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The Butterfly Daughter

Buttery

By Patricia Crisafulli

            The air smelled of dew on grass, roses well past their prime, and the first fallen leaves—the aroma of seasons in transition. The forecast called for summer warmth, extending later and longer every year, but the morning chill whispered of autumn impatiently waiting in the wings.

            Her favorite time of year, Janet thought, sipping coffee that was almost too hot to drink. Her gardens would bloom for another month, though chrysanthemums now filled the places vacated by withering petunias and snapdragons gone to seed. Maples spreading across the front yard hinted at their autumnal gold, and soon she would line the steps with pumpkins, though few people ever saw the decorations. The driveway was too long for their home to be more than glimpsed from the road, not because of grandeur but its past as a farmhouse.

            She heard something, like a car crunching on gravel, and opened the screen door to step out onto the porch. Last night she and Lacey had talked until Janet could no longer disguise the yawns she swallowed. Before hanging up, she had invited her youngest daughter to come up for the day. It was only a two-hour drive, the closest they’d been geographically in a while. Lacey had said she’d think about it.

            Whatever the sound was it dissipated, just a road noise perhaps. Janet considered sending a text—would love to see you—but didn’t want to scare off this butterfly child of hers who had gone to a different coast for college and for the past six years had flitted across states and time zones.

            Lacey had always been this way, Janet sighed as she went back into the house. Of her three children, Lacey had been the one to squirm out of her lap, to run to the farthest corner of the playground, to ride her bicycle too far down the road. Her oldest, Marla, often accused Janet of favoring Lacey because she worried so much about her. It’s like you think that something could only happen to her—a favorite Marla complaint. Her son, Brian, in the middle, quietly kept the peace between his two sisters, a steadying presence even now. Both her older children lived close by, Marla only a few minutes away. As grateful as Janet was for their proximity, sometimes it amplified the distance to wherever Lacey decided to land.

            Once she had asked Lacey why she wanted to be so far away—after a move from Seattle to Cincinnati, of all places. An old ache returned to her chest as Janet recalled the hurt in her daughter’s voice at the question that thinly veiled the accusation of running away and staying away. “Because I want to try living in different places,” Lacey had said. “I’ve told you that. This has nothing to do with you and Dad.”

            Now they were within easy driving distance, close enough for lunch together or to meet somewhere in between. But Lacey had to settle in first. Janet didn’t want to spook her and send Lacey off again.

            In the kitchen, Craig stood at the counter, comb tracks in his gray hair still wet from the shower. He wore navy shorts and a boldly striped golf shirt that announced his plans for the morning. She kissed her husband of thirty-nine years.

            “Lacey coming?” he asked.

            Janet raised an eyebrow and ducked her chin. “I’ll be the last to know.”

            From the counter she retrieved her shopping list and fetched a large woven basket from the pantry. With her sunglasses and keys, she was ready to go.

            Craig reached out to stop her. “She’ll text—you’ll see.”

            Janet shook her head. “We love her, and she loves us. That’s what I know. Other than that—” She pinched her lips together.

            The farmers’ market buzzed with people who moved in and around displays of tomatoes and peppers, apples in yellow and red, herbs and honey, bread and baked goods. She planned meals as she meandered—minestrone soup, eggplant parmesan, zucchini muffins, lentil and carrot casserole. After waiting in a long line, she bought two loaves of bread, one to slice and one to freeze, and carried the basket with both hands back to her car. On the way home, she stopped at a coffee shop that occupied a tiny, converted cottage and sat outside with a caramel-drizzled latte.

            Only then did she allow herself to glance at her phone, noticing the time and the lack of texts. She pushed against a wave of disappointment, reminding herself that Lacey had made no promises. Their phone call last night had been long and pleasant. It was enough, Janet told herself. It had to be enough.

            Back home, Janet unloaded the bounty, filling the vegetable bin in the refrigerator and the fruit bowl on the counter. The day had warmed, and she changed into shorts, a t-shirt, and sunhat. She threaded through the neighborhood to the park and onto a path that made a three-mile loop. Earbuds in, Janet listened to a book as she walked, filling her brain with the voice of a famous actress reading a bestseller.

            Marla called and they talked as Janet covered the first mile. “I heard from Lacey yesterday—no, I guess it was the day before,” Marla said. “She seems good.”

            They were seven years apart, a gap the two sisters had never been able to bridge. When they were children, Lacey couldn’t keep up with her older sister. Then, as a young adult, Lacey had eclipsed Marla with her college and career achievements. Janet wondered if they’d ever become friends, deepening a bond beyond genetics.

            Her thoughts scattered when Brian texted a photo of his daughter—two-year-old Lizzy on the toddler swing at the park, her little hands gripping the chains as if she would soon blast into orbit. Janet smiled as she thumbed a hug emoji in reply.

            The path turned from concrete sidewalk to woodchips softened from the rain two days ago. Janet felt the change underfoot, her steps muffled and pressed more deeply into shredded bark and damp earth. Pausing the audiobook in her ears, she felt each step grounding her. Anxiousness and longing subsided, absorbed by the simple, joyful act of putting one foot ahead of the other.

            A young jogger headed her way; her stride long, her ponytail swishing from side to side. Janet watched the runner power by with all her youth and vigor.  The reflected sunshine on the lenses of her wraparound sunglasses drew Janet’s attention, and she found herself squinting. Only when she dropped her eyes away from the glare did she notice the t-shirt—a pale gray faded to near whiteness and black lettering softened into charcoal. Paris, je t’aime. A small red heart punctuated the slogan.

            Something caught inside Janet, like a hitched breath, and she thought back more than forty years—forty-three, to be exact—to when she had loved Paris for eight weeks between her junior and senior years of college. She’d gone for an enrichment program in art history, her minor, having saved every dime from her on-campus job to afford it. Her parents had sent her off with warnings, from homesickness to tap water sure to upset her system to foreign men drinking in cafes. She’d been scared, even before the litany of everything to look out for but refused to give in and play it safe by staying home.

            Six months into their college romance, Craig had complained a little about her being so far away. But Janet recognized that this would be her one chance to do something unexpected—so completely unlike herself—before graduation and jobs and settling down. Paris had been the pause on the inevitable. For two months, she had gone to lectures and museums, made friends, streaked her hair, bought gauzy skirts at a flea market, and nearly fell for a young art student. She hadn’t been unfaithful to Craig, not really, not if she didn’t count the kisses that had teased and taunted. Then the would-be lover had taken up with someone else and she had returned home. But she had been changed by the experience, Janet knew, because she had tried on a different life, just for a little while.

            Looking back Janet saw how she’d been a butterfly, herself. Perhaps Lacey had inherited the instinct from her, and that was why her youngest followed a migratory path from Southwest to Northeast, Rockies to Catskills. And here, for now. The thought comforted her because, at last, she found a connection where before she had only seen distance.

            The walking path transitioned from woodchips back to sidewalk cement, and Janet’s pace picked up. The sun stood directly overhead, and her stomach rumbled at the thought of lunch. She pictured sun-ripened tomatoes from the farmers’ market and a thick slice of crusty bread.

            As she neared the house, Janet saw a glint through the trees that lined the long driveway. It could be from Craig’s car, she reasoned, parked out front rather than in the garage. Or, maybe, it could be Lacey after all. Janet smiled to herself, truly happy with either possibility.

Butterfly

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