Butterfly Dreams (17 page)

“Oh yes I can.” I grinned and she rolled her eyes.

I walked into the kitchen to find my mom fussing over a saucepan, clicking her tongue.

“It smells great, Mom,” I said, handing her a bottle of her favorite Chardonnay. Even if I couldn't drink it, I knew it would go a long way to appeasing my mother for my being late.

I dropped a kiss on her cheek and slung an arm around her shoulders. “Sorry I'm late.”

“We were supposed to eat fifteen minutes ago. The cream sauce broke and I'm having to reheat it and hope it doesn't ruin everything.” My mother was a perfectionist. It could be a little overbearing at times but she always meant well.

“I'm sure it will be wonderful. Have you ever prepared a bad meal, Mom? I don't think so.”

“Oh hush you and pour me a glass of wine.” She shooed me away, trying not to smile. I had always been able to charm my mother. Even growing up and going through my bratty phases, I only needed to hug her and give her my patented Beckett Kingsley smile, and I got out of trouble each and every time. It drove Zoe nuts.

I went to the cabinet and got out a wine glass, filling it up and handing it to her. “I was at the park with the guys watching their game. Then I had to run by the office to grab some stuff that I need to work on tonight.”

“You work too hard, Beck. You should take it easy. If you need to take more time off, I'm sure your boss would understand.”

If my mother had her way, I'd move back home so she could tuck me into bed every night.

“Yeah, it doesn't work like that, Mom. Besides I can't sit around the house watching TV all day. I'd lose my mind.”

Mom took a long gulp of her wine, her cheeks already flushed. She was a one-glass drunk. It didn't take her much to get tipsy.

“I just worry you're doing too much too soon. It's only been a little over four months since your heart attack—”

“Yeah, I know, Mom,” I interrupted her. I didn't want to talk about my heart. And definitely not with my mother. She became too emotional about it. I couldn't handle the tears tonight.

“Beck, I didn't know you were here,” my dad said, coming into the room. He tried to taste the cream sauce simmering on the stove but Mom pushed him away.

“It'll be ready in ten minutes. You'll just have to wait,” Mom scolded him. When her back was turned, I saw him sneak a cookie from the pantry.

“So how are things at work? You say they're crazy. Why is that?” Mom asked. Dad discreetly wiped his mouth with his hand and I gave him a thumbs-up to let him know he was in the clear.

“Things busy over there, then?” Dad asked, joining in the conversation. Dad was used to corporate life, having worked as a VP of marketing in the city for almost thirty years before retiring last year.

“That's an understatement. The company is trying to break into the European market so that means longer hours for us schleps,” I said tiredly.

“Sounds boring,” Zoe piped up, grabbing a soda from the fridge and popping it open.

“Your brother has a good job. I hope you are so lucky when you graduate from college,” Mom said primly.

“Beck seems just
thrilled
to have such a good job. Aren't you, bro?” My troublemaker sister raised her eyebrows, putting me on the spot.

“It is what it is, I guess.”

“It's money in your pocket, son. It pays your bills and keeps a roof over your head,” my dad lectured.

I glared at Zoe for setting him off. He'd be on a tangent about being responsible for hours if we left him to it.

“I don't know. I was thinking about getting back into photography,” I said offhandedly.

“Photography? I didn't know you still did that,” Mom said, still stirring her sauce.

“I don't. Not really. But I really enjoyed it before sports took over my life. I took some pictures the other day. It was fun. It was just something I was thinking about.”

My dad nodded. “Sounds like a worthwhile hobby. It's important to have things that keep you busy.”

“Maybe I could make some money as a freelance photographer. I know the newspaper is always advertising for freelance positions.”

“Now
that
sounds awesome,” Zoe enthused.

“Well, you have other things to consider now. Like health insurance. Freelance work doesn't provide you the coverage you need for your condition, Beckett,” Dad said. He used my full name. That meant he wanted me to listen and do as I was told.

“It's just an idea, Dad. I'm not saying that I'm quitting my job or anything. But I think I need to do something more rewarding than slinging software.”

“I think it's a kick-ass idea,” Zoe said.

“Language, Zoe,” Mom reprimanded. “And Beck, I think you should do something that makes you happy. I used to love your photographs. I remember that one you took of the Ash Street bridge. Didn't you enter that in a contest?”

“The young photographers' showcase,” I told her.

“That's right! I remember now! That was your freshman year. You were so proud.”

“I placed second out of over a hundred entries. It was a pretty big deal at the time.”

“How did I not know any of this?” Zoe asked indignantly.

“You were too busy taking the heads off your Barbie dolls.” I ruffled her hair again.

She thwacked my arm and I winced. My sister had a hell of an arm.

“So what brought on this brain fart?” Zoe prodded. She took the pile of plates and handed them to me and the two of us went into the dining room to set the table.

“Well, I was talking about it with someone and it got me thinking—”

“Someone? What someone got you thinking about an old hobby that your favorite sister didn't know about?”

I groaned, “God, Zoe, you pick up on the most insignificant details.”

She grinned. “Call it a gift. Now spill. Who's the someone?”

“Her name's Corin, all right. Now fucking drop it,” I warned.

“Ohh, it's a
girl
someone!” she squealed.

“I've never met a dude named Corin,” I pointed out.

“Is she a friend? How do you know her? Why were you talking about photography? How did she even know about it?”

I finished laying out the silverware and moved the floral centerpiece from the table. “Are you going to keep asking me questions or can I answer a few?”

“Please, answer.”

“What are you answering?” Mom asked, coming in with a dish of pasta. My dad followed her with a plate of fresh bread and a bowl of broccoli.

“Beck's been hanging out with a girl named Corin.”

“Oh really? Who's she?” my dad asked, setting the dishes in the center of the table and taking his seat.

The rest of us followed suit and started serving ourselves.

“She's just someone I know. We've gone out a couple of times,” I said nonchalantly. I had planned to tell my parents about Corin. I wanted them to know about her. I just didn't want Zoe grilling me with a thousand intrusive questions.

“That seems pretty soon after breaking up with Sierra, don't you think?” my mother asked.

“Oh, is she a rebound?” Zoe jumped in.

“No, she is definitely
not
a rebound. Things had been over with Sierra for a long time.”

“That's no reason to dive into something with someone new, Beck. You should be concentrating on you and your health. Not starting a relationship,” Mom scolded gently, and I sighed.

“I'm not diving into anything. She was a friend. Now we're sort of dating—”

“How do you sort of date? Is that like being sort of pregnant?” Zoe asked, shoving a forkful of pasta into her mouth.

“Is it serious?” Mom pried, and I regretted letting Zoe bring up the subject at all.

“Yeah, I guess it is,” I admitted.

It was definitely serious. In my heart it couldn't be more serious. But I didn't want to share that with my nosy family.

“How long have you been dating?” Mom asked, putting her inquisitor hat on. No one could dig out information like my mother. She was relentless.

“Not long. A week or so,” I mumbled, eating quickly, hoping that if I kept my mouth full, I wouldn't have to answer their questions.

“A little over a week and you're already serious about her? Damn, she must have a golden hooha!” Zoe exclaimed.

“Zoe, seriously, stop talking like you're with your friends. That's not the sort of thing you should say in front of your parents,” Mom said tiredly.

Zoe ignored her completely. “Well, if you're so into this chick, that means we have to meet her, of course. I have to make sure she's not another Sierra. Because I won't let you go down that road of crazy again,” she announced, waving her fork in the air.

“She's nothing like Sierra, no worries there.” I was getting a headache.

“Your sister's right though, you should bring her over for dinner. We'd like to meet her. What did you say her name was again?” Dad asked.

“Corin. Corin Thompson.”

“And what does Corin do?” Mom sniffed. She could be very judgmental. She had never warmed to Sierra, particularly after my ex's less-than-supportive behavior after my cardiac arrest. And she had been less than pleased with Sierra's lack of career aspirations.

“She runs her own business. She owns Razzle Dazzle, the pottery studio downtown.”

“Oh. Well, that's nice,” Mom said, looking grudgingly impressed.

“Bring her over next week, Beck. I'll come home from school. Play the protective sister bit. I'll get the skinny on your new woman.”

“You don't need to be protective where Corin's concerned. She's…well…she's sort of amazing.”

Zoe blinked a few times, her fork halfway to her mouth. “Damn, you've got it bad. I
have
to meet her.”

I let out a long, tortured breath, knowing there was no point in making an excuse. They'd wear me down eventually.

“Fine. We'll come next Wednesday after work. Nothing special. Corin's a meat and potatoes kind of girl. You don't need to go all out. She'll be happy with whatever you make,” I told my mom.

“What about a pot roast. Will she eat that?” Mom asked.

“Yeah. A pot roast would be great, Mom.”

Mom and her pot roasts…

Dad had lost interest in the conversation and was reading the news on his phone. Zoe was texting.

Maybe I should have asked Corin before I had agreed to a meet and greet with the family.

But it shouldn't be that big of a deal.

Right?

Things with Beckett were getting pretty serious.

More serious than I had ever intended for them to get.

He had infiltrated my life and dug in deep.

I tried not to care about him.

It was like trying to stop a nuclear bomb from melting your face off.

Impossible.

It worried me. This closeness between us. The connection. While I had always craved it, it was overwhelming. It scared me.

To care so much so fast.

Because I wasn't in a position to connect, to
care
about anyone.

Not when I knew that I wouldn't be around long enough to experience it fully.

That was reinforced when I woke up the morning of Geoffery's service in pain. I rolled into a fetal position, not wanting to get out of bed.

Mr. Bingley's furry body was pressed against my face and I started sneezing, making the aching worse.

“Get away, Mr. Bingley,” I moaned, pushing him off the bed.

With a twitch of his tail—his version of fuck you—he sauntered off, not caring in the least about my health crisis.

My lymph nodes felt swollen. I pushed and prodded my armpits and the sides of my neck. Yep, they were definitely swollen.

That could be all manner of illnesses.

My body was most likely fighting off something very serious. It all made sense. Just when I was finding some modicum of happiness, it would be snatched away.

Shakespeare could have written my life. I was a walking, talking tragedy.

Geoffery's memorial service was today. I didn't want to go. I knew it would be bad for me. The last funeral I had attended had been my father's.

I had sat in the front row with my sister, staring at his casket, wishing I could crawl into it with him.

Tamsin had cried but I couldn't. My tears were stuck behind dry, burning eyes. They wouldn't fall. No matter how much I wanted them to.

I had stopped crying weeks before. When I realized they didn't solve anything. When I figured out shedding them was useless.

My father looked so small in the hospital bed. Shrunken. Like he was disappearing into the bedsheets. His skin appeared stretched over his bones, and I could see the sharp outline of his rib bones underneath his shirt.

The steady drone of the machines monitoring his heart, his vital signs, was driving me crazy.

Dad wasn't conscious much anymore. He slept most of the time. His doctors said he had only days left. That I needed to start preparing myself.

I didn't want to prepare myself.

I didn't want to live in a world that my father wasn't a part of.

He had been fighting for so long that I had convinced myself he'd defeat the disease that was eating him from the inside out.

It had become so much a part of our every day that it had become normal. Natural.

Disease. Death. Those were my constants.

I gripped my dad's hand. It was so cold.

So, so cold.

I was crying. Silent tears that fell nowhere.

I didn't cry for my dad who was dying.

I didn't cry for my mother who was already dead.

I cried for me.

Because I was the one who would be left behind.

I cried because I hated my selfishness. That in these final hours of my father's life, all I could think was what if that happened to me?

And I knew, without a doubt, I couldn't go through this again. I couldn't stand to lose someone I loved ever again.

Even worse, I never wanted someone to watch me fade away.

There were some things worse than death.

This slow deterioration was it. This limbo.

It was a living death.

My phone rang from the bedside table but I didn't bother to look to see who it was. I knew it was Beckett.

He had called twice already.

I should answer it.

But I couldn't. I was locked in this sick paranoia of death and dying. It was never ending.

I wanted it to stop but all I could do was shake.

My throat was dry and I wanted something to drink. But it hurt to move.

My chest felt tight and the fluttering in my belly was making me sick.

What was wrong with me?

I just wanted to know!

“I hope you live a long, happy life, Cor.” My mother's words were meant to be reassuring. But sitting with her in the dismal hospital room, it sounded more like the desperate wish of a dying woman.

“What if I don't?” I asked, watching as a nurse came in to take some blood from my mother's arm.

“Don't say that,” she chided, her voice so weak I could barely hear her.

“You're dying. You won't ever know what I do.” I was fourteen and really pissed off. I hated my mother for waxing on and on about this great, beautiful life she was convinced I'd have.

I didn't want her passing on mother wisdom in frantic clumps because she knew this was the only chance she'd have.

I didn't want her to look at me sadly, seeing in her mind the thousands of moments she'd miss.

I wanted her to stop crying when she thought no one was listening.

My heart hurt and I just wanted it to be over.

What kind of horrible monster did that make me?

The worst kind.

The most selfish kind.

“You're right, Corin, I'm dying. I won't get to see the woman you will become, but I know that you will make the most of your life. That you will live it to the fullest. Because you won't just be doing it for you. You'll be doing it for me.”

What a horrible thing for her to say.

The pressure that put on me was suffocating.

It was too much for my teenage brain to compute. Too much for my young heart to handle.

In that moment I hated her for putting those expectations on me.

Expectations I knew I'd never be able to live up to.

“I'd like to make an appointment with Dr. Harrison for as soon as possible,” I wheezed into the phone.

“Hi, Corin, how are you?” Lynn asked, recognizing my voice.

I hadn't been seeing Dr. Harrison that long. I should probably be concerned that the staff could already identify my voice without me having to give my name.

“I've been better. Which is why I want to make an appointment. I woke up this morning with swollen lymph nodes and I'm in a lot of pain,” I explained. I sat up in my bed and tried to stretch out my limbs. I could feel the telltale ache in my groin.

“Okay, well, there's an opening tomorrow morning. Does 9:00 work?”

I covered the phone and coughed. It sounded phlegmy. And my chest did feel tight. I knew there was a nasty strain of flu making the rounds. I wondered whether I had contracted it. I had gotten the flu vaccine as soon as it became available, but maybe it was one of those mutated strains that was drug resistant.

My panic piqued and I squeezed the phone to my ear. “He doesn't have anything available today? I'm feeling really bad.”

“Let me put you on hold a minute and talk to Dr. Harrison,” Lynn said.

“Okay. Please let him know how bad I feel,” I emphasized.

“I will. Just one minute.”

I listened to John Tesh for three agonizing minutes. By the time Lynn got back on the phone, I was ready to dig my eardrums out and stomp on them.

“Dr. Harrison said to have you come in for some blood and we can run a flu test as well as some others. Then you can come in tomorrow and we should have the results. We'll expedite the lab work.”

I let out a sigh of relief. “Okay. That sounds good. I'll be there in twenty minutes.”

“I'll let the nurse know to expect you.”

I hung up and got out of bed, slowly making my way to the shower.

I didn't think what I had was the flu. It felt more serious than that. With very little time to spare I opened up WebMD and looked up my symptoms.

A few minutes later I was pretty much convinced that I had throat cancer.

He stopped breathing and the doctors and nurses rushed into the room, making me leave. The long, steady drone of the monitor pierced my ears. He had flatlined.

His heart wasn't beating.

“Don't leave me, Dad,” I whispered, watching from the hallway as they worked on him.

But he did leave me.

Just like Mom.

And I was alone.

At least the feeling was familiar.

I thought about Beck and how quickly your life could change. He had been a healthy, active man, and in the blink of an eye he died.

Well, those were some warm and fuzzy thoughts for first thing in the morning. I really should have taken a job writing Hallmark cards.

It was already eight-thirty. I needed to get to the shop in an hour to help Adam open.

And I was supposed to go to Geoffery's service with Beckett that evening. A funeral was just what I needed when I was obsessing about my own mortality.

That would provide fodder for my neurosis for months.

Once I was showered and dressed, I got into my car and headed toward Dr. Harrison's office. I called Adam and let him know I might be a few minutes late. He seemed unsurprised. That should probably bother me. But I was too distracted by
dying
to think much about it.

I wondered whether Geoffery would be in a casket or if he had been cremated.

If he was in a casket, would it be open? Would we have to look at his waxy, dead face all evening?

I would have shuddered at the thought if I didn't hurt all over.

I knew that I wanted to be cremated.

I had put in a lot of thought to how my remains would be handled. I had planned my funeral in excruciating detail years ago.

My will had been written and I had already completed a Do Not Resuscitate form in the event that one day I fell into a coma and was being kept alive by life support.

I knew that I never wanted to be left a vegetable.

I didn't want a prolonged hospital stay when the time came and I was approaching the end.

I had given my sister a copy of everything. Of course she had laughed at me and told me that I was ridiculous.

As if I could ever hope she'd understand.

She didn't know what it was like to live every day knowing it could be your last.

She had no freaking clue.

The lucky bitch.

My service would be understated. I had picked out a beautiful poem by Christina Rossetti that I wanted to be read. Not by Tamsin. She'd just mess it up and put no passion into it all. Adam wouldn't be much better with his surly demeanor. In the funeral arrangements I had left the reader undecided. Maybe they could just pull a random off the street for the honor.

I knew that I wanted Sarah McLachlan's “I Will Remember You” playing in the background and I had requested roses of every color.

For all the planning I had put into my own funeral, I hated going to them. I had only been to two. And those two had scarred me forever.

“Why aren't you dressed yet, Cor?” Dad asked from the doorway. I was still lying in my bed, burrowed underneath my covers.

“I can't go, Dad,” I said hoarsely.

“You have to go, sweetheart. You can't let down your mom.” Dad's voice hitched and cracked and I saw him look away so I wouldn't see his tears.

Too freaking late.

I was all too used to the sight of his grief. It was the same horrible thing I saw every time I looked in the mirror.

So I stopped looking.

“I don't want to go. Don't make me,” I begged. I didn't want to cry. I didn't want to hear people talk about what a wonderful woman my mother was.

I most certainly didn't want to see my dad's red-rimmed eyes, puffy and unseeing.

“Get dressed. Please. I don't want to argue with you today of all days. Do this for your mother.”

Do this for your mother.

Live for your mother.

Be happy for your mother.

How could I do that when I couldn't imagine doing any of those things for
myself?

I was only at Dr. Harrison's office for a little over fifteen minutes. Lynn offered me a sweet and this time I took it. The sugar made me feel a little better. She booked me in for a follow-up appointment for the next day so that I could find out the test results.

“We'll see you tomorrow at ten-thirty,” she said as I was leaving.

I nodded and headed back to my car.

My phone rang as I got in.

“Hello?”

“I was about to send out the cavalry. Where have you been?” Beckett asked, and the sound of his voice made me smile.

“I had to have some blood taken,” I told him.

“Why? What's wrong?” He sounded so worried and his concern warmed me from the inside out.

“I don't know. I haven't been feeling right today. Dr. Harrison is going to run some tests.”

“Is it your heart?” he asked, and I could hear the very real fear in his voice.

“I don't think so,” I said truthfully. I knew it wasn't my heart. That wasn't my concern anymore. But I hadn't told Beckett that. I wasn't sure why.

I pulled out onto the road and headed toward the studio.

“Oh, well, that's good.” He sounded so relieved I felt a little guilty. “Are you up to going tonight?” he asked, and I knew this could be my out. I didn't want to go. I would give anything not to experience the crying. The sorrow.

“No, I'll go,” I found myself saying. I really was a glutton for punishment.

“Do you need me to come over? I'll blow off work. I can try to make you a grilled cheese or something.”

“Don't use me as an excuse to get out of going to work,” I laughed.