Frozen Butterflies

by Simona Grossi

  * * *

  Nick

  Punch. Punch.

  I didn’t respond and didn’t go to the theater. Nick was back, and I had left.

  I Came To Say Good-Night

  One morning it was March. I had extended my lease because I was finding it hard to leave. Writing was my refuge, and my apartment its perfect frame.

  I found a letter in the mail. It was from my school. They had accepted my request for a leave. I had discussed this with my father, and he thought I should use the money in the trust he had set up for me. I hadn’t known there was one, and I didn’t know whether I would use it or not. But I really needed to disappear for a while, so I was grateful for the opportunity.

  I had been in New York for several months now, but New York wasn’t my home. I tried to think of where home was, but I couldn’t identify any place that truly felt like it. I had memories that tasted like home, but I knew that if I now returned to the places in them, I’d feel a stranger there. Sometimes I even felt a stranger to myself.

  I had no email to look forward to anymore. I had kept Nick’s last email in my inbox for a while to remind me that I could write if I wanted to, but after weeks I decided I would not. I had nothing to say. I really didn’t. Elinor did not want to go to the theater, but she was home waiting for him. I deleted Nick’s last email and went for a run. The void seemed smaller when I ran. If I ran fast enough perhaps I could run away from it. Maybe one day I would.

  It was raining that morning. I passed by a bush that seemed to be the walls of a house I couldn’t see. What a nice screen, I thought. The bush was green, and the green was so intense I could almost taste it in my mouth. It was refreshing. I stopped and ran my fingers through it. Then I brushed my cheek on it, and the bush cried on me. I ran for a while, and when my mind was tired, I stopped at a café. As I was seated I saw Andrew’s father walking by. I ran toward him and called to him.

  “Mr. Pratt!”

  He turned, smiled, and continued walking.

  “Mr. Pratt, wait!”

  He stopped and looked at me but seemed not to recognize me.

  “Did we meet somewhere?” he asked.

  He didn’t remember me anymore. I thought he had said his Alzheimer’s wasn’t that bad when we met, but perhaps he was wrong about that, or had wanted to be.

  “How’s school?” he asked.

  Maybe he remembered now.

  “I took a leave” I said.

  “Oh, what was it? You didn’t like your teachers?”

  No, he didn’t. I attempted a smile.

  “Would you join me for coffee? It would be nice to chat with you,” I said, hoping he would say yes. He smiled and agreed to follow me.

  “How’s Andrew?” I asked.

  “He’s doing fine,” he said, checking me with his eyes. He paused and then added, “I know he was looking for you. He came the other day to visit me.”

  Did Andrew really go visit him? Did he remember me?

  “Did he publish his novels?” I tried again.

  “I think he should sometime soon.”

  Did he?

  “I’m glad. I should finish my work soon,” I said, and confused him again.

  “How are you?” I then asked.

  “Do you really want to hear?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Lonely,” he said. “I feel lonely. I don’t remember much these days, and it seems nobody can understand me. My wife would have. I miss her.”

  “Andrew’s mom?”

  “Yes. You know she was my student? I never told anyone.”

  “Tell me about her.”

  “She was an artist, like Andrew. She quit school after we fell in love. She was sweet, fragile. Our families didn’t want us to get married. They thought I was too old for her. But then we got married,” he continued. “I wanted to give Andrew his name, she wanted to call him Frank. We flipped a coin and I won. I’m glad I did. When we told our parents, they were mad at us for picking Andrew’s name the way we did. They thought it was stupid. We thought it was fun.” His smile was so sweet. I had never seen Andrew smile like that. I wished he did, now that I knew he could.

  Andrew’s father told me more stories of his family, and more stories about Andrew, stories of him as he was growing up.

  “He was such a sweet kid. He didn’t talk much but would bring his sketchbook everywhere he went and communicate through his drawings. Everyone loved his drawings. He drew all the time and everywhere. So many drawings. His bedroom walls were entirely covered.” He laughed. I wish I could see what he was describing. I tried.

  He opened his wallet and pulled out one of Andrew’s first drawings. It showed a boy on the bow of a vessel, wearing a captain’s hat, his arms reaching to the sky, the ocean all around. I remembered that. Andrew had told me about it. This is exactly what he wanted to share with me when I asked him about his art growing up. I thought it was interesting that Andrew’s father had chosen the same scrap of memory his son had chosen.

  “He made this when he was seven, or something like that,” he said. “I stole it before leaving. This is how I remember him. A boy on the bow of a vessel, ready to conquer the world. Happy.” He folded the paper, which was as weathered as his hands. I placed my hands on his and dove into his discolored eyes, eyes that were almost fading.

  “What else do you remember?” I asked.

  “I remember Andrew.”

  “Tell me more about him.”

  “Hmm . . .” He took a deep breath and looked outside the window, searching through his memories.

  “He was too young when I left. I remember his look when I took my suitcase and walked out the door. He didn’t understand all of that, but I never tried to explain. I would have if he had been older. I did whisper, ‘it’s not your fault,’ but I am not sure he thought it was, and I’m not sure he even heard what I said. I would have given anything to know what he thought. I wasn’t even close. Ever. I’m sure.”

  He paused and continued to play with his napkin as I had seen Andrew do the last time we were together.

  “I didn’t leave Andrew though,” he continued. “I never did, even after I left. I tried to follow him as much as I could. I went to his school and watched him arrive and leave. I talked to his teachers, his friends . . . He didn’t want to talk to me, so I had no choice. Yes, I followed him, until I thought he was ready to be on his own. Maybe I got that wrong though. A child is never able to go on his own, right?”

  I wasn’t.

  We talked more about Andrew, and his father’s memories of him. Those memories seemed intact. He hadn’t forgotten. He did remember Andrew. I wasn’t sure he remembered me, though, but I tried again.

  “I loved meeting with you months ago, and I love this time with you. You seem unreal. Sometimes I feel you are.”

  He smiled.

  “Yes, it was special, and today is too.” His eyes told me he had remembered. I believed him.

  After we left, I walked with him to his building and then returned home.

  I was no longer warm from my run and had started feeling cold, but I decided to walk back to my apartment. When I arrived there, I felt sick. This time I was sure it wasn’t from the cold. It was my meeting with Andrew’s father that was too intense to sustain. I hid under my blanket and stayed there for a while, staring at the window, my thoughts wandering without any trajectory I could grasp. I had no energy left. I closed my eyes and hoped I could see the fake stars on the ceiling again, but I had no machine to make them. I got up and sat close to the window to look for the real ones, but there weren’t any. The sky was still cloudy from the morning rain. I went to my desk and wrote about my meeting with Andrew’s father. I reviewed what I wrote and then tried to sleep, but I couldn’t. I waited and waited. Then I looked out my window and saw Nick. I hadn’t seen him in months, and yet he was there, looking up. I looked at him, but I’m not sure he saw my eyes. I was too far up, and he was too close to the ground. I ran down in my pajamas. We hugged each
other and stayed close for a while.

  “I just came to say good-night.”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “I knew that.”

  I opened my eyes and felt confused. What exactly had I dreamed?

  Someone Wins. We Lose

  I had learned to live without Nick, and it was OK.

  So on a Sunday in April, I agreed to meet with Matt. He said he had something to show me and wanted to take me to brunch. I had missed people, as isolated as I was in my little apartment. I wore my best dress and my best smile, and when I closed the door behind me to go to the meeting, I felt like I was closing more than that.

  “You look great,” he said when he saw me.

  “You do too,” I said.

  “I’ve missed you.”

  “I’ve missed you too.”

  “How’s the writing?”

  “It’s going . . .”

  “When will I get to read it?”

  When? I wish I could say. Soon, I hoped. To get some peace, to get released from the obsession, from the isolation, of the past several months. It would feel nice to close my story and move on.

  “So one month, two?”

  “I really don’t know,” I said.

  “Well, I have something for you.” He handed me a book wrapped in light-blue paper.

  “What is it?”

  I unwrapped the little box, and there it was. The Girl, the Beach, and the Rain. He had finished it, and the story looked beautiful.

  “The first page . . . Isn’t that the sketch . . . ?”

  “Yes, you forgot to take it.”

  I had forgotten to take the sketch he had made for me that day on the beach, and it had then become the first page of his novel. I was happy to see that. Part of the story, though, was that I had forgotten to take it, and that made me sad. The sketch was so beautiful, I could almost touch his feelings for me in it. They felt so real. And yet they, the sketch, had not pulled me into his story, toward him. I felt sad and sorry for myself, sorry for being unable to see, live, something that was real, something that I could touch, trust, rely on.

  “I’m sorry. But you finished your love story,” I said, pushing my tears back. “That is . . .”

  “I’m actually still waiting for it to start. I hope this is how it begins,” he said, his eyes smiling.

  We spent the day talking and then made love. It was sweet, tender. I went to my apartment the next day, collected my things, and returned to the place Matt and I had shared and to our life together. He said it was as if I had never left. I felt differently. Matt said I could use his office in the apartment for my writing, and so I worked there, and returned to my own apartment less and less.

  One morning Andrew called. I was happy to hear his voice, although he sounded distracted. We talked about his last two novels. He said they were ready to be released, but before they were, he said, it would be nice to have my piece out.

  “It’s not actually a piece, anymore.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a book, a story, a fiction, or something. Hard to find a label for it.”

  “Is it related to my work?”

  “More than I could possibly explain. But it’s not what you’re expecting.”

  “What’s the title?”

  I remained silent, unsure of what to say.

  “I don’t have a title yet, as my story is still incomplete. But I know it’ll eventually come to me.”

  “Could you write something shorter for the Times? I told them you were working on a piece on my work, and they seemed interested.”

  “The New York Times?”

  “Yes,” he said, and maybe smiled. It sounded as if he did. “Just try to finish it as soon as you can, and give me something I can use.”

  I said I would.

  “Andrew, I’ve got a question. Might sound weird to you, but . . . did you visit your father lately?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know. I had a dream, or something.”

  “He died last week.”

  There was silence, and that silence hit me. I couldn’t stop my tears.

  “Why are you crying?”

  “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s OK. I hardly remember him. Someone in the family called to let me know.”

  “Did you visit him lately?”

  “Who? My father?”

  “Yes. Did you visit him?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  I left the house and went for a run. That day I ran for four hours, until I had no more tears to cry and could barely feel my body anymore. I ran and ran and finally arrived in front of Henry Pratt’s building. The hall seemed more silent. The gate was open. I took the elevator to his floor and knocked on his door. His son came to the door.

  “I was a friend of your father,” I said.

  His resemblance to his father and Andrew was striking.

  “I heard he died and wanted to come and say I’m very sorry.”

  “Yes, thanks,” he said, clearly uncertain as to how to respond.

  “I’m also a friend of Andrew. I’m writing about his work. Your father told me about a drawing Andrew made when he was a kid, and I would love to give it to Andrew. He didn’t see his father before he died.”

  “Yes, we didn’t see Andrew at the funeral either.”

  “I think it would be nice to give him that drawing.”

  “I’m not sure what drawing you’re talking about.”

  “I met your father last month and he showed me a drawing Andrew made when he was a kid.”

  “My father? Where did you meet him?”

  “Somewhere close by.”

  “My father was in the hospital since early January. Did you meet him before then?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I must be confused or something.”

  “Do you remember what the drawing was about or where it was?”

  I told him about the drawing that his father had carried in his wallet, and he said he would look for it and call if he found it. I gave him my number and left.

  When I got home, I turned the computer on and wrote “Finding Andrew.” I wrote nonstop and finally put the last two sentences down:

  For each lie we say there are so many untold truths. Andrew’s story taught me that I should stop looking for the lies or the truths, and should rather look for myself.

  When I finished reviewing my article and was ready to send it to Andrew, Andrew’s brother called. He had found the drawing.

  “It wasn’t in the wallet as you said. It was in a book my father was reading. Anyhow, it’s yours if you want it.”

  I went back, and he gave me the drawing. I felt so happy when I could hold it. Did I dream that meeting? The drawing was as I had seen it, as I remembered it. I was too exhausted to ask questions. I returned home, printed my article, and brought it to Andrew, together with his drawing.

  “I think this belongs to you,” I said when I saw him, and handed him the drawing.

  “Thanks, Susan. You were faster than I thought,” he said.

  I remained silent.

  His eyes froze when he saw the drawing.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “Your brother gave it to me. Your father had kept it for years. He said he ‘stole’ it before leaving. I think you should know this, and have it back.”

  He cried. I hugged him and left.

  When I returned home, Matt proposed to me, and I said yes. We got married that June, but summer never came that year. The following spring I became a mother.

  Falling

  Our baby was born in March. A beautiful boy. We named him William. It was Matt’s choice, from the name of one of his favorite graphic novelists. I liked the name, and thought it was perfect for him when I held him in my arms. The baby looked very much like his father. He was blond, had blue eyes, and his smile was open and full. I spent my days with Will, and I had not written since I left my apartment. Sometimes I leafed through
the pages of my manuscript and stuck notes and ideas in there. But when I reviewed them, I realized they didn’t belong.

  Will would wake up often in the middle of the night. He loved watching me draw, and so when he woke up, I drew and drew for him. Somehow watching me draw would make him slowly fall asleep again. I still used charcoal, and now there was charcoal everywhere in the house. One night I drew Nick’s portrait.

  Even though Will would wake up easily, he would just as easily fall asleep again, leaving me to wander around the house for a couple of hours or so before returning to bed. Almost two years had passed since my sleepless nights. I again had some private time with the night, but it was different. I was different.

  One night, after putting Will back to sleep, I started searching through my photo albums, novels, and psychology books, and I found my thesis. I remembered what Henry Pratt had told me one day. He said that we write to search. What search did my thesis contain? That night I didn’t go back to bed. I read and reviewed my thesis. I looked behind the chapters, within the lines. Moments of my life, thoughts and events almost forgotten, all mixed up with my garage/studio, my favorite music, my solitude.

  Midlife transition. The feeling of being trapped in a career I wasn’t sure of. The boring lectures of Professor Forg. I was completing my PhD, but I didn’t want to be him, or at least I didn’t want to be someone like him for too long. Could I transition then? At some point? And would I feel better if I succeeded? In my transition, I meant.

  Daydreaming. When I was working on this chapter I went to the movie theater to see Hearts in Atlantis. I was alone. It was after Thanksgiving. Classes were over. I was only writing my thesis at that time, had no classes, and felt like I was sleepwalking. Why do we daydream? Was it OK to live your life as a dream?