Frozen Butterflies

by Simona Grossi

  “I should have given it to him when he was here. If I gave it to him now, he would never accept it.”

  I looked around. There was a sofa and a small coffee table in front of it, with newspapers and magazines spread around randomly. Some of them were opened and marked, some had sticky notes on them. And there were photos of his family everywhere. On little stands, on the walls. He showed me some. Photos of him with his wife and the kids. Photos with the new wife. Photos of Andrew and his sister when they were young. I said I loved them, and he showed me more. I didn’t want to intrude, and I thought I should be ready to leave as soon as he looked like he might be getting tired. He left to get a copy of the piece he wanted me to read, and when he returned, he wrote something on it, and said I could keep it.

  “It’s for you. Don’t give it to Andrew. If you do, I’d feel I didn’t have to talk to him and explain the things I wrote. But I’d rather do that and not be a coward. So this is for you. Maybe it’ll help you write your piece on my son. Maybe it’ll make you question your studies. Or maybe it won’t do either of those things. In that case, feel free to trash it.” He looked sad.

  “Are you happy?” I asked. I knew the answer to that question, did not need to hear it. My question was more about why he wasn’t. That is what I wanted to know.

  “I’m not,” he said, without hesitation. “I feel very lonely.”

  “What about your colleagues?”

  “What about them?”

  “Aren’t they friends?”

  “I’ve got good relationships with them, but they’re not really friends. I dated some other women. Nothing important, though.”

  “I’m sorry. I know what you mean. I think I do.”

  I looked at him, looked at the essay, and hugged him for what he had shared with me. I thought it was time for me to leave, but then he asked me if I wanted to see the rest of the apartment. We walked across a hall, and he showed me the other rooms, one of which was his other son’s.

  “I’m taking care of him as much as I can,” he said. “I wish I had the cure. There isn’t any really. But at times I feel he’s doing better, and I feel I’ve succeeded. As a father, not as a professional.”

  I showed him the book I had bought that morning at the bookstore, the one with his annotated essay. I told him about the annotations. He seemed curious to read them, so I handed him the book. We left together, as he said he would walk with me a bit. When we said goodbye to each other, I felt he didn’t want to let me go. And I didn’t want to go either. I wish I had said that, but I didn’t. After he turned the corner and left, I started feeling sick. Maybe it was because of the hair I hadn’t dried that morning, or maybe it was the meeting. I started shaking. I called a taxi, and as soon as I was home, I went to bed. It was early afternoon.

  The Dog And The Car

  Matt called and woke me up the next day.

  “Susan, are you free? I’d love to see you.”

  “I . . . Are you in New York?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  I checked the time and could not believe I had been asleep since the afternoon before. It was ten a.m.

  He kept talking, though I wasn’t sure I was fully listening. I think he mentioned he had a few meetings for work later that day and we could perhaps meet right after that or before.

  “Unless you have other plans, of course.”

  “I don’t have plans.”

  “Where are you living?”

  “East Village.”

  “If you want I can come there. I might be there in an hour or so.”

  “Sure,” I said, but I wasn’t enthusiastic.

  In his last email, he’d asked to stay at my place. I didn’t feel like offering that, but then I remembered what he’d said about his finances, and I felt that I should.

  “You can stay with me if you want. The apartment is small, but I’ve got an extra bed you could use.”

  “That would be awesome.”

  I pushed my head against the pillow and thought about my meeting with Andrew’s father the day before. That meeting somehow had the intensity and the lightness, the beauty and the magic of a dream. Or it was just my wet hair in the icy morning that had made feel fluish and confused? It took me another half hour to get out of bed. I made coffee, put some clothes on, and soon Matt was at the door. He looked different than the last time we’d met.

  “You look great,” he said as I opened the door.

  “Really? I don’t feel like it.”

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  I didn’t want to talk about Nick, or me.

  “I found Andrew,” I said.

  “Oh. Is he OK?”

  “He’s fine.”

  “How did you find him?”

  “Luck, I guess. I was at a café in an area I knew he frequented, and he passed by.”

  “How is he?”

  “He’s fine. He’s painting and has sold some of his works. He finished another novel, found a new agent, secured an advance from a publisher . . . He’s a busy man. Has a new girlfriend too.”

  “We were so worried about him. He’s probably doing better than all of us.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far, but he’s fine. Seems so, at least.”

  “So you are . . . done.”

  Was I?

  “I’m writing a piece on him and might stay until January.”

  “A piece on Andrew?”

  “Yes. I’ve talked to him a couple of times already and might meet with him again. I want to write about him, his art, try to dig into it.”

  We talked some more about Andrew, my efforts. I told him about Christine and my worries. He tried to absorb everything I said, but at times I felt it was too much.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “I actually don’t know. I guess I need to.”

  “Then I’ll do whatever I can to help you.”

  “Why?” I asked this time.

  “I care about you,” he said.

  He was sitting on my bed when he said that, his hands on his knees, his eyes lost somewhere. I went closer and hugged him. And then I kissed him. My kiss was first sweet, but then more sensual. And then more than that. I don’t know why I did it. I was probably looking for Nick, trying to feel the same way Nick made me feel. But it wasn’t just that. There was something about Matt that felt different. In any event, it didn’t work.

  “Not like this,” he said. “It doesn’t feel right. I’m sorry.”

  Yes, it wasn’t right. I remained silent, then stood up and went to the window. He placed his arms around me and kissed me on my neck.

  “I’ll wait. I know love comes with time.”

  “Does it?”

  I freed myself from his arms and went to the kitchen.

  “Coffee?” I asked.

  “Yes, please.”

  As I poured the coffee, I checked him out again.

  “You look . . . different.”

  “Me? How?”

  “I don’t know . . . more confident perhaps?”

  “It’s possible.” He smiled, taking the cup from my hands. “I was just offered a position here in New York. I’m going to be the CEO of a publishing company.”

  “You? What do you know about business?”

  He laughed.

  “I have a master’s degree in finance, and a PhD in Economics. I worked for the Economist for a few years and then decided that wasn’t the life I wanted for myself. So I became a poor artist. Didn’t want a nine-to-five job.”

  “But now you’ll have one?”

  “Time for a change. In any event, I haven’t made enough money with my art so far, and I know I don’t have Andrew’s talent. I can draw and have some good stories in mind. Nothing exceptional though. I’ll earn some money, travel, keep writing. Maybe one day I’ll have the right idea and the right connections. But now it seems that it’s just not happening for me.”

  “Congrats!” I tried to show enthusiasm and excitement, but I didn’t really feel any.

&n
bsp; We chatted some more, and then left for a walk.

  “Have you seen your father?” he asked. “I remember you mentioned he lived here.”

  “Yes. He lives here with his girlfriend and, apparently, a five-year-old son.”

  “Oh. You didn’t know about that.”

  “No, I didn’t. I don’t even know at this point if it makes any sense for me to see him.”

  “You should tell him how you feel.”

  “Really? Why? I’m not even sure how I feel.”

  “It’s your father. I would talk to him.”

  We walked some more in silence, and then he stopped.

  “There’s something I want to show you,” he said, and pulled me close to him on a bench.

  “These are a few sketches from The Girl, the Beach, and the Rain.”

  I leafed through the pages and remembered that day on the beach. Seemed so long ago.

  “What’s the story?” I asked.

  “You tell me.”

  There were only drawings, no dialogue. There was no need for words.

  “It’s a love story,” I said.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Is it finished?”

  “Oh, no. It hasn’t even started yet,” he said, and winked at me.

  He told me about the phone call from the publishing company, their offer, his plans for the future. And then it was time for him to leave.

  “I’d better go now.”

  “Where’s your meeting?” I asked.

  He showed me the address, and I recognized the name of the company Nick and I had visited.

  “Those are nice offices,” I said. “Too bright for my taste, but nice.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Nick and I went there looking for Andrew. He’s no longer working there.”

  “Do you want to come with me?”

  “No, I think I’ll go home.”

  “I’ll come to your place once I’m done. I might be late, as I’ve got some introductory training to do.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll be there.”

  He kissed me on my cheek and walked away, but turned three times to check on me, and he waved before disappearing.

  I started walking toward the subway to take it home, but then I changed my mind. I called a taxi and asked the driver to take me to my father’s place. I hadn’t decided whether I should see him, and when I arrived there I still wasn’t sure. I asked the driver to stop a few blocks away, I paid, and before walking toward the place, I looked around. The area was quiet and green. It was almost three, and the sun was bright and shining. I walked along the sidewalk, looking at opulent mansions on both sides of the street. It was peaceful. My father’s house looked exactly as I remembered. Huge. Almost a castle. Evelyn chose it because it looked fancy, and my father bought it to make her happy. My father met Evelyn through friends of friends. She looked like the soubrette of a cheap TV show, and she was not particularly smart. He once asked me what I thought about her, and I believe I said, “If it makes you happy, what I think doesn’t matter.” My father started dating her about ten years ago, and apparently they had been together ever since. Now they even had a child. I had not asked my father about the name of the child. But, after all, I didn’t care.

  “Benji!” a voice called from the house. I turned and saw a little boy playing with Legos on the grass. I looked more closely, and I immediately realized that that boy was my father’s son. They looked identical, the boy just a younger version of him.

  “Benji, your snack is ready. Come inside.”

  I didn’t recognize that woman, but I assumed she was my father’s maid. The boy didn’t even look at her and continued to play. A dog joined him and seemed to demand his attention, but the boy didn’t stop playing, and the dog ran away toward the opposite side of the street.

  “Cooper!” the boy called. But it was too late. The dog was already crossing the street as a car was approaching. I don’t know why, but my instinct was to jump and shield the dog. And so I did. The driver tried to stop the car, but he slammed into me. The impact was so strong. I lost consciousness.

  I woke up in the hospital the day after. I didn’t remember much, except the sense of having been hit by a huge truck, although I had seen just a car.

  When I opened my eyes, I didn’t have my glasses on, but I thought there must be a woman standing on the left side of my bed. When she said, “She’s waking up,” I recognized Evelyn’s voice. How could I forget that voice? I hated it. I wanted to close my eyes and disappear, but my father came closer, so close I could almost see his classic examiner’s stare. For a few seconds I felt like a teenager again. Should I find an excuse, something, to justify the mess I had made?

  “Susan, how are you?” he asked.

  I tried to say something, but then I felt like throwing up. So I just waved my hand to signal that I was OK.

  “Benjamin would like to say something to you.”

  The little boy came close to my bed and, pushing his head against his mother’s hips, said, “Thank you for saving Cooper. I like you.”

  I smiled and closed my eyes again. And then I remembered Matt was coming over.

  “I have an appointment. I should go. What time is it?”

  “It’s noon,” my father said.

  “No, that’s not possible. It was noon before.”

  “It’s noon. You had an accident yesterday. The ambulance took you to the hospital around three, and you’ve been here ever since.”

  “But Matt?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes. He came last night together with another friend of yours. Nick?”

  I felt sick again.

  “They said they would come back later today.”

  I tried to move but couldn’t. My left leg was in traction, some wires were pulling it away from me, and others were pulling it up.

  “What’s going on? What’s wrong with me?”

  “You broke your shinbone. You had a bad fracture and dislocation.”

  I looked down and saw my life in traction.

  The Truth About My Mother

  I spent two weeks in the hospital. My fracture was apparently bad, and so after I was put in traction, I had surgery to insert some metal screws and pins into my bones. The pain was intense, and it lasted for days. I wasn’t thinking of Nick anymore. He didn’t come to the hospital after his first visit, when I was unconscious, so I hadn’t seen him since that night at the theater.

  Matt came every day. I gave him the keys to my apartment and told him he could stay there. He spent most of his days with me at the hospital. He brought a little machine that projected moving stars onto the ceiling in the dark. So every day when he left, I asked him to pull the shades and turn off the light, and I would lie still, looking at the stars floating in the room and sketching plans for my future.

  “You still like shadows,” my father said when on one of his visits to the hospital he caught me with my stars.

  “How do you know?” I asked, trying to remember when and how I could have possibly shared anything so personal with him.

  “After your mother died, you wanted me to get rid of all the lamps in the house. You wanted only dim lights. And that’s all we had for quite a while.”

  “Really? I don’t remember that. How old was I?”

  “Seven. And you continued to ask for shadows pretty much until you went to college.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “I forgot.”

  “I’m sure there are many things you forgot . . . It’s not your fault though.” He took a breath and said, “I love the sun, I love light. The shadows weren’t exactly my choice.”

  He went silent looking at my little fake little stars.

  “Why do you think I like shadows so much?”

  “They remind you of your mother. When you were born, she slowly slipped into a deep depression. She spent her days in almost completely dark rooms. She didn’t use lamps or electricity, just candles or dim lanterns. She first made i
t look like a game to you. You played hide-and-seek, and that was fun. But then she lost interest in that too, and what was left was just the shadows. After she died, you kept asking me to ‘make some shadows’ because, I think, they reminded you of your time with your mother, the happy times with her.”

  That seemed right, and yet I had forgotten it. I decided to trust him. Perhaps I needed to.

  I said, “I have to ask you about something that has been tormenting me for quite some time, and I need you to be honest. Have you been honest with me about mom’s death? Did she really have an aneurysm?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “’Cause I’ve started having confusing dreams about that. I keep dreaming of these two women at mom’s funeral, talking about how sad it is that she had hanged herself. Sometimes I see her dying that way too.”

  My father froze. He sat on the chair close to my bed, and remained silent, perhaps thinking about whether or not he should lie.

  “Does that matter? Why do you want to know how she died? She’s no longer here.”

  “She was my mother. I need to know.”

  He lowered his head, and without looking at me, said, “She did hang herself. You probably did hear women talking about it at the funeral. I remember you running away in the middle of the reception and going back to your room crying. Later on, you asked what ‘hanged’ meant, but I obviously lied to you. How could I tell you the truth? You were only seven.”

  I didn’t ask him why he had lied to me. I knew I had lied to myself even before he did.

  “Did you know she was sick? I mean, when this whole thing started.”

  “Of course, I knew,” he said. “She was ill when I met her, but I thought I could save her. Turns out I couldn’t. At first, I felt guilty toward her, toward you. As your father, I hadn’t been able to save your mother. But over the years, I realized that there was nothing I could have done to change the course of events.”

  He took a deep breath, and then said, “I’m sorry I wasn’t a good father to you but, trust me, I tried. It’s not easy to lose your wife and raise a child when you’re in your thirties. Wasn’t easy at all. There are things you understand only when you get older.”