Butterfly Dreams (A Christian Contemporary Romance)

by Bonnie Engstrom

  “Oh, yoo-hoo, Sweetie.” Bett’s voice penetrates my daydreaming. No “Honey” this time. No Eliza, no Eleanor or Elaine. How hard I wonder is it for a mature successful businesswoman to remember “Elizabeth?”

  No matter. I feel redeemed, saved from loneliness and banishment. I know she didn’t mean to exclude me, so I make an effort to shove a tiny bit of resentment down in my protruding gut. When we’re alone she calls me her best friend, her Christian confidante. Shouldn’t someone like that be included in the festivities?

  I reluctantly approach the huge dining room, and to my consternation I bow slightly. Eight people, three women and five men, are seated along both sides of a fake Tuscan table that could easily accommodate twenty. It looks a bit bizarre, but at least they’re clustered at one end. After returning to the kitchen, I bring out the chilled plates and forks on an ebony tray laid with a cream-colored linen cloth. It matches the napkins tucked in ebony rings at each guest’s place. Bett and Noel are filling stemmed glasses with icy water from the nearby bar’s refrigerator. At least I’m spared that duty.

  “Why don’t you bring out my salade, dear?” Bett chirps. Her salade!

  I stomp back to the kitchen and reappear to present the five-gallon bowl of greens, tilting it so all can see the intricate patterns of accoutrements laced over the top. I’ll be hog washed if I’m going to walk around the table to show each person individually. Not in my lifetime.

  “Ooo, sumptuous-looking. Beautiful,” the voices exclaim.

  Noel says, “You are so, so creative, Bett, even with something as simple as a salad.”

  “Thank you, Love.”

  Now that’s over the top. Nothing is “simple” about this salad. I grip the sides of the bowl to resist dumping it on Noel’s head. Even Bett should be offended by his remark, especially if the salad is supposed to be her concoction.

  I make a flourish of dribbling dressing from the carafe and serving the salad, but refuse to carry each plate individually to every guest. I pass them down. Bett gives me a funny little squint I pretend not to see. I keep a smile pasted on my mouth, grit my teeth, grab the empty bowl and run back to the kitchen. Next time I will arrive thirty minutes ahead of schedule and leave ten minutes before any guests are due to arrive.

  I quickly race the salad bowl, the cooler and carafe to my van. Thankfully, the door opens to my touch. Galloping guacamole, I forgot my purse. Slinking as quietly as a slightly overweight fifty-something chef can, I slither into the kitchen to retrieve it when Bett’s thespian-tinny voice chirps from the swinging door.

  “Evelyn, dear, would you mind awfully gathering up the plates and serving the dessert?” The sixth commandment comes to mind. God help me, please. I’m not really capable of murder, am I?

  The cheesecake is from Cheesy Delights. No better, really, than Trader Joe’s, and probably far more expensive. I divide it into eight wedges and drizzle a raspberry sauce that came with it over each slice. Feeling the need to enhance it, I locate a box of confectioners sugar in the walk-in pantry. I find a sifter and with a spoon scrape powdered sugar over each plate. Bett had the foresight to scoop coffee into the electronic coffee maker and even set the timer. Goodness, the woman is getting organized.

  After serving the plates of cake on a tray the size of my buffet and placing a sterling silver carafe of coffee and cream on the large table, I retreat. Again. This time I hope it will last.

  “Honey, we need to talk.” Bett’s moist hands enclose my still slightly shaking ones. She’s left her guests, pursued me into the kitchen.

  “Not now, I can’t,” I hear my trembling voice reply.

  “When? Tomorrow? This is urgent.”

  I feel for Bett, but I do try to have a life. Tomorrow is Sunday, my day of rest. After church I try to go to a museum, a park with a sandwich in a plastic baggie, or even the lake with the ducks. Tomorrow is my day, and God’s. Nothing, not even Bett, is going to disturb it.

  “Please, Honey, I have a really BIG secret to share with you. And, I need your Christian advice.”

  Did I mention people tell me things?

  I feel so guilty. But, I must protect myself, and especially Betsy. Yes, I know her name better than anyone, perhaps even better than her “mother.” I pretend to be an airhead, to forget her name. Fifty-eight years is a long time to deny the truth. I want her to meet someone special, someone who I trust to love her the way she deserves to be loved. I hope I’ve made the right decision. I need to find a way to keep her here under my wing.

  THREE

  I heard a really good message in church. Funny, they don’t call them sermons anymore. It was about being your brother’s, or sister’s, keeper. It had some relevance to Genesis 4:9 when Cain asked God the question about Abel. The parts I sort of half listened to I took to heart.

  I want to reach out to others, to pray for them, even serve them. I belong to a community women’s Bible study that meets every third Monday. One of the studies we had last year was how to be a woman of service. Pretty heavy. I volunteer every Thanksgiving to serve slop to the homeless. I even sort castoff clothes at the Salvation Army twice a year. That’s serving, isn’t it?

  I see God on his throne shaking his head. “Not exactly what I had in mind, Lizzy.” Can’t the Almighty at least get my name right?

  I ignore my cell phone playing Amazing Grace. I check the messages. It’s Bett sobbing and begging me to hear her latest trauma. It’s 9:15, on the cusp of going to bed. I decide I can’t deal with Bett tonight. Sorry, God. I slip into my fuzzy slippers and clomp into my bedroom. Maybe tomorrow when I’m not so tired.

  Then the LORD said to Cain, "Where is your brother Abel?"

  "I don't know," he replied. "Am I my brother's keeper?"

  It’s three-thirty a.m. I’m rubbing my eyes. Did I really dream that verse of Scripture? I climb out of bed, fussing with the sheet tangled around my big toe.

  Bett doesn’t get it. Maybe she never will. I believe she thinks my faith will rub off on her by association. I wish that were true, but I worry. She’s probably pushing eighty, so she’d better hurry.

  I remember a conversation we had the other day.

  “Honey, the Good Lord doesn’t need to deal with my troubles. The man’s too busy with real pain and suffering to worry about old Bettina Bethany. I caused my own pain, and I will deal with it in my own way. Besides, He gave me you for a friend, and you know how to talk to Him.”

  I try to explain, for the umpteenth time. He cares about her troubles, He cares about her. He is the best friend she’ll ever have. One of my favorite praise songs bursts forth in my wobbly voice. “I am a friend of Jesus. He is my friend.” Bett giggles. Of course she didn’t know this was a real song, probably thought I made it up. Guess I didn’t get my point across.

  The next morning at 9 a.m., I flip my cell phone shut after reluctantly agreeing to meet her for lunch – at her house. Guess who’s providing lunch? I did make her promise to dig the extra cheesecake out of the freezer. God wouldn’t want me to have sugar withdrawals, would He?

  I swing Old Sassy into the curved drive of the mini-mansion. Fountain Hills is especially beautiful this morning. The signature fountain off Shea Boulevard spouts high and clear reaching over three hundred feet toward the faded blue of the Arizona sky. Noted in the Guinness Book of Records as the highest fountain in the world, it sits in the middle of a thirty-acre lake and gushes for fifteen minutes every hour. I check my watch as I see the dramatic sight. Yep, a few minutes after eleven a.m.

  It rained last night—not a pounding monsoon rain—more like a pitter-patter of angel wings. Or maybe the angels were flinging pebbles at my window. Plunk, ping, plunk, ping were the sounds I heard as I tried to untangle the sheet at 3:30 a.m. The roses are in full bloom next to Bett’s veranda, seemingly unaffected by the blistering 102-degree heat. At least it’s cooled off a bit, and there’s a whisper of a breeze slightly ruffling my bangs. Two days ago it was a hundred and eleven in the shade, and last week the tem
perature topped out at 114. Fall, such as it is in Arizona, is definitely in the air. Next weekend will be Labor Day. I have half a dozen orders for side salads and an on-site barbeque to cater in person. No rest for this laborer.

  I grab the small cooler holding just enough salad for Bett and me and slam Old Sassy’s door. I’m feeling a bit sassy, myself, today. Swinging the cooler in one hand, and my fake designer purse in the other, I’m humming, “It’s a beautiful day in Arizona today, it’s a beautiful day in this neighborhood.” Some childhood memories linger forever. I don’t want to be a grownup today. But, Bett and God have other plans for me.

  “Bessie, dear. Thank you so much for coming. You are a lifesaver.” Bett is attired in a flowing, flowered purple caftan of silk. One of her designs for her Retro line now so popular in her boutiques. The delicate fabric clings to her as she swirls. The tinkling sound of her Capri shell jewelry, perhaps ten necklaces and twenty bracelets, catch me off guard. What is it with this woman, this teenage wannabe? The three-inch heels of her strappy sandals click on the tile floor as she drags me by the hand to the oversized kitchen. Weaving long manicured fingertips through her “she’ll never tell” blonde nest of curls she faces me with misty eyes. “I so need your advice, and your prayers.”

  We both pick at the quickie version of the Chinese Chicken Salad I’d prepared. Bett’s fork scrapes a piece of shredded lettuce around on her china plate. The screeching sound makes me shiver. But, I am hungry, so I dig in and carefully chew each bite twenty times as my father once taught me, and stab another piece of chicken. This is not going well.

  “Bett, please get to the point. I have an appointment at two. A really important customer.” I feel my teeth gritting, and I have a knot in my back. I love this woman, but right now she is driving me bonkers. What can possibly be such a big deal?

  FOUR

  “I have a child.”

  This is a revelation, of sorts. But, it’s not the be all end all. Lots of people have children, even children they don’t acknowledge. I sense Bett’s announcement is more complicated. Her face scrunches up, possibly contorting in pain. A tear makes a little trace down her right cheek, carving an actual indentation in the heavy makeup. I resist the urge to smooth it with my finger.

  “It seems like such a long time ago. I was only eighteen.” She pauses to dab her eyes with a monogramed linen napkin. “I gave the child up for adoption, and I’ve regretted it ever since.” I don’t know what to say, so I say nothing. I’m sure you’ve heard of the pregnant pause. No pun intended. That’s what it feels like. I don’t want to remind her it was a long time ago, about fifty-seven years ago. And, math is not my strong point. My mom told me once that my birth mother was eighteen when I was born. She also told me she died during my birth. That leaves out Bett as a possibility. Not that I think of her. Well, maybe for a millisecond.

  “You seem very burdened, Bett.” Clever statement, Betsy. “I was adopted, and I had a wonderful life. Have you tried to find your child? Is it important?” I immediately think it could be if Bett has some disease that’s passed down genetically. But, I don’t want to pry. I don’t even think to ask the child’s sex.

  I’d never been very curious about my birth parents. I was adopted at less than a year and my parents gave me a great life. As far as they and I were concerned, I was their baby. Pure and simple. Maybe because I’m an only child I never questioned. True, my mother doted on me. Mom grew up pretty poor, the third and last child in her family. She spent most of her teen years wearing her older sister’s hand-me-downs. She also loves to read, so she encouraged me in her favorite pastime.

  I remember one Christmas getting forty-three books under the tree. To encourage my love for reading? And another Christmas when in eighth grade, and my figure was developing, getting thirty-two sweaters. Let’s not go there. But, I never took any of this for granted. I felt secure and loved. When I was thirteen my mother and grandmother spent weeks (I found out later) designing and sewing a room ensemble in pink corduroy piped in green. I came home from school one day and found my room transformed. Curtains, bedspread, even pink carpeting and a pink telephone. What more could a girl ask? Bett’s confession toys with my brain. Should I have asked about my so-called birth parents? Until now, I wasn’t even curious. Is there something wrong, weird, lacking in me?

  The other thing I remember, sitting across from Bett and her teary confession, is I look a lot, a whole lot, like my parents. We all have dimples in our cheeks in the same places, funny little dents in our left cheeks - more pronounced when we laugh. I’d never given it much thought until I notice a similar one in Bett’s cheek. Must be a universal thing, common.

  ~

  Back in my condo I stack and restack a leaning tower of ashtrays. As the one from Intercontinental Hotels leans, threatening to tumble the tower, I carefully remove it and place it on the coffee table starting the whole stacking process over. The ones from Marriott, Hilton and Westin are all about the same size, so they stabilize the others. The pièce de resistance is the small rectangular black glass one from The Meridian in Beverly Hills. I place it on top. This is what I do when I’m tempted to go back to smoking. The black, amber and clear class receptacles remind me what they smelled like when they were full. That does it. The precarious tower of glass and ceramic tumbles scattering across my coffee table. Nothing breaks. These suckers were made to last. Souvenirs of the past.

  I’m troubled. I ruminate. I try to remember Bett’s every word. Why don’t I have more empathy for her? Lord, help me understand. Her “secret” is not a subject of ostracism nowadays. It’s actually become politically correct to have, and admit to having had, children out of wedlock, even giving them up for adoption. Isn’t it that famous female psychologist on talk radio who encourages adoption versus keeping the child as a single parent?

  I know Bett’s in emotional pain and agonizes over a decision she made decades ago. But, why now? That’s what I need to find out, and I intend to. Dimpled cheek jutting forward. I call Mom.

  ~

  “Hi, Mom, it’s your born troublemaker.”

  She snickers. “What did you do now, dear, put hot sauce in Grandma’s secret dressing by mistake?”

  I chuckle back, and it all drips out like a leaky hose. I explain a friend confessed her guilt to me about giving a child up for adoption years ago. And how I wasn’t all that empathetic. And, how I’m now having guilt pangs about actually loving her and Dad and my crazy cousins and never feeling the need to find my birth parents. The sound of her indrawn breath doesn’t tell me much. After all, she’s of Swedish heritage, and Scandinavian women are noted for little gasps as a natural part of their conversation.

  “Mom?”

  “Well, Elizabeth Alice Emma, you know what I always say.”

  “You think too much for your own good,” we both say in unison. I almost reach to hook pinkies with her and make a wish. It crosses my mind that when Mom uses my full given name she’s serious. No “Betsy” for her.

  Sigh.

  “I hope you realize I never felt adopted. It really wasn’t a big thing with me to know who my birth parents are. If you’d never told me, what the heck! It’s just that since this came up, I wonder should I have questioned more? Am I weird this way?”

  “Bits (that’s her nickname for me), you’ve just given me the greatest compliment ever.” I hear a papery sound and sense she’s reached for a tissue. “You always were, and always will be, my Baby Bits.” Another pause, another tissue? “To be honest with you (one of Mom’s favorite phrases, as if she was seldom honest!), I’ve almost never thought about it, too.” There is that pregnant pause again that keeps cropping up in my conversations. “Do you want to?”

  The tremor in her voice creeps hesitantly through the airwaves, or whatever those things are called that connect telephone lines between a cell phone and a landline. Oh, Lord, I didn’t want to hurt Mom. “Mom, you okay? I shouldn’t have brought this up.” I feel like I’ve been digging up old ga
rbage to see what’s moldy underneath. My mind sees a landfill of broken bodies and grinning skeletons with left cheek dimples. Agh! Tonight for sure I’ll have bad dreams.

  “Frankly, Bits, it was a bit of a shock. You really aren’t curious? It’s okay if you are.” I can almost see her clamping her jaw in a reassuring grin, eyes closed. “Seems strange to me that you would suddenly wonder about the need to know at your age.”

  She is right. How does one live almost six decades without caring, without wanting to know one’s ancestral roots, then in the blink of an eye wonder? Something ancient and forbidden stirs in my soul. Not a happy feeling. I make a mental folder, file it and catalogue it to the back of my brain. That takes about three seconds.

  I apologize, and she invites me for dinner Sunday. I accept, glad to get off the parental hook for my faux pas.

  five

  Sunday is my only free day. Friday and Saturday I delivered bacon and cheese potato salads, fruit compotes and coleslaw to eight clients having early Labor Day celebrations. Monday, officially Labor Day, I am scheduled to be the chef-on-site for a corporate barbeque, one hundred fifty people. I usually don’t do these things alone without an assistant. But, since it’s only a barbeque I figure I can handle it. Flip burgers, put out bowls of pre-made side dishes. Bigga deal.

  For Sunday dinner Mom cooks a pork roast, my favorite and about the only thing I haven’t mastered as a chef. Mine never gets crusty on the outside, or it’s stringy, or hard and overdone, or way too rare for the Other White Meat. Dad quips about a former patient who’s called. He’s a retired shrink, but old patients still call him. Still bound by confidentiality, he shares stories, not names. Some of his patients must be older than he. We laugh and chew. I think what a gift it is to be in this family.