Butterflies
It would have made a good movie. Except it was my life or half-life. Perched on the end of the pew, as far away from the aisle as possible, I watched my daughter glide by. It occurred to me that the veiled face, in profile, milky and insubstantial, matched the visions in my imagination. As the years passed, I’d lost all sense of how my baby would turn out. Detecting a fluttering in my stomach, somewhere between joy and fear, a throwback to those early months of pregnancy, I clutched at the delicate pendant around my neck.
The service went through its familiar routine. Trying my best to concentrate, my mind stubbornly returned to the past and the terrible decision I had made. With no job, home or family support, I’d given my little girl to a friend, a person trusted to provide a life for my baby I couldn’t possibly offer. The woman was married to a decent man but unable to have a family of her own. The arrangement was perfect, save for the hole deep within my heart. I agreed to walk away, allowing the new family to thrive, and with no awkward questions or strict bureaucracy in those days, my sinfulness and secret were never uncovered. The bargain was sealed on the basis of the baby’s name which I’d already chosen. Considering my youth and propensity for making bad decisions back then, it turned out a stellar choice. The kind couple came through, giving my little girl a loving and happy home. They should have been there today, deserving of every happiness as they watched their child marry. But a random act of recklessness at the hands of a drunk driver had ripped them away in a horrific car crash several years before.
Keeping my promise, for the most part, I stayed away from the town. Information offered by friends who remained close to my growing girl, however, were greedily accepted. The hunger never left. Receiving news of my daughter’s wedding, invisible bonds tugged at my heart in a way no other milestone had. Indecisiveness plagued me, not least in regard to the absent, worthy parents. Could I go if I caught no-one’s eye? With a new name, a curvy frame and mature features, I was unrecognisable as the plain, lanky teenager who’d once roamed the town. When I arrived at the church door, no one questioned the presence of a smartly dressed middle-aged woman who quietly took her place at the end of the pew.
I jerked to the sound of my daughter’s voice. It rippled with nervousness, making my heart catch. Initially glad of the bulk of the man in the next row, I found myself impatient to see the two young people standing at the altar. The veil had been removed. The woman with a voice not unlike mine, the same tremor of anxiety, the familiar tone, stood tall and breathtaking. The mist surrounding my memories burnt away. Like looking in a fairy tale mirror, it had the power to melt away the years. My heart sliced in two.
Once the entire congregation had ventured outside, I left my seat. By then, the photographer was in full swing, herding and grouping flighty guests. Finding another unobtrusive position in the shade of a yew tree, I watched on, proud, shattered, alone, wiping away tears whilst attempting a smile.
A lull to the proceedings was followed by the presentation of a box to the bride. After a moment of discussion with the groom and the photographer, the young woman opened the lid. A kaleidoscope of butterflies emerged, initially forming a tight cloud before, on delicate, beating wings they propelled towards the crowd. Following the progress of one in particular, brightly coloured, flitting and swooping, I took delight until it landed on my jacket. I sensed the eyes of the crowd, including the bride’s. Disengaging from her new husband the young woman stepped forward, her head tilted to one side, hand searching, finding the pendant around her neck.
Knowing a hasty retreat would raise more questions than remaining still, I lowered my gaze to take in the tiny wings, a patchwork of red, orange and darkest brown. Its true name was a girl’s name, and not the maritime title more commonly used. I looked up at the swish of satin.
‘It’s good luck, you know, to have a butterfly land on you,’ said the bride.
‘Yes, I know,’ I murmured.
‘People think it’s an Admiral, but it’s scientific name is Vanessa Atalanta, like mine. The Vanessa part, that is.’
My heart lurched.
‘That’s why I have this pendant.’ The bride lifted the frail, insubstantial piece of sculpted silver which, at the time, was all I could afford to give her as a parting gift. ‘My real mother gave it to me before she died.’
I raised a hand to cover my own identical charm. The real butterfly folded and unfolded its wings, in calm opposition to the pulsing beat of my heart. Dead. No, not dead. I’d never known what the couple had told her. Was it a good explanation?
‘You must be here for the groom, are you? For Phil, my new husband? Although, there’s something familiar about you. Sorry, but have we met?’
My mind froze, the skin on my forehead icy, limbs heavy.
The bride frowned. ‘Goodness. Here, grab onto me. You need to sit down.’
She put an arm around my waist and waved to her partner. Briskly seated on a bench, the pact to be inconspicuous shattered. With shaking hands, I unzipped my handbag, hunting for a tissue. the pendant swung forward.
‘Hey, Vanessa, look, this lady has the same necklace as you,’ said the groom. ‘Wow! Coincidence or what? And she was the only one who had a butterfly land on her.’ He turned to his new wife, smiling. ‘It’s like a special connection, right?’
We gazed at our faces and the worn, cheap jewellery that graced each neck.
The bride swallowed, her brow wrinkling delicately. ‘ I know you, don’t I?’
Tears leaked. ‘Yes, Vanessa, you do.’
THE END