Frozen Butterflies

by Simona Grossi

  “No, thanks. This is home,” I said, and when I said it, it hurt.

  When the driver disappeared into the alley, I opened the gate, and entered. The sprinklers started to fire water all over, but I didn’t move, perhaps waiting for the rain to push me in or out. But someone opened the door, making the decision for me.

  “Who’s there?” A voice dimmed by the night or the years asked. I saw my grandmother.

  “Grandma, it’s Susan.”

  “Susan? Is it really you?”

  She turned on the light and came closer to make sure it was me. She hugged me and caressed my hair as she used to do when I was younger. That usually calmed me down, and it worked again. Yes, this was home. She was much older, maybe approaching her nineties. I hadn’t seen her in so many years. Twelve or fifteen. I didn’t recall. But her posture and demeanor hadn’t changed a bit. And while I didn’t have bad feelings for her, she reminded me of my past. And so I had long avoided her to feel better.

  “Come in, sweetie, I’ll make you some tea.”

  That’s what she used to call me. She was the only one who ever did so. I wasn’t a sweetie. I really wasn’t. But when she called me sweetie, I tried to become one for her. And sometimes I succeeded, but I didn’t want anyone else to see that happen.

  The caregiver came to check on us, and my grandmother said we were fine. She proudly introduced me to her as her granddaughter, “the brain of the family,” and listed my accomplishments so precisely that I don’t think I could have done a better job myself. In fact, I had forgotten some of what she said. That made me sad. Not that I had forgotten, but that she hadn’t.

  She tried to pour the tea into my cup, but her hands were shaking so much she could barely hold the teapot. I placed my hand on hers and silently asked her to let me take care of it. She moved to make some room for me then lay her cane against the couch and held on to me while she lowered herself into her seat.

  As she was watching me pour the tea, she noticed my bandage.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “I cut myself. Nothing serious.”

  “Hmm . . .,” she said, and smiled.

  I didn’t understand the meaning of that smile. Shouldn’t she look sad? Worried? Ask more questions? Why was she smiling?

  “I’m sorry I woke you up,” I said, to silence my questions and make sure she wouldn’t hear them. “I didn’t intend to. I came here just to check on the house. I know, it’s stupid. I thought I would come over tomorrow or maybe another day. To see you. At a better time.”

  “I’m glad you woke me up. I was waiting for your visit.”

  “Were you?”

  “Yes, of course. I knew you needed your time, though, so I didn’t want to push.”

  Yes, she never did. She always respected me, my silences, and my nonsenses, even when I myself would not have. And I remembered she would get mad at my dad when he pushed me to do anything I didn’t want to do, as if I knew better than he or anyone else what was good for me. At times I felt she was trying to be a better mother for me, better than the one she had been for her daughter, as if she had been offered a second chance with me, the daughter of her daughter. Unfortunately, so many years had passed since the last time I had seen her. During the years of absence, and even before that, I felt like I didn’t have a mother, either the original or a replacement. And yet, even though I wasn’t responsible for the first loss, I was responsible for the second.

  “Dad gave me your note.”

  She kept her eyes on mine.

  “I was happy to get it. He actually gave it to me last night.”

  She sipped her tea.

  “I’m writing a book.”

  “On your subject?” she asked. “Psychology?”

  “No, it’s a story,” I said, and pulled the pages from my satchel. I was waiting for her to ask me what kind of story it was, and whether it was real or fiction, but she didn’t. Sometimes I felt she knew more than one could expect, than I would expect. Or perhaps she just knew how to pick her questions better than anyone else. Hers was a careful selection, somehow resembling a graphic novel, one filled with drawings and events, but very few words. Like her, I also thought sometimes words didn’t matter as much. I wanted to tell her that, but I didn’t. She looked at the stack of paper that I introduced as “my book” and seemed impressed by its volume. I explained that I had written at least five times as much but had eventually deleted what I thought wasn’t good enough.

  “You have so much in your head, so many stories,” she said. “I’m not surprised.” She smiled and looked at me, into me. Then she immersed herself in drinking her tea again, before she added, “I always wanted to write a novel. I guess it takes courage to do so. I think I would have been tempted to tell my own story, but then I would have been naked in front of everyone else. You are braver than me. You’re like your mother. I wish she had used her courage differently . . .”

  “This story is not about me, Grandma,” I said.

  She rose, went to the kitchen to grab some cookies, and came back.

  “Will you read it to me?”

  “My novel?”

  “Yes. I can’t read anymore, and I usually ask Eva to read, but this is your story. I wouldn’t want anyone else but you to read it to me.”

  “It might take a whole day.”

  “Or maybe one night.”

  “We would both fall asleep, Grandma.”

  She smiled and asked me to start. And so I did.

  I read for hours, checking on her from time to time, bringing her more tea and more cookies. She never interrupted me or asked questions. When I asked her if she wanted me to stop, she just said “Continue,” with a firm tone. From time to time I would see her eyes half-closed. But I knew she was still following the story, because she smiled, and moved her fingers on the couch as if she were listening to music.

  “It’s like a symphony,” she said when I completed a chapter. “Your writing is. It awakens your senses, overwhelms them. Continue.”

  And so I did. I read and read, and then I got to “Falling.”

  When I was done reading that chapter, she started crying and pulled my hand to her knees, and I held it in hers. I watched her cry, but I was relieved. I had shared my story with someone I cared for, and she liked it. I wasn’t alone with it anymore. I wasn’t the only one who knew it.

  “Thank you for listening to my story,” I said, when I was finally done.

  “The story is not finished yet. I will look forward to the rest.”

  She rose and asked me to follow her. The sun had not yet risen, but I said I would have to return home soon.

  She took me to my bedroom. The light I had seen from outside was still on, but there was nobody in the room.

  “I thought the caregiver was sleeping in my room now.”

  “Why?”

  “I saw the light when I came, and so . . .”

  “I leave the light on every night. I’ve done so since you left. The light’s my prayer for you.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t come visit you all these years, Grandma.”

  “It wasn’t the right time. I knew you would one day, and I never stopped waiting. Things come to you if you don’t give up on them. Eventually they do. Sometimes it’s just bad timing. But then the time is right.”

  We lay on my bed, holding each other. And when it was six, I said I had to go and walked to the door. We passed by what used to be my mother’s bedroom, and for a second I thought I saw her at the door. I rubbed my eyes, kissed my grandmother, and left.

  When I returned home, the note for Matt was precisely where I had left it. He hadn’t seen it. He didn’t even know I had been gone. The apartment was silent. They must be sleeping, I thought, and they both were, peacefully. I trashed the note, put on my pajamas, and got quietly into bed.

  “How did you sleep?” Matt asked, after what seemed to be too little time had passed. “Did Will wake up last night?”

  Did he? How would I know?
>
  Before I tried to respond to his question, Will called, and I went to his room. He was smiling and playing with the little colorful animals hanging over his head. Will had slept tight, he hadn’t woken Matt up, and now it was almost eight. Matt rushed to the shower and then to the door. He kissed me and quickly disappeared. I stayed in my pajamas all morning, playing with Will and his toys on our bed and occasionally revisiting the night with my grandmother. I decided she should see Will, so in the afternoon I took Will with me over to her place.

  When Will saw my grandmother, he opened his eyes wide and started laughing with excitement. Once we were all seated, I placed him in her arms, and she looked at peace. She started lullabying him, moving her arms, following who knows what idea or vision. Will seemed almost hypnotized.

  I rose to use the bathroom, but instead I went to my mother’s room. I entered, closed the door, and sat on her bed. Everything was as I remembered. The heavy, dark wood of the bed frame. The white bedsheet. The white curtains. I could still see them slightly moving with the wind. The blinds half-down. The little craft trinkets she used to collect all over the place. The photos on the nightstand. There were photos of her at her wedding, photos of her with me. I hadn’t looked at photos of my mother in so many years. I held one of those photos in my hands and studied it. Did her eyes, expression, lips reveal her disease? And what was it really? Was there a label for it? One that could capture what she had and who she had been? I looked more deeply into that photo. She was beautiful, but a flash of madness seemed to cross her eyes. She didn’t seem trapped like the woman in Andrew’s drawing, but she looked alone. I had the feeling she had fully embraced herself, her madness, and that had isolated her from the rest of the world. The other people in one of the photos seemed complete strangers to her. And yet I could recognize an uncle and an aunt, their sons, some family friends. I looked closer and noticed my mother had my hair, my way of smiling, my eyes. And the more I looked at her, the more I saw myself in her. Was I sick too? My hands began shaking and let the photo fall to the floor. The glass broke. I bent to pick up the glass and my other hand started bleeding from the tiny, little cuts I now had all over, none of which were intentional. Were they? I went to the bathroom, washed and cleaned the cuts as well as I could, and returned downstairs.

  “I broke this, I’m sorry,” I told my grandmother, and handed her the photo in the frame, now without glass.

  “It’s OK, sweetie. It’s not a big deal, Eva will fix it.”

  “Grandma? Did my mother ever cut herself with glass?”

  She examined me, and then looked at my bandaged hand.

  “Did you?” she asked.

  “No,” I said, waiting for her to tell me the truth while I had just lied. But she didn’t answer my question, so I broke the silence.

  “We should go now,” I said, and pulled Will from her arms. He started crying.

  “Of course,” she said.

  I called a taxi and left.

  As Nick was reading, I was getting ready to write again.

  You Left Your Door Open

  Susan,

  * * *

  I’m speechless. Your story is overwhelming, sublime. It makes it hard to breathe. It’s chewing my insides. Maybe we could talk about it over coffee.

  * * *

  Nick

  I took Will to my father’s and went for a run, with one hand bandaged, the other cut. I looked for silence. The streets were crowded and there was noise everywhere, but I didn’t hear it. I was alone. I needed to think. As I was running, I saw Nick entering a bar. I followed him. He sat at the counter and ordered a drink. I checked the time. It was eleven in the morning. The bar was deserted and almost completely dark. He was the only customer. The bartender served him a glass, then another, and another. He was making notes on a stack of papers. It must be an article he’s editing, I thought. Maybe something he wrote. He used to do that. Obsess about his writing, edit and re-edit everything he wrote. Sometimes he seemed lost in it. I sat far from him and ordered a Coke. I was wearing my jogging suit. The bartender looked at me trying to figure out what I was doing there, but he didn’t dare ask. I watched Nick drink another glass, and then another. Then after an hour or so, he paid, and left. He hadn’t seen me. I left too, and I followed him. He wasn’t walking straight, but somehow he made it to what I thought should be his place. He rang the elevator and went upstairs. I followed him. I don’t know if I wanted to check whether he was OK. In fact, I wasn’t event thinking. When I finally resolved to knock on his door, I realized that it was open. I pushed it slowly and entered.

  His apartment was a mess of books and papers spread all over. It looked like his place in LA, but older and dirtier. I looked for his bedroom and found him lying there, already asleep, the box of zolpidem on his nightstand, close to an empty glass that still smelled of alcohol. I walked around the apartment searching for who knows what. And then, on the coffee table, I saw a stack of papers, perhaps the ones he had been working on at the bar. I took it in my hands and realized that it was my book. I leafed through the pages. His handwritten notes were all over it. He had added sentences here and there, erased words, replaced others. And he had written tons of questions for me. His notes seemed pressed against the paper as were the notes and comments I had found in Henry Pratt’s essay. Was he the author of those notes as well? I sat on the sofa, ran my fingers through his comments, and read.

  By three p.m., I was almost done reading. Nick was still sleeping, and I didn’t want to wake him up. I pulled a blanket over him to protect his dreams from his mind. He looked so fragile, like someone who had been beaten down by life, his face covered by scars I could see more clearly now that he wasn’t trying to hide them. I looked at the room. The light reminded me of Nick’s apartment in LA, the first time we made love. I turned the last page and read his last question for me.

  Can I help?

  Just below it, I wrote:

  You did. You left your door open and I came.

  I closed my eyes to retain everything I had read, the close-up of him I had taken in my head, and left.

  “Summertime” Makes Sense

  And then June came. I hadn’t seen Nick since that time at the bar, and he had not looked for me. I was writing again, sometimes at home, sometimes in my apartment, sometimes at my grandmother’s place. I would go to her place after dinner, and sometimes I’d spend the night there. We had tea, looked at some old photos, and when she went to bed and left me alone with my thoughts, I would start writing in what used to be my room.

  One night, after spending the evening with my grandmother, I went to my room to write. I opened the window wide. The night had its own sound, and it became louder and louder as I silenced my own noise. As I was playing with ideas to work into my story, my phone buzzed.

  I’m here.

  I checked the sender. It was Nick.

  Here where?

  I looked outside and saw Nick standing in front of the gate.

  I called him.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “You think you’re the only one who can stalk people?”

  “That was an accident.”

  “Coming to my place and reading my notes was an accident? Whatever. I didn’t find you by accident tonight.”

  “Really? Then why are you here?”

  “To talk.”

  “Talk?”

  “Yes. We should talk about your novel.”

  There was some silence, and then he continued.

  “You read my questions, didn’t you?”

  I didn’t respond. He insisted.

  “Did you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you thought about them?”

  “I don’t get this, Nick. What do you want?”

  “I want to help.”

  “How would you help?”

  He was silent for a moment. “It’s so interesting you ask that. You remember when I asked you that exact same question? You wanted to help me write my piece
the night of our first date. You said you wanted to help me. Do you remember what I said?”

  “You said, ‘How would you help?’”

  “Right. And what happened next?”

  There was more silence, and then I agreed to come down. I looked at the lamp on my desk and was about to turn it off, but then I backed off and left it on. I still needed that prayer.

  “I brought you a copy of my notes,” he said when he saw me. “I thought you should have them.”

  “I don’t need them. I remember your comments.”

  “What did you think of them?”

  “I liked them. I thought you were right. Most of the time.”

  He smiled.

  “Would you like to go for a walk?”

  “Here?”

  “Yes, I think it’d be nice. It’s summer. I can feel it tonight. Do you?”

  Yes, I did, and I agreed to walk with him.

  “How’s the writing going?” he asked.

  “I have moments of inspiration, followed by despair. Then more inspiration.”

  “This is how it’s supposed to be.” He smiled, took my hand, and dragged me into an alley. “I want you to see this.”

  That alley was magic. The houses looked like old castles, and there were autumn leaves on the lawns surrounding them.

  “Autumn in June,” I said, and looked for an explanation, something that made sense.

  “I’ve got no idea. A charming nonsense.” He had read my mind.

  We both looked at each other, and I thought that the song “Summertime” now made sense. We continued to walk.

  “Do you still have trouble sleeping?” he then asked.

  “No. But I have nightmares at times.”

  “What are they about?”

  “Death. One way or another. They never wake me up, but I always remember them when I open my eyes, and some of them stay with me for days.”