“Five years. But it all came down to kids. I wanted them, and she didn’t. We separated six months ago. The divorce was final last Friday.”
I connected the dots. “Is that why you went out for pizza on Monday?”
“It was my divorce party.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me that?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t want you to judge me.”
I shook my head in protestation. “But it’s none of my business,” I repeated. “I’m just one of your employees. I mean, I’m nobody.”
He stood then but looked weakened, as if I’d just delivered the final blow of a fight.
“But you’re not,” he said. “You’re not nobody to me.”
He neared me then at the door. I took another step back, my defenses heightened. But he only held out his hand. “I believe we were about to shake on that agreement?”
I let out a breath and nodded, offering my best, most professional handshake.
The movement released an auburn curl from behind my ear, and Craig reflexively tucked it back into place. And that’s when I began to wonder whether I was destined to repeat my past mistakes.
Because, despite all the reasons not to, I let him.
Chapter 8
One Year Earlier
Come Sunday morning, I wanted to go home.
And by home, I meant Tarble. Wisconsin. The Midwest. I wanted to go where memories of my father had been suppressed, where my guilt had been tamed, where I had felt sane. I hoped what happened in New Orleans—seeing Virginia Woolf in the courtyard and Charlotte Perkins Gilman in the cemetery, not to mention misplacing my thesis notes—was due to a temporary state of stress, provoked by mere proximity to the city. When I left New Orleans, my mental clarity would be reinstated.
And it was, at least at first. In the weeks following our trip, I drowned myself in research, trying to make up for losing my notes—I never did find them—and read much more than necessary or required: two biographies on Woolf and Gilman each, one on Sylvia Plath, articles on Anne Sexton and Sarah Kane, and three psychology texts on female depression and suicide. To those who noticed and subsequently questioned my compulsion—mainly Heidi, and sometimes my mom, when I went home or she came to visit—I explained the importance of these books to the success of my thesis, all the while avoiding their gaze. The only person who could tear me away from my work was Mark. But I spent most of our time together talking about Woolf and Gilman and Plath; too much, it seemed.
“Ruby, I’m starting to feel like a polygamist,” Mark said one November night, after we’d finished making love at his cabin.
“Why? Because you haven’t divorced Meryl yet?”
He shook his head so solemnly, I wondered if he ever intended on leaving her. Whenever I’d asked about divorce he always said, these things take time.
“Because when I’m with you, we’re not alone,” he said, pulling himself to a seated position, a pillow between his back and the wall. “Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath always tag along. It’s getting a little crowded for my tastes. I’m a one-woman man.”
I questioned his choice of words. He was still married to Meryl, after all.
“You know what I mean,” he added.
It was true; I was obsessed. I couldn’t keep Virginia Woolf and the others off my mind, even at night. As soon as my head hit the pillow, as soon as I closed my eyes, I saw Woolf draft her suicide letter in drippy ink before loading stones into her pockets; I saw Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s fragile white hands administer a lethal dose of chloroform; I saw Sylvia Plath wetting dish towels in the kitchen sink, wringing them out, placing them under the door jambs so the gas from the oven would not seep into the rest of her house, where her two children slept. Just like the nightmares about my father, these visions prompted me to swallow a sleeping pill before bed each night. But I never stopped working on my thesis. Because reading, taking notes, constructing theories, and supporting those theories with concrete information from concrete materials made me feel rational. It made me feel sane. And if I stopped my mind from this cerebral process, I worried I’d see another dead woman writer in time. The irony did not escape me. In order to keep myself from going crazy, I had to study women of questionable sanity.
“I’m sorry,” I told Mark. “I’m almost done. You’ll have me all to yourself soon.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I love your dedication. It’s every teacher’s dream to have a student so fixated on research. And I’m not asking you to slow down your efforts. Actually, I was thinking we should take a break, just until your thesis is complete.”
“A break?” My voice cracked.
“Not break. Wrong word. I just meant you should put your thesis first, and let me come second. Just for now, just until you finish.”
I sat up then and pulled the sheets up tighter over my bare breasts, suddenly feeling vulnerable and exposed.
“Why do I have to put one before the other?” I asked. “I can do both—work on my thesis and spend time with you.”
“I know you can. But you’ve been . . . I just want you to know I understand if you can’t see me much the next couple of weeks. My feelings won’t be hurt. In fact, I have a lot of research to do too, before all your papers come in and I’m knee-deep in grading.”
“Research? For what?”
“A paper for a literary journal. When the tenure committee reviews me next semester, I have to look prolific. Sadly, it’s all about quantity not quality.”
“What’s your paper about?”
He cringed. “I’d rather not say, until it’s completed. It’s a creativity thing. Talking about it somehow negates it. You understand. I guess I’m superstitious.”
I didn’t think Mark believed in superstition.
“Okay,” I auto-replied, and then: “Why do I get the feeling that something’s changed? Between us? All of a sudden?”
“Nothing has changed.” He kissed me then, quick and hard and dry, his lips barely moving. “This is just a stressful time of year, as we near the end of the semester. It always is. But we’re grown-ups, right? We understand that sometimes work has to come first. That doesn’t change how we feel about each other. Actually, it strengthens our relationship.”
I nodded, even though my head and my heart were still trying to make sense of the conversation. “So we’re okay?” I asked.
“Absolutely.” He patted my shoulder, the way you pat someone’s back during a hug, a gesture that always seemed reserved for acquaintances, not friends. “But I should drive you back soon. It’s almost midnight.”
I swallowed a lump of disappointment. “I thought I was going to stay.”
“Did you?” He stood to slide on his jeans. “It’s just that I have an early meeting tomorrow morning. And to be honest, I haven’t been sleeping well.” He pulled his T-shirt on, then ran a hand over his hair to smooth it. “But you can stay. I mean, if you really want to.”
“No, I’ll go.” I stood but covered my body with the sheet until I found my crumpled clothes on the floor. “I need a good night’s sleep too.”
“See? You get it. Sometimes you need to take care of yourself first, so you can be your best for others, right?”
I nodded hesitantly.
“Right,” he repeated, checking the time as he fastened his watch. “Now, let’s get you back to campus.”
I didn’t see Mark much the next few weeks; well, I saw him, but only during senior seminar, to which he always arrived late or let us out early. A few days, he even canceled class, saying we could work on our papers instead. While in class, I tried to get his attention—catch his gaze, share a smile—but he never looked at me. I wanted to believe he was stressed-out from his research and end-of-semester grading. But he showed no signs of anxiety. In fact, he seemed abundantly happy and carefree, with a spring in his step, a glint in his eye.
Since I had no interactions with Mark, my thesis became my one and only concern, and I continued to read, research, write, and revise w
ithout abandon, even staying up all night. I submitted my paper early, hoping Mark would see me then, if he knew my work was complete, and I was free and clear of academic obligations. But nothing changed after I turned my thesis in. Actually, it got worse. He flat out ignored me in class, calling on another student when I raised my hand, pretending not to hear me when I called after him in the hallway. When I finally cornered him one afternoon in the faculty parking lot, he apologized, and told me to hold on just a little bit longer. Once the semester was over, things would change, he said.
On the day we were to receive our thesis grades, my mother called in the morning with surprise news: she was flying us to Paris for winter break. We’d leave in two days and be there for two weeks, for Christmas and New Year’s. It was not only my Christmas gift, she said, but also a congratulatory vacation for working so diligently on my thesis all semester.
“I don’t know how I did yet,” I said.
“You always get an A,” she teased.
I knew the trip was more than a holiday gift, more than a reward for studying hard. It was an escape—from a Christmas without Dad. We were quickly approaching the one-year anniversary of his death; that was evident everywhere, from the strands of red and green lights lining dorm room windows to the holiday songs blaring inside the local Piggly Wiggly grocery store. If we went to Paris, thousands of miles away, Christmas wouldn’t hurt as much. At least, that was the idea.
I’d never been to Paris, and though I’d always wanted to go, I also didn’t want to leave Mark. With the papers finally graded, the semester officially over, I hoped time would once again be ours, and I wanted to make up for what we’d lost. But I couldn’t say no to my mother, so I reluctantly started packing for two whole weeks without him. If I packed that morning, I rationalized, I’d have more time to spend with Mark that night. Problem was, I didn’t have a big enough suitcase. Fortunately, Beth Richards, who lived a few doors down, gladly handed over her paisley print luggage, in which she normally stored extra blankets for chilly Wisconsin nights. I filled it to the brim that morning, even writing my name on the luggage tag, so there would be nothing to do later, so there would be nothing to pry my attention away from Mark, now that the semester was over, now that we could finally be together.
Heidi walked in while I was folding clothes.
“What are you doing?” she asked, hands on her hips. “Are you moving out?”
“Moving out? Why would I be moving out?”
“Then what are you doing?” she asked again.
“Packing. My mom is taking me to Paris.”
“You’re joking.”
“Why would I be joking?”
“I can’t believe your mom doesn’t—” she started but stopped. “Ruby, what’s going on with you?” she asked matter-of-factly.
“What do you mean?”
She drew her head back and flitted her eyelids. “Do you know you left our door wide open yesterday?”
“Did I? Sorry.” I walked behind my dresser, where I’d hid from her in the past.
She followed. “I know the anniversary of your father’s death is coming up. I think you’re depressed.”
The thought had crossed my mind too. “You’re crazy.”
“I’m crazy? I’m not the one who tore up the room last week looking for my keys, which ended up being in my pocket. I’m not the one collecting rocks on the windowsill.”
The rocks. Ever since I submitted my thesis, I’d started taking long walks on the beach. And every time, I found a smooth, skipping stone I liked. I kept them on the windowsill next to my bed. I liked rubbing their cool, hard, even exterior.
“Let me help you,” Heidi said, sweetly. “Talk to me.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Really? What about your desk?” She gestured to the books upon books, the Internet articles, the notes covering every available inch of my desktop. “That’s hoarding.”
“That’s research,” I argued.
“For a paper you already wrote, already turned in. What is it still doing there?”
I didn’t answer.
“Fine, you don’t want to talk about the desk. Have you seen yourself lately?”
I stole a look in the mirror. Dark circles rimmed my eyes. My hair shined, but not in that healthy just-out-of-the-salon way. It was oil buildup—I hadn’t washed it in five days. My skin seemed a shade lighter than usual. I’d eaten Skittles for lunch three days in a row.
“I haven’t slept much lately, that’s all,” I told Heidi. “Everyone looks like shit lately. It’s that time of year. Those of us who have real majors had actual papers to turn in.”
Heidi, a public relations major, didn’t react to my insult. “Had papers to turn in. Had. You said it yourself. Past tense, Ruby.” She stared at me. “Do you need help? Are you crying out for help?”
“I’m not crying.” To prove the point, I dramatically pulled at the skin below my eyes to show they were dry inside.
I looked into Heidi’s brown eyes and saw her love for me, the depth of her care, what was missing from Mark’s eyes of late, no matter how long I looked, no matter how often. Had he noticed the same changes, the same behaviors in me? Was that why he didn’t want to look at me? See me? Did he think I’d let myself go?
“Why are you so angry?” I charged. “What do you care if I wash my hair?”
“Because I’m your best friend.” She grabbed my arm. “Or I guess I was your best friend. Before you started hanging out instead with Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath.”
“You’re a bitch,” I said.
Heidi shook her head, her eyes brimming with tears. She released her grip. “I’m moving into the quad with Rachel and Joy and Amanda,” she said. “I’ll take my stuff this afternoon when you’re at class. I’m sleeping there tonight.”
“Fine,” I said.
“They’ll assign you a new roommate next semester,” she added.
I’ll pay extra for a single, I thought. Without a roommate, Mark could call me anytime.
“Whatever,” I said.
“Whatever,” she repeated, before slamming the door.
That afternoon Mark returned our papers, facedown on each of our desks. And then he abruptly ended class, claiming the English department was hiring a new professor for the coming school year and he had to sit in on interviews. I wondered if that was true, or if he was simply afraid of confrontation, afraid I was going to be angry with him.
He’d given me a D, after all.
I should have been angry, hot-cheeked and fuming, but I wasn’t. Instead, I walked back to my room in a daze, disoriented by the bold dismissive consonant Mark had written on the front of my thesis. The grade felt less like an appraisal of my work and more like a punishment, a cold slap on the hand. The fury would come later, once the initial sting wore off. But first, I felt something worse than rage. I felt unworthy of his love.
I prepared to call Mark on his cell phone as soon as I got in. But he’d already left a message on my machine, something he never did, for fear Heidi would hear.
“Ruby, it’s me,” Mark said in his message after an initial pause. “We can’t see each other. Not anymore.” His voice was higher pitched than usual. “It’s the best thing. For you. Right now. You need . . . I’m a distraction, aren’t I? You have graduate school ahead of you. And I’m an anchor weighing you down. So it’s over. It has to be over. I’m working things out with my wife. She’s coming here for Christmas. It’s the right thing to do.”
I felt as if a string had been looped around my throat, then tied through the very holes of my nostrils. It stung. I stood there unable to move but unable to cry, and I listened to the message again, hoping I’d heard wrong, hoping I’d misunderstood. But the conclusion was the same: he’d broken up with me.
But why did he do it? I thought. Not because he didn’t love me. And not because he loved Meryl. But because it was the right thing to do and he was an anchor weighing me down. He was more concerne
d about my future—my studies, my getting into graduate school—than he was about his own feelings, what he wanted. He wasn’t being selfish; he was being selfless.
Or had he fallen out of love with me? I wondered. I noted the growing distance in his eyes, his voice devoid of its once earnest tone. And in his message, how he said, “You need . . .” What did he think I needed? Professional help? Had I somehow driven him further away these past few weeks? Because I was paranoid and anxious from his lack of attention?
I can’t let him put me first, I resolved as I prepared to drive to his cabin. He would be flattered by the gesture, my determination to talk to him in person. At home, off campus, he would not be able to deny his love for me.
I would break him.
I parked my car down the gravel road, so he wouldn’t hear the engine when I pulled in, and went by foot to his cabin, stuffing my hands into the pockets of my coat, bringing them forward to compensate for it being unzipped. My tears had left my skin vulnerable to the arctic blast, and the harsh wind whipped my cheeks like flags. In the dark, cold night, the cabin looked warm and inviting as an ethereal glow from the fireplace shone through the sheer curtains of the front window.
“Ruby, please come in from the cold” I imagined Mark saying, before hugging me until I returned to a normal body temperature. I would say nothing. One look in my eyes. That’s all it would take.
I knocked on the front door—Mark had never installed a doorbell—but my cold, gloveless knuckles only skimmed the surface, and the sound drowned into the heavy wood. I hadn’t heard it myself. Mark wouldn’t hear it, either. I moved to the front window then, and I saw the light grow brighter at the center of the room. I made out the back of Mark’s head a few inches above the sofa cushions. I saw his elbow rise, then fall. He was drinking something, drowning his sorrows, I presumed.
But just before my fingertip tapped the icy windowpane, I saw a second figure. It neared the couch and straddled Mark, creating a sort of Rorschach inkblot made blurry by the fire. I could no longer discern Mark or the back of his head. The two bodies became one. And then the figure emerged from the blob like a dolphin from water. It grew taller, towered above him. It blocked the firelight in some spots but not in others, smoothly like curves of an ornate wine glass.
The Butterfly Sister Page 11
