What Remains True

At the time, when it first happened, I was furious with Charlie, that he hadn’t called or sent me a card or sent flowers to the family. It was as though he was trying to erase his past, to extract himself from my life completely. But the days became longer and Rachel spiraled out of control, and when he didn’t make an appearance at the funeral, I was forced to accept the reality of divorce. Divorce is not just about the separation of two individuals. It’s the separation of families. A drawing of lines, never to be crossed. My family is now solely mine. Your family is yours. His family is his.

The family we were going to create together is gone forever. No, Ruth, it never was. It was a mirage. I keep reading.

I’m not trying to defend my absence, he continues.

But my father became gravely ill, and I was called to his side, as the doctors believed he might soon pass. You remember how William is—refuses to go along with anything the doctors say, and of course, he is still with us and probably will be for a long while. But those few weeks were chaotic.

I regret not being there for you. I regret that I was so consumed with my own challenges that I didn’t even think to send flowers or condolences. I hope you will accept my sincere apology and that you will not think worse of me (or worse than you already do, with good reason . . .).

I know how much Jonah meant to you, how much both your sister’s children mean to you, and I am so very sorry for your loss. Please let me know if there is anything I can do to be of service to you.

With affection, Charlie.

I reread the note, being mindful to not let my tears fall onto the cardstock and mar the ink of his words. Even now, after eighteen months, after he has created a new family that doesn’t include me, Charlie is the person who knows me best in the world. I hate him for that. I hate him because he was my soul mate, but since I couldn’t give him children, I was no longer his. I hate him for being a man, for having that need to procreate—to have his own biological offspring—in order to validate his existence in the universe. I hate him for not loving me enough to look past my graying roots and my useless uterus and ignore the shiny penny in front of him, she who practically gave him a gynecological report touting her fertility in order to steal him. I hate him for allowing himself to be stolen.

I hate him because I never trusted men, never opened myself up to them, always assumed the worst about them. Until Charlie. He came along and changed my mind, and I was happy, happier than I ever thought I could be, until he changed my mind back, irrevocably. And there will never be another Charlie, and possibly there will never be another man. I hate him because he doesn’t need me anymore.

I fold the note and slip it back into the envelope, then glance at my watch. I should get back to Rachel’s. They need me, I think. But I am suddenly so weary, I could fall asleep. I lean back against the cushions and close my eyes.

Immediately, an image of Jonah comes to mind, a memory from—God, less than two months ago. (Is that possible?) We were on the front porch together, sitting side by side on the steps, which my joints disapproved of, but which delighted my nephew. Rachel’s children have always meant the world to me, not just because I love them, but also because they are the closest thing to me actually having kids of my own. I treasure our times together, even if I might not be the most fun or enjoyable company they have. I know they always prefer Taylor to babysit for them, the girl down the street who plays Twister and lets them eat whatever they want. But I would do anything in the world for those children and they know it, which was why Jonah forced me to sit down “Right on your bottom!” and I did. Of course I did.

He was gazing reverently at a bug on the concrete path, a caterpillar slowly making its way toward the side of the house. Jonah was pointing out the legs and the bristles on its back and the stripes of brown and white and explaining to me that this creature was trying to find a safe place to attach in order to make its chrysalis, which he pronounced “krisliss.”

“It’s gonna turn into a big beautiful butterfly, Auntie Ruth, with bright orange-and-black wings, and it’s gonna pol’nate Mommy’s flowers in the backyard.”

I’d chuckled sardonically and said, “Only if it doesn’t get eaten by some hungry bird.”

Now, in my head, I see his reaction anew. His expression grew troubled, as though he’d never considered that such a tragedy could occur, but now that I’d suggested the possibility, it was almost a certainty that the caterpillar was doomed. Tears squeezed out of the corners of his eyes. And instead of reassuring him, I’d said, “Honey, that’s just life. For little creatures like that guy, the odds aren’t good.”

What the hell was I thinking? How could I have been so thoughtless? Jonah was five years old, for goodness’ sake. Instead of allowing him to enjoy the wonders of nature, I’d managed to rob him of his awe. It isn’t the worst thing I’ve done, I know. But thinking of it now fills me with shame.

I open my eyes and stare at the drab beige wall of my living room. I would give anything to go back to that moment, to change what I said to him.

You bet it is, Jonah. It’s going to be the most beautiful butterfly in the world.





EIGHTEEN

SHADOW

Dark Female is gone. I don’t know how long she’s been gone. I can still smell her scent, the sweet-pungent odor of her clothes, but it’s fading. She will come back, and I will hide from her angry eyes, but she’s not here now, so I can lie on my couch-room bed until I hear the shudder of her car outside.

My master is on the couch, sitting on the edge of the cushions, his hands on his knees, like at any minute he’s going to stand up. But he doesn’t stand up, just sits there. The big black screen on the wall is alive right now. There are people on the screen talking to my master, but I don’t think he hears them. He is staring at the coffee table, the one with the scratchy leg where I chewed a long time ago. I don’t remember chewing it, but I remember that if I do now, I’ll get angry eyes and angry voices, not just from Dark Female, but from my master and my mistress, too. So I won’t chew it.

My master’s eyes are so sad. I don’t want them to be. If his eyes are sad, that means he is sad, and I don’t like that. I know why he is sad, and why Little Female is sad and why my mistress is sad. I wish I could tell them that Little Male is here. He isn’t here with me now on my couch-room bed, but I know he is nearby, somewhere in the house. I think knowing he’s somewhere in this house, that he hasn’t gone to another place yet, would make my humans happy. But I don’t know how to tell them.

I stand and pad over to the couch. I sit next to my master and nudge his hands with my head. His hands feel cold. Maybe because they were holding the glass on the chewed-leg coffee table. Now the glass is empty and on the table, but his hands are still cold. They don’t move. I feel them, limp on my head. I nudge them again. And then I feel my master pat me. He pats me with one hand. It doesn’t feel bad, but it’s not as good as when he strokes my fur or scratches under my chin. And then I feel his fingers scratch my ears, and I can’t help it, can’t control my tail, which thwack thwacks against the carpet.

Janis Thomas's books