Frozen Butterflies

by Simona Grossi

  Sadness. One of my teachers died. She hanged herself. I read the news in an email the dean sent out to the school. There was no photo, just a cold, dry list of her work and, obviously, no explanation of the reasons why she did it. Nobody knew that. Or did they? What was sadness? What caused it? Were there degrees of sadness?

  Feeling restless. I wrote night and day and slept only for few hours. I would go to bed at midnight and wake up two hours later, eager to start writing again. I did it for weeks and then crashed. But I crashed only for a few days and then started writing again as insanely as I had before. Was it OK to constantly feel as if you didn’t have time to waste? As if you could die any moment? Was it OK to constantly feel like you were trying to achieve something, and once you did, start searching for something else? Should I feel rested at some point? Would I?

  Increased sexual desire and sexual affairs. I met a judo athlete who did strip shows to make ends meet. We met on a train. He approached me and stalked me with an excuse. I thought it was romantic. He probably didn’t. I was reading Siddhartha on that train. Was the book what attracted him to me? We went out a couple of times. It felt weird. We didn’t have anything in common. I had an increased sexual desire. I was his sexual affair. But he didn’t know my truth, and I didn’t know his. What did it mean to desire? Why would someone in a relationship seek and have an affair?

  Increased or decreased ambition. One of my articles was published in a top scientific journal and even cited in several studies. The teachers at the school were ecstatic or jealous, I couldn’t say which. And the school featured the news on the front page of its website for days, as that would probably help its ranking. I felt gratified but wanted more. And yet, days later, I no longer cared. Why? Where did this come from? Will I be swinging from ambition to apathy and back for the rest of my life? Will I be someone famous or nobody? Will I even care?

  Those chapters were talking to me. It was early morning when I rested my head on the sofa, but Will woke up again.

  “Will you take care of him?” Matt called from the other room.

  I got up, and with my eyes half-closed went and played with him in his little crib. He was so sweet. He wasn’t really crying, he was calling me. But even when he cried and I was tired, I loved to go and make him feel that I was there. Being a parent had changed my perspective on many things. I had certainly become less selfish. But I had not changed my perspective on Nick. Did he know I had a baby? Was he still in New York?

  When Matt got up he started listing his appointments for the day and complaining about his workload to me. I listened—I always did—but that report took almost all our time together. It always did. I got one report in the morning when we had coffee together and one at night, at dinner when he returned from work. And during the weekends we would talk about problems he had at work. And then there was more work for him to do. So we didn’t exactly talk. But quite frankly, I’m not sure I had much to talk about or share with him, other than Will.

  That morning, even though I was tired and knew I should have tried to sleep a bit, I took Will to my father’s and went to my apartment. I brought my computer with me and told myself I had to start writing again. I reviewed what I had written, looked at the lines, deeply into them, but it didn’t take much effort to find the search in my story.

  The phone rang, and it was Andrew. His books had been published, the first run had sold out, and they were already in the second printing. There would be a signing event the next day, and he had called to make sure I would go.

  “You didn’t reply to my last emails. Did you get them?” he asked.

  He had sent me three emails, all about the event. And of course I got them and read them and thought about it. But I couldn’t make up my mind as to whether I should go or not. I was worried that Nick would be there, or that he wouldn’t. In either case, I knew I would feel horrible.

  “No, I didn’t,” I said. “You know, with Will sometimes I forget to check.” Will was my best excuse for everything at that time, especially for my absences. But it wasn’t Will really.

  “You know, I wish I had known before. Now it might be hard to come,” I added.

  “I understand,” he said. “I hope you’ll make it, though. It would mean a lot to me.”

  “I know.”

  “Have you finished your novel?” he asked.

  I was holding my work as he inquired about it.

  “Do you know when you’ll have it done? Approximately? I’d love to read it.”

  “I haven’t exactly been writing lately.”

  “You should. Incomplete stories are frozen butterflies.”

  What a disturbing image. What was a frozen butterfly? A cold one? A paralyzed one? One trapped in a large ice cube?

  “You can’t torture those butterflies like this. They’re waiting. And you’re waiting too.”

  I was ready to ask him what he meant by that and what did he know about writing, when I realized he knew more than I did, and I was afraid of his answer, whatever it might be.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, his image of the frozen butterflies still pounding in my head.

  “Sorry for what?” he asked.

  I didn’t respond.

  “All right, then. Take care of yourself.”

  When he hung up, I thought more about the frozen butterflies. Not that I had a choice. They had infested my head. I thought I should try to draw them. And I did. I used charcoal again. And when I was done, and I saw the charcoal butterflies in my drawing, I thought they looked exactly how I had imagined them, seen them. And actually, now that I had captured them in that drawing, they felt less painful. Perhaps they had left me. I almost liked them now. I felt bad for them though. If I could only warm them in my hands and make them fly again.

  I moved to my desk and tried to write. I wrote and rewrote a chapter, but it wasn’t working. I grabbed a bottle of wine, but there wasn’t much left, and I threw it against the wall. The wine stained the window, the glass broke, and parts of it fell on the carpet. I sat and placed a piece of the glass on my hand and looked at it, through it. My frozen skin, my frozen me. I pushed the sharp edge between the thumb and the index finger. I didn’t feel it. I pressed harder. I didn’t feel anything. Blood filled the space between the two fingers. The line of blood that was staining my hand, almost separating my hand into two parts, was cold, and my hand didn’t move. I pushed the glass harder, and I felt better. And better. And better. I wanted my hand to move. I asked it to move. I implored my frozen butterfly to feel, to live, and write again. But it didn’t. I let myself fall to the carpet and fell asleep.

  When I woke up, I had blood all over. On my sweater, my jeans, on the carpet. I didn’t feel anything though. Initially I thought it was the wine. I remembered the broken bottle. There was still wine on the wall. But then when I tried to move my hand, it hurt. I was happy. Perhaps, I thought, I could write now. I should try. I turned my computer on and wrote the word “Falling” on top of a blank page. I wasn’t going to write about something that was complete. So . . . falling. How much further down could I still go? My hand hurt. The blood stained the keyboard. I wrote some more, some sketches and a few ideas. I looked at them and saw they all belonged to the story. I was inspired again.

  When I stopped writing I realized I had seriously injured myself, so I went to the closest emergency room. The doctors told me that I had cut my flexor tendon, the one between my thumb and my index finger.

  “How did you do that?” he asked.

  “I don’t recall,” and I really didn’t. I remembered the glass, but my memories weren’t clear.

  “It might have been some glass.”

  Did I want him to know? To tell me what had happened? What had I done?

  He scanned me, bandaged my hand, and didn’t believe me.

  “You’re lucky,” he said. “You won’t need surgery . . . this time. Be careful with that glass.”

  No, he had not believed me.

  “Do you feel safe at home?”
he then asked.

  Oh, right, he had no idea.

  Did I feel safe at home? Safe from whom?

  “Of course,” I said.

  He prescribed some drugs and let me go. I walked to a pharmacy and waited in line. That waiting was almost healing. It felt like something I could do, had no choice but to do. I just had to wait. But then, as I was waiting, I saw someone that looked like Nick. I stopped breathing for a moment, but when he turned I realized it wasn’t him. He noticed I was staring at him, and after he paid he came closer to me.

  “Hi, what’s up? What did you do to your hand?”

  “I . . .”

  “Do you live close by?”

  I didn’t respond. I paid and left.

  When I got to my father’s place to pick Will up, my father told me Will was sleeping and handed me his carry-cot. He saw my bandage and looked worried.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Your hand? And you look pale . . . ?”

  “I was cleaning and some glass . . .”

  “Is everything OK?”

  “Yeah. I just damaged a tendon. But the doctor said I should be OK. No need for surgery.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” I said, but looked away.

  “Do you want to talk?”

  “Oh, Dad, I’m so tired right now. I’ve been at the ER for two or three hours. It was draining.”

  He didn’t take his eyes off my hand. He looked suspicious. But how could he know? Did he? I told him once again not to worry about me. I kissed him and walked to the door.

  “Wait,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Your grandmother asked about you. She asked me to give you this.” He handed me an envelope.

  “What is it?”

  “There’s a note she wrote for you and a copy of the keys to the house. You know she has a caregiver living with her now. But she said you can go visit her whenever you like. And here are the keys.”

  After I left, I opened the envelope. The note was short.

  Dear Susan,

  * * *

  I hope you’re doing fine. It would be nice if you stopped by whenever you have a chance. I would love to see you again.

  * * *

  Grandma

  When I got home, I lay Will in his crib and looked at him for a while. How did I make something as peaceful as him? Where did his peace come from? Was there peace in my soul? Somewhere? I pulled the envelope from my purse and placed it in the drawer of my desk in what was once Matt’s office. It was supposed to have become my writing room, but somehow it never did. And I had not used my apartment that much either. So I had two writing rooms but no finished, publishable writing yet. How sad, I thought.

  When Matt came home, he kissed me, and went to the bedroom to change. He didn’t even notice my bandage until we were seated at dinner. He then asked me about it, and I repeated the same story I had told my father. He believed it. No further questions asked. We quickly returned to his list of problems and appointments for the next day. And that’s all I remember of our night together. He may have said something else, told me about his day, and I may have made a comment. I wasn’t there though, and he didn’t even notice. When I woke up, I decided I wouldn’t go to the book signing.

  “I’ll be home early today,” Matt said before leaving. “I’ve got some work to do, but I’m so tired I need a break from the office. Do you mind?”

  “Why would I mind?”

  Yes, why would I?

  I said that I’d be waiting for him and we might do something in the evening. Maybe take Will with us. I tried. I did try.

  I didn’t do much the entire day. I looked at my pages and my sketches but felt like everything was twisted inside of me, my lungs, my stomach. I blamed it on the drugs the doctor gave me, but I knew it wasn’t that. I had started so many things and completed none of them.

  Matt came home after lunch. We had coffee together, watched a movie, and when he said he needed to return to his work, I told him about the book signing.

  “Andrew wrote and then called. He said it would mean so much to him if I went,” I said.

  “You should go.”

  “I told him I couldn’t as I hadn’t made arrangements for it.”

  “But I’m here. I can watch Will. You should go.”

  “I really don’t want to.”

  I tried.

  “Why?”

  “I just don’t.”

  I did try again, but he finally convinced me to go. I didn’t even change. I kept my jeans and sweater from the day on. I wanted to be invisible. Would it be possible to see Nick without being seen? I guess that would be hard, but it was my goal.

  When I arrived Andrew was talking at the microphone. He saw me at the door and waved. He was happy I was there, and he said beautiful things about my work, the article I had written, our meeting, my artistic instinct, our friendship. Did I really help him? I hoped so. I thought I should look for Nick. I knew he was there. When Andrew finished his speech, I turned and saw Nick, standing there, pretending to be interested in something, anything other than us. Pretending, like me.

  Andrew came to say hi.

  “You made it,” he said.

  “I did.”

  “I’m glad you did.”

  “I’m glad too,” I smiled, he hugged me, and over his shoulders I caught Nick looking at me. He was with a woman, but it wasn’t Elinor. The woman was tall, blond, and had big, glittery lips and glittery makeup. She looked like a cheap model, a living Barbie or something. He looked sad. Our eyes met, and he looked down and then back at me. I chatted more with Andrew, and when he excused himself, I was left alone for a while. I thought I should leave, but then Nick came up to me.

  “Hey.”

  “Hi.”

  “You look great.”

  I looked at him but didn’t respond.

  “What happened to your hand?”

  “Nothing interesting.”

  “How are you? How’s Matt?” he asked.

  “He’s doing great.”

  “Andrew said you had a baby.”

  I nodded and looked away. Could I go now?

  “And the writing?”

  I remained silent, and he tried again.

  “I hope you didn’t give up on that.”

  “I . . . didn’t, but it has been hard lately.”

  “Why?”

  There was more silence, and then he said, “I could read what you have if you wanted.”

  “What would you read?”

  “Your book.”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea. And it’s not done yet.”

  “Well, how much of it do you have?”

  “A good chunk. I guess I’m missing the finale.”

  “Oh, that’s the hardest part to write. You don’t want to rush it. It’s good you’re thinking about it. You shouldn’t push it. It’ll come to you. Let me read what you have.”

  Thanks, but I don’t think it would be a good idea. I’d better go now. My husband and my son are waiting for me. That is what I should have said. Instead, I said,

  “OK, I’ll send it to you when I get home.”

  “It’s been a while.”

  Yes, it was, and I was still falling.

  Nick Reads

  When I returned home, Matt wanted to have dinner, but I wasn’t hungry. I told him about the event and that I had seen Nick.

  “Yes, I imagined that could happen,” he said.

  Really? Then why did you insist that I go?

  “How did it feel?” he asked.

  Do you really want to know? I can’t tell you.

  “He wants to read what I wrote.”

  “Your book?”

  “Yes, my book.”

  “I think you should let him.”

  Matt and I hadn’t talked much, but at least we had talked and we had talked about me. I felt grateful for the exchange and for his blessing.

  Here’s my
work.

  * * *

  Susan

  I attached my book and clicked “send.” A few minutes later, Nick had already replied.

  I’ll read.

  * * *

  Nick

  After dinner, as Matt was preparing for bed, I told him I would stay up to read. I needed some privacy, silence, the night. He seemed to understand.

  “Could you take care of Will if he wakes up? I need to be alone tonight,” I said.

  “Will you disappear again?”

  I wasn’t thinking of physically disappearing, of going anywhere, but then I looked for the keys my father gave me and decided to go check out the house. I grew up there with my parents and my grandmother. Then my father met Evelyn and decided to give the house to my grandmother and move to a new place with his new girlfriend. I left the house too when I went to college, returned my set of keys to my father, and never went back.

  I left a note for Matt, telling him I was going to check out my grandmother’s house. We had briefly talked about it before, and I’d told him that I wanted to go, so I thought this would not come as a surprise, at least not a big one. I grabbed a printed copy of my book and left. I am not sure why I took the book with me. Perhaps it was because at times I felt like the book was the most precious thing I had, and I didn’t want to lose it. And even though it was saved on my computer, every time I printed it the story seemed like it was now something that could get lost.

  I wasn’t in the mood for talking, but my taxi driver was. He probably thought it was unusual for a woman to go out alone at night, and he tried to make me feel comfortable. That thought made me laugh. When we reached our destination, I paid the driver and stood in front of the house for a while. There was light on in what used to be my bedroom. I wondered if it was now the caregiver’s room. After a while, I noticed my driver hadn’t left. He was probably updating his rides book or something. I waited for him to leave, as I wanted to be left alone. Instead he backed up, rolled down the window, and asked me if I wanted him to wait.