Butterfly Dreams (A Christian Contemporary Romance)

by Bonnie Engstrom

  I decide to do something practical for a change. Washing underwear, panties and bras counts, doesn’t it? I reserved for doing laundry at my own digs. Bett’s fancy washer and dryer were too complicated for me, and my learning curve isn’t as quick as it used to be. I set the dial on wash and let it roll. Maybe Consuela has figured out the nuances of Bett’s laundry appliances with porthole doors and sitting on risers. More power to her. At least she gets paid to do it.

  Twiddling my thumbs is not my forté. Besides, I forget which direction I’m twiddling, then get all mixed up. I guess the old adage “all thumbs” applies aptly to me. I really should be cleaning my oven and scrubbing out the toilet. Instead, I opt for a more fun endeavor and convince myself I need to concoct a new recipe, something uniquely Betsy. I fantasize about one called “Noel’s Nicoise”, the perfect French inspired salad. Or, how about “Love on a Platter” or “Tryst?” Naw, too cutesy.

  I’m just settling down at the kitchen table with my recipe journal and pen in hand when the annoying shrill of the phone interrupts my reverie. I haven’t received a call on my home phone since the fire, so I’m a bit reluctant to answer. I did mention before that I’m not superstitious, but one can’t take chances, can one? “Caller Unknown” displays on the ID window. I wait for the machine to kick in and hear Noel’s shaky voice.

  ~

  HonorHealth Shea Hospital is becoming my second home. Make that my third since Bett’s is my second. Navigating to find a parking spot near the emergency entrance is second nature to me now. I salute the pudgy attendant in registration and he recognizes me. “Nell’s friend, right?” He got it close, so I nod. “You’re the good friend?” I nod again, feeling again like an imitation of that old Bobble head doll. “Right this way,” he says nonchalantly leading me through the whooshing “Hospital Personnel Only” doors. I have a feeling of déja vue, but I plod obediently after Mr. Pudgy.

  I open my mouth to ask, “What is it this time, Noel?” One glance at his face and I bite both my lip and my tongue. Not an easy feat.

  He looks ghastly. Gray pallor spreads across his ashen face lying flat on a snowy white pillow. Noel’s beautiful salt and pepper hair stands in stringy tufts emphasizing the tube sticking out of his nose. His eyes are closed, and he looks deathly pale. I notice another tube attached to his arm and leading to a see-through bag hanging precariously high above the bed. His cobalt blue eyes (yes, I found another color name for them) are hidden behind lids so tight I’d need a zipper to open them. I try to remain calm and try not to panic.

  “Wha…what’s wrong with him?” I hear my voice making sounds, but the sounds are echoes—like a child talking into a tin can. Pudgy touches my shoulder, and I notice for the first time his eyes are pools of sympathy. For a fleeting moment I wonder if he practices that look. Maybe he works on it in the hospital restroom during his breaks.

  I know my meager attempt at internal levity is just to prolong the inevitable. I grip the side rail on Noel’s bed for support and whisper, “Please, tell me.”

  ~

  Flu!

  I’m fuming, stomping around my condo like a nervous, geeky kid auditioning for a high school marching band. What an idiot. Noel was the one who convinced me to go to Safeway last week for my flu shot. For the first time in several years, the flu vaccine is available everywhere—pharmacies, supermarkets, even (if you can believe it), doctor offices. No excuses. Nada. None. Me, I got mine between shopping for canned soup and mascara (not that I use much).

  There’d be no use staying at the hospital. Besides, I am in a fowl, funky mood and fear I’ll be confrontational when Noel wakes up. Yes, I was assured he would wake up—be achy and grumpy, but with the intravenous hydration he was being given, be fit as a fiddle in a few days. Grumpy isn’t on my agenda right now, so I split.

  I guess you could say I’m not the hand holding type. I do love Noel, very much. But, I have a problem with stubborn men, and dense men. Ego is a big thing with me. I believe I’ve mastered mine. After all, I’ve dealt with the love handles and big butt syndromes. I’ve accepted my body, even if others haven’t. (An aside: Bett keeps hinting I should “work out” more, use her fitness room. I refrain from asking her why she wears those hideous caftans.) Again, I digress.

  I’m having a hard time with the Noel illness situation. I don’t mean to be insensitive, but our wedding is only a few months away. Cactus Community Church is booked; Mom is calling me daily with cute ideas and names of photographers, caterers and even a firm that provides real white cloth runners for the church aisle, not those disposable paper ones. Her latest suggestions are for favors—a tiny sauté pan holding a chocolate kiss with both of our names and saying “You light my fire”; candies with our names on the wrappers stuffed in miniature red convertibles; and the worst, two small teddy bears linked together with our names and wedding date on them. Hello, Mom, we are not in our twenties. I search Online for something more appropriate for our ages. Finding nothing, I design my own.

  I ask you, what would you suggest for a chef and a chiropractor? Right. Something that has nothing to do with either of their professions, but has a lot to do with their love. Well, I haven’t come up with it, either. Not yet. But, I will.

  Right now I have to call the hospital and find out how “Mr. No Flu Shot” is doing.

  ~

  I feel awful.

  “Betsy.” His weak voice whines over the phone. I try to ignore that. “I tried to get a flu shot. I was fifty-sixth in line, but the cut-off was fifty-five. I kept hoping someone would step out of line, but when the bent over gray-haired lady in front of me was called, well, that was it.”

  End of the line Noel. That will be my new teasing nickname for him.

  “Oh, Noel, precious one.” I’m being real syrupy here. “I didn’t stay last night, because…” I have to make an instant decision. Do I lie, fib, fudge a little? Okay, you got me, tell the truth. You already know how I feel about lying. So, here goes.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t stay last night until you woke up. I didn’t know how long that would be, or if you’d even know who I was. I guess I was having a problem with you having the flu when you said you’d be getting a shot. It’s me, not you. I was the screw-up. I do love you. I’m so sorry.”

  I hang my head, hoping he can see it through the telephone lines. Guess not.

  “Betsy, you mean you gave up on me?”

  How could I explain that one of my former husbands pulled multiple sympathy tricks on me? How could I tell Noel, this paragon of senior virtue, this man I love more than earth, that I clung to the past when I should have been leaping with joy for the future? I ditch the nagging questions and take a deep breath, a very deep one.

  “Noel, I want to explain. I will be there in ten minutes flat. I love you. Please don’t stop loving me.”

  Hanging up the phone took a millisecond; grabbing my keys, my jacket and cell phone took maybe two minutes. I did the Betsy check—keys, cell, glasses, jacket. Got it. Aw, the chocolate chip cookies I’d baked earlier. From a mix. I won’t tell. I stuff six of them in a plastic container, breeze out the door and do the Betsy flying leap into Old Sassy. I’m rolling.

  ~

  I’m now an expert at parking in the emergency entrance parking lot of the hospital. But, I feel guilty. I’m actually supposed to go to the ICU, going through the main entrance. Since it’s locked at night I’d have to find that special door that allows entrance. Trying not to look confused I stand soldier straight in front of Pudgy. Does the man ever have an evening off?

  “Reporting for duty, SIR!”

  His puff pastry cheeks and swollen eyes turn upward. “Nell, again, huh?” He ignores my sergeant act. So much for levity. Where has all the humor gone in this world? Seems to me that in all the pain and suffering in emergency rooms and ICUs, humor is very much needed. Not appreciated, I guess.

  I ignore the “Nell” reference, believing he means Noel. Again, I follow him like an errant lamb. Noel’s curtained of
f cubicle seems less frightening. The tube thingy is out of his nose and he is sitting up with two pillows behind him. He seems to be dozing, a feathery whisper blowing from his nostrils. I don’t want to disturb him, so I ease myself into a Vinyl padded armchair near his bed.

  “He’s being moved to a room soon.” Pudgy’s whisper is loud and cuts through the quiet like a steak knife cutting through pasta and scraping on the plate. I wonder again where this man learned his “bedside manner,” an anomaly if ever there was one.

  “Good. Does that mean he’s better?” I remember belatedly to ask when. Before Pudgy can answer a nurse who brings to mind a lost species with wide, bony shoulders (Yes, I can actually see the protrusions popping out of her patterned smock. Which reminds me, what ever happened to starched white and perky caps?) and a face that could put Jack Nicholson over the edge again, bursts into the room with noisy purpose. The curtain whooshes behind her at about the same time she sets her hands on hips that are thankfully wider than mine. The face that I thought could sink a thousand ships broke into a grin that could melt an iceberg. I never was very good at reading people.

  “Hi, Handsome. Guess you’re out of the woods,” she grins like a Cheshire. I think of pouffy Snoopy and how my affection for him has grown, albeit his cumbersome weight lying across my legs and numbing them. Despite her behemoth appearance, I decide I like the creases and wrinkles in her weather-beaten face that seem to light up the room now that she’s smiling. Under this craggy appearance I sense a kind heart. So much for first impressions. Gotta work on that.

  I’ve decided to call her (in my mind, of course) Nurse Fetchit, since she’s coming to fetch Noel. Just then she notices moi sitting perched on the edge of the room’s only chair. Turning, she gives me a full-face smile. “Nurse Ratchit, here. Good to meet you.”

  I just about lose it when she breaks into a guffaw. Her laughter starts out loud and boisterous, then decreases into a near whisper. Suddenly, her voice lifts somewhere between that whisper and a lilting melody into one of my favorite praise songs. “It’s not about me, it’s all about You.” She winks, and I notice a twinkle in her eyes. Surely this woman is an angel, one of God’s emissaries sent to earth to protect and encourage.

  Turning to me after her brief vocal soliloquy, she walks around Noel’s hospital bed and reaches for my hands. Her hands are tiny in comparison to the size of her body. They are warm, and her grasp is firm and comforting. Her eyes bubble with leftover humor from the Nurse Ratchit quip.

  “I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t frighten you, or put you off too much. Sometimes, I can’t resist.” She searches my face, her amber eyes wandering over my own obvious wrinkles and creases. “You are a believer.” It’s a statement, not a question.

  “It’s written on your face, it’s demonstrated by the caring you have for Noel, and,” she grins again, “the cross at your throat is a dead giveaway.”

  Not to mention the Bible resting on my lap I think. Nevertheless, I like this woman—a lot. She’s genuine. How often does that happen? I trust her. That’s another bordering on miracle incident.

  Perhaps she senses the confusion in my eyes. Suddenly, she perks up and emits that melodic laugh again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t properly introduce myself. I’m really, as unbelievable as it sounds, Nurse Jones, Netta Jones. God’s servant.” She pauses to let that sink in.

  Seems to me it’s time for my two cents worth to be inserted here. The tip of my tongue is almost raw from biting it, and the dry desert air isn’t being kind to the skin on my constantly wrung knuckles. Besides, I have a lot invested in those two squabblers. Not financial—well, some—but mostly emotional.

  History.

  Although I’m not exactly ready for clumps of dirt to be dumped on me, I’m no spring chicken, either. I just feel the tick of time, the swing of the pendulum wearing a groove below the clock’s face.

  What to do? That’s the big question, especially without giving away my secret. Yet.

  TWENTY THREE

  I’m trotting after Nurse Netta Jones and two orderlies who are wheeling Noel down a hall on a gurney. Nurse J. is silently directing traffic, hands flailing in gestures to put my Italian butcher, Tony, to shame. Netta, I now call her that at her request, started out behind the orderlies steadying Noel’s IV bags attached to a tall skinny coat rack-type thing. By the time we reach the bank of elevators, she has abandoned the coat rack and is waving people away like a traffic officer at an accident scene. I wish I had an orange vest to give her. I also wish I had my digital camera in my purse. The Arizona Republic would probably have bought the photos of the outraged and frightened crowd trying to enter the elevator. So much for lost opportunities.

  Alone together in the moving room, we ascend to floor three where she punches in a passcode for the glass double doors to swing open outward. We pass two nursing stations on our journey, both with three or four heads bowed down reading charts, until…

  “Coming through here. Priority.”

  All the heads jerk up on internal neck springs, flop back and forth like Slinky coils and smile. Some grin. Gotta love this woman. She rules.

  As she opens the door to 23B and gestures for me to enter, I feel Netta and I have bonded. I’m helping her puff up pillows and straighten sheets, but I feel like she’s helping me. She makes me feel needed and important, and as the orderlies shift Noel into his new hospital bed, Netta takes my hand and guides it into Noel’s limp one. Then, after dismissing the two burly men with a curt nod, she places one of her tiny hands under our clasped ones and her other on top. “Let us pray.”

  ~

  It’s raining. Drat.

  I’ve decided to be a good girl and leave by the hospital’s main entrance. Besides, Pudgy and I have been seeing a little too much of each other lately, and one of us will undoubtedly lose it soon. Probably me.

  So, I trek along the curving balcony hallway to the elevator. I admit it’s more scenic than shuffling through the ER waiting room filled with whining children and sneezing adults. And Pudgy.

  The glass door swings open easily to my touch, and though sheltered by an overhang so no raindrops stain it, the watery deluge is coming down so hard I can hardly see beyond the sidewalk. I suppose I’ll have to guess where I parked my car. Oh, emergency entrance, other side of hospital. Great.

  I long for the umbrella I keep behind the driver’s seat of Old Sassy, the one I have with me every sunny day and never have when I need it, and bury my hands deep in the pockets of my velour warm-ups. Might as well make a run for it. Head lowered, hands in pockets, elbows waving like the wings of a chicken whose eggs have just been snatched from under her, I trot along the sidewalk leading to the emergency parking lot. I start to count my blessings. Among them, top priority, is the fact that this hospital doesn’t have a locked psych ward. Otherwise, anyone who might see me would surely call security. I think about how much easier it would have been to traipse through the endless corridors to the ER and wave to Pudgy on my way out. Oh, well, hindsight again.

  The Fall raindrops, so unexpected (global warming? Maybe the worrywarts are right?), are so dense they’re imitating Havasu Falls, or at least the pictures I’ve seen of it. I feel as if I could part them with my hands, like those beaded curtains that have made a design comeback as room dividers from the hippie era. Maybe I could step through and discover a rainbow and the proverbial pot of gold glistening at the end of the curved ribbons.

  I plod on attempting to step over puddles, but discover miniature rivers crisscross the sidewalk spattering it with mud and loose gravel, those tiny stones my little granddaughter in California, who I haven’t seen in six months, loved to pick up and examine. She actually talked to them, chattering away in unintelligible gibberish when she was a two year old. After the conversation ended, she’d replace each tiny stone back to its original spot with care. I wonder, albeit briefly, as I wipe rainwater from my face with my sleeve, was she too compulsive at two? Did she get that trait from me, her Grammy? Then, I won
der, how could I have let six months go by without holding that precious child in my arms.

  I shake off the guilty thoughts and splat through the muddy waters. Wet foliage brushes my right arm and rain sloshes down my sleeve into my pocket. Yikes! I think of Shelley Bates novel, A Pocketful of Pearls. Why, I don’t know. I just know I have a pocketful of raindrops. I slip a few times on wet leaves and almost lose my balance. This is no gentle rain. It’s a full-blown monsoon type rain in November. Didn’t that funny columnist in the Arizona Republic predict this? Or, was he being tongue in cheek?

  I finally reach the wider, patio-type area close to the ER and realize I’m biting the inside of my cheek, hard. I guess I have a weird way of concentrating. Heading for the bench under the cover of the patio for a moment of dryness relief, my cell phone chimes. I’d planned to sit here and dig into my purse for my car keys anyway, so no big deal. Until, my purse slips off slippery knees and lands in a puddle in front of me. My beautiful fake designer purse is sitting in a small pond soaking up wetness. Bummer. The positive side is the purse really is genuine leather, so whatever unfortunate animal’s hide it belonged to, I know somewhere in this world the poor thing was used to being rained on.

  Suddenly, I’m very tired. My bones, even my various cartilages, ache and my muscles are limp. I’m barely standing thanks to worn out rubber band muscles. I try to focus on a Bible verse about someone Jesus touched who felt this way, this tired, this unable to walk. Instead, I find myself remembering Pastor’s story about visiting homeless people living under a bridge. None of it computes, and my head is spinning. I lean forward to grab the straps of my now drowning purse. I must retrieve the cellphone. I miss the purse, but my hand digs in deep just before the beautiful tooled, oversized pouch is carried away on a small river of rainwater. I can hardly hold the slippery phone, but I manage to flip it open with a weak finger.