The Butterfly Sister (15 page)

“How could you have known? Besides, it felt good to read, to think, to write again. Obviously, I needed to get some things off my chest.” I gestured at the blue book. “I should consider it free therapy.”

“But all of that talk yesterday about the recent suicide attempt . . . you must have . . .” She let out a deep sigh. “The girl, Julie Farris, is one of my protesters. I'm quite fond of her. And I didn't want to just sweep it under the carpet,” she tried to explain.

“I understand.”

She gave me a small smile. “If you don't mind me asking, did something trigger it? Your suicide attempt? Was it a traumatic event or unexplained depression?”

“My father died the year before,” I explained.

“I'm sorry to hear that. The death of a loved one is an unbearable pain.” Her eyes fell to my essay, still on the desktop. She stared at it. “Was there something else, though? Besides your father?”

My heart started to beat in my throat. “Why do you ask?”

“Your essay,” she said. “Now that I know you were writing from personal experience, I see it differently.” She opened my blue book on the desktop and spread it out with her palms as if it were a map. “You're angry.”

“I am?”

“And I can't imagine you harbor such rage for your father. So I'm guessing it's like William Congreve said: ‘Nor hell a fury like a woman scorn'd'?”

I nodded. I was a woman scorned. “I didn't know I was angry,” I said.

The professor laced her fingers. “Ah, that is the miracle of the written word. It beckons our unconscious out of hiding. It tells us things we need to know, sometimes things we don't want to know.”

“I don't want to be angry.”

“Anger isn't such a bad thing, Ruby. It moves obstacles. Nothing would happen without anger. It's the catalyst for change.” She paused. “He hurt you, didn't he?”

“He broke my heart. I dropped out of school. I didn't graduate.”

“But you still love him?”

“I think I'll always love him, even though I know he doesn't love me, and that maybe he never did. Why is that?”

She leaned toward me, her voice soft. “Because women love differently than men. We can love without being loved in return. We can love beyond the truth, and even in spite of it.”

“When he ended things, I blamed myself,” I divulged. “I thought I drove him away. But I know now that's not true. I know better.”

“And knowledge is power.”

“Is it? Then why do I feel so powerless?”

She shook her head. “I said knowledge is power. I didn't say it makes you powerful. Knowledge is like talent, Ruby. It means nothing unless you
do something
with it. You feel the power later, like an aftershock. You feel it when you figure out what that
thing
is.”

We sat silent for a moment, and I stared at my lap. When I looked up again, I caught the professor watching me in awe, as if she saw some aura, some color field of pinks and reds and oranges.

“Do you know much about stars?” she asked.

“You mean, in space?”

She nodded. “Many of us forget they are light-years away. The stars we admire now in the sky are actually light from the past, from thousands of light-years ago. We're just now seeing the image of shimmer. When ships navigated the seas by the stars, they literally sought the future by their understanding of the past.”

“That's interesting.”

She shook her head, as if to say she wasn't even close to making her point. “The past is a funny thing, Ruby. It is nature's most underestimated ghost. It is still very much alive. Its heart still beats. It haunts. And it is always impacting, always dictating the future, which eventually becomes the past. You see, it multiplies, this enigma. It grows larger and larger until at the end, it swallows your entire life. Every day, every moment becomes the past.”

I said nothing this time, waiting for her to finish.

“I think the real travesty happens much earlier, when we are young, when we become so aware of this future, this daunting day when our past consumes our life, that we stop living altogether. When we simply give up.”

She lifted my essay from her desk and handed it back to me like a torch.

“It is the fight against the past that keeps the spirit alive and well,” she said.

I
regretted leaving Professor Barnard's office as soon as I shut the door. The four walls of her simple space, her home away from home, had embraced me long enough that I'd grown accustomed to their warmth, and the hallway now felt cold and barren. Gwen's office had never had that effect on me. In fact, I always left our Thursday night sessions fluttering for freedom, like a butterfly let go from the trap of a Mason jar. In a mere twenty minutes, Professor Barnard had done something Gwen had never been able to do during ten months of therapy.

She'd empowered me.

I walked back down the spiral staircase into the lobby of Langley Hall—the blue book still rolled up in my hand like a torch—and found myself right where I'd started that morning, just outside the library doors. I stood there a second, unsure of where to go or what to do. The pseudotorch, now growing wet with perspiration from my palm, shed no light on the subject.

And then I saw her—myself. The me before Mark, before my father died. Two years younger, she is fresh-faced and confident, an auburn-haired senior with a backpack slung on her right shoulder. There's a bounce in her step, a calm but almost mischievous smile at her lips. She knows where she's going and where she's been. Her future is unwritten, but that doesn't seem to faze her. In fact, she's empowered by the thought of everything that can be. Her whole life is in front of her, a blank page full of promising stories. And so I followed her—this memory of myself—out the front doors of Langley Hall into the clean, crisp air of late morning.

From a distance, I saw campus drive was blocked from the parade; onlookers, some standing and some couched out on collapsible chairs with cup holders, flanked both sides of the street. Avoiding the crowd, I headed toward North Hall, the northernmost dormitory on campus, hence the name. As I neared the thin, angled building, my eyes traveled up its ivy-covered facade to the third floor, finding the fourth window in from the right. The curtains were open in room 318, but I could picture only darkness in my old dorm room.

Fortunately, the side door had been propped open with a brick, something students did from time to time to skip the hassle of swiping an ID card, and I entered with ease, walking through the first-floor hallway with stealth, as if coming in past curfew. When I reached the front lobby, though, I was stopped by the smell—the unmistakable scent of women's perfume laced with bleach. The lobby sat empty and quiet that morning, and yet I saw it bustling with students, saw my resident assistant at the front desk, and saw that younger version of myself round the corner and disappear into the stairwell. Standing there in the lobby of North Hall, surrounded by the familiar smell of my youth, I wondered if somehow, I could bring that girl back from the dead.

Could I save Ruby Rousseau? Even if I could no longer save Beth Richards?

I climbed the stairwell to the third floor, where I passed room after room in decreasing sequence, 330, 328, 326, and 324. The students' names were written on red and orange construction paper leaves sprinkled with gold glitter, something the RA must have crafted in her spare time.

I stopped first in front of room 324. It had been Beth Richards's room, the one she'd shared with Sarah Iverson. The last time I'd seen Beth she was outside that very door, the day I borrowed the luggage. I paused there a moment longer, as if the door were her tombstone.

Just a few doors down, I came to room 318. It was now Sheila and Lisa's room, according to the names on the door. I brushed a fingertip across the brown wood, then laid my hand flat on the door. I expected to feel heat, some sort of high-voltage energy, but instead it felt cool under my skin. Inhaling and exhaling, I tried to blow a sudden sick feeling out of my body, but after several heaves, the feeling formed a knot in my stomach and grew sour. And I couldn't move. So I simply stood there, arm extended, palm on wood, breathing in and out.

“They're not here,” someone said.

I sprung my arm from the door, as if it were actually hot to the touch, and saw a girl standing a few feet away. I didn't recognize her. She was probably a freshman. I wondered how long she'd been watching me.

“Who?” I asked.

“Sheila and Lisa.” The girl gestured to the door. “Isn't that who you're looking for?”

“No. I used to live on this floor,” I tried to explain.

The girl eyed me closely then, neared me slowly, as if preparing to tell a fantastic ghost story. “You went to school here?”

I nodded. She came closer.

“Is it true?” she asked, once she stood before me. “What they say about that room?”

“I guess that all depends. What do they say?”

“I heard a girl died in there. She killed herself. Is that true?”

Thanks to Julie Farris's suicide attempt, rumors had already grown like vines from mouths to ears, twisting truth.
But she's right,
I thought. A girl did die in that room. The girl I used to be.

“She overdosed on sleeping pills,” I said.

“And?” the girl prompted.

“Not
and,
” I corrected. “But.”

“But what?”

“But she didn't die,” I told the girl. “She lived to tell about it.”

Chapter 11

H
eidi was still waiting for me outside Langley Hall when I walked up five minutes late.

“I wasn't sure you were coming,” she said, her round, cherubic face lit with a smile.

“About earlier—” I started.

“Are you feeling better?”

“Much.” Thanks to Professor Barnard's magic tea, the nausea was gone. What had she said was in it again?

“Then let me treat you to lunch,” Heidi said, linking her arm through mine, as if she'd already forgiven me.

The Lakeside Diner was a likely choice—it was where Heidi and I had always gone to study, talk, or cry over carrot cake. It had been our retreat, when things had gotten rough, as they so often did in college. It wasn't gourmet or classy, but I found its location near the Kenosha harbor and subsequent nautical theme charming. A chalky, ocean blue ceiling contrasted the sky blue pleather booths. Watercolor seascapes of boats and seagulls flanked the walls. And it always smelled of deep-fried perch and lemon.

We filled our first minutes in a corner booth overlooking the water with simple things, like ordering coffee, reading the menu, and asking the server to explain the specials. We didn't say more to each other than “The Thai chicken salad sounds good” or “Remember, for a dollar more, you can add a slice of pie.” We knew our conversation would have to go down that road: a twisted, bumpy one mired with feelings of abandonment and guilt. But for the moment, we set our emotions aside and indulged in mindless activities and friendly banter.

“I'm going with a cheeseburger.” Heidi flopped her menu down, then stretched her arms above her head and yawned, as if it were the end of a very long day. “You?”

I decided on the roast turkey, complete with mashed potatoes and gravy. I'd pay the extra buck for a slice of cherry pie too.

After we ordered our meals, we gorged on the bread basket, spreading butter on pumpernickel like it was jelly. I downed a whole slice before saying what needed to be said:

“I had an affair with Mark Suter.”

Heidi's forehead initially creased in confusion, but soon her eyes grew wide with understanding. “
Professor
Mark Suter?”

I told Heidi the whole story then, about that afternoon in Mark's office, our discussion about my thesis, the coffee shop in Racine, and the kiss in his Jeep. And New Orleans. But for all those moments of euphoria, there were those moments of shame, insecurity, and despair, and I shared those too. The disapproving look from the woman at Café Du Monde. The D on my thesis. The sleeping pills.

The visions of dead women writers—those, I kept to myself.

After I finished, I looked out onto the harbor and watched a boat sail on the horizon, and cross over the line between lake and sky. Heidi said nothing, and I held my breath.

“I'm not being quiet because I'm judging you,” she finally said. “I'm just trying to piece things together. I guess the first thing I should say is thank you for trusting me.” She spoke slowly, as if still trying to solve a riddle. “He's the reason you were so distant? Why you pulled away from me that semester?”

“You understand why I couldn't tell you? I didn't want us to get caught. I was ashamed.”

“Of course you were. I mean, not that you did anything
wrong
.”

“It was wrong,” I said. “He was married.
Is
married.”

“But he was your teacher. He took advantage of that.”

“I was a consenting adult, Heidi.”

“But he was in the power position. He's twice your age. He should have known better.”

Heidi seemed to stare off at the same boat on which I'd been transfixed earlier.

“This makes a lot more sense now,” she said.

“You mean, my behavior?”

“Yes, that does make more sense to me in hindsight, but actually, I was talking about . . .” She checked the dining room for familiar faces or perked ears. “Look, you have to
promise
not to tell a soul. I could seriously lose my job over it.”

I traced an
x
on my chest.

“You know Julie Farris? The girl? The one who took the Tylenol? Well, just a few days ago, she made some allegations against Professor Suter. A sexual harassment kind of thing. She told President Monroe that he made sexual advances, and when she said no, he punished her with a bad grade.”

A chill tickled the back of my neck. “Did he deny it?”

“I'm not sure it went that far. It was still being investigated when she . . . you know.” She sighed. “Do you think that's why she did it? Maybe she was embarrassed? She regretted coming forward?”

“Or maybe they were involved,” I offered. “And he broke her heart like he did mine.”

A wave of sadness crossed Heidi's face then, and I realized she carried the burden of my near suicide with her as much as I did.

Just then the waitress arrived with our food, and we accepted refills on coffee and extra napkins and a bottle of Heinz for Heidi's fries.

“Something has to be done,” Heidi finally said, whacking the side of the ketchup bottle to get it to flow. “He can't be allowed to teach.”

I ran my fork tines through the mashed potatoes and let the gravy ooze into the tracks. I remembered what Professor Barnard had said about anger moving obstacles, about knowledge being power. “Are you asking me to come forward?”

Heidi bit into her burger without abandon. She licked an errant drop of ketchup from her lips. “Would you?”

“It was hard enough for me to tell you just now. And my mom.” I set my fork down on my plate. “I don't want my mom to find out.”

Heidi stopped chewing when she realized I'd lost my appetite. “Oh my gosh, Ruby, I'm sorry. Please eat. This is just me rambling. Thinking out loud. I don't expect you to say or do anything.”

Only when I took a solid bite of turkey, did she continue.

“I just hate him now. I can't explain it to you. I used to feel indifferent about him. Never thought he was cute like most girls do—no offense. But I didn't think he was a dick or anything. But now, I absolutely hate him. For breaking your heart. For ruining our friendship. For being a sleazy, fat pig.”

I smiled. She was a dedicated friend.

“Okay, okay. So he's not fat,” she corrected. “I meant fatheaded.”

“But what good would it do?” I said, once the pressure was off. “If I did speak up? It's been almost a year. Would anyone believe me? It would only embarrass me, and let's face it, I've already embarrassed myself enough. Showing my face around here this weekend was a big enough test of my courage.”

“It
was
courageous.” She patted my hand. “But somebody needs to stop him from preying on his students. It's totally unprofessional and gross. He should be fired.”

Heidi let out an excused belch, then covered the remains of her burger and fries with her napkin and pushed it aside, as if she never wanted to see food again.

“I'm leaving room for the alumnae dinner tonight,” she explained. “It's fifty bucks a plate. The good stuff.”

I didn't respond. My thoughts had traveled back to the evening I visited Janice Richards. Beth hadn't been back to the Tarble campus since the beginning of the school year, Janice had said. Is that when things went sour between Beth and Mark? Did Mark dump Beth for Julie?

“Yoo-hoo.” Heidi waved a hand before my eyes. “You have that ‘off in your own world thing' going on.”

“Sorry. I was thinking about Beth Richards.”

Heidi narrowed her eyes and looked past me then, as if attempting to bring Beth clearly to mind. Then, her eyes shot to mine with intention.

“You want to know something weird? Something I just realized?” She shook her head then, as if she couldn't believe what she was about to say.

“What?”

“Julie,” she said. “She looks an awful lot like Beth.”

C
learly we were being wooed: the endless supply of beer and wine, the butlered hors d'oeuvres, the Chilean sea bass with honey lime sauce and pimiento risotto. When I bit into the flourless chocolate torte smeared with a dark ganache, I understood why Tarble College had gone to such lengths to welcome the alumnae back to campus with a formal dinner Saturday night. The torte was so rich, so decadent, I considered an equivalent monetary gift to my alma mater.

Swallowing the last bite of torte with a sip of cabernet, from my third glass, I felt warm and full inside and relished having been the center of attention that night. My former classmates—Amanda, Brandy, Joy, and Rachel—had swarmed around me like bees when I'd come into the banquet room. I'd felt like the bold, yellow center of a flower. Hug after hug, their perfumes swirled into a heavy, obnoxious cloud of scent that had made me dizzy.

Now, feeling confident from the alcohol, I scanned the banquet room for Mark, and although I saw many professors, including Virginia Barnard, I didn't see him. Licking the last drop of ganache from my fork tines, I dared him to walk through the door.

My euphoric, almost arrogant state lasted until President Eileen Monroe approached our table. Like most Tarble students, I both admired and feared the Tarble alum who had run the school for the past fifteen years. It was her hair: black with a regal, signature stripe of gray, smoothly swept to one side, lying in place like a helmet. Always. That evening, her hair looked unbelievably perfect, as if it had been styled and set on a mannequin the night before and affixed to the president's head only moments before her appearance. It complimented her impeccable first lady red suit.

“Good evening, ladies.” The president positioned herself behind the vacant chair of Heidi, who had left us to tend her alumnae coordinator duties. “I trust you enjoyed the meal?”

After hearing many “yeses” and one “delicious,” she cleared her throat with something more sophisticated than a cough. “I personally want to thank you for attending Reunion. I know Tarble can rely on your support as we embark on this new chapter of excellence in education. It will not be an easy road, but change never is. One thing that will never change, though, is this school's ability to persevere.”

We nodded, eager to please her.

“Will we see you at the vigil for Beth Richards tomorrow morning?” she asked.

Again we nodded, this time solemnly.

President Monroe grimaced. “It was a truly difficult decision to go on with Reunion festivities in light of the news about Beth. But canceling events would signify a loss of hope, and we mustn't lose hope. Beth is a Tarble girl, after all. Resilient. Courageous. We must believe the best possible outcome. We must keep Beth and her family in our thoughts and prayers. That's just what we have to do. ”

“And what about the other girl?” asked Joy, the only one of us bold enough to raise the topic of Julie Farris. “How is she doing?”

I noticed a vein throbbed in the president's forehead.

“Yes, Julie. A sad situation as well. But she's fine, dear. Still recovering in the hospital but hopefully getting the help she needs.” She sighed. “Now, my intention was not to talk your ears off all evening. So please, enjoy another glass of wine. Sit back, relax, visit. And again, thank you for your support.”

We followed her orders. While some of us stood to grab another drink from the bar, and others resumed side conversations, President Monroe sat beside me in Heidi's chair.

“Ruby, it is a pleasure to see you back on the Tarble campus.” She gave my shoulder a motherly pat. “I want you to know—and I mean this sincerely—if you would like to return and finish your degree at Tarble, we welcome you with open arms.”

I blushed, not expecting her to single me out. I thanked her before my eyes betrayed me with tears, which I wiped embarrassingly on my white cloth napkin, staining it with mascara.

“My dear, I didn't mean to make you cry.”

“It's just very kind of you.”

“Well, Tarble is a family,” she said. “And we take care of one another. I understand how stressful college can be for a young woman, the immense pressure to succeed. It can get the best of us, sometimes.”

She spoke loudly, too loudly I thought for what should have been a private conversation, and I wondered if she was truly sincere or whether it was, as Heidi had called it earlier,
damage control
.

Before I could say more, the president excused herself to tend to a matter that was, judging from the direction of her gaze, on the other side of the banquet hall. I watched her glide across the room, as if by chariot, and land near the door.

And that's when I saw Mark. But it wasn't the Mark I remembered. In fact, he'd aged in the past year. Where I remembered only fine lines, his skin was creased. I used to think his nose was distinguishably pointed, but it now appeared beaklike. His blue eyes looked more slate than sky, and they'd succumbed to a redness only alcohol could induce. He was either very drunk or very sad, or both. If he was distressed over Beth's disappearance, he was doing a poor job of masking it. And he wasn't alone. Soon a woman sidled up next to him, snaked her arm through his, and playfully laid her head on his shoulder. Her blond hair and red fingernails contrasted with her black cocktail party dress, making a bold and flashy statement. When the woman caught me watching, and lifted her eyebrows, as if to ask, “May I help you?” I realized who she was. I'd seen a picture of her in Mark's office once.