Frozen Butterflies
Page 23
I went to the door, locked it, and lay on my bed. I decided to leaf through the pages first. Maybe I could find something she had tucked inside. My heart suddenly stopped beating, and I think I felt like dying, as this is what I saw:
Night One
Night Two
Night Three
Night Four
Night Five
Night Six
Night Seven
Dawn One
Dawn Two
Dawn Three
Dawn Four
Dawn Five
Dawn Six
Dawn Seven
Day One
Day Two
Day Three
Day Four
Day Five
Day Six
Day Seven
Thanksgiving
With Marc
Little and Big Lies
A Missing Piece
The Truth about My Mother
The Woman in the Box
A Letter for Christmas
A Letter to Look Forward To
I Came to Say Good-Night
Someone Wins. We Lose
Falling
You Left Your Door Open
Summertime Makes Sense
Haunted
Addictions
Again and Again
I had not seen that diary in decades. What I had written was my own story. I knew it was. My hands started shaking. Was I losing my mind? Is that what was happening? My last spark of sanity or insanity suggested that it might be just a coincidence, a miracle, or a damnation. I started reading and I realized it was more the second than the first.
The pages described my mother’s insomnia; the boredom; her meeting with Marc, a man she had an affair with while she was married to my father; her time with Marc stolen from her marriage and me; the story of her mother, my grandmother, apparently suffering from the same mental issues my mother had; the letters she exchanged with Marc; the time Marc came to the house to see her; the time she slashed her veins. I felt so sick to my stomach that I threw up. Our stories were not identical, but they were too similar. Each a distorted version of the other. The time she went to his place and watched Marc sleep, her obsession with “Summertime,” her ghosts and her nightmares, the drugs she used, her affair, and his breaking up with her. Broken. When I finished reading her diary, I let it fall on the floor and went to the mirror to stare at myself. The mirror was broken, and I now saw myself more clearly. I was broken.
The Drawing Is Yours
When I had recovered a little bit of balance, I placed the diary in my purse and left. My grandmother was still sleeping, and I was glad of that. I returned to my apartment and called Matt. I told him I might have a temperature. Lie. That I had been throwing up all night. True. And that I didn’t want Will to catch it. Somehow true, as I started wondering whether it might be bad for Will to be close to me before I took care of whatever was wrong with me. Matt didn’t believe me and asked if I’d been drinking. I said I hadn’t, but I also said that he might have been right about some other things. He didn’t ask more, but said, “I hope you’ll be home soon.”
“I hope that too. I miss you and Will. I really do.”
I hung up and cried. I let myself fall onto my bed, took some sleeping pills Nick had left on my desk, and shut my mind down. When I woke up it was dark. Nick was sitting close to me, reading a book.
“Good morning, or should I say good-night, my dear . . . sleeping beauty.”
“What time is it?”
“It’s after nine . . . p.m.”
“Your pills,” I said, and yawned.
He smiled.
“You’re welcome. I know. I like them too,” he said, and kissed me. He started undressing me. He wanted to make love, but I didn’t.
“Sorry, Nick, I don’t feel like it.”
“What’s wrong?”
I’m not sure this is real. I might have created you, I might have created this, and you believed it. I feel sick, I might be. I need to see a doctor, look into this more closely. I might need to be alone for a while. That is what I should have said.
“I think I might have a flu or something,” I said instead.
“Oh, I’m sorry, babe.” He kissed my forehead and got up to make some tea. Soon he came back with the tea and sat close to me. I was still in bed. He asked me about my day, and I told him I had been at my grandmother’s place the night before looking for some fresh air, as the apartment had become too warm.
“It won’t be the same tonight. The temperature’s dropping, and it might rain.”
I didn’t feel relieved.
“I ran into Andrew today. He asked about you.”
“Oh. How is he?” I faked my interest to distract him from me. Nick knew me well, and lying to him wasn’t easy.
“I think he’s doing fine. He was worried about you. He said you guys had not seen each other since the signing event. I told him you’re almost done with the book and he said he owes you a drawing.”
“Oh, right. The drawing.”
The woman in the box. I thought about my mother, her diary, and that heading in her diary.
“He said he’ll give you the drawing when you’re done with the book. And he invited us for a drink tonight. He has some new drawings and paintings he’d like to show us. He’ll have some guests over for dinner. I texted him earlier while you were sleeping, and he said we could join them at any time. Would you like to go?”
“Tonight?”
“Yes. I think it’d be good for you to get out of here. You’ve been here for too long. I’m worried about you.”
I thought about my discovery and felt worried too. He might be right. Leaving the apartment and meeting with Andrew that night could be good and, perhaps, even necessary. I took a shower, and we left.
“Did you tell Andrew about us?” I asked Nick when we were in the taxi heading to Andrew’s place.
“No, why would I? There’s no need to tell people about us. You said you want to resolve your situation with Matt, and there’s Will, so . . .” He looked at me as though he found my question strange. And indeed it wasn’t the type of question I would have asked before. I was trying to make some distance between us. He now seemed too much a part of the insanity I wanted to shed.
“Right, there is no need to tell people,” I said, and moved away when he tried to kiss me, faking a cough.
“This might make you feel better,” he then said. He pulled his phone from his bag and handed me the earphones. “I know you like ‘Summertime’ so much. I heard this on the radio today, and thought you would like it.”
I put the earphones on and raised the volume. It was Janis Joplin’s version of that song. It lifted me up and threw me to the ground. I pulled down the window of the car, let the warm air hit my forehead, closed my eyes, and listened to the song again and again until we arrived at Andrew’s place.
“Aren’t you tired of it?” Nick asked when I returned his earphones. “I thought you might like it but you listened to it, what? Five times? Six in a row? It’s insane.”
“Right,” I said.
We went up the stairs. The door was open. Andrew was talking to some friends and showing them some of his latest works. As soon as he saw us, he came to the door and hugged both of us.
“Susan, you’re disappearing. Is it the book that’s doing that to you?”
“Maybe. Yes. The book.”
“I know you don’t like this question, but I can’t help it. When do you think you’ll be done with it?”
“Tomorrow morning,” I said. “In fact, I have to go now. I’ll bring the book to you tomorrow morning.”
“Are you serious? I can’t wait to read it.”
“Yes, me too,” I said.
“Well, in that case . . .” He walked to another room and returned with my drawing.
“The drawing is yours,” he said. “I promised it to her,” he added, looking at Nick.
“Oh, I can see why. Did you pose for him?”
“Thanks, Andrew.”
“I have to go now,” I added, and looked at Nick.
“Where should we go?”
“I have to go. I have to go to my grandmother’s place and finish the book. You’ll both have it tomorrow.”
He looked at me, surprised.
“Are you sure you’re OK?” he asked.
“I will be.”
I kissed Nick on his cheek, hugged Andrew, and left.
An Unfinished Story
I called a taxi and went to my grandmother’s place. It was after eleven. I looked up and saw the light in my bedroom was off. I used the key to open the gate, I pushed the door, and ran to her bedroom. She was reading.
“You found the diary, didn’t you?”
“You put it there.”
“I thought you had to know.”
“Why didn’t you tell me when I read the first part of my story to you?”
“You had to write it.”
I looked at her and couldn’t restrain my tears.
“You did, right? You’re done?” she asked.
“You tell me.”
“Why don’t you read it to me? You promised.”
I was shaking, but I sat and started reading from where I had left off. At sunrise, we were done.
“So is your story finished?”
No, it wasn’t. Matt would have said that I had not even started. But the fiction was done. At least, I hoped so.
I wrote the last line of the book; chose its title, Frozen Butterflies; printed it; and brought a copy to Andrew and one to Nick.
On Andrew’s copy, I wrote:
Thanks for seeing me.
* * *
I left a copy of your father’s essay inside the book.
* * *
I think the questions on the margins are yours.
* * *
Your father answered.
* * *
Susan
On Nick’s copy, I wrote:
Nick,
* * *
Here’s the book.
* * *
I wish this hadn’t been a fiction.
* * *
I’ll have to take care of myself now.
* * *
Maybe when I’m back
* * *
I’ll meet you in real life.
* * *
Susan
THE END
A Gift To My Readers
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Thanks from my heart,
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simona
About the Author
Simona Grossi was born and raised in a small town in Italy, surrounded by books and music. She studied piano at the Conservatory and then attended law school and joined a prestigious law firm in Italy. After litigating for several years, she moved to the U.S. and joined academia. In addition to her addictions to her husband and to writing, she is addicted to piano and is currently graduating in classical piano from a Conservatory in Italy. She also loves cooking, traveling, and spending time with her friends. Simona has published two novels: Looking for Clara and Frozen Butterflies. Both have received stellar reviews on Amazon and Goodreads.
Also by Simona Grossi
Looking for Clara: A Novel
Her life has become a single, low note. Will an Italian escape strike a joyful chord in her soul?
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Clara Smith seems out of tune, drifting through one empty day after another. Alone in LA for Christmas and uncertain about her new boyfriend, the pianist-turned-lawyer feels as fake as the snow. But when her firm dispatches her to Siena, Italy to lead a major project, the rhythm of the daily grind gloriously changes tempo.
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Bonding with her charismatic eighty-year-old neighbor over his large collection of photographs, she uncovers a picture of a mysterious woman. And a breathtaking cross-country adventure, in search of the framed beauty who shares her name gives voice to Clara’s long-silenced passions.
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Can a melodious tour through vineyards and sun-drenched landscapes restore her sense of harmony?
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Looking for Clara is a heartfelt journey into women’s fiction. If you like deeply drawn characters, vivid settings, and romantic secrets, then you’ll love Simona Grossi’s life-affirming novel.
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Buy Looking for Clara to listen to your heart today! Click here to purchase your copy: https://books2read.com/u/bxvB9d
Acknowledgments
I am indebted to many people for this book. First, my best friend, mentor, and editor, Allan Ides, for holding my hand as I was going through some tough times, doubts, and moments of despair in the creation of Frozen Butterflies. He read more than an infinite number of versions, each time with the love and dedication that only someone who truly loves you and cares about you would do. Without his guidance and editing, Frozen Butterflies would not be what it is. I want to also thank my husband, and the love of my life, Aaron, for being by my side as I’d spent hours writing, reviewing, and rewriting, for respecting my need to isolate myself as I was going through this literary journey, for loving me unconditionally no matter what. And there are so many friends I need to thank for reading my stories, for giving me precious suggestions, for supporting me, for believing in me. I will be forever grateful for their love and support. And thank-you my Reader! I hope this story enriched you as it enriched me, I hope it made you feel as deeply as I felt, and I hope it offered different angles and perspectives to realities and stories that are sometimes hard to comprehend. Frozen Butterflies was inspired by Federico Fellini’s work and by my desire to go deeper into myself and decipher parts of me and of some people close to me that I sometimes struggle to understand. It was inspired by my belief that dreams are part of reality and that we can shape reality, sometimes without even realizing we are doing so. I wanted to create musical and figurative paintings and show the beauty in the darkest corners of our lives, like in Susan’s, Nick’s, Andrew’s, Harry’s. Those people are not perfect, but despite their flaws, and what might otherwise seem unreal, I think they are real and beautiful. Thank you for
reading. From my heart.