The Butterfly Sister (21 page)

“Did she take you from the airport?” I asked.

Beth didn't hesitate to reveal the details of her disappearance. She said Meryl had approached her in the e-ticket line, saying she needed to talk to her, even offered to buy her a cup of coffee. Beth agreed because she had gotten to the airport early and didn't consider Meryl a threat. They did go for coffee, during which Meryl pleaded with Beth not to have the abortion, not to let Mark dictate her future. But Beth would not change her mind.

“I can only guess she slipped something into my cup at some point,” Beth explained. “Because I started to feel really light-headed. She offered to let me sleep in her car for a while, and I did, because I was too dizzy to think clearly. I remember lying on my side in the passenger seat. ‘I'll take care of you,' Meryl said. ‘I'll take it from here.' And that's all I remember. Until I woke up in this cabin.”

“How scary,” I said, imagining her distress the past nine days.

“You know, it's not all bad here,” Beth said. “I've slept most of the time because I'm so exhausted. I guess that's normal at this point of pregnancy. I wake up mostly to eat. And she feeds me. Wonderfully delicious things. Omelets and fresh fruit and orange juice. Spinach salad. Chicken breast, even.”

“You eat the food she prepares you? Aren't you afraid she's poisoning you?”

“No. When I figured out she wanted my baby, I realized she wouldn't give me anything harmful. This baby is my lifeline, Ruby. It's saved my life.”

“When did you figure out she wanted the baby?”

“It came to me in bits and pieces. She talked a lot about the baby, whether it was a girl or a boy, and how she hoped it didn't look like Mark. How I was so lucky to have conceived, to have this special gift growing inside me.” Beth paused, as if Meryl's words had convinced her of that fact. “She takes good care of me. She gives me prenatal vitamins. And in the morning, for my nausea, she serves me this wonderful tea. It's herbal. It has chamomile and rosehips and yam, all sorts of wonderful things.”

My entire body froze, every limb, every finger and toe, every organ. I didn't breathe or blink or quiver. Everything ceased moving, except my brain, which exploded with the horrific discovery.

“Tea?” I managed to say.

“It's a recipe passed down from her grandmother.”

I didn't respond. And Beth sensed I was quiet for too long.

“Ruby?” she said, reaching for my hand.

“It's not Meryl,” I got out.

“
Who's
not Meryl?”

But just then, I heard the unlatching of a dead bolt and saw the door open, a beam of light from the cabin's front room shot across the floor and forged an arrow at us.

Watching the dark figure in the doorway, I prepared to see a very familiar face.

Chapter 17

S
he flipped the light switch, and once our eyes met, a wave of anger coursed through me. If it had been someone like John C. Grenshaw keeping me captive, I would have been scared. But anger won out against Virginia Barnard. Frankly, I was pissed.

“What are you doing?” I blurted.

Professor Barnard held up a hand, as if I might charge her any minute. “Ruby, please. I'm not the enemy here. Just let me explain.”

“Explain why you pretended to be Meryl?” I shot back.

“You're not Meryl?” Beth cried, as if lying about her identity was the worst of our captor's actions, not the actual abduction. “Then who are you?”

“A pathological liar,” I said. “Her name is Virginia Barnard. She's a professor at Tarble.”

Beth blinked several times and shook her head, her eyes fixed on nothing as her mind processed the information. “I don't understand,” she said. “If you're not Meryl, why did you take me? Why did you keep me here?”

“To protect you,” she said. “
Both
of you.”

Earlier that day, I had marveled at the closeness Professor Barnard and I shared, but now it made me wiggle with repulsion. It was flat out creepy. “Protect us? From what?”

“From Mark.”

It was the first time Professor Barnard had ever referred to him as Mark, not Suter or Professor Suter. And the way she said his name—the breath in her voice, the high pitch of the vowel sound—revealed she was not as impartial to him as I'd once believed.

“I never wanted to lie to you.” She came toward us then, cocking her head in surrender, like a dog showing its tummy. “But it was for your own good. And I know you'll understand my actions once you let me explain. Trust me, the end really does justify the means.”

Beth and I exchanged glances, but neither of us protested an explanation.

The professor, now standing a few feet before us, paused to inhale and exhale several times. I saw her eyes turn glossy and reflective as she fought back tears.

“You have to understand how much I loved my sister,” she finally said. “And how much she loved me. We were soul mates. We should have been twins. But Jenny was six years old when I was born, and because of that, her feelings for me bordered on the maternal. She used to say I was better than any baby doll she'd ever had. Because I was real. And because I loved her back. She called me
butterfly sister
because I was born on the same spring day the monarch butterflies hatched from their cocoons in her first grade classroom. And she never ceased looking at me with curiosity and wonder, never stopped reminding me of my beauty and goodness and grace. And I, in turn, adored her. Everything she did, the way she walked and talked, the way she braided her hair, the way she danced and roller-skated and sang without effort, was pure magic to me. Watching her was like watching my favorite television show. My eyes never wavered. I was fascinated by her. I'm telling you this, because you need to understand what we meant to each other, how we needed each other to brave this world. We slept in the same room because we wanted to, not because we had to. And on the nights my father came home drunk, we lay beside each other in my twin bed, our fingers laced in the ravine of space between us, fearing he'd grow tired of beating on our mother and drag us out of bed. He never did. But I knew if he had, Jenny would go. Jenny would always go before me.”

Beth and I made eye contact again, and on her face, I read the same confusion I felt. But neither of us interrupted, and the professor continued her story.

“We were inseparable, even when our age difference started to matter, even when Jenny became a woman, and I was still a girl. If she could, she always took me with her when she left the house, without thinking, like grabbing your purse on the way out the door. And when it came time for her to go to college, she didn't want to leave me behind. But she was very talented, a gifted actress, and she got a theater scholarship—an offer she couldn't refuse from a school out of her reach—and she took the opportunity. It was three hours away, and she promised to come home whenever she could, and in the meantime, she would write to me. And she kept her word. I received a letter from her every two to three days. I relished every detail she shared, about her roommate and dorm life, about her classes and auditions. I lived through her, vicariously, and at twelve years old, without my own set of life experiences, I had the capacity to feel whatever she felt, just by reading her letters. When she got the lead in the play, I felt like I did too. And when she fell in love, I fell also.

“He was a senior. Three years older. And oh, was he handsome. That smile, those eyes. She sent me his picture, and I tacked it above my bed and stared at it, even at night in the split second when a car passed our house and headlights lit the room. I fell asleep thinking about him, dreaming about him. She said he could have had any girl on campus, but he chose
her.
And in my mind, he chose me. Maybe if our father had been more attentive, if he hadn't been a drunk, if he hadn't cheated time and time again on our mother, we wouldn't have fallen so hard. But we did. And I cherished the story of how they met. That he'd seen her from afar, fallen in love at first sight, and I imagined him sitting on that bench outside her class, waiting for her to walk by so he could ask her out, ask me out. She fell in love with him the way you do the first time, when youth is still on your side, in a very physical way, with her whole heart and mind and soul. He became part of her identity. My identity. Like life support, we could not breathe without him.”

A warmth filled my chest then and bubbled up into my throat, before falling over my shoulders and down my arms like a sprinkling of rain. I'd heard this story before. From Mark.

Jenny,
that was the name of the emotionally unstable girl Mark dated at Tulane, the girl who'd gotten the lead in
The Mikado
.

“And he gave her a most precious gift.” The professor's voice cracked on the word
gift,
but she recovered by clearing her throat. “She became pregnant with his child. To many girls, this would have been a horrific discovery, but not to Jenny. Sure, it would compromise her education and her career, but she didn't care. She had
his
baby growing inside of her, and in this way, they could never be separated. He would have to love her forever. But he pleaded with her not to keep the baby.” She lowered her voice an octave. “ ‘What kind of future will we have together if we don't finish school?' he said. ‘I want to marry you, Jenny, but I want to do it the
right
way. If you love me, a baby can wait.' ”

The professor bowed her head. “Jenny believed him,” she said, her eyes still on the cabin floor. “She took to heart his promise of their future together. And she ended the life of the child.”

I looked to Beth. Her hand immediately went to her stomach and stayed there like a barrier, a road block.

“I'm not going to let you take my baby,” she cried.

Professor Barnard smiled. “I'm so happy to hear you say that. Because I don't want your baby, Beth. I just want you to want it.”

Beth narrowed her eyes; she looked hurt, bewildered, frightened.

“Why did you take her then?” I interjected.

“May I finish the story?” she asked.

We nodded, and she went on.

“A few weeks after the abortion, he stopped returning Jenny's calls. Just like that. He'd made love to her one day and the next, forgotten her very existence. He avoided her. She'd come by his apartment, but his roommate would say he was out. She'd look for him in all their usual meeting places, but never found him. It was pure torture, and one day, she decided enough was enough. She had given up
a child
for him, ripped a life out from inside of her. She would
make him
talk to her.” On each syllable, she pounded her fist on the palm of the other hand, violently, as if pretending it was his skull. “So she waited for him outside one of his classes, just as he had for her in the beginning.

“But when she finally confronted him, he made a fool of her, in front of everyone,” she cried. “He called her a freak. He said he didn't love her. He had never loved her.”

I imagined it all vividly. The girl crying, tears streaking her face, a crowd of students gawking at the scene.

“It was the same day
The Mikado
was set to open. She was so distraught, she couldn't perform,” the professor went on. “The understudy had to do it. She couldn't eat, couldn't sleep. She was comatose. It was the guilt. She had
murdered
her child, her own flesh and blood for a man who did not love her. And the guilt ate away at her heart, gnawed it until one day, in a moment of deep despair, she swallowed all of her roommate's painkillers. They didn't find her until it was too late. They couldn't revive her. She was gone, and I lost the only person in this world who loved me, the only person I had ever felt close to. I know in my heart, my sister didn't want to die. Like most young girls who overdose on pills, it was a cry for help. She never would have left me alone in this world, not on purpose. She thought someone would find her. Or maybe she didn't think. She was acting on feelings, not thoughts.”

Professor Barnard dropped to her knees before Beth. The sudden movement caused her hair to fall from its knot at the nape of her neck. “Don't you see why I
had
to take you, Beth?” she pleaded. “I was protecting you from the pain of the decision you were about to make. A decision that could have destroyed the rest of your life. You didn't understand the gift you had growing inside you. You didn't know the pain and guilt ahead of you. I had to stop you. I had no choice.”

I stared at the professor then, at her wild wisps of hair and agonized expression, and I understood her pain. She'd lost her sister; I'd lost my father. But I also saw the worst-case scenario of my future. That twenty years from now, I'd still be telling stories about how Mark hurt me. I'd still use him as an excuse for not dating, for not writing, for not living. I'd be forever crippled by my past.

“I'm truly sorry for your loss,” I said. “But I don't think this is about Beth. It's about you and your sister. You want revenge. You want to punish Mark for something that happened decades ago.
”

Beth's eyes grew wide. “Mark?” she repeated. “You mean,
he's
the guy?”

“She tracked him down,” I said. “All these years later, she went looking for him.”

“But I didn't. He came to me,” the professor said. “You did too.”

“Me?”

“It was destiny, I think. After my sister died, I inherited all of her belongings—her books, her diary, her pictures, letters she never sent, and I pieced together what had happened. I blamed Mark for her death. And as easily as I fell in love with him, I began hating him. Loathing him. The anger I harbored for him suppressed my sadness about my sister. Years later, when I was old enough to leave home, I moved to New Orleans because that is where Jenny died, where I felt her spirit, her soul. I went to school there too, majored in theater just like her, and English. And I lived there many years, never thinking of Mark Suter. But then one night, I couldn't sleep, and something prompted me to go out for a coffee, and not ten minutes later, there he was. I recognized him immediately, the moment the two of you walked into the café. That arrogant saunter and condescending smirk. And you, another victim of his good looks and lies.”

A memory flickered inside me then, but before my mind could even conjure it, my body sensed it. Every hair lifted off my skin, every pore opened and gasped for air.

“You,” was all I got out.

“Yes, Ruby. It was me,” she said. “Do you know it was a year ago? Almost to the day?”

My mind fumbled through the memory of my first night in New Orleans with Mark. The woman at Café Du Monde writing in her notebook had hardly looked like Virginia Barnard. That woman's hair had been brown and wiry. She'd worn glasses.

“You said mistress,” I said, recalling her disapproving look. “You called me his mistress.”

“Oh, honey, did you think that?” She reached for my arm, but I pulled away. “I said, ‘Don't trust him.' I was trying to warn you. The very sight of him sickened me. Because I saw he'd gotten older, but he hadn't changed. He was still preying on young girls with fresh, vulnerable hearts. And I knew one day he would cast you aside like a bone stripped of its meat, just like he did Jenny. He would ruin you, suck the future right out of you. And that's when everything clicked, that's when I vowed to keep him from doing this to another girl.”

“So that's why you got the job at Tarble?” I asked. “To stalk him?”

“To
watch
him,” she corrected. “I knew you couldn't be the first student to swoon at his charm, nor the last. And he had to be stopped. He had to be punished. I wanted to bury Mark in his own lies. He had to be publicly humiliated, his moral indecency splattered in the news. He had to be ruined. But even more than that, I wanted to liberate you. All of you. He had to pay for what he did, and you had to be the ones to deliver that punishment. I could guide you, assist you, nudge you, but ultimately, I wanted you to do it. I knew you had to, if you ever wanted to move forward with your life.”