Frozen Butterflies Read online

  “I bought two tickets for New York. We’ll leave tomorrow morning. We should make it for Thanksgiving dinner. Perhaps a little late.”

  “Nick?”

  “Yes?”

  “I wasn’t planning on spending Thanksgiving with my father. We don’t need to be in New York for Thanksgiving.”

  “Well, we will be anyhow. Maybe you could come to my place and have dinner with my family. It’d be just my family.”

  Nick was becoming more and more real to me every day. I was excited, but I was afraid too. Hard to say why.

  “By the way, why are you still at school?”

  “Research.”

  “On what?”

  “A student . . . or someone I thought was one of my students, but I haven’t had any luck so far. In fact, I should do research on Andrew now that we know his last name.”

  “I looked for him on the internet but didn’t find much. I have to go. My other phone is ringing. Let me know if you find anything helpful.”

  I took off my shoes and started looking for Andrew. After so much time talking about him and reading his most intimate thoughts, I wanted, needed, to see his face. When I found his picture on the internet, I was shocked. Andrew Pratt looked exactly like the student I had met that day in my office—John. Maybe Andrew was a bit younger than him, but he looked strikingly similar. I did more research and found out that Andrew Pratt was in fact named J. Andrew Pratt, that is, John Andrew Pratt. So he introduced himself without giving his full name. I wonder why he came to see me and my class? Did he know I coauthored Nick’s posts? Is that why he came? I called Nick.

  “I think I met Andrew. A couple of weeks ago. He came to my class and then to my office.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “He said his name was John. But I did some research, and in the pictures I found Andrew Pratt looks identical to that guy, well, very similar. And, by the way, Andrew’s full name is John Andrew Pratt. So that John was in fact Andrew. Must be. They look so similar. Can’t be a coincidence.”

  “Did he ask you about the blog?”

  “No, not at all. Our exchange was so brief. I thought he was one of my students. We really didn’t talk much. It felt like he was studying me. Maybe he came to see who I was, see whether his journal was in good hands . . . maybe . . .”

  “So he’s not in New York?”

  “Well, he wasn’t when he was here.”

  “Did you find where he works?”

  “No. The only information I found on the internet has to do with the last novel he published, The Truth About Me.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’ll get us a copy.”

  Nick said he would come pick me up the next day. I was cleaning my office and starting to put my books into a box when someone knocked on my door.

  “Are you leaving?”

  “Matt? What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve got a friend who teaches here. I mentioned your name, and he said I could find you here.”

  “I’m going to New York with Nick. We think Andrew might be there. We talked to Emily’s mother yesterday. Did you know Emily’s dead? Actually, she was already dead when Andrew started working on Lies.”

  “What? Andrew’s girlfriend? No, I didn’t.”

  We talked more about Andrew and my exchange with John or Andrew that day, and as I resumed packing he asked me whether I was leaving for good. I looked around. His question made sense. There was nothing left on the shelves or on my desk.

  “I wish I knew what to say. I just feel I have to pack.”

  “So you’re going to with Nick?”

  “I am.”

  “Are you guys together?”

  I didn’t know how to answer that question either, so I didn’t.

  “I hope you’ll come back,” he then said. “I liked our time together, and you gave me great ideas for my work. Remember, after all, The Girl, the Beach, and the Rain might become a bestseller.” He smiled.

  “Are you seriously working on it?”

  “Oh, yeah. I’ve got a third of it done now. I guess . . . I can’t wait to show it to you. Can I . . . buy you a drink, pizza, or something? When do you leave?”

  “I leave tomorrow and haven’t packed yet. If you want, we could order pizza and eat at my place while I pack.”

  We called a taxi, and a few minutes later we were at my apartment.

  “Nice place,” Matt said, looking around.

  “Thanks. I’ve never completely settled in, although I own it. A gift from my father.”

  “Why don’t you have a good relationship with him?”

  “It’s a long story. Probably we never learned how to talk to each other. My mother died when I was seven. I grew up with my grandmother. He never opened up to me, and, as a consequence, neither did I.”

  “Maybe this trip to New York could help.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “It’s a shame, I mean, failing to fix things when we can do something about them.”

  “I don’t know if there is anything I want to fix. In fact, I don’t know if there is anything that can be fixed.”

  I ordered pizza and started packing. He was seated on the sofa watching me throw things randomly in my suitcase and asking me questions that were not really connected to each other.

  “Is there anything I can do?” he then asked.

  Before I could answer him, the phone rang, and I picked it up. It was Nick. He was checking to see if I needed anything for the trip.

  “Was that your friend, the journalist?” Matt asked, after I hung up.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure he’s not into you?”

  “He likes me, but . . .”

  “What about you?”

  My light bulb burnt out, and we were left in the dark.

  “Would you . . . kiss me?” Matt asked.

  “Actually . . . I . . .”

  He came closer to me.

  “I love the way you smell.”

  I felt the warmth of his breath. He kissed my neck, and I felt disoriented, then uncomfortable.

  “Matt . . . wait. I can’t. I do, I feel something for Nick.”

  When his warmth left my skin, I felt relieved.

  “I’d better go,” he said, and turned away from me. And then I heard him close the door quietly behind him.

  Thanksgiving

  And soon it was morning. Nick was waiting for me outside my apartment.

  “Did you have fun yesterday?” He asked, after placing my suitcase in the trunk.

  “What? With Matt, you mean? He helped me pack. We chatted. That’s all.”

  “Was he really interested in packing . . . ?”

  “Please. Nothing happened.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Why would I lie to you?”

  “Right. Why would you?”

  As we drove to the airport, we talked about Andrew’s novels. Nick had found the last available copy of The Truth About Me at a used book store, and he had the copy of Lies We Tell Joe had given him. Truth was in the same style as Lies, except Andrew had used a shade of gray for its drawings.

  “Somehow Truth feels darker than Lies,” Nick said, leafing through the pages. “The blue-purple in Lies softens the darkness,” he added, “makes the story more intimate, less cold and hopeless. But it’s not just the color that gives me that impression.”

  No, it wasn’t just the color. Sometimes the truth did look darker than the lies.

  The Truth About Me described a few days of Andrew’s life. In fact, the story revolved entirely around three or four days. But Andrew described every detail, every moment, through his own eyes, thoughts, and perceptions, thus incredibly expanding the time and space of each of those moments. His coffee and cigarette in front of a cartoon, his short walk to the trashcan every morning, his observing people, days spent in his pajamas, his reactions to the news, a phone call to Ed, his struggles in front of a blank page, some more cartoons, a porn movie, the waiting for Emily to come home, the mod
est dinner, the few exchanges with her. Emily was there, but she wasn’t really. She was more of an extra than a true character. And the story was not about love as much as it was in Lies. In Truth, Andrew didn’t seem to understand what Emily meant to him. I leafed through the pages and saw things more clearly. I saw Andrew, the man who had come visit me in my office. Then I looked outside the window and lost focus for a while. The clouds were thick white walls to my perception, there, even when I could not see them or wasn’t even aware of them. And yet I had started seeing through them. Or at least it felt so.

  “Wine?” Nick called to the stewardess. “I can’t fly without drinking.”

  He drank all of his wine and then asked for more.

  “So what happened with Matt?”

  “Nothing happened.”

  “Then why aren’t you looking at me when you answer my question?”

  “Didn’t you say you didn’t care about whether I slept with other men?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Then you shouldn’t ask that question.”

  “I’d like to know if you did.”

  “Why?”

  He remained silent.

  “All right. I did it. I slept with Matt. Happy now?”

  He unfastened his seatbelt and walked away.

  I could not tell how long he was gone, but it must have been a while. I lost track of the time, trapped as I was in a mixture of confused feelings, not all of which were about Nick, not all of which were about the present.

  “I’m sorry, I needed something stronger than wine,” said Nick when he returned, almost waking me up from my trance. “Why did you lie to me?”

  “Is that the point? That I lied to you, or that I slept with another man? Do you actually care?”

  The woman seated in front of us turned toward us and gave us a strange look.

  “Don’t be so loud,” Nick said.

  “Do you actually care?” I didn’t lower my voice.

  “I care. I care because we’re friends, and I expect my friends to be honest with me.”

  “So that’s what this is all about? Honesty between two friends?”

  “Yes. Sorry if this is important to me.”

  “It’s important to me too, Nick.”

  “Then why did you lie to me? First you said nothing happened, and now you tell me you slept with him?”

  I looked at him and didn’t know what to say. Should I be honest? Should I pretend?

  “It’s so hard. I don’t even know what I should or shouldn’t say to you. You’re always uncomfortable when I talk about my feelings. I always have to censor myself with you, like there’s a line I can’t cross, a very thin line sometimes I can’t even see.”

  “So you would have told me about Matt if you could talk to me about your feelings?”

  “I didn’t sleep with him, Nick. He tried to kiss me, and I stopped him because I couldn’t. I didn’t want to.”

  There was some silence, and then he poured his eyes into mine and the cold gray of the truth became light-blue and purple. Was it just lies? He kissed me. It felt warm. Everything did. And I liked it. I still did.

  The hotel in New York was gorgeous, with a spacious lobby and elegant chandeliers hanging from the tall ceiling. There were carpets, big ones, everywhere, and many concierges ready to meet any of their customers’ wishes and caprices, even the unexpressed ones. I was surprised by Nick’s choice. I was expecting something modest, something that would fit a blogger’s finances. Nick continued to be a mystery to me.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Levitt, here’s the keys to your room,” the desk clerk said.

  I smiled.

  “One room, Mr. Levitt?” I asked.

  “I thought you might not like it if I left you alone. There’s just too much light for your tastes. Am I right?” He winked at me, and we took the elevator to our room.

  The bed was large and soft. I sat and looked outside. We had a wonderful view of St. Patrick’s Cathedral and so much space. Nick took off his jacket, sat on a couch, and remained still for a while, looking at me. I didn’t notice at first, as inebriated as I was by the scent of the bedsheet and the room. And the view. And the dim light, the only one he had left on. But then I turned and caught his look.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Every time you and I are alone, I feel I have to make love to you.”

  I too wanted, needed, to make love to him every time we were alone, but I didn’t say it. The clouds were still wrapped around me, and although I had started to see through them, there was something missing, something either he or I had decided not to share. Making love was all we had, and sometimes even that didn’t seem to belong to us. It felt stolen. From whom? From what? I couldn’t say.

  He pulled off my dress and kissed me, and his kiss was long and made me want more. We made love, and it was slow, intense. At first I could hear the sound of the traffic coming from outside, but then that sound became softer and softer, and then it almost disappeared. Did we silence it? Had we silenced everything around us? I closed my eyes and imagined his arms around me, I almost felt they were there, except they weren’t. He said something but his voice was becoming more and more distant. I could barely hear it from where I was. I felt as if I had just reached the bottom of the ocean, a dark-blue, peaceful corner of my ocean. From there I could see the surface and a slice of light coming from somewhere far off. I could see it, but I didn’t want to grab it. I felt comfortable right where I was, did not want to move. I was lighter, at the bottom of the ocean, alone, while Nick was somewhere on the surface, waiting for me to return, to return to him. But then he became tired of waiting, came closer to me, and started kissing my breasts to wake me back to him, to take me back to the surface, and he succeeded. I felt desire again, he did too, and we made love again.

  “My family’s waiting for us,” he then said, “we should probably go, just a quick visit.”

  I said that was fine, and I soon rose from the bed to reconnect with the surface as quickly as I could. We got dressed, called a taxi, and headed to Nick’s mother’s home. She lived on 66th and 5th, not far from our hotel. The building looked elegant and, from its façade, I counted six floors. There was green all around and, across the street, a small Italian restaurant— “addictive but expensive,” as Nick described it. We rang the intercom and waited a bit. Soon a voice welcomed us. Nick pushed the heavy entrance door open and let me go first. We took the elevator and went up to the sixth floor.

  “This is where my mother lives. She’s always lived on top floors. She’s afraid of being too close to the ground. And this is true in so many ways.”

  “What about your father? How was he?”

  “A jerk,” he said, when the door of the elevator opened.

  “Who’s a jerk?” an older woman asked, opening her arms to hug Nick.

  “Dad. I was telling Susan about him.”

  “I’m sorry . . . Susan?”

  “Yes, nice to meet you, Mrs. Levitt.”

  “Delighted. Please call me Ellen.”

  She smiled at Nick and then invited us in. We followed Nick’s mother to the living room, where the rest of the family was. The room was elegant and tastefully decorated. There was a huge red carpet and many couches. In the middle was a large coffee table that was almost hard to see for all the half-empty champagne glasses resting on it.

  “Would you like something to drink? Champagne? Red? White?”

  “I’ll have a glass of champagne,” Nick said.

  “That’ll be fine for me too, thanks.”

  “Perfect,” Nick’s mother said, and disappeared.

  Nick turned and introduced me to his family as “a friend from work.” And then he introduced the family to me. “Susan, this is my brother Ethan, my sister Ann, my cousins Frank, Elsa, and Joel, and . . . oh, I didn’t know you were here, this is Elinor. Elinor this is Susan. Elinor is . . . my ex-wife.”

  I froze, but then offered her my hand.

  “Hi,” said El
inor, as she got up and left the room.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know Elinor would be here,” Nick whispered to me. “I’ll explain it to you later.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Nick had never mentioned that he had been married. But did he have to? Elinor was his ex-wife—ex, past, done. Maybe he just didn’t want to talk about it. It made sense. Didn’t it?

  As I was trying to make sense of what was happening, Elinor returned with a glass of champagne. She was tall, thin, blond, and pale. She had short hair and big blue eyes that dominated her small face. She was so thin you’d fear breaking her just by shaking her hand. But the tattoos all over her body seemed to convey, or were meant to convey, the opposite idea. She was wearing tight pinstripe pants, black heels, and a black top that fell morbidly on her tiny breasts. She smelled good, something like citrus. Elinor reminded me of Emily. Hard to say how exactly. Probably Nick saw the resemblance too. When I first asked him about Andrew’s journal, he said the description of Emily, her story, sounded familiar to him. Is that why he kept the diary? Was it his memory of Elinor or me that had brought us to New York?

  As I was trying to answer my own questions, Nick followed his mother into the kitchen, and I was left alone with Elinor—or so it felt. She was sitting just across from me, silent, while the rest of the crowd seemed to all be excited about a board game that didn’t interest her.

  “What do you do for living, Elinor?” I asked.

  “I dance, and teach classical ballet at a school nearby.”

  Right. A dancer.

  “And you?”

  “I teach psychology.”

  “How do you know Nick?”

  I thought about how Nick and I first met, and I was a bit embarrassed to say that it had been at a nightclub, but I felt so confused that I couldn’t come up with a better answer than the truth. In fact, I didn’t even try.

  “We met at a nightclub. I had never been there before and felt a bit awkward. I think Nick noticed and offered to have a drink with me.”

  “How polite of him,” she said, while Nick was returning with our champagne.

  “Who’s polite?” he asked, as he handed me a glass.

  “You, Nick. Susan was telling me about how you two met. So polite of you to come to her rescue.”