The Butterfly Tree

         Janie’s husband sat on the bed folding clothes. His large hands moved steadily and gently; grab, fold, place. The rhythm of the activity freed his mind to wander. Janie was starting her new job today. No, it was more like her first job, the man told himself. That receptionist position she had in college didn’t count. This morning he woke to find her already gone, by that time already on the subway to Manhattan. He imagined her holding on to one of the handle bars, wearing her navy skirt and jacket, her brown leather bag slung over her shoulder. She nearly always wore t-shirts and jeans around the house, so this dressing up idea was still a new thing for John. She would have been nervous, he thought, walking into that gigantic office with the glass walls on the 16th floor of a New York City skyscraper.

         Since Janie had her work and the babysitter had appendicitis, John was left to watch Mallory. Not that she was much difficulty, he mused. Mallory was a quiet child. The spitting image of her mother, she sported light gray eyes and an expression on her face that was the dictionary definition of wisdom. Though she was only three years old, Mallory could tell you precisely what she was thinking in language far beyond the normal toddler’s vocabulary. Being such a precocious child, she rarely wasted her time on toys or other trivial amusements. Before her birth John had filled her nursery with books, and Mallory spent most of her time pouring over the pages, willing herself to be able to read.

         At the present moment, the house was silent except for the almost inaudible sounds of clothes being folded and the ticking of a distant clock. John wondered which book Mallory was “reading” now: Great Expectations or the Poe collection? Just as he came to the conclusion that it was probably Great Expectations, Mallory appeared in the doorway.

         “Daddy?”

         “Yes, dear?”

         “Where’s Mommy?”

         John glanced at his watch. Four-thirty. Janie had promised to be home by four. “Probably just running a bit late.”

         “But she left for work an hour ago.”

         John looked up from the laundry in surprise. “Did she call and tell you that?”

         Mallory didn’t respond, but stared down at the fibers in the carpet, scuffing them up with her shoe. “I’m going to go color her a picture. Of a butterfly tree.”

         “Okay…”

         The little girl slowly backed out of the room and tiptoed silently down the hallway. The phone rang with a harsh, tinny trill and John flinched. He picked it up.

         Without waiting for a hello, a deep voice said, “John Haines?”

          An unusual sensation, similar to dread, began to pool in John’s stomach and was sent through his veins. He replied, “Yes? This is John Haines.”

         “Sir, is your wife Jane Haines?”

         “Yes.” More dread was shooting through his arteries and pumping through his heart.

         “You should come to the hospital immediately. There’s been an accident. Your wife’s alive. But you need to get here quickly.”

         John’s heart raced against his ribcage and he fought for breath. “What k-kind of ac-accident?” he stammered.

         “You need to come to the hospital, sir. Quickly.”



         It was lunchtime. Janie was eating cold chicken on sourdough bread and a package of crackers. She was sitting at her new desk, which was not far from the glass wall where thousands of people could be seen on the streets below, hustling and bustling to their various destinations. Janie hummed as she ate. New York City was easy to like, but not so easy to commute to.

         As she chewed meticulously on her sandwich, the sound of conversations and light laughter drifted over her shoulder. Her many coworkers were crowded into the lunchroom, and a few were looking directly at her. They must have been thinking how odd it was that the new girl was sitting all alone on her first day and not even trying to associate with the others. But this was the last thing on Janie’s mind. She was thinking of how John would cope with watching Mallory all day. What would he feed her? She tried to remember if there were any Spaghetti-O’s left in the pantry. Maybe she should call him.

         Just as Janie took her cell phone out, there was a great rush as everyone scurried back toward their desks. She sighed and put her phone back in her pocket again. John would be fine. Besides, they still had ample amounts of macaroni and cheese.



         At Johnson & Bell Publishing Co. it was acceptable to leave at three-thirty if you had all your work done. Janie was finished at two forty-five, and had nothing to do but pick her nails until her boss came around to check up on her.

“Doing all right, Jane?” Mr. Keefe asked.

         “Just fine. And you can call me Janie.”

         Mr. Keefe picked up the pile of paperwork on her desk and flipped through it. “Done already? Nice job. Very, very impressive. You can go home if you like. I imagine you’re worn out from all that reading. I hope your first day wasn’t too awful?”

         “Oh, not at all!” Janie gushed. “It was very nice. I think I’ll be right at home here.”

         “Great. See you tomorrow, then.”

         Janie hurriedly gathered up her supplies, stuffed them in her new brown leather bag, and set off down the hallway. She barely had time to register the jealous whispers of her coworkers before the door to the wide office floor shut behind her with a click.

         The elevators stood there, buttons glowing, waiting for Janie. Their silver doors glimmered threateningly. Janie had only one great fear. She was exceptionally claustrophobic. Even thinking about an elevator made her pulse quicken and her palms moisten. She always took the stairs, no matter how high she had to climb.

         The stairwell was dimly lit and smelled of mold. Janie began to descend anyway, counting the number of steps down in a soothing rhythmic fashion: seven, eight, nine, ten… It was a long way to go. She rounded the corner. Eighteen, nineteen, twenty… John would be pleased to see her home early. Had he remembered to lay those steaks out to thaw? Mallory would remind him. She remembers everything.

         Thirty-six, thirty-seven… Janie almost regretted taking the stairs. Just almost. Her quadriceps burned form her morning ascent. She was approaching the last step of the 15th floor when the heel of her black patent shoe landed unevenly on the edge of the step. A fraction of a moment later Janie grabbed wildly for the railing. She felt the cool metal slide quickly past her fingers. She was falling slowly, sluggishly forward. A year passed. A decade. She was still falling. In her desperation Janie thought of catching herself with her hands and flung them out. Her hair whooshed behind her; there was a chill in the cervical region of her spine.

         The impact came. Her hands were first. The rough concrete shredded the skin on her palms as they slid across the landing. The hit jarred her whole body and snapped her elbows in an unnatural direction. She felt several of her fingers break and her carpals splinter apart.  Her momentum carried her up and over her hands. The next to strike the ground was her upper back. Her scapula landed hard on the tip of the first step, and she kept going forward, performing three somersaults like a kind of grisly gymnast, until her head crashed into the 14th floor landing.

         



Janie felt funny. Although the whole event lasted only five seconds, she felt a lifetime older. There was no pain. Sprawled on the concrete, she extracted her arm from underneath her body and looked at her hand, wiggling her broken fingers and imagining them to be wrinkled and arthritic. A dark red liquid illuminated her hand. Where had it come from? As Janie drifted off to sleep, she wasn’t aware that her concussion was causing blood to pool around her, staining her white blouse and her blonde hair. She was only aware of a warm sensation crawling from her toes up her body.

When darkness fell, that warm sensation turned into one of movement, as if she were lying on top of a bumpy washing machine. It was a pleasant feeling. Janie smiled, then realized she couldn’t feel her lips. She tried to move her leg, twitch her toe, anything. Nothing happened. She couldn’t see or hear or feel. She was nothing. Janie began to panic. Her heart raced. Or did it? She tried hard to think, but then that was slipping away too. Her thoughts were slowly draining away. She didn’t exist anymore. She had never existed, actually. There was only this void.

But then as suddenly as the nothingness had come, and as if there had been no nothingness at all, there was everything. Every single emotion, pain, pleasure, impulse, instinct and thought Janie had ever experienced flooded into her. She was incapacitated with feeling. The flood lasted only seconds before fading away, leaving Janie mentally weak and confused.

There was light. Once Janie realized she had eyes, she opened them. She was on a train. The steady rumbling of the engine had been shaking her. She quickly stood up, and was surprised by how limber she felt. Once more she looked at her hands and gasped. They were tiny, white, and her nails were painted a cute periwinkle blue. Her arms were thin and unfreckled. Her little feet were clad in Mary Jane’s and white socks with lace trim. She was six years old. Janie felt her pink dress and the satiny ribbon holding up her hair. She abruptly realized how stupid she was. Of course she was six. Her seventh birthday wasn’t until next month. She laughed aloud at herself, hearing her girlish giggle without surprise.



The train ground to a halt, and Janie knew it was her stop. The windows were so full of bright white light that she couldn’t tell where she was. The compartment door rattled open and willed her out of it. Janie jumped lithely from the opening and landed on soft grass.

Stretching out in front of her was a beautiful prairie meadow. The grass, some of it taller than Janie, was a perfect green dotted with wildflowers. The sky was aquamarine. Fluffy clouds the color of snow rolled by. The summery breeze ruffled Janie’s dress and hair, and beckoned her forward. A distance away, a giant tree stood, its leaves glittering like diamonds. As she came closer she noticed how old and gnarled the branches were, and concluded that this tree had stood here since the beginning of time. It became clear that its leaves were not leaves, but millions of tiny butterflies in every color, fluttering their wings in unison.

A person appeared. It was a man. He was small, wrinkled, and worn. His face was framed by round spectacles and a strong jaw. His smile was pure happiness as he stretched out his frail arms.

“Grandpa!” Janie cried. She rushed into his embrace, unbalancing him. He rocked her, stroking her hair and squeezing her tight.

“Hello, Janie-bug,” he replied in a husky voice. When she pulled away to look at him, tears were filling his light gray eyes.

“What are we going to do today, Grandpa?” Janie asked hopefully.

He smiled again, but this time his face was sad. “We can’t play today, sweetheart.”

Janie looked away, utterly disappointed. Her face fell into a childish pout. It wasn’t fair. She and Grandpa never got to play. Since he lived in Minnesota, she only got to see him on Christmas.

As if reading her mind, Grandpa sighed. “They need you, Janie,” he said in a grown-up voice, one she couldn’t understand.

“Who?” she asked, bewildered. Who else could there be besides Grandpa and Janie-bug?

         In response, Grandpa lifted a finger to the sky. A single pink butterfly floated down from its branch and perched on his finger. As it did, the tiny brown twig it had lived on withered into a black curl of dead wood. He held the butterfly out to Janie. She gave her grandfather a questioning look, and he nodded and whispered, “It’s not your time yet.” Teary-eyed, Janie gave him one last hug and let the butterfly settle gracefully onto her little finger.



         By the time John and Mallory reached the emergency room of New York Presbyterian Hospital, Janie had been stabilized and removed to Intensive Care. Numerous doctors told them lots of things, but John hardly absorbed any of it. He paced the waiting room clutching a melting candy bar he had bought from the vending machines for Mallory and forgotten to give to her. Mallory curled up in a chair and finished coloring her picture, then fell into a peaceful sleep.

         Hours later, more doctors came and they were ushered to ICU. Holding Mallory in one arm, John pulled back the curtain around her bed and cringed. Janie was lying in a bed, only one eye visible from the thick bandages wrapped around her face. Both of her arms were encased in plaster and she was hooked to what looked like hundreds of machines and monitors, all beeping piercingly. John rushed to her side, dropping Mallory, and began to sob into her bedcovers.

         Mallory tiptoed slowly to her mother’s side. She held up the colorful drawing she had made earlier.

         “Look Mommy. A butterfly tree.”