The Jade Butterfly Read online

  Copyright © 2020 by Dawn Gardner

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author, except in cases of brief quotations embodied in reviews or articles. It may not be edited, amended, lent, resold, hired out, distributed or otherwise circulated, without the publisher’s written permission.

  Permission can be obtained from: [email protected]

  This is a work of fiction. Characters in this novel are a product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design: Dawn Gardner

  Interior Formatting: Dawn Gardner

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Author’s Notes

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Dawn Gardner

  For Maude

  The butterfly counts not months but moments,

  and has time enough.

  ~ Rabindranath Tagore

  Prologue

  October 1955

  Maude slipped off her bra and looked at her naked chest. Her fingers rubbed over the puckered skin while she tried to remember the part of her that was gone. Like a gypsy woman with a secret, her chest seemed to be winking at her. Maude pulled the white scarf from the cup of her bra, the smooth silk glided over her fingertips as she folded. From the top drawer of her dresser, she grabbed her cotton nightdress and placed her scarf and bra on top of the smooth wood.

  “Mama, are you ready?” her daughter’s voice asked from the hallway.

  “Almost,” she answered.

  Maude guided herself to the bed, climbed in between the sheets and fluffed the pillows around, creating a soft cave for her daughter to snuggle into.

  “Now?” her daughter asked and lightly knocked on the door.

  “Yes Joni, now.”

  With The Story of Ping tucked under her arm, Joni strolled into the bedroom. Her curls hung around her face like drips of honey and her nightgown buttons were fastened, but their alignment made ripples in the fabric, exposing her skin. Months earlier, Maude would have fixed the nightgown, but those things didn’t bother her now. When Joni reached the edge of the bed, Maude brushed the hair from Joni’s face and thought of her daughter as a teenager, having a boyfriend, going to her first high school dance. Who would help her, who would tell her all the things young women should know? And who would hold Joni when she fell and scraped her knee next year? Maude felt herself near tears. Joni nestled her way into the pillow cave and placed the oversized book across her legs.

  “You know Mama, I’m going to be a famous artist.”

  Maude nodded.

  “And I’m going to travel up and down the Yangtze River just like Ping.” Joni traced the yellow duck with her index finger.

  Joni opened the book, and Maude read the first sentence without looking at the words.

  The doctor said that taking half of her chest and all the muscles attached would cure her, Maude knew he was wrong. Of course, she was hopeful when the doctor spoke of “getting it all” and “there was a chance,” but hope sometimes was a cruel thing, and she finally understood why Hope was the last evil left in Pandora’s Box.

  “Get your things in order Maude. I’m sorry,” The doctor said.

  Five dollars gone from her wallet for empty words and something she had known for months. Joni’s face came into her mind and tears filled her eyes. She slammed her hands against the steering wheel and yelled, “What about her, who will take care of her?”

  Maude drove out of the city, she needed time before she went home. On the back road that circled the lake, she rode, pressing her foot harder against the gas pedal. The late fall sun shone on the lake and scattered bits of brightness across the water. She stared at the calm water and the beauty of the reflected light, and then she brought her attention back to driving, but it was too late. The front wheels had started down the embankment opposite from the lake. She turned the steering wheel, trying to bring the car back to the road, but the car was out of control. Small trees and brush passed under the car, clinking and clanking against its belly. Maude closed her eyes.

  Maude looked up into the sky. Deep blue with clouds thinly stretched across the top, the sky had the appearance of one of the illustrations from Joni’s storybooks. Slowly, she sat up and the green of the trees and the blue of the sky seemed to spin and melt together like Joni’s paints when she poured them down the drain. She laid herself back down on the ground and turned only her head. The front end of her car was now a “u” with a tree in the middle. She remembered now—the car ran off the road, the doctor’s words and she was dying.

  Maude felt warm like being surrounded by sun-baked sand and the sweet smell of lavender flooded her nose.

  “Maude,” a woman’s voice spoke inside her head. She sat up and the world was still. In front of her a woman hovered above the ground. The woman smiled and light radiated from the woman’s body. Draped over her head was a beaded scarf that glimmered like bits of glass.

  Frozen and unable to look away from the woman, Maude had no fear. The woman called Maude again. Joni appeared smiling beside the woman, and the woman placed her arms around Joni. And as Maude watched, Joni grew into a young girl of eleven or so, and then a young woman of what Maude guessed to be twenty and then a woman with long grey hair. With each change, Joni’s eyes never left Maude’s gaze.

  Joni was gone, and Maude and the woman floated above a hallway. Maude knew that this was a school, but it was like no school she had ever seen. The children walking down the hallways were teenagers dressed in clothing that looked foreign to Maude. With a wave of the woman’s hand, all the teenagers had lights of varying degrees that illuminated from their bodies. Some were brighter than others.

  The woman drew Maude’s attention to one teenage boy with a light that only glowed in a small sphere in the center of his chest. His tired eyes pierced Maude and she could feel his sadness.

  “It is brave to love.” The woman whispered to Maude.

  Chapter 1

  October 2019

  All the red dot-sized lights of Ellen’s phone flashed alerting her that she had four calls on hold—people with financial emergencies. Typical of a Friday afternoon. The man on the other end of the phone droned on about the value of his accounts to her bank. Last week, one of the account reps was rude. She had a bad day and wasn’t playing the we-appreciate-your-business clerk role and now he threatened to take his money elsewhere. Ellen knew what she should say as the bank manager. She had smoothed many a pompous jerk before and their money always stayed safely tucked at the bank. But right now, she didn’t care.

  An email. A god-damn email advising her of the merger and hinting at a reduction in the work force had drifted into her inbox just thirty minutes ago. Before the cowardly declaration, the merger had been folk-lore, a rumor running around the banking circles like a yapping dog. Ellen could read between the lines: two banking giants merge, managers lose their
jobs. What a great note to begin her weekend. She did have fifteen years with the bank, that had to mean something to the upper crust. Fifteen years. But Ellen had not always been manager of the year. She invested in her employees more than the customers. By hiring employees that work well with the public, treating them with respect, creating an environment where employees wanted to come to work had freed Ellen from the customer service bondage.

  The man raised his voice. The customer satisfaction feeling had drained from her when she had read the merger email. Ellen said the taboo words, “Take your money elsewhere, I don’t give a shit.” She slammed down the phone and instantly regretted what she said.

  Her cell phone buzzed in her purse. Ellen fished it out, looked at the caller and knew she had to answer. After she connected the call, there was a long silence.

  “Hello?” Ellen said.

  “I’m lost.” A small voice said.

  “Mom, can you speak up!” Ellen tried to keep her annoyance at bay.

  “I can’t remember how to get home.” Her mother spoke a little louder.

  “What do you mean you can’t remember? Are you driving yourself?”

  “Yes. Nothing looks the same Ellen.” Here mother’s voice cracked when she spoke her name.

  Ellen stood up from her chair and paced in back of her desk. Her mother was never a good driver. Her father had been the one to drive them everywhere, trips, vacations, friend’s houses. Even when her mother was well, she drove to the school, to the grocery store and to her familiar places, which were all within a ten-mile radius. Right after her father’s death two years ago, her mother dropped a bomb on Ellen and her sister, dropped it while the three of them were cleaning the kitchen after the guests had left her father’s funeral reception at the house. Ellen still remembered the awkwardness of the deliverance of the news. Her mother was washing dishes with her back to them, she blurted out, “I was diagnosed with early on-set Alzheimer’s two years ago.” There was no intro conversation, no sit down I have something to tell you, it was like she was mentioning the weather for the day. Her mother refused to answer any questions or talk about it further. She just kept washing the dishes.

  “Ellen, are you there?” her mother asked.

  “Yeah, Mom,” Ellen let out a sigh. “Just take a deep breath, it’s okay. What street are you on?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t recognize anything!” Her mother started to cry.

  “Mom, don’t get upset. What stores do you see?”

  “I’m in the KFC parking lot. I got hungry, went in, got myself a three piece meal, came out, got into my car and now, I just can’t remember which way is home.” Her mother’s voice pitched.

  “Is there a Hardees across the street?”

  “Yes, yes, Ellen, how did you know?”

  “You’re just down the street from the house Mom. I’ll guide you home, stay on the phone with me until you get there.”

  Ellen threw her cell phone back into her purse. Even before the Alzheimer’s diagnosis, she never understood her mother. Why did she get so anxious when she drove? And now with the disease, it was getting worse. And for the love of god, why did she unnecessarily paint the rooms in the house with obnoxious colors every six months? And why, if her mother worshiped Kim, did she call the lack-luster daughter for help all the time. Why not call Kim, the daughter that did everything right. Did she think that Kim’s time was more valuable than Ellen’s? Probably. Their family had been split into teams for as long as Ellen could remember. Kim and Mom and Dad and Ellen was the line up. Card playing, amusement park rides and views on life, it was always the same teams.

  The phone lights flashed. She picked up the handset again, her finger readied to activate the next financial emergency. One hour until she could lock the door, not soon enough. Before she pushed the button, she did a sweeping gaze over the bank, checking on the happenings. Through her glass office walls, she noticed a short man with a large middle—the epitome of the apple shape, and his belt and pants rode well above his belly button. He flailed his arms, and from his profile Ellen could tell his mouth was opening wide, which indicating yelling. She knew that it wouldn’t be long before they buzzed her to come out of her glass enclosure. And her choice: the angry apple or the unknown still flashing on the phone. She chose the apple.

  Ellen walked by the velvet ropes that contained the impatient customers. Workers trying to cash their paychecks to start their weekend, mothers with their children who decide that the ropes are their personal jungle-gym, the suits tapping their feet like their time is more valuable than anyone else’s. While the customers gave her the do something about the lunatic at the counter look, she plastered on her cheery smile and approached the red-faced Apple.

  “I’m Ellen Darnell, the manager here, can I help you?”

  “Yeah, I want my money.” The man turned toward Ellen.

  He was crying. Ellen looked closer at his face, noticing his almond-shaped small eyes and a chin that seemed to get lost in all the flesh that surrounded it.

  “I want my money,” he said again and slammed his hand against the counter.

  Ellen glanced over to the teller. At the bare minimum, Ellen needed a one liner to decide on how to diffuse the situation.

  “Mr. Driscoll, I told you, you have to have your guardian with you to withdraw that amount of money from your account.” The teller said to the man, but spoke in Ellen’s direction.

  “But the sale is going off today. Today! I want that bike. The one on sale, the purple one. I can’t wait for her to come here with me. As he spoke, he waved his hands and spit flew from his plump lower lip. “The sale. Please.” On the word please, he shoved his hands deep into his jean pockets and the tears came again.

  “Mr. Driscoll, I understand that you want to have your money, but you must understand that we are not able to give you that large of a request without your legal guardian here to sign. Do you understand?”

  “You’re mean. It’s mine. I know Sandra won’t let me get that bike. I know it. I’m my own boss, but nobody will let me do what I want. Everybody’s telling me what to do. I’m not leaving until I get my money.” In protest, the Apple dropped to the floor and sat right in front of the line of customers.

  “You know what Mr. Driscoll, I’ve had a really crappy day. I can’t help that you need someone to sign for you to use your own money, I can’t help that,” Ellen said, her temperature rising and her voice ramping. But before she could control herself, the words gushed, “Get up! Right now. Get up!” She pointed her index finger in the man’s face. “We can’t help you and I want you to leave. Do you see all these customers behind you? Do you think they want to see you sit here and pout? Well?” Ellen stared at the man with her hands on her hips. She was near a complete eruption. She calmed herself. The Apple looked behind him, crossed his arms over his chest and stared at Ellen’s feet.

  “Now I’m not going to tell you again. Leave the bank! Or do I have to call the police?” Ellen spoke in a flat controlled voice, anger bubbled behind her words. With a struggle, the man got to his feet and stomped across the bank.

  “You’re a very mean lady!” he said and threw open the bank door.

  Ellen straightened herself and walked past the customers, who instead of being overjoyed that the man holding up the line was gone, they all seemed to give Ellen the Cruella de Vil once over.

  Chapter 2

  Ellen had stopped on her way home for more wine. And that was a good thing, the half-empty Merlot was gone before the heroine had sex with the love interest for the first time. The leads in these movies were all the same: young, decided blondes, with perky breasts, twig-like bodies and great hair. Just once she’d like to see a forty-six year old woman, who’s been married for a zillion years, with saggy, real breasts, and curly, brown hair that won’t behave. Ellen took a deep sip of wine, deciding it would be too painful to watch a movie that encapsulated her life, definitely not entertaining television.

  The jingling of the k
eys against the door woke Ellen. As the news anchors passed the show to a balding meteorologist who was forecasting another week of cold temperatures and rain, Richard opened the door and slid his bags from his shoulders. Without a word, he took his raincoat off and hung it on the back of a kitchen chair. He was always careful not to get water stains on the wooden entry. Still silent, he took his dirty gym clothes to the laundry room and came back to retrieve his laptop.

  As he walked past the den on his way up to the stairs, he said, “I didn’t think you’d be up. How was Bunko night?”

  “I wouldn’t know.” Ellen grabbed her wine glass, finished the swig that clung to the bottom, took the near-empty bottle into the kitchen and shouted again from the kitchen, “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Ellen, I’m tired, I really don’t feel like doing this tonight.”

  “I’m sure, you never feel like doing anything.” Ellen stood at the bottom of the stairs and Richard stopped on the landing before heading up the rest of the way. His shoulders slouched and his lips tightened into one line.

  “You know why I don’t know how Bunko went?” Ellen said and Richard sighed. She knew what this meant, he wanted her to say, just forget it, get angry, go to bed and in the morning not mention it. She wasn’t doing that tonight, maybe it was the movie, the wine or the crappy day, or maybe it was Mr. Driscoll, the angry apple. He had come back. Dammit, he demanded his money, commanded his guardian to go back to the bank with him and coaxed an insincere apology out of Ellen, all for a purple bike. Surely, Richard could give her fifteen minutes of his day. She had given him twenty-five years of her life.