You?” Her mother let out a harsh sound that fell short of a laugh. “What do you know about caring for children?”

  Virginia Romano was not going to let up on her younger daughter’s ineptitude. “I know Danielle and Natalie.” What would her mother say if she knew Danielle hadn’t spoken a word since last evening and had buried her head under a pillow when Jenny came into her room to say goodnight?

  “You know nothing about children.” There it was again, another jab. “You’ve never even changed a diaper.”

  “They’re not in diapers anymore.” She paused. “And Laura has offered to help.”

  “You can’t cook either.”

  Jenny pictured her mother sitting in her favorite green tweed chair, shaking her head with equal parts dismay and disgust.

  “I have expanded my cooking knowledge since the last time we were together.” If Gerald’s scrambled eggs with tabasco sauce and Monterey Jack cheese counted, which they probably didn’t. She also knew how to make Double Dipped Devil’s Chocolate Strawberries, thanks again, to Gerald.

  “Oh? Now you know how to boil water in one-quart and two-quart saucepans?”

  Jenny ignored the jab. “I’m not going to get into this now, Mom. I’m staying. And if you’re worried the girls will shrivel and waste away, don’t. Laura has already offered to help and anyway, I’m not a complete incompetent in the kitchen.” No need to mention they were going for pizza tomorrow night.

  “What about your job? Weren’t you supposed to go to India soon?

  Jenny bit the inside of her cheek. “Italy, Mom. It was Italy.”

  “Oh. Well, whatever. Italy, then. Weren’t you supposed to go there in a month or so?”

  “Right. I already talked to my boss.” She had talked to him…kind of. He was waiting to hear from her about setting up the details of the trip to Italy. And she would be in touch with him. Soon.

  Her mother was tsk-tsking over the phone. “Next you’ll be losing your job. Again.”

  That was one thing about Virginia Romano; she knew just where to sink the knife, twist it in the flesh, force the blood to spurt out. She still didn’t believe that last job wasn’t Jenny’s fault. Not even when Jenny finally told her the truth: that underneath his distinguished air and white smile, her old boss, Wesley Edmund Nasrogeron, was a wolf, more interested in the play of light and lens on her body than on her work. She hadn’t had the time or the extra cash to file a sexual harassment suit; she needed a job and she needed money. Fast.

  Enter, Joe Feltzer. She could see him now, flipping through her latest work, his sausage-size fingers moving with surprising agility. He was a gruff, hard-nosed, transplanted New Yorker with an affinity for Chinese takeout and salami on rye. He didn’t talk a lot, not with words anyway.

  But then he didn’t need to. In the six short months Jenny had been there, she’d learned that Joe had his own special brand of communication that required neither translation nor interpretation. One look, a raised bushy brow, a frown on his fleshy face, said more than a library of books ever could. And then there were his hands. They were the size of baseball gloves, rough and meaty, with stubby fingers and blunt nails. When he slashed them in the air, you could feel the breeze brushing by your face.

  Joe Feltzer was tough and demanding, but underneath that heavy coat of irascibility and an extra twenty-five pounds, was a decent guy and the reason his magazine was one of the best on the West Coast.

  “…You’ll be homeless, left out on the streets. You’ll have to move back home,” her mother droned on.

  That last statement jolted Jenny back to reality.

  “What did you say?” Did her mother really think that moving back home was even a remote possibility?

  Silence stretched through the phone line. Five seconds, ten. Finally, her mother spoke. “I’ll check with my doctor and see when I can travel.” The words were brisk, distant, and there was no further mention of doomed employment.

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  “I’ll call you every day,” Jenny said, anxious to get off the phone.

  “Yes.” Her mother’s voice deflated with the speed of a balloon that’s been pin-pricked twenty times. “Poor Gracie. Why her?”

  Those were the last words Virginia Romano spoke before she hung up. Poor Gracie. Why her? Who did she think she was kidding? They both knew what she was really thinking though she wouldn’t speak the words out loud. What she really meant was, Why did it have to be Gracie? Why couldn’t it have been you? Of course, she’d deny such a horrible thought, deny it to her grave. And maybe she wasn’t even aware that it existed. Maybe it only breathed in her subconscious, but Jenny knew it existed.

  She knew…because she’d been wondering the same thing herself. Why did it have to be Gracie? Why couldn’t it have been me?

  * * *

  Jenny stared at the plastic tube in Grace’s mouth. She’d been perched on the edge of the “hospital orange” vinyl chair for over an hour. Sixty seconds had taken on new significance. It had become the basis from which Grace’s existence was measured, analyzed, and charted. Jenny had been counting everything: the drops that fell from the IV, the beeps on the monitor, the whooshes of the respirator compressing and decompressing. She’d even begun to synchronize her gum chewing to Grace’s life support systems.

  Please let her wake up. Jenny stood and edged her way past the jumble of tubes and cords to stand beside Grace. She touched her hand; it was cool, lifeless. Bruises covered the pale flesh of Grace’s arms in a kaleidoscope of purples, blues, and yellows. Jenny blinked hard. Oh, Grace, you of all people do not deserve this. A sniff, another blink. “I’m here for you.” She gave her sister’s hand a gentle squeeze. “Right here.” She forced her gaze past the tube sticking out of Grace’s mouth and looked at the closed eyes. “Fight, Gracie. Fight. We need you.” She swiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. “I need you.”

  How weak and pitiful she was, pleading with her unconscious sister to pull through…for her. No wonder their mother called Jenny selfish. Maybe she was; maybe she’d been disguising it under something fashionable like independence
or self-direction. Maybe underneath the drive, the single-minded desire for accomplishment, was a woman who saw to her own needs first, despite the situations or individuals surrounding her.

  She was selfish.

  But Grace had made it so easy to take…and take…and take…

  She’d never seemed to mind rearranging her schedule to meet Jenny’s, even though she was the one with the husband and two children. Last year, she’d even postponed Natalie’s birthday celebration so Jenny could take in a concert before she came to Ohio. Jenny should have at least asked Grace about it before she bought the tickets since she’d promised Natalie she’d be there for her birthday...for her birthday, not three days after her birthday. And it wasn’t as though she hadn’t seen the band three times before.

  But, like always, Jenny had simply assumed Grace would make everything work, and she had. They’d had a great visit, done some power shopping without the girls, and even chose the same blouse, a gorgeous magenta silk, in some fancy boutique Grace found. Jenny oohed and aahhed over it, fingered the soft fabric, and said she’d just die if she couldn’t have it. Grace had hesitated, looked at the blouse in her hand, and hung it back on the rack.

  Jenny had worn that damn blouse fewer than five times in the year since she’d bought it. She hadn’t needed it; she would have survived if she hadn’t bought it. But, she’d wanted it. And now she wondered what made her wanting any more urgent than Grace’s? What gave her the right to push her sister’s desires aside and jump in line ahead of her, like a high school kid cutting in the cafeteria line? Jenny knew they couldn’t both buy the damned blouse; they’d made that pact in their teens. She’d also known Grace would back down and let her buy it.

  Oh, Grace, how many other times have you turned away from something you wanted? I promise you, I’ll buy you five magenta blouses and I’ll let you have first pick next time. Only, please, please, please, wake up.

  5

  Darkness blanketed Grace, held her tight, filled her lungs, her throat, her eyes. She couldn’t move, could only hear the faintest of sounds, sifting over her, around her, through her. A woman’s voice, gentle sobbing…

  Where was she? What was happening? She tried to think, tried to form a memory, but she couldn’t…and then blackness took over.

  * * *

  “So what’ll it be tonight,” Jenny hollered from the top of the stairs. “Burgers or pizza?”

  “Burgers!” Natalie shouted. “Can I get a cheeseburger?”

  “Sure.” Jenny jogged down the steps and into the living room.

  “And French fries?”

  “Yes, silly, and French fries.” Jenny plopped onto the couch between the girls. “And ice cream.”

  Natalie flung her arms around Jenny’s neck and squealed. “Yay!”

  “Danielle, what about you?” When her niece didn’t answer, Jenny repeated the question, “Danielle?”

  “We’re not supposed to eat that stuff more than once a week,” she said. “This is the sixth night in a row. And you know it, too, Natalie.”

  Well, at least she’d spoken, a complete sentence, too. Jenny guessed it was an improvement over the one-word responses she’d been getting the past five days. No matter how many ways she tried to approach her, Danielle didn’t want to discuss her father, or her mother, for that matter. Natalie was the one who asked about Grace every day. Was she still sleeping? Did she open even one eye? Did she snore? Not Danielle, she just stared straight ahead, mouth clamped shut.

  “I want a cheeseburger with pickles, French fries, and a vanilla ice cream cone,” Natalie said, twirling a piece of Jenny’s hair around her finger.

  “You’re gonna get in trouble,” Danielle said.

  “Am not. Aunt Jenny said it was okay.”

  “Hold it. Tell me about your mother’s rule.”

  Natalie shrugged and remained silent.

  This time, Danielle spoke, her words dripping with equal amounts annoyance and disbelief that a grownup didn’t know better. “We’re not allowed to eat at fast food places except for once a week.”

  “Oh.” And it had taken her six days to mention this?

  “Mommy says too many French fries gives you a fat heart,” Natalie said with quiet authority.

  “A fat heart?”

  “Yup.” She nodded, her eyes wide and serious. “The fat sticks to your heart and it’s bad.”

  “Oh.” Hardening of the arteries? Grace sure was teaching them young. “Well, then, we don’t want to break Mommy’s rules, so how about eating something here?” Now for the real challenge. “I’ve got three different kinds of macaroni and cheese. Regular, extra cheesy, and white cheddar.”

  “Extra cheesy,” Natalie chirped.

  “Mom only lets us have the stuff from a box in an emergency,” Danielle said.

  Hmm. “Good. Then she won’t mind if we have extra cheesy tonight,” Jenny said, grabbing Natalie’s hand and standing up. “Because this is an emergency.” She headed for the kitchen, Natalie trailing two steps behind.

  Six days ago, she’d been eating Gerald’s bouillabaisse, sipping white wine and munching on homemade baguettes. Tonight, it was extra cheesy macaroni and cheese from a box.

  Her dietary habits were not the only things that had undergone monumental shifts. In the span of a few short days, she’d transitioned from ambitious, unattached photographer, traveling the world on assignment, to surrogate mother of two, responsible for food, sustenance, and transportation. At least the transportation felt normal; the convertible she’d rented from the airport was mercifully not part of the neighborhood’s minivan brigade.

  She was trying, she really was. She’d taken care of Grant’s funeral arrangements, attended the service, accepted condolences from his friends and co-workers, thanked them for asking about Grace, and then come home and hauled the kids out for pizza.

  Laura Montgomery had been a godsend. The woman knew how to work this “mother” thing. The girls got on the bus at 8:10 a.m., off at 3:15 p.m. They ate graham crackers with milk for a snack or chocolate chip cookies, two, not the four Natalie tried to sneak, and then they did homework, played outside, ate dinner, bathed, and went to bed at 8:45. Laura handled the after-school detail while Jenny went to the hospital. The Montgomerys rolled the girls into their lives like cookie dough, blending them together. Even Laura’s husband, Hank, a big burly man with dark hair and a beard, seemed unperturbed by the addition of two more little girls to his household. And their children, Abby and Alexis, subscribed to “the more the merrier” routine.

  How could someone be as calm and reassuring as Laura Montgomery, especially when she was surrounded by a bunch of under ten-year-olds? Maybe she was using an herbal treatment. Lavender? Chamomile?

  Laura handed Jenny a list the second day that she called “An Adult’s Survival Guide in a Kid’s World.”

  Lesson one: Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches taste better cut in triangles.

  Lesson two: Straws make milk disappear faster.

  Lesson three: Milk mustaches are cool. Even for grown-ups.

  Lesson four: There is a difference between regular Oreo cookies and Double Stuffed Oreo cookies.

  Lesson five: Fireflies are magic.

  Lesson six: Don’t ask a child who she’s talking to if she’s the only one in the room.

  Lesson seven: Check your child’s toothbrush at night to see if it’s wet.

  Lesson eight: Buy lots of bubbles and chalk.

  Lesson nine: Let your child “read” to you even if the words are made up.

  Lesson ten: Leave the night light on.

  The sixth night ended after a box of extra cheesy macaroni and cheese, a bubble bath, and a story. Natalie chose Rapunzel, her favorite. Danielle picked up Thumblina and curled under the covers, facing the wall. By the time Jenny turned off the light, closed the door, reopened the door to make sure she’d left the night light on, she had a whopper headache.

  She really needed a cigarette.

  There were tw
o “emergency” packs in the bottom of her suitcase. A few puffs, just two or three, that’s all she wanted. Who would know? Stefan and Gerald were twenty-four hundred miles away; they’d never find out she’d swapped a pack of strawberry bubble gum for a pack of cigarettes. Just this once. She ran to her room, unzipped the suitcase, and pulled out the pack. And then the doorbell rang. Damn! She thought of ignoring it, ripping open the pack, and lighting up. But what if it was someone important? What if it was the police returning Grant’s car?

  Oh, damn. She threw the cigarettes back in the suitcase, shoved it in the closet, and ran downstairs. When she opened the door, Laura Montgomery stood on the welcome mat with a glass dish covered in foil.

  “Care for a piece of blueberry cobbler?”

  Blueberries and cinnamon smothered Jenny’s senses. So she’d eat instead of smoke. “My savior,” she murmured, knowing there was more truth to those words than Laura could possibly know.

  “Sugar resuscitation,” Laura said. “Works every time.”

  “Come on in while I make some coffee.” Jenny headed for the kitchen, dug out the coffee. Decaf, no less. No wonder she’d been getting a headache every day; a person couldn’t go from five cups of caffeinated a day to zilch.

  “I just bought some Triple Vanilla ice cream the other day,” Jenny said. “Want some with your cobbler?”

  “No thanks. Not everyone’s graced with your body. I’ll have to run five miles tomorrow to burn up this cobbler.”

  Jenny made a face. “Oh, yeah. Exercise. My nemesis.”

  Laura smiled. “Grace told me all about you. How you eat half a pizza in one sitting and then have a hot fudge sundae for dessert.” She waved her fork at Jenny. “And don’t gain an ounce.”

  Jenny handed Laura a coffee mug, then sat down and plopped a big spoonful of blueberries in her mouth. “Did she also tell you that she’s convinced one day it will all catch up with me and I’ll balloon into a four-hundred-pound ball?”

  “Then justice will be served,” Laura said, waving a spoon at her.