The Butterfly Sister (17 page)

Chapter 13

B
eth Richards knew about me. At least, she knew
something
about me. She'd written my name on some sort of list, a list that also included Julie Farris. I had two things in common with Julie: Mark Suter and my suicide attempt. What other names had Beth jotted down? Was it a list of Mark's conquests?

I could think of only one person to ask.

I had to wait twenty minutes before visiting hours began at the psychiatric ward of Kenosha General Hospital, and then, it was another ten minutes of protocol—metal detector and pat down, labeled bright orange name tag, car keys inventoried inside a clear plastic bag, and the escorted walk through two keypad-accessed doors—before I actually saw Julie Farris.

I was surprised by the level of security. I'd only been a patient in a psych ward, not a visitor. And as I endured each step of the process, I imagined my mother having to do the same, all the times she came to see me before I was discharged. What does it feel like, I wondered, to be patted down to see your own child? I'd hurt my mother more than I'd known.

I met Julie in a communal visiting room full of hard couches and sterile table and chairs. Because she was on suicide watch, a nurse stayed in the room while we spoke, ready to act at the first possible sign of self-harm.

My mouth hung open when I saw Julie's long blond hair and tall, slender frame. Heidi was right, she looked like Beth Richards, not only in hair color and body type, but also the unique details of her face. Close-set blue eyes. Narrow bridged nose. Pouty lips.
They could easily be sisters,
I thought. Maybe even twins.

“I wasn't sure you'd agree to see someone you didn't know,” I said.

Julie didn't respond but twisted in her chair. “Could you give us some privacy?” she asked the nurse.

“You know the rules,” the woman said.

Reluctantly, Julie faced me again. “I know who you are,” she finally said. “Actually, I was going to call you once they let me out of here.”

“You were?”

She tugged at the neckline of her hospital-issued gown because it slanted to one side, exposing her left collarbone more than her right. “We have a lot in common, don't we?”

“How much do you know?” I asked.

“You first.”

I paused, caught off guard by her straightforward approach, her cool, calculating voice.

“You filed sexual harassment charges against Mark Suter,” I finally said. “But my guess is that it was more than that. You had a relationship, didn't you? You love him.”

She snickered. “Not anymore.”

Two nights in the psych ward had obviously worked wonders on Julie. A year had passed, and I still loved Mark. I worried I always would.

“You also said he gave you an unfair grade,” I added. “When you refused to sleep with him.”

“Okay, so I didn't refuse him. But he did give me an unfair grade. I know a lot of people can't be objective about their writing. But I can. And I wrote a kick-ass paper.”

I admired her confidence but was also confused by it. Was this girl—a girl who had tried to kill herself just two days prior—really so certain of herself, or was it an act? Was she trying to appear self-assured, so the doctors would release her sooner?

“Why did you do it?” I asked.

“Because I deserved an A.”

“No, I meant, why did you take the Tylenol?”

“Oh.” Her cheeks suddenly sunk. “Because I was devastated. Naturally. He messed with my head. He did this to me, just like he did it to you.”

“You know about me?”

“Everyone knows about you.”

Obviously the Tarble gossip mill had ensured my notoriety for decades to come.

“But how did you know about my relationship with Mark?”

She tugged at her gown once more. “He told me.”

I couldn't fathom why Mark would tell Julie Farris about me. To what gain? I was a skeleton from his past, an embarrassment. But I didn't press the issue. I saw the nurse check her watch. We had a limited amount of time, and I had more important questions to ask.

“Did a girl named Beth Richards come to talk to you recently?”

Julie didn't blink. “Yeah, my friend Tia said some girl with that name came looking for me one day in the grove, but I never talked to her. I don't know what she wanted.” She furrowed her brow, as if suddenly intrigued. “Why do you ask?”

I paused, unsure of what piece of information to share first.

“It was all over the news this morning,” I decided to say. “She was murdered.”

Her eyelids flitted in surprise. “Wait. Who is she?”

“She went to Tarble. Graduated last year.” I glanced again at the nurse overseeing our conversation. “She was involved with him too. I think that's what she came to see you about.”

I told Julie then about Beth's list, though I didn't know what other names graced that sticky note. “My best guess is she was trying to rally us,” I added. “Get us to all come forward and file claims against him.”

“And now she's dead?”

I nodded. “Tia said she had some sort of publication with her too, with the words
Midwest
and
Council
on it. I Googled it. I'm guessing it was a professional journal published by the Midwest Collegiate English Teachers Council. Does that mean anything to you?”

She shook her head no. “Do they know who killed her?”

“Some guy in Pittsburgh. Actually, they think it's a serial killing.”

This tidbit should have unnerved Julie, noticeably creeped her out, but it seemed to put her at ease. Maybe for a moment, she'd also considered Mark a suspect.

“Why were you going to contact me?” I asked.

“To do the same thing. To ask you to file a claim against him. Will you?”

“You still want to go through with it?”

“Why wouldn't I?”

I assumed, because of her suicide attempt, that Julie would drop the charges against Mark. I thought it was a sign she'd lost her will. I wanted to see Julie as I saw myself—innocent and wounded. But something about her sharp eyes and quick tongue made that impossible.

“How come you never said anything?” she snapped. “Last year? When it happened?”

Because coming forward would have been like saying the relationship was wrong, I thought. That it wasn't love, but something inappropriate. Something disgusting. It would have made me feel the way I did that first night in New Orleans, the night the woman in the café said
tsk, tsk
under her breath, the night I couldn't get the powdered sugar stain out of my dress.

“I didn't want anyone to know,” I said instead.

“And what about now?”

I shrugged.

“It's his fault you tried to kill yourself, you know. And why I did too. He needs to pay for what he did to us.”

“He didn't put the pills in our mouths, Julie.”

“But we almost died. I would be dead right now, had my RA not come to check on me.”

I didn't want to play the blame game. I'd played it a number of times with Gwen. We agreed that I couldn't blame myself entirely, but I had to take responsibility for what I'd done. It was my choice to swallow the pills.

“Okay. Let me ask you this,” Julie charged when I didn't respond. “Did Mark ever give you a bad grade, one you didn't deserve?”

“My thesis. He gave me a D.”

“First D you ever got in your life, right?”

“The only D.”

Julie crossed her arms smugly. “Then maybe it's time for a second look.”

I
found Professor Barnard grading essays in her office that Sunday afternoon—another half-eaten muffin, this time lemon poppyseed, beside her. But she graciously agreed to procure a copy of my thesis from the English Department office without much explanation. After my chat with Julie, I remembered I'd turned in two copies of my paper last year per Tarble College policy—one to be graded by Mark and the other to be filed in a portfolio for the department.

Now, she was at her desk, reading about
A Room of One's Own
and the trials and tribulations of women writers trying to create in a field dominated so long by men. Waiting for her to determine a reasonable grade, my heart beat hard and fast, and I could no longer sit and watch her. I paced her office, reading every inch of her bulletin board.

Soon Professor Barnard raised her eyes and smiled, broad and all-knowing. Her expression told me the verdict was good. But what was
good
news? Did I want to know Mark had been honest, that he had graded me fairly? Or would I rather learn I had written a quality paper?

The professor set the document down and removed her reading glasses, but she didn't speak. Her mouth tugged to one side, as if chewing on words. “I would have given you an A minus,” she finally said.

“That's good to hear,” I said. “Because Professor Suter gave me a D.”

“Grading essays is always subjective, but there's absolutely no justification for a D.” She paused. “Unless, of course, it's plagiarized.”

“I wouldn't do that.”

“Maybe not intentionally, but . . . I have to be honest with you, Ruby, I feel like I've read this before.”

“How is that possible?”

She shrugged. “You tell me.”

I let out an astounded huff. “Every word in that paper is mine, Professor Barnard, except the quotations.” I looked her directly in the eye, to prove I wasn't lying. “I didn't steal anything.”

She held my gaze. “It's just so familiar . . . I . . .” She let it go with a wave of her hand. “I suppose it doesn't matter now, does it?”

“It matters,” I said. “It matters to me whether you believe me.”

Her eyes softened. “I believe you. But I'm not sure where we're going with this. Why did you have me read this? You want to refute the grade? Why now? Why didn't you say something last year?”

I swallowed. “I guess I cared more about him than the D.”

Her lips parted in surprise. “You mean, it was Suter? He is the
he
you wrote about in my class the other day?”

“We had an affair,” I said, even though I hated everything the
A
-word connoted. It was the best word, however. The most accurate descriptor. It wasn't love. At least, it wasn't to him.

The professor sighed. “I guess I'm not surprised. I know his type. Arrogant but charming. Intelligent but emotionally immature. I've dealt with countless men like him at every level of my career. I knew he was slime—even back when I interviewed for this position.” She shook her head in true disgust. “I'm assuming it didn't end well?”

“The day he handed out grades was the same day he told me it was over,” I explained. “And that's the same day I tried to kill myself.”

“Did you report him?”

“I just wanted to forget it ever happened.”

“And did you? Forget?”

I hung my head in silence.

“Look, Ruby, I'll be happy to support you if you decide to refute this grade. But you need to answer a very important question first: What do you care more about now?” She gestured at my thesis. “Suter or the paper?”

I grimaced. “It isn't so black and white. Odds are, I'll have to come clean about the affair. And I can't do that. I don't want anyone to know. I don't want my mom to know.”

“I understand how you feel. But men like Suter can't control their need for power, their need to dominate. If he did this to you, I'll bet he's done it to others. If you come forward, others might too.”

“Another girl already did,” I said. “Julie Farris filed sexual misconduct charges last week.”

“Julie? Don't tell me she was involved with Suter too.”

“She was devastated when he ended it,” I said. “Just like me. That's why she did it, she said.”

“You spoke to her?”

I told the professor then about my visit to the psych ward.

The professor clucked her tongue. “I wish Julie had come to me. I could have helped her.” She paused. “How is she? You know, emotionally?”

I recalled Julie then, her cool confidence, uncharacteristic for someone who'd recently attempted suicide. “Surprisingly well. She still wants to get Suter fired. And she asked me to help.”

“Is that what you want to do? Get Mark Suter fired?”

I shrugged.

“Why do you want to protect him, Ruby?”

“I don't. I want to protect myself.”

“But silence is consent. That's why my protesters go out to the grove every day.”

“Silence is also dignity,” I countered.

“But if no one stops him, he'll just keep doing this. To more girls. Over and over. And look at the ramifications. You and Julie both tried to kill yourself. Fortunately, you both failed. But one day, a girl could . . .” She paused and swallowed. “A girl might succeed.”