Butterfly Dreams (A Christian Contemporary Romance)

by Bonnie Engstrom

  I hear a squeal off to my right. “Momma. The perfect outfit to bring Derek back.”

  Is the girl crazy? An “outfit” is not going to bring back a husband she’d lied to.

  “What, honey?” I say in my best mommy dearest voice. (Suddenly, Joan Crawford becomes my secret heroine. Well, maybe only my ally.) “You found something?”

  I can’t believe how stupid I feel. This is the way I used to respond to Brie when I took her shopping at five years old—when because she was into dressing herself (a known phenomena of 3-5 year old preschoolers) I pretended to acquiesce, then stuffed what I wanted to buy in the plastic bag. Or, were the bags all fancy paper then, with raffia handles? Anyway, when we got home, Brie had forgotten all the princess outfits and was thrilled with the more practical clothes.

  “The princess calls,” I sing out in my most melodic voice. The black clad sales assistant nearest to me gives me a questioning stare. I ignore her and lope toward Brie’s dressing room.

  It’s not a stretch to say I’m flabbergasted, dumbfounded, amazed, overwhelmed, bowled over. Pulling aside the curtain, I swear I’m looking at Bett, younger by fifty years. Brie seems to glow, as in radiate. True, her hair is darker, not like Bett’s streaked and crunched into foil for twenty minutes under a steamer. Her makeup is not as extreme, but the look on her face…well, it’s Bett’s. That’s when I notice the dimple.

  “Hey, honey. Never noticed that cute little indentation in your cheek.” I pause to inhale, hopefully not too loudly. “You look great!”

  Actually, she does. IF Derek ever comes back, IF Derek actually sees her, IF Derek is willing to accept her again—Derek will be bowing on bent knees to beg her forgiveness. That is how beautiful Brie looks.

  ~

  Okay, so I spent a hundred and eighty dollars on one outfit, on sale. It was so worth it to see the expression of pure pleasure on Brie’s face. Not to mention her relaxed posture on the way home. She never cupped her protruding belly once. Nor did she bring out the promised credit card to prove she had lots of money. Oh, well.

  Yes! I raise my fist toward heaven in my best sports fan gesture of winning. Brie grins and grabs my hand, the right one not on the steering wheel. She squeezes and smiles.

  Thank you, Lord. We are at peace. At least for tonight.

  THIRTY THREE

  Daddy always said you could tell the caliber of people who live in a community by the cars parked there. Probably not a PC attitude nowadays, but he was referring to apartment complexes moons ago when helping me apartment shop after my divorce. We swung through dozens of parking lots in Tempe and Scottsdale, leaving almost all of them post-haste. Case in point. After three frustrating, abortive days viewing dirty pickups with scum on them and cars with dented fenders, he offered a proposition.

  Turning toward me, after pulling under a multi-car overhang, he narrowed his eyes and sighed. Daddy is not a “sigher,” so I sensed this was important. “Betsy.” Sigh again, “I know your finances since you’ve shared them with me. I know, although Mr. Jerk didn’t leave you a lot of leeway, he left some.” I almost giggled. Daddy called him Jerk, too. Neither of us wanted to blister our tongues using his given name. “If mom and I could help you with a down payment, what would you think of investing in a small condominium? You’d probably be paying the same in a monthly mortgage as you would in renting an apartment,” he rushed on to explain. His thick dark eyebrows, barely starting to wisp with gray, raised dramatically. “That way you’d own something you could later sell. It would be yours.”

  I remember blubbering and nodding and hugging. The next day we explored eight condo communities, an exhausting feat for me at five months pregnant. We nixed five of them for various reasons—distance from the freeway, remotely located from shopping for groceries, too many stairs, “bad” cars. We focused on three—one in Scottsdale Horizon neighborhood (near two markets, two drug stores, three Starbucks); one that hovered on the edge between Scottsdale and Fountain Hills; and another off Mountain View Drive in the mega-conglomerate community of Scottsdale Ranch (condos, apartments, patio homes, town homes and huge, lakeside homes). The one between Scottsdale and Fountain Hills was mostly filled with boat-like Cadillacs and Lincoln Town Cars. We decided most of those residents were older, based on their selection of autos, and I needed a community that would accept children, especially embrace the one in my belly since the two older children were away at school.

  The Scottsdale Horizon one was literally around the corner from a daycare/preschool combo that was highly rated. The cars in its parking lot were a mixture—a few pickups (not dirty), a few Cads, many SUV’S (although we didn’t call them by that name twenty-five years ago), and lots of clean two and four-door vehicles of varying ages. It hadn’t hurt that while walking the perfectly groomed grounds and the sparkling community pool we’d met Bernice.

  Hearing her tell how, as president of the homeowners association, she kept tabs, and how she has a list of people who’d asked her to call them if any condo became available, well that did it. The big bonus was for only fifteen dollars more a month tacked onto my mortgage, I could have an over-sized garage. Whoopee! Daddy and I hugged and danced right in front of Bernice who probably wondered about a thirty-something pregnant woman and a fifty-something graying man displaying so much affection.

  It all comes back to me, twenty-five years later, when I open the letter in my mailbox from the blankety-blank Home Owners Association to me: It has come to our attention that your vehicle is out of compliance with the stated CC&Rs and Rules and Regulations of the community.

  X Unsightly, dirty vehicle

  X Out of compliance with R&R #7 (please see page 2)

  It is a standard letter, probably the kind sent to other homeowners. But, it irks me. Sets me on edge. I think it offends Old Sassy, too. Especially since she’s recently had a bath. I swear she hiccups when I glance in her direction. It’s especially offensive since I usually park in my garage, but because of Brie’s condition, I have been parking in one of the open spaces. It’s easier for her to get out and make headway into the condo.

  I stomp into my living room quelling the temptation to shred the missal when I spy Brie reading my Bible. Her head is bowed low over it, her mass of curls sheathing her face like a thick veil. I catch the door behind me just before it slams. Slinking backwards, I try to sneak out to sit on the stoop when I hear “the whine.”

  “Momma, get back in here. Please.” So much for stealthiness.

  I mumble. “Sorry, Brie. Didn’t want to disturb you.”

  “Momma. I need you—now. Need your advice.” She turns her face toward me just enough for me to see the smeared mascara and the trails of tears across her cheeks. Wiping her hand under one eye, she says, “I’ve been reading about forgiveness. Proverbs, I think. Can’t remember the verse.”

  I could.

  “Brie, it’s not in Proverbs, but in Psalms, I think in Psalm 25. ‘For the sake of your name, O Lord, forgive my iniquity, though it is great.’ Is that the one?” Pressing the notice from the HOA in my left hand, I find my right hand hovering over my heart. Brie replies.

  “Yeh.”

  thirty four

  The next morning I dig through the pile of papers in my den, the dusty ones on the floor to the left of the desk I’d pushed back to open the wall bed for Brie. Homeowner Rules and Regulations glare back at me in blue 18 point letters. At least the words aren’t all in caps. That would really be intimidating. Yep, number seven states some nonsense about “Offensive vehicles.” Mostly the dirty part. That galls me. Sassy was bathed to the tune of twenty-eight bucks (for over-sized vehicles at the car wash with the grinning yellow sun sign) just two days ago. It cost almost as much as filling her tummy with gas.

  Reading at the beginning of the R&Rs I learn the management company the community hired makes a weekly drive-through looking for peeled paint, trash cans not taken in, laundry hanging from balconies (a huge no-no, even though we’re all supposed to be trying to b
e “green”) and doggie doo-doo not picked up. My mind wanders to what it might look like if we all hung out laundry. Maybe like a village in Italy? Our community does market itself that it’s supposed to have a Mediterranean ambiance because our condos are all painted a Pepto Bismol pink. But, oops, we are in Scottsdale, America, a planned community that must at all times look pristine.

  I am furious. I have never received a notice from the HOA before. This one states I am “subject to fine” if the situation isn’t corrected within thirty days.

  ~

  The call came at 8:15.

  Brie’s Derek. Or, at least, her used-to-be Derek. Accident, head injury, need next of kin.

  I’m fuming over my HOA letter when I absently answer the phone. A soft, apologetic voice asks for Brie after remembering to state she is calling from the hospital. I don’t think too much about it because HonorHealth has many clinics and seminars pregnant women and couples can sign up for, like What to Expect When You’re Pregnant, Natural Nursing, even Daddy Boot Camp. I figure maybe Brie had enrolled in one.

  I automatically hand the phone to her while still shuffling through my HOA papers that I’ve brought to the kitchen table. I hear a gasp. She is leaning back against the sink counter, but starting to slide down. Her face is the color of a plump oyster about to be sucked from its shell. Shoving aside my stack of papers I grab her and flop her into a kitchen chair. I pluck the phone from her trembling hand.

  I have to hand the receiver back to her to hear her mumble to explain it to me. After all, I’m not technically next of kin. I hear the news. When the simpering voice explains the situation to me, I also grab a chair. Help me be strong, Lord. Fill me with your courage.

  Okay, I tell moi, the good part is Derek is asking for Brie. The bad part is his head injury.

  ~

  “No, Momma, no!” Brie flings the tousled curls back and forth like a mop being shaken. A few loose strands hit her cheeks and stick to the tears. I remember how she was as a tot stomping around defiantly before naptime. The best way to calm her down was to promise a treat, for after the nap. That worked at three, but I doubt it will work at twenty-five. Still, I try.

  “How about you wear the new, sexy outfit? Seeing you looking so beautiful will give Derek hope and help him recover.” Prayer wouldn’t hurt, either, but I’m not gonna go there yet.

  “What part of no don’t you understand, Momma? He left me. Now, it’s my turn.” My body gives a reflexive jump at the sound of the front door slamming. I glance at the indoor-outdoor thermometer my dad gave me and notice it’s 104 degrees outside. I doubt if she’ll stay on the porch too long.

  I spend the next five minutes praying hard for Derek and, somewhat reluctantly, for Brie. I’m glad she’s outside so I won’t be tempted to slap her. Not that I ever have, but lead me not into temptation, Lord. I wonder if I’ve raised a spoiled brat. Not a big stretch considering I made a lot of concessions for her, raising her alone after The Jerk abandoned us. My heart melts a little remembering the pain I went through when her father left me pregnant and lonely. She’s hurting. As much as she’s mostly at fault by deceiving Derek, by fibbing (her version), and lying (my version), she’s in a vulnerable state—raging hormones, and fat.

  I try to visualize Derek’s handsome face covered in gauze, head propped on a hard hospital pillow, tubes stuck in his arms. Is he moaning? Can he hear, see? He must have been able to vocalize to give my phone number and Brie’s name. Or, was that information tucked in a pocket? Maybe his dad was notified and he told the hospital to call Brie. The massive headache I had yesterday is playing at my temples again. The screen door slams, then the inner wooden door. I push fingers against my temples and close my eyes.

  “I want to hate him.” The declaration hangs in the air like the odor of fetid fish. She refuses to look at me, but I know her downcast eyes are pleading. I fling a quick prayer to heaven, but I realize this is between them. I also realize if Brie refuses to go see her husband, possibly lying on his deathbed, I still can.

  The little information I got from Simpering Voice was that Derek was involved in a car accident. “Not his fault, trying to help someone else,” comes back to me, and I say it out loud.

  “Just like Derek.” I grab my new fake designer purse, keys and Bible and make for the door. “You coming?”

  She didn’t answer, but she didn’t argue.

  THIRTY FIVE

  My reluctant passenger has trouble pulling the seatbelt across her belly. I refuse to help, but I have this rule: Car doesn’t start until everyone is belted.

  I fiddle with my keys, check my lipstick in the pull-down mirror on the sun visor and wait to hear a click. Finally, it comes and we roll.

  Pudgy face is so startled when he sees me he looks tempted to run to the restroom. Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but he does scoot his chair back and start to make motions to rise. Instead, he rolls his bulbous eyes and makes a popping sound.

  “Practicing your aerobic breathing?” I can’t help myself. He and I’ve had way too long a relationship.

  “Nell…again?” Pretty obvious he knows both our names, even though he still calls Noel Nell.

  “Nope, this time it’s my son-in-law, Derek.” His look is unbelieving, as if he thinks I’m trying to pull a fast one. “Really, honest.” That’s the best I can do to convince him. Oh, I could pull Brie forward, but she has become part of the mural on the side wall, blending in with the fantasy castles, maybe hoping to be a pretend-to-be princess.

  Pudgy Face leaves the security of his chair and gestures me forward to the sliding doors that lead into the sanctuary reserved only for next of kin, and hospital personnel. Now, I do grab Brie and pull hard. Her clammy hand is like melting ice, and her face is a frozen mask. I worry if she has a psych problem, like a duel personality. But, I realize she’s scared, very scared. The father of her baby, her husband, is in ICU, possibly dying.

  I say all the expected things. “He needs us. Be strong. God is still a God of miracles.”

  I didn’t expect the glare, the angry, nasty one. Maybe I misinterpreted it. Brie’s just frightened.

  “I still want to hate him.”

  Okay, she’s said it twice. That’s enough for moi. Time to be MIC, mother in command.

  “Brie, this is not about you. It’s about Derek. Maybe, in the long run about your marriage. But, right now, it’s about Derek.” I take one of those breathe-in breath-out breaths I was taught long ago in a class I took at the Senior Citizens Center. Trying not to scream, I take her limp wrist and shake her hand, hard. “Loosens the muscles, relaxes them,” our instructor Pam used to yell over the music.

  Towing her behind me we follow Pudgy Face through the whooshing doors.

  ~

  Derek is lying prone, a sheet pulled around his torso so tight I think “strapped.” His head is swathed in so much gauze he looks like a ghost in a cartoon. The obligatory tubes hang from hooks on stems on both sides of his bed. A few end under more gauze in his left arm, and several more under strips of bandages in his right. Nurse Ratchit slips into the room, and I almost lose it. Has God sent an angel, again?

  Netta Jones clasps my hands in her small bony ones. “Mizz Betsy, he belong to you?” Her angelic face is a composition of butter melting on toast and sweet tomato preserves. The defining lines are still there, but softened by the butter and jelly combo. Her eyes are the same, yet different. I can’t remember what color they were when she took care of Noel, but tonight they have tiny specks of twenty-four carat gold catching the low light. They sparkle, and the flecks dance. I get lost in their uniqueness until Pudgy nudges her and she jumps. “Yes, thank you. You may leave.” He shrugs, turns his back and hikes out of the room. I feel a sort of sadness for him. After all, he and I have a history.

  “My son-in-law.” I make the simple statement and squeeze her hands. I turn toward Brie who is collapsed in the room’s only chair, brown vinyl with arms. Her hands are devoid of color from clinging to the arms.
Her eyes are closed so tight her eyelashes are laying on her cheeks, maybe even stuck. I know she’s in pain, emotional turmoil, but I am over it. I’m mad.

  “Stop being a diva, Brie!” My voice is beyond functional having risen five decibels above normal.

  THIRTY SIX

  I bought new potholders today. I went to the Dollar Store for R & R and found two. I may be the Queen of Green, but I also concoct and cook hot. These are bright yellow terry, and they make me happy. I smile every time I lift them off their hook on the side of the fridge. Today I’m making One Pot Stroganoff, and I need happy.

  Brie has been an itch. Can you guess I’m leaving off several choices of consonants at the beginning of the word? I can’t decide. After you learn how she’s acted, maybe you can.

  You already know a little bit about last night, her announcing she wants to hate Derek, then slumping into the chair in his ICU room and gripping its arms. That was just the beginning.

  When angel Netta Jones, a.k.a. Nurse Ratchit, tried to take Brie’s hands in hers to pray, Brie rolled her eyes and yanked her fingers away. Sweet Netta looked at me confused. I could only shrug. I prayed with her, both for Derek and Brie. I wasn’t sure who needed prayer more. Nor am I now.

  I love the softness of the potholders, so easy to grip. Not like those rubberized new-fangled ones that slip out of your hand. These remind me of Nurse Jones hands, gentle and pliable. In the end, she saved Brie last night. At least from guilt and remorse. Her sweet nature, and gift of forgiveness, captured Brie’s spirit. Finally, hoisting herself off the vinyl chair, she leaned her protuberant belly against Derek’s bed and kissed his forehead. I had to contain myself from cheering.

  Clasping the potholders in my hands now, I grab the huge metal pot and lift it out of the oven. Steam clouds my eyes and stings them, and I blink furiously. The aroma from the beef, soups and dab of sherry fills my kitchen. And my heart. I remember One Pot Stroganoff was the first meal I served Derek when he and Brie were dating. I made it especially because it was easy and required no attention, just three hours baking. I’d wanted to have time to chat with Derek, get to know him, learn his intentions toward Brie.