Butterfly Dreams (A Christian Contemporary Romance)

by Bonnie Engstrom

  “Bethy, sweetie, how’s our Noel? You still at the hospital? Inquiring Betts wants to know.” She chuckles loudly and pauses, obviously waiting for a clever comeback.

  I plan to give her one, update her on all the Noel latest. I have a habit of pacing while talking on the phone, actually fast pacing on a cell phone. Achy as I am, I’m forcing my weary body to move. I make it back to the bench and dispassionately watch my beautiful fake designer bag navigate the parking lot in a muddy gorge. It’s making its way toward an Escalade, a huge SUV that costs big bucks. Bag of mine, if you’re going to be squashed, you have good taste.

  I get up to pace again, planning to give Bett a positive update on Noel. One of my knees makes a popping sound, and my thighs ache. Never mind, I tell myself, until my ankles start to crumble. I decide it’s time to try to retrieve my purse. It’s swirling lazily in a puddle next to the SUV, and it looks lonely.

  I’m still listening to Bett’s blabberings when I almost reach the purse. “Bett, dear, can I call you back in a few minutes? I’m outside in the rain trying to retrieve my purse.”

  “It’s raining there? I didn’t know. Why are you outside? What’s with your purse?” she chirps. “I hope you haven’t lost it. So many valuables to replace. Okay, call me back in a few.”

  I’ve almost reached the purse. Slapping the phone shut I take another step and lean over to grab the straps. Slam!

  So much for careful planning.

  Why is it, Lord, that my timing always seems bad? I did say a quick prayer before I called her. Now, I’m worried. The connection broke and when I call back no one answers. Maybe I should go to the hospital. But, I’m terrified of driving in the rain. Wonder if Consuela is home? I trust you to provide. Amazing, isn’t it, that I’d never have said that a few months ago?

  TWENTY FOUR

  “Ankle. Sprained, maybe broken. Probably cast.”

  A nurse with short curly brown hair and a small tattoo of a heart on her forearm is talking as if I can’t hear her. She asks a barrage of questions I try to answer through my pain.

  “How did it happen? Does it hurt here? How about here? When’s the last time you had a tetanus shot? Do you have someone to drive you home? What kind of insurance do you have?”

  Biting my tongue, and the inside of my cheek again to prevent the words I’m tempted to say, I whisper one-word answers while grimacing with pain.

  “Doctor will be here in a minute.” Her no nonsense announcement doesn’t relieve me. How am I to get home? And, if I do, how am I to manage? I remember her words. “Cast.” Agh.

  A light tap on the door, and a bespectacled man with thinning gray hair in a white lab coat enters. He pastes a narrow smile between his beaked nose and flat chin. “Doctor Janis, here.” He reaches for my hand as if we are meeting at an obligatory social function, or a boring receiving line. I’ve already dubbed him Dr. No Nonsense, Not Particularly Interested, Just Doing His Job. “So, Ms…, how are you feeling?” He obviously can’t pronounce my surname, so he lets it drift in the air.

  If I had the energy, I would sit up and deck him one, maybe two. How the rudgyfudge does he think I’m feeling? Instead, I do the tongue-biting, cheek-biting thing again and nod. “Okay.”

  But, I am not okay. I know that, and I’m sure he does, too. If he’s any kind of a doctor. I wonder where he got his medical degree. Funny, in the ER patients don’t get to see all those framed diplomas docs have on the walls of private practice offices. Another “gotta trust” issue.

  Before I can ask my own questions, Dr. Janis waves a bony hand toward the curly-haired nurse. “X-ray.” It’s a simple statement, a command, but it scares the bedoozle out of me. My mind had been clinging to “sprained.” So much for fantasy.

  “Doctor?” He pauses in the half-open door to look at me like I’m some sort of alien. I direct my soliloquy to half-raised bushy eyebrows.

  “I live alone. I can’t have a cast, or I can’t work. I need to be able to drive my car. I’m a personal chef and deliver food to clients. I need to get around my kitchen and cook. That’s how I make my income.”

  “I’m sorry.” He turns to Nurse Curly Hair. “Take her to X-ray.” Looking at me for perhaps a millisecond, his face softens. “Maybe it won’t be as bad as I suspect. God sometimes gives us surprises.”

  God sometimes give us surprises?

  Dr. Janis’ statement floored me. Not that I wasn’t already floored, actually bed-ridden. More accurately, gurney-ridden.

  Who would have thunk it? An ER doc who actually used the Creator’s Name. And, to reassure a patient. Did he notice the cross around my neck? Did he somehow assume? Or, is he really a believer? A doctor who is comfortable sharing his faith, or one who is on the cusp and experimenting with sharing it? Definitely, food for thought.

  ~

  “This might hurt.” The radiologist technician turns my foot so my ankle is askew. I do the old biting lip and cheek thing the first time, and she’s right. I scream in agony the third, fourth and fifth time.

  “I’m so sorry, but the doctor insists on all angles.”

  It isn’t her fault. She is kind, and her dye job intrigues me. I focus on it, then ask her for the number of her hairdresser. I love the big, but subtle, clumps and strands of blonde.

  The ride back from radiology is actually fun. Pudgy shows up. Why, I don’t know. But, he scoots me back to the ER pushing the gurney at top speed like a NASCAR driver and deposits me in the examining room with a flourish—raised arms, a rat-a-tat-tat on the metal footboard, and a thumbs up. Never mind the grin. That was the fake part.

  ~

  Lolling around in jammies and sweats ain’t the worst. The bottoms of the pants are easy to pull over my cast, even with one hand, and the insides of the legs are fuzzy and soft, comforting. I still struggle with all the contraptions Bett rented for me. A motorized wheelchair (so extreme), a three-pronged cane, a walker with wheels that turn and a basket to carry stuff in, and a little fanny pack filled with tissues and a pocket for my cell phone. Really! So much wretched excess when I have no place to go and nothing to do.

  Bett means well, but she doesn’t realize all these contraptions make me feel more of an invalid. Better if I had to struggle on my own and hobble around grabbing furniture for support. Giving up my independence is a big deal for me, so I try to focus on doing everything I need to without companionship. Sitting is difficult, especially sitting on the john. Going down isn’t so hard, but the coming up part is very challenging. I have a little chant I’ve made up, “One, two, three, heave ho, thee.” It helps and provides a bit of levity for my battle-weary soul.

  “Honey, I’m coming in.” She rushes to grab my wrists just as I’m heaving ho. Pulling at my sweat pants, she exclaims, “Guess I got here just in time. What would you do without me?” Her giggle is charming, usually, but today it’s lost in my frustration.

  “Bett, I’m not a child, not an invalid.” I hear the edge of anger in my voice and regret my response to this woman who is my friend. “Sorry. Not a good day,” I offer as explanation. But, I know my excuse is feeble compared to her display of love and friendship.

  “It’s okay, Honey. I’ve wanted to do this for a long time.”

  Suddenly, the air is filled with tension. The silence is almost suffocating, capturing our thoughts and unspoken words. What did she mean “for a long time”? How long? Why?

  I feel my eyes open wide and my eyebrows rise forming a wrinkled frown on my brow. My eyes seek Bett’s but find only lowered lids and faintly colored cheeks. She looks embarrassed.

  My sweatpants are still around my knees, and Bett’s hands grip the waistband with bloodless knuckles. I want desperately to pull up the pant legs, but I sense any movement will break the mystery of the moment. So, I stand still, balancing on my un-cast foot.

  A minute passes, and I hear soft breathing from both of our lips. Finally, Bett raises her head. Her face is as white as the bark on a birch tree, and just as craggy looking. Little striat
ed lines are peppered with black dots. Bett’s normally foundation-caked face is creased, but without the benefit of makeup. Do I see worry, sadness, regret? I don’t know. I only know if I don’t change position and relieve my one good foot, I’ll collapse.

  TWENTY FIVE

  I managed to break the spell in the bathroom between Bett and me and pull up the legs on my sweatpants. Neither of us fell over or wept or flamed with embarrassment. We just laughed. One of those hearty “I can’t believe how silly we’re being” laughs. Giggles, then guffaws, then diverting to giggles again. It was cleansing, at least for me. I think for Bett, too. We ended up embracing in a bear hug after which Bett sped out the bathroom door closing it with a clunk. I didn’t see her again until lunch the next day.

  “Honey, I made tuna salad for lunch, your favorite. Do you want a sandwich or a tomato stuffed with it?”

  First, I am bowled over that Bett made anything. Second, I am scared. Bett doesn’t cook, or even non-cook, as in making anything food-wise that doesn’t require actual cooking, but qualifies as edible. I hate being suspicious.

  “A sandwich would be great.” I’m thinking bread will at least buffer the taste and provide some density to help digest the concoction.

  “Mayo?” The question startled me. Isn’t mayonnaise a major part of tuna salad?

  “Sure, okay.”

  “Mixed in, or on the bread?”

  Oh, my, she hasn’t even mixed the salad with mayo. “Both, please.”

  I bite into my sandwich and feel Bett’s eyes scanning my face. I can tell she wants to talk, and not just about the sandwich. “This is good, Bett, very unique flavor, and I love the crunch.”

  She grins with pleasure, but I notice a slight quivering around her lips. “I tried to remember some of the ingredients The Wildflower Café puts in their tuna. Almonds and dried cranberries. Then I added some of my own ideas.”

  “So, the wonton noodles were yours? And the arugula?”

  “Yep. I love Asian food and thought it would be fun to add them, plus a splash of soy sauce. Good, huh?”

  “Verwy,” I nod with my mouth full of crunch. Not something I’d want to eat every day, but better than I expected. I think Bett succeeded in incorporating all the food groups in one hearty sandwich. “Thanks for coming to my rescue in the bathroom yesterday. That was sweet of you to care.” I neglect to add it was also unnecessary and embarrassing.

  Another grin, this time accompanied by moist eyes. I guess Bett doesn’t often get to help others, mostly just pays others to help her. I reach to touch the back of her hand. Fortunately, we are sitting near each other and not across from one another at the massive table. She stares for a full thirty seconds at my large hand with clipped nails covering her tiny one with dainty fake nails and gives her tousled curls a shake. Her eyes squeeze shut and a tear escapes. Wiping her knuckles across her cheek, she whispers, “It’s time we talked.”

  “Sure, Bett, what about?”

  I’m expecting some horrible revelation, like she has cancer or is financially destitute. But, I don’t get to find out because she shakes her curls again in a negative nod and scoots out of the bench clutching a monogrammed napkin. I hear the powder room door slam and the lock click.

  Five minutes later while I’m cleaning up our dishes, a small voice drifts from behind the door. “I’m sorry. I’m not ready.”

  ~

  I remember the phone call. It still sticks in my craw.

  “Hi, dear.”

  “Betsy, I’m outta here.”

  “Excuse me.”

  “As in gone.”

  I remember plopping down on the cheap cushion adorning the bench that served as our breakfast niche. Breakfast? In thirteen years we’d never shared the meal or the bench. He (sorry, I’ve stuffed his name down so deep in my psyche I refuse to remember it) rushed off to “meetings” at six a.m. I found out later the “meetings” were with another marketing guru named Stacie—wheat-colored hair that resembled uncooked strands of spaghetti, clothes that must have come from Baby Gap on a body that would have made Victoria’s Secret blush, and lips pumped so full of collagen they were about to burst. So much for “till death do us part.”

  The blue plastic made a woofing sound under my butt. I thought of my son James at ten when he discovered whoopee cushions and placed them under all the chair pads at the Thanksgiving dining table. What a hoot! I wish I could have captured the look on Mom’s face and the scowl on Uncle Ernie’s, but digital cameras weren’t in vogue then.

  I remember twisting the coiled phone cord around my thumb. That’s how long ago it was, when phones had cords and the cords resembled elongated corkscrews. I know my tongue stuck to the roof of my dry mouth and my words came out garbled.

  “Whadda you mean—gone?”

  “It’s over, Betsy. You and me.”

  Remember the pregnant pause? This was the original, the biggie. And, to make it authentic, I was pregnant.

  Shaking off the toxic memories, I scrub the translucent china salad plate with a wire sponge. Not a good idea. I wonder if Bett will notice the scratches. Guess that’s another confession on my list.

  ~

  My life is really a great big “maybe.” Maybe my ankle will heal; maybe Bett will explain why she can’t explain anything to me; maybe Noel will get better before our wedding date; maybe we really will get married.

  Aw—rats! My Sunday School upbringing takes over. I’m reminded of Zacchaeus and the song I sang with twenty other seven-year-old children about the “little man” in the tree. Right now, even though I’m five foot seven, I feel small. I petition the Big Man in the sky to give me hope. Peace and calm wouldn’t hurt, either. Answers would be an enormous gift. I know He listens, but I’m getting a bit like Bett, wondering if my paltry needs are at the bottom on His list of “Prayers to Answer Today.”

  Maybe I should have followed Bett and banged on the powder room door. Or, better yet, joined her.

  TWENTY SIX

  Talk to your daughter.

  The whispery command repeats itself over and over in the cobwebs of my brain. Child number three, Brie, and I usually have a brief chat once a week, but it’s very perfunctory. “Hi, how are ya, honey. I’m good, too. Anything new?” That just about covers it. Once upon a time we were closer than enjoined twins.

  My other daughter, Julia, the angry one, blamed me for her father’s abandonment when she was a teen. She sends me flowers for Mothers Day. But, she’s not the one whose number I dial. I’m never sure if I’m amazed or convicted when God puts something on my heart. But, since He just did, I react. Hopefully, in obedience.

  I dial and hear the thrum of the phone in the next state, California, the one nestled next to my Arizona. Finally, after ring three, on the cusp of ring four, a weary voice answers. “Brie?” Here I am again stating the obvious.

  “Mom?” She does it, too. Confirms my peas in a pod philosophy.

  “Brie, what’s wrong?” Here I go again making assumptions. But, I know from her voice something is.

  “Oh, Mom.” I hear choking sobs and grab my own throat. When I realize my pinching it is going to leave an unsightly mark, I remove my hand and rub my ample hip.

  I turn into Sergeant Major Mom mode and yell. (My dad used to say when the kids were little I sounded like a drill sergeant the way I yelled at them to get them to obey.) “Brie, stop!” The silence on the other end gives me pause. Did she hang up or simply do as her mother commanded? “Brie?”

  “I’m here, Mom.” Pause.

  “Honey, I love you, and I can tell something is wrong. Please—what is it?”

  I hear a big gulping sigh, then a few seconds of silence. I check the little window on my phone. We are still connected.

  “May as well tell you.” Silence again. But, I’m a patient mother. I wait. “I’m pg. As in pregnant.”

  “Oh.”

  “That’s all you can say, Mom? Oh?”

  I cover the receiver with my free hand to, hopefully, t
o stifle the catch in my throat. “Gosh, Brie, this is great. A surprise, but wonderful news.” Looking back, I can only attribute my response to God’s grace. Given freely to all who believe in Him. And, I do.

  “You really think so, Mom? Are you ready to be a grandma again? Maybe to a grandchild without a father?”

  “Brie, I love you so much I’m ready for anything, any challenge you have.” I pause to absorb her words. “What do you mean without a father? Where is Derek? What’s happened?” Did I mention I’m a master of conundrum? Once again I silently ask God to bridle my tongue and take away the images swimming in my head.

  “Derek left, two weeks ago.” She pauses, and I hear breath sucking in. “When I told him I was expecting.” The sobs start again, and I feel helpless.

  ~

  I am so tired my joints ache. But, I’m wiping all the surfaces in my tiny guest room, slash, den and pulling the cumbersome wallbed down. It was one of those momentary lapses in sanity, almost a “point of purchase” purchase, as I was leaving the store that builds in closets and dens. I thought, why not? Maybe someday I will need an extra bed, and since I have no guest room, this will be a backup. Good thing God played with my brain that day.

  I toss away the damp wiping cloth, noting that the legendary dry Arizona dust has left it unusable for future. After putting fresh sheets and a quilt on the pulled-down bed I turn on the ceiling fan and close the door. I debate about turning on the fan since I’d read an article in the paper this morning saying their only use is to cool the human skin underneath them. The reporter said turn them off if no one is in the room. Still, believing they circulate the stale air, I leave it on. My biggest concern now is picking Brie up at Sky Harbor Airport tomorrow morning at 8 a.m.

  Did I forget to mention I moved back to my condo today, again? Sometimes I am so obtuse. Must be my age. Anyway, I schlepped back with hangers of clothes dangling from my fingers. That’s when I got the heart call to phone Brie.