Butterfly Dreams (A Christian Contemporary Romance)

by Bonnie Engstrom

  I am so tired my toes are aching. I set the journal aside and close my lids. Sleep overcomes me, and weird dreams invade. Noel is bouncing a child on his lap. Wait, it morphs into Brie, then becomes Nancy. He helps her fold napkins. Suddenly, Derek is dancing with Bett, twirling her around in a flapper dress. Bett grabs my dad by the cheeks and kisses him. Mother and I watch the scenario. “That’s so cute,” she says. Consuela puts a choke hold on Bett and slaps her cheek, and I smash a slice of cheesecake in Noel’s face, shoving it up his aquiline nose.

  I shake my head awake, but the dreams linger. In my half-awake, half-asleep state I beg. Please, God. Why, God, do I have to go through this? Couldn’t I have a deep, dreamless sleep just for once?

  Lowering the foot rest on the ugly recliner I manage to heft my sorry self out of it.

  FORTY ONE

  Nose wax?

  That seems weird. Yet, it’s what Brie suggests. Is my hair growing out of my nostrils like old men have clumps of hair growing out of their ears? I do feel old, but that old? Yikes.

  She tries hard to be diplomatic. “Momma, did you notice those little wisps that peek out of your nose? Just a tiny bit. But, enough that a few catch on your makeup?”

  “So?” I look in the mirror and wrinkle the nose in question. “Obvious, huh?”

  Brie nods, her curls bouncing above her ears. “Not attractive, Momma. Not sexy.” She pauses. “You do have a very important occasion coming up. Right?” Her face succumbs to one of those “know it all” grins. Okay, she has a handle on it. She is my new wedding coordinator, otherwise referred to as official wedding planner. Do I have to pay her?

  Hope not. If one considers a third marriage, a third wedding important. Heck, I sure do. I hope Noel does, too. I also hope Brie will have good advice and not charge much. After all, I shoved her onto Derek’s hospital bed; now, she’s shoving me into wedding plans.

  Blessedly, remembering the extravagant outfit she purchased on my credit card at Destination Maternity, the girl does have good taste. Maybe she can help me chose a gown; one appropriate to my age and stature. Now, that’s a nice, generic word.

  She blushes a bit, light strawberry. She must be reserving crimson cheeks for her assessment of my thighs.

  I nod, and sniff, then press the offending olfactory appendage against the bathroom mirror. I hold up my 7x magnifying mirror and don’t see the straggly nose hairs. Maybe I don’t have on the right glasses, the reading glasses. Do I need to read my nose hairs? I stick a pinkie finger in one nostril and feel them. Lots of them. Maybe Brie is right. If nothing else they annoy me, now that I’ve been introduced to them. I make a decision.

  “Call your waxer.” I am referring to the one she went to before marrying Derek, before leaving Scottsdale, before she started sporting the big bump. Isn’t that what all the famous and wannabe famous actresses call their pregnancies? The bump.

  My appointment is for tomorrow. Will it hurt? That’s my biggest concern, other than the exorbitant cost. I used to get my legs and underarms waxed in my forties. Cost an arm and a leg, pun intended. But, Falor, my waxer, assured me that when I went through the “Big Change in the Sky,” as she called it, I would no longer need her services. She was right. I thought I was free of her solicitous administrations, her blowing on the tongue depressor globbed with wax to cool it. I thought I was over making a choice between hot wax and rose wax.

  I pull Old Sassy into a parking spot and breathe hard. Brie is with me, clasping my hand hard. “This is not a death knell, Mamma. It’s a good thing. You will be so pleased,” she smiles, but her lips quiver.

  Jamie, the attractive blonde with the nose diamond and a great smile, checks me in. “Welcome to Aura Salon,” she says in a melodic voice. “Ashleigh’s almost ready for you. Have a seat in the Spa while you’re waiting, and help yourself to water from the fridge.”

  The spa lighting is dim, kind of spooky. I know it’s supposed to be relaxing, but I prefer to see my surroundings. A tall, slim, strawberry blonde with flowing tresses appears to greet us. Brie has to help heft me out of the super deep sofa. Guess she’s been sitting on the edge, or Ashleigh would be hefting both of us.

  Ashleigh, waxer in charge, is sweet and adorable, and unfortunately only thirty-plus. Perfect body, perfect smile, perfect attitude. There’s nothing I don’t like about her. She is genuine. Very real. Makes me comfortable.

  I heave myself onto the waxing table, feet elevated at least twelve inches above my head. Whoa. Starting to get dizzy. Must be my low blood pressure.

  Ashleigh places two cool hands with long fingers on my brow.

  “You all right, Ms. Wysinotski?” She got my name right! Girl is okay. I nod as best I can from my upside down position.

  “Eyebrows first,” she announces barely above a whisper.

  Two minutes later. “All done, want to see?” She holds a magnified mirror on a tilt over my eyes.

  “Really? I didn’t even feel anything. Well, barely.” It takes me a few seconds to focus. I’m not used to looking at my face upside down. “Wow! No scragglies. Nice, neat, well-shaped brows.”

  “I took away some of the shaggy thickness. Now you look five years younger.” She smiles, and I believe it is genuine, but it’s a bit hard to tell upside down.

  “Momma, it’s a huge dif. You look fab.” Brie has been watching this whole process and fidgeting on the room’s only chair while clutching my purse. “It really does make your face look younger, more alert.”

  Alert I can use, so I grin. Then the adorable Ashleigh makes her second announcement, slightly louder this time.

  “Mrs. Wysinotski,” she begins.

  “Ashleigh, dear, please call me Betsy. Although you haven’t struggled with it, there is no need for you to have to remember my complicated surname. Betsy is just fine.” I blink my eyes under my new brows and smile. My face even feels different, lighter, more smiley. Why, oh, why did I keep The Jerk’s last name? Especially such a hard one to pronounce and remember.

  “Press on, Ashleigh. I want to leave here a new glowing-faced woman.”

  “All right. But, I need to inform you this might be a bit painful the first time. Nose hairs are harder to extract, and noses are sensitive.” She looks upside down into my eyes under my newly groomed brows. “You want to go for it?”

  I do, and I tell her so. I hear her fiddling in her bowl of wax and she says, “Here goes. Just relax.”

  I close my eyes, use my shrink’s relaxing technique and sigh. Whoa! Imagine a golf ball being thrust up your nostril. A moderately hot one with a popsicle stick stuck in it.

  Actually, it doesn’t hurt at all with Ashleigh’s delicate cool fingers massaging the side of my nose. Until…“Ready?”

  “Sure.”

  She grabs the stick and yanks quickly, then presses lightly on the nostril with those cool fingers. “You okay? We got a lot of ugly hairs out of there. Wanna see?”

  Not on your life. “No thanks. I trust you.”

  “Now for the left nostril.” She proceeds, but at least I have an idea of what to expect. Maybe it’s better if I don’t. I think I’d rather go through childbirth again, even at my age. But, it would be counter-productive, or maybe non-productive, to have one hairy nostril and one clean one. I close my eyes so tight I’m seeing stars. I feel the ripping tug.

  “Got ‘em!” she exclaims. “Wow, Mrs. Wys …Betsy, you are a great client.”

  She hands me a tissue for the tears streaming out of my eyes. I dab. Start to sit up until she tells me to relax, again.

  “Just have to pluck a few errant hairs with the tweezers that the wax didn’t get.”

  Those hurt almost more than the waxing, but I wince and endure.

  Once again, the mirror is held to my face. I admit I am amazed at how clean my nostrils look. Did I not see those straggly hairs there before, or did I just ignore them?

  Ashleigh lightly massages my face with some Aloe cream, so cooling. I am ready to roll, if only I can get up without swoo
ning and passing out.

  Brie and Ashleigh each take a hand and hoist me. I sit for a few minutes until life comes back in focus.

  “You did great, Momma.” Brie’s made-up cat grin makes me feel great.

  “I do feel like a new woman, younger. Thanks for encouraging me, Brie. Needed it.”

  “I’m glad you finally took some advice from me.” She clears her throat dramatically. “Now for the smile.”

  FORTY TWO

  I am wondering what Brie has up her sleeve next. Smile could mean lipstick, teeth or Botox lips. Not that, please. I hate injections of any kind, although I did succumb to the flu shot. But shots in my lips? No!

  “Don’t panic, Momma.” She must see the expression of horror on my contorted face. I glance in Old Sassy’s rear view mirror and bare my teeth. Straight. Not bad for a coffee drinker, gum chewer, former smoker. Lips a bit thin, but normal looking. Thank goodness something on my body is thin.

  I approach Walgreen’s and Brie says, “Pull in here.”

  As we enter the store, she takes my elbow and steers me to the toothpaste aisle. She pulls several boxes off the shelves and studies the directions on each. What? I can’t read for myself?

  “This one,” she claims waving it in the air.

  “What is it?”

  “Strips. Easy to use. Only problem,” she says grinning, “is you can’t talk for at least half an hour…twice a day.”

  “Oh.”

  “Or eat.”

  “Not at all?”

  “No, silly Momma. No eating while strips are in place.”

  “Oh.” Something has taken away my power of speech. Unusual for me. Instead of speaking I raise my new eyebrows high. This produces excitement in Brie.

  “Wow, Momma, your face sure looks good. Final touches coming up. Starting tonight.”

  I’m glad she’s happy and having fun with my new and improved visage, but I wonder if cranky Noel will even notice. “Brie, don’t you dare say a word about this to Noel, or Bett. Let’s see if they notice on their own, ‘kay?”

  “Works for me. It will be fun to surprise them.”

  I worry, though. What if neither notices my new appearance, my new younger face? I decide I’m tough, I can take it. Can’t I?

  “Have we done enough makeover for today? Please? I’m tired.”

  “Well, Momma, I did have one more thing planned. Guess it could wait for tomorrow.” She rubs her now almost enormous belly as we approach the Walgreen’s cash register. The lady behind the counter turns the box of dental strips over a few times and smiles.

  “These really work?” I’m not sure if it’s a question or a statement. Then I realize her smile is all stained teeth between her lips. Guess it was a question.

  “I hope so,” I say as I whip out my credit card.

  “Let me know. I might try them.” I hope she does. I hope they are miracle strips. My bold mouth overcomes me.

  “I bet you get a discount working here. Maybe you should go ahead and buy some. I’m sure the store has a good return policy.”

  “Good idea. Maybe I will.” She closes her mouth into a tight smile that covers her teeth and rings up the purchase. I hope I didn’t offend her. Maybe I encouraged her.

  When Brie and I reach home, we rush into my air conditioned condo in sticky clothes and fan ourselves by grabbing the fronts of our blouses and flapping them in and out toward our sweaty bodies. We laugh and hug and almost stick together. “We are Velcro,” she giggles.

  “Gotta eat,” I announce. “Makeovers make me hungry.”

  I am pulling greens out of the fridge by the bundles. Arugala, red-leaf lettuce, kale, spinach. Yum. “You wash while I start a chicken breast to poaching in the micro.”

  She moans and turns on the faucet. Brie is not the most domestic woman I know. In fact, Bett is a few percentages better. “I guess I’d better start learning how to do this cooking stuff to impress Derek,” she groans.

  “Or maybe to eat healthy?” I say raising those new eyebrows.

  “Yeah, that, too.”

  “Watch how I do this,” I insist. I place the skinless breast in a glass meatloaf pan, pour a bit of skinny wine over it, plus about a fourth cup of water. I could use all water, or citrus juice, but the alcohol in the low-cal wine boils away, and gives the chicken a great flavor.

  “What’s that?” she asks as I start to sprinkle on herbs and spices.

  “First one is bouquet garni, a combo of celery, thyme, bay leaf, parsley and marjoram. Then heavy on the dill weed, garlic powder and onion powder. Last is seasoned salt and seasoned pepper.”

  “You don’t measure?” She cocks her head. “I thought good cooks followed recipes.”

  “Nope. Really good cooks are creative, just wing it.” I think I’ve shocked her because the cocked head starts to nod. “You done washing and drying the greens?”

  “I have to dry them, too? I shook them off.”

  I pat them with paper towels and put her in charge of tearing them into bite size pieces. She wants to use a knife, but I explain that cutting bruises the tender leaves. When she groans again I say, “Look, Brie. I didn’t complain about the makeover, so please don’t complain about tearing lettuce.” I wink. She winks back.

  “Now is the fun part.” I dump the pieces from the bowl into the basket of my salad spinner.

  She pulls the cord, and whir! The greens spin around dropping residue water from the pieces into the cavity of the spinner. “That,” she claims, “is so cool. Where’d you get this?”

  “Uh, I’ve had it a long time. Nice, huh?” I refrain from telling her it was a wedding gift from my college roommate, Dee, when I married her father, The Jerk. Dee brought it all the way from Florida almost forty years ago. In those days she was able to carry a wrapped present on the plane and stow it in overhead. The bow wasn’t even crushed. The Jerk looked at it like “what a dumb gift.” But, Dee, who loved to cook, knew I did also. We had made a lot of salads during our college years, mostly to watch our weight. Still, decades later the spinner has been a godsend in my business.

  “I want one,” Brie says with authority.

  “You can’t buy them like this anymore with the cord to pull. They now have a knob you have to turn. More effort. Takes all the fun out of spinning.”

  “Maybe I can find one on EBay. If not, I still want whatever is made now.”

  She watches me toss the greens with black olive slices, pine nuts, cherry toms and thin slices of red onion. I sense she’s making a mental list of ingredients. I find a dressing in the fridge I bought at Sam’s Club the other day. This is not the time for a homemade dressing lesson. I’m hungry, and so is she.

  I hand her the bottle. “Pour this very lightly over the greens. Not too much. We can always add more.” She complies, carefully, and I toss again and taste a small leaf. She does, too. “Yum. Perfect, Momma.”

  The microwave binged a few minutes ago, so I take out the fragrant chicken and slice it thin on a cutting board. We each serve our own greens on the plates I put in the freezer earlier. “Take some chicken slices and lay them on top,” I direct. She does and actually fans them out appealingly. I’m impressed. “Now for the grated Parmesan cheese. Sprinkle some over your salad, and we are good to go.”

  We perch at my new kitchen table tucked neatly into benches under a window. It’s not as opulent as Bett’s, but it’s nice and cozy. Joining hands we both pray silently. I am so grateful that God has given my daughter back, and her husband back to her. He always comes through. If only I had more faith.

  We finish our salad dinner and scrape the plates clean, forks singing over them. Neither of us wants dessert, an unnecessary indulgence.

  “Okay, Momma. I haven’t forgotten. Go brush your teeth and rinse out your mouth. It’s strip time!

  “Last stop is Kay’s. But, I’m reserving that for a few days before your wedding. And after your cast is off,” she mumbles.

  “Who is Kay?”

  “It’s a surpri
se. You will love this one. Promise.”

  FORTY THREE

  I feel like a freak. I’m sure you’ve seen online photos of chimpanzees with their big mouths grinning in hilarity. Like they are making fun of we humans. That’s the way I feel, and I’m sure I look the part.

  I wonder what Dr. Kumar my dentist would say. She would probably be glad I was doing something proactive for my teeth. She did give me a sample box of strips about a year ago. They collected dust on my counter until I threw them away after I looked at the expiration date. I should probably fess up to Renuka (that’s her given name) next time I’m in her office. It’s too bad my Bible study moved from Wednesdays to Tuesdays. Wednesdays are her only days off, and she attended with me. I was blessed to find a Christian dentist, one who belongs to a Christian dental association. Maybe I will call her tomorrow and ask her opinion about Brie’s choice of strips. Confession is good for the soul, and probably for the teeth, too.

  Brie has me ensconced in The Jerk’s brown reclining chair, although she doesn’t know it was her father’s since he abandoned her and me before she was born. I am trying to relax with my mouth open and a pasted grin on my face. How phony is that? The operative word is trying.

  My eyes are closed and I start to repeat The Lord’s Prayer, a technique for falling asleep that my prayer partner Jean recommends. Maybe if I can fall asleep, it would help. Then, if I do, my mouth might close and the whole ordeal will be a waste. Or, my jaw will drop slack, and I will snore. Oh, please not that, Lord. So embarrassing, even in front of my daughter.

  What to do? Read. I grab a Joyce Meyer devotional and flip it open. How did I happen to come across the one about pride, especially selfish pride? Just as I settle in, a buzzer sounds, and Brie informs me my thirty minutes for tonight are over. That wasn’t so bad. I think of that song from Annie. “You’re never fully dressed without a smile.” Yep, that’s gonna be me. The new smile lady.