Butterfly Dreams (A Christian Contemporary Romance)

by Bonnie Engstrom

  “Thanks, glad you like them. They’re both special to me.” I refuse to elaborate. Brie senses this and chatters on. At least she isn’t whining.

  “You said on the way home that Bett owns a string of boutiques. I think you mentioned most of her designs were flowing, not form-fitting like the outfit she wore today. I, uh, wonder – would any of them look good on me, fit me?” I’m startled by her hopeful voice, bordering on whining. Surely she doesn’t want to look like a Bett-wannabe. A pregnant one at that.

  “Not sure. Let’s try the maternity shops first, okay?” We didn’t have time to shop after our Bett-Noel visit. My leg was aching from dragging the cast around Bett’s “humble home.” What an anomaly. Or was the expression a misnomer? I must bone up on my vocabulary and grammar. Brie seemed exhausted, too, probably from trying to figure out the triangular relationship between Bett, Noel and me.

  “Something to look forward to tomorrow since Derek hasn’t cut me off financially. Let’s go first to Pea in a Pod in Fashion Square.”

  Oh…my. The girl has done her homework. I agree. “Phtt” on Derek for leaving her. She might as well look as elegant as an expectant mother can in the most expensive maternity clothes available. As long as Derek is paying. Betsy, you are so bad.

  We munch on nachos, calories neither of us need, but comfort food we both need. Brie may not make the kinds of salads I make, but she knows her appetizers. Mostly calorie-laden ones, but tonight we don’t care. Following the nachos, she finds a can of crab meat in my pantry, some sour cream and cream cheese, shredded cheddar and—you bet—brie. Thawing a round of Hawaiian bread in the microwave and chopping green onions, she concocts a dip she pours into the hollowed out bread and bakes it. I, momentarily, think about my hips when a searing pain shoots down my foreleg under the cast. Who cares, I need this yummy stuff for my broken bones and my bruised psyche. Suddenly, I’m Dr. Freud’s trainee.

  We pig out. We relax. We share.

  Secrets are revealed.

  THIRTY

  “Bett set you up?”

  “You set Derek up?”

  “It was a blessing to me.”

  “It was supposed to be a blessing to us.”

  Whoa. What Bett did was a little underhanded, but not subversive. What Brie did was…

  “Deceptive. That’s what you did, Brie. You deceived your husband. Does he know that?”

  Again she crumbles into a heap, tears dripping again on my fancy throw pillow. When, if, she leaves, it goes right to Prestige Cleaners.

  I try to reach her to comfort her, but my cast leg is stuck on the coffee table. I manage to touch her shoulder with my fingertips and coax her forward. She moves from the chair to the sofa and inches toward me like a reluctant snail. Not happy with what I’ve just learned, that my daughter lied to her husband, all I can say is, “Oh, honey, come to Momma.”

  “I know it was wrong, but we’d talked about it even before we got married.” She gulps, a sure sign she is feeling guilty. “He said he wanted children right away. Then when his business got so successful,” another gulp, “we decided to take advantage of the financial perks and do all the things we wouldn’t be able to do after we had children.” Gulp. She straightens and wipes her absorbent hands across her eyelids, smearing the mascara I’d applied earlier. “I guess my timing was wrong. And,” she sucks in a breath, “deceiving him was, too.”

  I can’t decide if I want to shout, shake her or slap her silly. Instead, I bite the inside of my cheek and taste blood. Maybe I should have been a stronger parent, spanking her with a wooden spoon instead of giving time outs. Tasting the tang of blood in my mouth reminds me of Jesus’ blood shed for me, and Brie, and Derek.

  “Brie, you can’t take back what you’ve already done. But, you can ask Jesus for forgiveness, and,” I pause with all the drama of a soap opera queen, “you can forgive Derek. You pulled a fast one on him. Wonder how you would have felt if he’d done that to you?” A thought suddenly occurs to me. “Does Derek know you deliberately ‘forgot’ to take your birth control pills?”

  ~

  I am staring at an ashen face. The squeaky “no” that comes out of it confirms what I suspected. Sorry, God, I can’t help my big mouth this time. “Do you think that’s fair?”

  Head-shaking, and flinging those kinky curls to and fro, has become a sudden new thing for my Brie. Actually, it is quite attractive, or would be if the situation were different. She’s given up whining, substituted wailing. A sound I’m not good with. Still, I try.

  “Let’s fix that.” Hopefully, I exude more confidence than I feel. I do truly believe God can fix anything, even broken hearts. I clasp her hands so tight she can’t pull away. “Dear Forgiving Heavenly Father,” I begin. Now, why did I insert the ‘forgiving’? Making a point, hmm. “I thank you and praise you for always being there to listen to our needs. Tonight we have a special one for Brie and Derek. You know the circumstances, Lord, so I won’t go into detail. Please heal both their hearts, bring forgiveness and reconciliation. Guide Brie and Derek back to celebrate their love and the birth of their child—together. Amen.” Me, always to the point, even talking with God.

  Brie wipes at her eyes again. Gosh, those absorbent hands are working overtime. So is my mind. I am trying to process the details of this mess. Frankly, I’m disappointed in Brie. Also, in Derek. What happened to communication, talking, spilling the beans, being honest? As usual, questions flit through my heart like an unchecked forest wildfire. When I was pregnant with Brie and Mr. Bigtime Jerk hightailed it, he already knew. Although he hadn’t jumped with glee, he’d gone through the motions of holding my hands and kissing me behind my ear (my vulnerable spot—gotta tell Noel about that) and calling his parents to announce the news. Everything he did said he was great with having a child, even excited. Then, he split. Poof!

  “How did Derek respond, react, when you told him he was going to be a father?” Time to ask that question.

  “His face turned gray, like leftover ash in a fireplace. He said, ‘How?’ I said, ‘Must have missed a pill.’ He said, ‘How?’ again. He was starting to sound like a puppet, and my heart was starting to break.” Brie coughed and blew into a tissue from the box I’d shoved near her. “We’d wanted, talked about, children for so long I was sure he’d be happy, even thrilled. I dreamed he’d embrace me, shout with glee and start painting the extra room for a nursery. Guess I was wrong. Dead wrong.”

  I venture the next question. “Tell me about when he left. Did he sneak out or give an explanation?” I fully expect to hear “snuck.”

  “He left a note,after we’d talked until three a.m. I was so drained I almost sleepwalked to bed. I didn’t hear a thing. Not him packing clothes or leaving. I found the note on the kitchen table the next morning.”

  “Wanna share? Or, is it too private?” I am dying to know.

  Without a word, Brie gets up to retrieve a paper from her purse on the kitchen counter. She hands it to me saying, “Read it out loud, Momma, please.”

  My Darling Brie,

  Your news last night was such a surprise. So unexpected when we’d agreed to plan for children. What happened to those plans, that agreement? I thought that was a silent part of our marriage vows.

  You practically confessed to me you had deliberately “forgotten” to take your pills. Maybe it was truly a slipup, but your eyes told me different.

  I can’t do it now, Brie. I just can’t. So many things happening at work, so many obligations. Can’t explain.

  Please trust me that I will provide for you and the child. I will never let you suffer financially.

  I will always love you.

  Derek

  PS – Don’t try to contact me. I will call you when I feel ready to talk.

  “I thought maybe it would sound different being read by you. It sounds the same.”

  My heart almost broke in a zillion pieces. I hadn’t contacted Derek’s dad as I’d planned this morning. But, tomorrow I would, for sure.
/>   ~

  Next morning, I decided to tell Brie my plan. It only seems fair. As she drags her sorry self in to breakfast, I greet her with a hug and make my announcement.

  “First, I’m calling Derek’s father. Then, I’m calling Noel. One for confirmation, the other for advice. Maybe Grandma,” I add. I feel rejuvenated and in control. I’m not.

  ~

  “Why are you interfering?”

  Noel chastising me is more than I can take, so I hang up. Slam! So much for you, Mr. Courteous, Kind and Gentlemanly. What happened to Mr. Understanding, and especially Mr. Fixit? Oh, forgot you and Maizie never had children, so you have no clue about parent-child relationships, or pregnancies, or spouses who don’t communicate. I circumvent my plan and call Bett. I haven’t called Derek’s dad yet. Too chicken.

  “Why don’t you and Brie come over for lunch, dear?” No Becka, no Lizbeth, no fake name. Just “dear.” I buy into that. She even promises she will provide lunch. Such a mystery.

  THIRTY ONE

  “Your mother did mention, I assume, men can be such jerks? So obtuse.” Bett keeps her eyes cast down as she takes a slurp of Trader Joe’s French Onion Soup from her ornate silver spoon. Coward!

  My spoon clatters to the saucer that’s cradling my china bowl. I glare at her and twist the creamy linen napkin on my lap into a corkscrew. Glancing at Brie I notice she simply nods and takes another gulp of the delicious soup. Her mouth is filled with at least half the soaked crouton, and strings of cheese suspend between her lips and the bowl. “Yep,” she manages to mutter. Did I fail Teaching Children Etiquette 101? Must have.

  “I certainly did not say any such thing, Brie.” My voice takes on the drill sergeant quality my dad used to tease me about. “FYI,” I continue hoping both Brie and Bett know that abbreviation for For Your Information, “I don’t believe Derek is a jerk.” (I won’t say it out loud, but I’m tempted to say, “Like your father.”) I grit my already ground down teeth (the ones my dentist friend Dr. Kumar keeps trying to fit me for a device to wear while I’m sleeping) and practically hiss. “He’s scared, he’s young, and he’s going through job and financial trauma.” Ssss. “Give the guy a break.”

  I stare again at Bett as she makes an attempt to scan the pots on the racks above the commercial cooktop. No way, Bett girl. I make sure my eyes lock with hers. I glare. Or, did I do that already? I’m frustrated, confused and angry. Not sure with whom. Maybe everyone.

  Derek, certainly, for not consulting his earthy father and his Heavenly Father. Maybe he did. I don’t know. Bett for making assumptions and imposing them on my daughter. Brie for being subversive, tricking Derek into being a father, and not taking responsibility for her deception. Last, but not least, Mr. Crayon Blue Eyes.

  I know it’s latent and leftover, but Noel really disappointed me when he pulled the “Why are you interfering?” bit on me. My heart is still trying to climb up to its proper place after that comment. Dear Lord, I hope I’m not in love with another insensitive jerk. Please, save me from that. Or from my own stupidity, if that’s the case.

  Bett nods, head bowed, and whispers, “Sorry.” To her credit, she actually apologizes, sort of. Brie continues to slurp.

  “Yep, Mom. Will.” That’s her giving a break, possibly forgiveness, of Derek?

  I’m on the verge of throttling them both when a hoarse voice comes over the Intercom. I’d forgotten about that feature of Bett’s home since I never used it. Now, it sends me reeling. Noel!

  I’d also forgotten about him still being ensconced here in a velvet room. Hopelessly invalid. Yeh, right! Consuela serving him pancakes in bed every morning and Snoopy wheezing and purring at his feet. Not to mention a silver-handled toothbrush.

  “Hello,” the hoarseness proclaims. “Anything to eat?”

  I think momentarily of all those words my former husband, The Jerk, used to use, and I’m sorely tempted to spew them back into our end of the Intercom. Instead, I taste the blood in my mouth from biting my tongue.

  “Mom, you okay?” Brie has sucked up the last of the stringy cheese and scraped her bowl. Only bits of onion cling to the sides. Her look of innocence infuriates me more. I grab her hand and pull her up leaving the dirty bowls for Bett, or most likely for Consuela.

  “Sorry, Bett, but we hav’ta leave. Thanks for the soup.” That’s about all I can muster for Bett, the turncoat.

  ~

  My head aches. I resist the urge to take my hands off the steering wheel and press thumbs to my temples. Brie sits statue-like next to me, hands tucked under her protruding belly. I glance in her direction and notice a tiny string of cheese dangling from the corner of her mouth and a lone tear dangling from her chin. Aw, oily onions, what have I done. Overreacted, you idiot. Offended both of them, maybe even Noel when he learns I knew he was there, then barreled out without acknowledging him. Wait a minute! Bett offended me, and she knew she did by making her anti-male comment, and not even looking up like an honest person. Noel offended me with his “Why are you interfering?” remark. One I will never share with Brie.

  Brie. The only way Brie offended me was by embarrassing me with her lazy table manners. I admit I was too sensitive about her slurping, gluttonous behavior. After all, the child is pregnant, probably starving constantly. I try to remember what it was like.

  When I was pregnant with James, my first, eating seemed to be my only diversion from feeling, and especially looking, like an over-sized beach ball on steroids. Pregnancy wasn’t considered cute or attractive in them there days. Maternity clothes were patterned cotton muumuu things that looked like discarded circus tents. Sure, they camouflaged that one was “that way.” So, being “disguised” lent itself to eating for two.

  Six years later, I was widowed and remarried. Pregnancy with Julia had a bit more hope on the fashion front. Must have had something to do with the hippy era. Maybe also the fact I’d moved and changed docs. Dr. Podinski (did I like him because of his Polish name, or because his home backed up to ours?) encouraged me to eat more healthfully and not gain more than twenty-five pounds. I surprised him, and me, by only gaining twenty-two. Lots of raw carrots. Probably why Julia hates them to this day. Today obstetricians encourage expectant mothers to gain a lot. No holds barred quantity wise what they eat. Still, Julia was a healthy seven pounds, twelve ounces, exactly the same as her brother.

  Brie was tiny by comparison, only six point seven. I attribute my minimal weight gain, nineteen pounds, during my pregnancy with her to The Jerk.

  “I’m sorry, honey. I over-reacted. Must be a bad day for me.” I hope my voice is contrite and apologetic as I turn briefly from my view out the windshield to catch her gaze. I lay fingers on her forearm, but she shifts it dramatically away.

  “Mom.” She whispers and squeezes her eyes, and another tear trickles out making a trail down her left cheek. “You embarrassed me.” Out of my peripheral vision, I see her scrub her arm where I’d touched her. So much for motherly affection.

  What, I wonder, happened to the feeling I had when I held her for the first time? The overwhelming love that filled me. I remember touching her all over—running my hand along her chubby legs, kissing her head of down-like hair, smelling her new baby smell. Realizing the only other person in the birthing room was my mother, not Brie’s father. The Jerk.

  Now, I’m doing it again, punishing her for her father. I swing off Shea Boulevard and turn left onto 100th Street and into a cul-de-sac. Cutting the motor I reach over to hug her.

  She shrinks away from me and presses her body against the passenger door.

  THIRTY TWO

  Plan B. I swing Old Sassy around, not an easy feat as she hovers precariously to the left. Righting herself, I swear she knows what direction to go. Is the old girl reading my mind now?

  Pulling back onto Shea, she heads toward the 101 Freeway north. After several pregnant pauses, I ease into the Scottsdale Road exit, then turn into the newest Scottsdale101 shopping venue. Destination Maternity’s parking ar
ea is packed, except for the handicap spaces. No stretch of the imagination there. Although, many pregnant women are temporarily “handicapped.”

  Aw, a Cadillac Escalade with a woman whose cell phone is glued to her head pulls out, slowly. I grab her parking space and kill the motor. “Sorry about Sassy’s coughing.” I turn to Brie hoping for a smile at least. Instead, I am flummoxed. Brie is grinning from ear to ear.

  “Momma.” She sounds like a talking head announcer on T.V. “Pea in the Pod?” Her misty expression captures mine and almost melts me. Did I mention “almost?” Pea in the Pod is probably the most expensive maternity store in the good old U.S. of A. It’s sale items are twice or thrice the price of other maternity stores.

  “Can we go in?”

  Yep, Hello Brie. That’s what we came for.

  Instead, I say, “Sure. Let’s have some fun.”

  The expanse of three combined stores and a spa takes up almost an entire block of the new mall. Whole Foods cleverly opened a market here, too, obviously depending on expectant moms to want healthful, maybe organic, “whole” foods. It’s no coincidence this new mini-mall is directly across from the largest BabiesRUs store in Arizona. Marketing is primo here.

  Brie practically leaps out of Old Sassy landing with a ker-plunk on her thong-attired, swollen feet. I refrain from comment. Thank you, Jesus, for her change in attitude. But, please, I petition You, help me from spending too much. My bank account is questionable right now.

  I am caught up in perusing the three stores in one, especially the sale racks. Some cute things here. Black clad sales associates approach me asking if I need help. Half, at least, are pregnant. How clever is that – to hire pregnant sales people? Insures confidence.