Julie's Butterfly (26 page)

Julie concentrated on the road in front of her in an attempt to hide her agitation. She hadn’t spoken to Elena or Felix since she learned about the baby. She felt bad about it, as they had both become good friends, and that wasn’t the way to treat friends. But she hadn’t been able to bring herself to visit them. When it came right down to it, they were Bastian’s friends.

Isabelle held her phone to her ear. “Hey, Felix, you have a good Christmas?” Julie winced as Isabelle laughed brightly. “Sudden change of plan. I’ve been lying low at Julie’s,” she explained. “Thanks to my excellent skills in the kitchen, she’s finally put on a bit of weight,” she announced proudly. Which was a barefaced lie; Isabelle’s cooking was appalling. She burst into shrill laughter. “No worries, she and the baby are doing fine.” Julie looked up in amazement. She must have realized they would know about the baby, but it struck her nevertheless. Julie felt increasingly tense as Isabelle’s cheerful expression turned more serious as she listened to Felix. “OK,” she said finally and abruptly stuck her phone under Julie’s nose. “Felix for you.”

Julie blinked, then threw her friend a furious glance as she took the phone with a trembling hand.

“Hello,” she croaked.

“Hi, Bambi,” said Felix. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to have a go at you for not being in touch for months, despite the fact that I lead an incredibly lonely life and was delighted to find such a good friend in you,” he said in his usual direct manner. Julie’s chest tightened painfully.

“Sorry. I didn’t want to upset the applecart.”

“No worries. I understand. But you haven’t written me off as well, have you?”

Julie winced again. “No, of course not.”

Felix exhaled audibly. “Good. I’m delighted we’ve cleared that one up. Which brings me to my next request. Elena’s been at the gallery all morning preparing for this great New Year’s Eve party, and I’m bored to death here. What’s the chance of me seeing your face again before the year’s out?”

“Today’s the last day of the year,” Julie said in a subdued voice.

“So there’s still a slight but perfectly possible chance,” he insisted.

Julie didn’t want to see Felix. Not because she didn’t like him or wasn’t missing him, but because she still couldn’t stand to be near anyone who was so closely linked to Bastian. Seeing Felix again would be too close for comfort, and she didn’t want to add fuel to the fire.

“Come on over,” said Felix in an uncharacteristically soft voice. “It’s not a trick or anything. I’m alone, and I miss my friend—you.”

Julie relented. “OK,” she heard herself saying, although part of her wanted to bang her head against the nearest tree.

“Great. So I’ll see you later.”

Felix hung up before Julie could change her mind. She handed Isabelle her phone with a dark look.

“Elena’s been at the gallery all morning.”

Isabelle was the picture of innocence. “It completely slipped my mind.”

“Yeah, right,” muttered Julie. “You set that up.”

“Think what you will. How could I have planned something like that? I’m just a scatterbrained artist.”

The bright sparkle in her eyes betrayed the lie behind her words. She linked arms with Julie and set off in a new direction. Of course, they somehow happened to be only a stone’s throw from Felix’s apartment. No sooner had they gotten to the door than he flung it open, displaying no surprise at their speedy arrival. She refrained from admonishing them, however. She just wanted to get this over and done with as quickly as possible.

The way Felix looked at her, his face radiant with pleasure, went some way toward making up for the ambush. She greeted him with a gentle kiss on his unhurt cheek before entering the apartment and looking around anxiously. Only a few months before, she felt so comfortable here, but she immediately suppressed all memories of her visits with Bastian in an effort to ease the agony that threatened her heart. She took a deep breath and stepped aside to allow Felix to limp past on his padded walker.

“I’ll make tea,” called Isabelle, heading straight for the kitchen.

Felix lowered himself slowly into his soft easy chair and awkwardly pushed the walker aside. His forehead had a new, scabbed wound; his ear was battered; and his hands were bandaged as usual. He wore a baggy sweater and loose-fitting black sweatpants. His relatively smooth movements indicated to Julie that he wasn’t in any great pain at the moment, but his blue eyes looked worried as he studied her closely.

“You’re not looking well, Bambi,” he remarked once she was seated on the sofa across from him.

“I’ve been better.” Julie smiled weakly, slipped off her shoes and tucked her feet beneath her.

An uncomfortable silence fell between them.

“And how are you?” she asked.

“Better than you, I’d say.” He grinned cheekily. “I don’t have a bun in the oven.”

Julie was tempted to throw a cushion at him but stopped herself in time. “You’re impossible,” she murmured with a smile.

“When’s it due?” asked Felix. “My information to date is sadly lacking.”

“June 8, plus or minus two weeks,” she replied, ignoring his attempt to sidetrack her. He clearly only knew what Bastian knew and that was . . . nothing.

“Dr. Wangenroth’s book will be published in June,” he remarked. “I just read the announcement.”

“Why are you telling me that?” asked Julie. She didn’t need to be reminded of how often she’d tried to persuade Bastian to have those damned photos taken. He had ultimately decided against it, another situation where Julie had failed to reach him.

“I thought you’d be interested,” said Felix in surprise. “Because of the pictures.”

Julie gave him a look of incomprehension.

“It was really hard for him to have those photos taken. He ended up taking them himself in his own studio, but at least he did it.” He frowned at Julie’s obvious surprise. “Didn’t you know? It’s all there in his letters.”

“She still hasn’t read a single one,” said Isabelle, appearing at the kitchen door with a teapot in one hand and three cups in the other.

“You’re joking!” Felix looked at Julie, his face a mix of perplexity and amazement. “You haven’t read any of his letters?”

“No.”

“But why?”

Julie looked away. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Don’t look at me like that,” said Isabelle to Felix as she set the teapot on the table and began to pour. “I’ve done my very best, but I’ve been banging my head against a brick wall for weeks.”

“Now listen to me, Julie,” said Felix as Isabelle sat down next to her. “I’m not going to justify the way he behaved. He acted like a complete idiot. But you’re both in a really lousy place right now, and he’s been through enough in his life.”

“Has he?” replied Julie caustically. “He’s never told me the first thing about it.”

“Then I’d suggest you start reading his letters.”

“Is it all in there?” asked Isabelle.

“I don’t know, but I know he’s written something down. I doubt he’s been sending Julie reams of blank pages.” He turned back to Julie. “At least give him a chance to explain himself.”

“People can change,” agreed Isabelle. “Look at yourself. I hardly recognize you these days.”

“I’ve been his friend for a long time,” said Felix. “But it took years for him to allow me to get as close as he was with you from the start. It wasn’t until he met you that he finally began to trust anyone. He loves you,” he said with utter conviction. “And if you let him, he’ll prove it to you. He’s changed.”

Julie hooked her arm more tightly around her knee. “I don’t want to change him. I fell in love with the man he is,” she said. “But he’ll never see himself the way I do. He’ll never accept himself.”

“How do you know that?” asked Isabelle. “Perhaps this whole thing has opened his eyes.”

“Read his letters,” insisted Felix.

Julie wanted so much to believe him, but what if he was wrong? She couldn’t bear another crushing disappointment. Her child came first now. She had to ensure at any cost that no harm came to the baby, and she could only do that by trying to accept things as they were.

“She won’t,” said Isabelle with irritation.

“And we can’t force her to.”

“I could,” said Isabelle, turning to Felix as she brushed a strand of bright-red hair from her brow. “But what would that achieve? She simply wouldn’t listen. Recently, she’s gotten pretty good at blocking out anything that could trigger any real feelings. It’s going to be too late by the time she finally realizes the opportunities she’s missed because of her stubbornness.”

“
She
is still here,” muttered Julie. “And she’s going to get up and leave right now if you don’t change the subject.”

Felix and Isabelle exchanged a meaningful look, but let the matter drop. In an awkward search for a new topic of conversation, they worked their way from Felix’s report on his Christmas through the progress he’d made on his dissertation to the upcoming New Year’s party at the gallery. Julie was amazed that Felix intended to go. Normally, he stayed away from events like that.

“I doubt I’ll be strutting my stuff on the dance floor, but I’ve got to get out of here,” he said. “Cabin fever.”

“Won’t it be risky?” asked Julie.

Isabelle grinned. “Don’t worry, I’ll look after him.”

That assertion did little to allay Julie’s fears.

“Elena’s got it all figured out. She’s made quite sure that I won’t be sitting in the line of fire. I’ll be driven to the gallery where I’ll be given a seat with plenty of room to maneuver and a year later—ha-ha—I’ll come home. No big deal.”

Julie remained skeptical.

“I’d ask you to accompany me, but I’ve already got a date,” announced Felix with a grin.

“Really?” asked Isabelle. Her look of confusion earned her a pitiful look.

“You’re breaking my heart,” he said drily.

Isabelle wrinkled her nose. “Elena and I don’t count.”

“You’re right. I only said it because it sounds better than ‘I don’t want to hurt my friend by taking the woman he loves to this party before his eyes.’ ”

Once again rubbing salt in her wounds. Several times.

Julie was about to ask Felix what exactly he was insinuating. She hadn’t considered until that moment that Bastian could also be there. She was filled with a familiar longing, but she buried the feeling swiftly.

“She won’t come,” sighed Isabelle. “So it’s pointless to keep insisting.”

Julie forced a smile. “I hope you both have great fun tonight.”

Felix and Isabelle exchanged another look that Julie couldn’t quite interpret.

She glanced at the pink watch with a cartoon pig that Isabelle had given her for Christmas. “We should be on our way so you two have plenty of time to get ready,” she said, rising to her feet. They wished each other a happy New Year, and Julie promised to visit Felix again soon.

Going to see Felix had been painful, but bearable. She hoped it would get better with time, but she couldn’t be sure of it.

Isabelle walked her home and gathered up her things, which were strewn around Julie’s apartment. “Just say the word, and I’ll stay here.”

Julie smiled gratefully as she helped Isabelle collect her belongings. At the door, she hugged Julie tight. Her guilt was almost palpable.

“Maybe I should just stay,” she said.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“I promise.”

Isabelle took one last look into Julie’s eyes to convince herself that her friend was telling the truth, then heaved her gigantic lemon-yellow bag onto her shoulder. “I’ll stop by tomorrow afternoon, all right?”

“OK. Enjoy yourself this evening.”

Isabelle gave her a final squeeze. “Call anytime.”

To stop herself from getting all sappy again, Julie said forcefully. “Just go, will you?”

Isabelle grinned. “I’m on my way.” She turned and hurried down the stairs, waving.

Julie wandered through her silent apartment and sat down on the sofa next to Spot. “So here we are, the three of us,” she murmured, gently stroking her bump.

She leaned back, her mind reeling as she thought about all that had transpired in the past few hours. Her visit to Felix had not been without its consequences—she now knew more than was good for her.

She stood up and went over to the dining table, determined to get some studying done. She listlessly opened her anatomy textbook and leafed through the relevant section.

He’s feeling really lousy. Felix had said as much.

She gathered her notes together, searched beneath a pile of papers for her pen, and started drumming her fingernails on the file.

He’s been through enough in his life.

She rubbed her face roughly. Then she bent over her textbook and stared at an illustration, totally incapable of taking in its significance.

He loves you.

“Damn it!” she cried and jumped up from the chair as if a fire had been lit beneath her. She stomped angrily through the apartment, the turmoil surging inside her. She stopped in front of the flowers and considered them. Only now did she realize how drastically different they were from previous bouquets he’d sent. Roses, freesias, gerberas, marguerites, sweet williams, and various grasses were bound loosely in a large bouquet—fresh, colorful, and delicate as a summer meadow.

Hesitantly, she ran her fingertip along a bright yellow petal. A single thoughtless touch would be enough to destroy it.

Bastian’s reaction had been just as thoughtless and had dashed all her hopes in a single blow. Common sense told her she was doing the right thing. The fewer feelings she allowed in, the less she would feel the pain of her disappointed love.

But her stupid heart seemed to have other ideas as it hammered in her chest, almost as if to say that it wasn’t broken at all, but was still alive and well and strong enough to take what he had to say to her. She couldn’t imagine that anything would change her mind, but did he not at least deserve the chance to be heard?

“Oh, what the hell,” she murmured to herself.

She ran into her bedroom and grabbed his first letter.

C
HAPTER
36

Bastian was a wreck. And that was putting it mildly.

The new year was five days old, and he had still not heard a word from Julie. He could barely stop himself from setting aside his good intentions and going to see her. Only his iron will prevented him.

She had to come to him of her own free will. This was a lesson she had taught him herself. Pestering her would achieve nothing; it would only make her feel cornered and scare her off rather than win her over.

But he was reaching the limits of his patience.

He had spent weeks writing down every one of his thoughts, like goddamned therapy sessions.

In his first letters, he had, of course, expressed his deep regret at his reaction. He told Julie how much he really wanted their baby, how happy he was to know that he would be a father, and how determined he was to play a significant role in their child’s life. He had written of the future they could have together if she would agree to forgive him. It was easy to imagine fatherhood once he had conquered his fears.

But then he began to tell her about himself. How difficult it was for him to express what he felt for her. He had never been a man of words. Because he knew of no better way, he drew on the great Romantics, quoting their poems and sonnets and interpreting them in his own way. He went on to write how much he missed her—even at the risk of sounding clichéd—and how desperate he felt about not being able to see her and touch her every day. He found it difficult to restrain himself from asking questions to which he would probably never know the answers, but the prospect of not knowing how she and the baby were doing drove him to distraction.

He felt helpless in his attempts to convince her of his love, not least because she had been right from the start. All his moods, his inhibitions, and his reserve had only developed because he had become a bitter, insecure man over the years, a man he realized that, in fact, he couldn’t bear.

The realization almost overwhelmed him, but it provided him with the motivation he needed to carry on. He wanted to explain to her how he had gotten that way, and so he began to reveal his past, with merciless openness.

He began by writing about his mother, who had left one day out of the blue because she could no longer handle his disease. He still remembered it like it was yesterday. He had fallen when learning to ride his bicycle. Treating his wounds, she cried more bitterly than he did as he clung to his teddy bear, Fred, pressing him hard to his little heaving chest. She then packed her suitcase and left without a word of farewell. He was five—too little to be told the truth, but old enough to understand that it was somehow his fault.

That was the first time his heart broke, when the most important person in his life turned her back on him because of his disease. He never had the chance to call her to account, as she had died a few years ago. By the time he found out, his heart had already hardened, but as he wrote to Julie about it, he gave in to the pain for the first time. It took him three attempts to finish that letter. He then drank himself to oblivion and cried his disappointment dry as if he were five years old again.

Once he had recovered from that nightmare, he told Julie about his father, who had hardly left his side throughout his childhood. He searched through an old photo album for pictures to send her and came across one of himself and his father after a successful fishing trip. His father’s hand rested gently on Bastian’s shoulder as he proudly held a rainbow trout aloft. He was around seven, of slight build, and his hands were bandaged as they had so often been. But his face was radiant, and his father’s eyes shone with the kind of deep affection any father would feel for his son. Although he couldn’t remember that particular day, the picture was proof that Bastian had been wrong.

His father had always tried to convince him he had nothing to hide whenever he put his hands behind his back, and Bastian had listened to him until he was no longer strong enough to face the consequences. Though ashamed to admit it, he attributed some of the blame for his many confrontations to his father. Only now did he understand that his father had not wanted to cause him additional pain, but to strengthen him in readiness for the outside world. At the time, however, Bastian had felt a failure because he couldn’t cope with the way other people looked at him.

By way of revenge he had withdrawn more and more from his father until they had virtually no more contact with each other. He had suppressed his guilt by convincing himself that his father was well and happy, enjoying his retirement in the South of France. But the fact was he missed him. He only became aware of this too as he wrote to Julie about it.

After painting as detailed a picture of his parents as his memory allowed, he told her about his childhood, the things he liked doing and those he would have liked to do. He was surprised to find that a lot came back to him, things he had not thought about for a long time and had buried deep inside himself. For example, how he used to enjoy sitting on the roof and watching the birds—at least, until his father had caught him up there—or how much he had loved caring for the fish in his aquarium. As he wrote, he found that his childhood had not been as bleak as he had convinced himself it was. He had spent a lot of time alone, true, but he came to wonder whether maybe that had been because he liked it that way.

He remembered two other children, a brother and sister, who lived in the neighborhood, with whom he had spent a lot of time. As far as he recalled, they had been his friends and had never had a problem with his disease. But then the situation at school had become so unbearable because of his defensive behavior that his father decided they should move. That was three years after his mother had left them. The school psychologist diagnosed “impaired primal trust” or some such psychobabble, but Bastian knew better. He had never told his father the true reasons for his behavior, but he wrote to Julie about the cruelty of the other children. He told her these things not in a bid to gain her sympathy, but because he had realized that getting it out in the open provided an important release for him.

His father had acted with the best of intentions when he sought a new start in another town, but it was only a matter of time before the whole business began again and he was faced with a whole new set of insults.

Bastian tried to portray his youth objectively, telling Julie how, at fourteen, he had discovered his passion for photography, about his unimaginative dress sense, the music he used to enjoy listening to, and the movies he still loved. Although he didn’t describe his first disastrous love in detail to her, he mentioned that it was the reason for his self-inflicted loneliness and his increasing mistrust of others. He told her how difficult it was for him to trust anyone after that and how he had become convinced that he would only ever achieve peace of mind by refusing to allow anyone to get close. He achieved this by hiding all signs of his disease and employing offense as the best defense and self-preservation tactic. For years, he had been forced to take what others threw at him; now he turned the tables and gave as good as he got.

He told her how often he had upset people with cynical remarks because he assumed from the start that they would never be able to come to terms with his secret. He was not proud of his coldhearted behavior, but he had simply grown accustomed to convincing himself that he was better off alone than being hurt yet again.

That only changed when Felix appeared in his life. He didn’t want to be another cause of pain in Felix’s life, something that Felix perceived from the start and used as a way to gradually coerce his way into Bastian’s life. That friendship was an exception, but it probably saved him from losing the last vestiges of his capacity for sympathy.

With Felix beside him, his life became a little more firmly anchored. He told Julie how secure he had felt then. He felt OK about things, and he was no longer alone. He was satisfied with his life.

But he wasn’t happy.

He hadn’t realized it, however, until he met Julie and feelings began to stir in him that he had no longer believed possible. It had all been so intense with her—the highs, but also the lows.

They both knew how he had initially kept his defenses up. In his letters, he disclosed how amazed he had been at her reaction to him and how much, despite everything, he had feared the day when she would turn her back on him.

Dominated by this relentless fear, he had savored every day with her all the more. He described for her in detail all the moments when he had wanted to declare his love for her but had held back.

Bastian gradually realized that despite his numerous setbacks, not everything in his life had been bad. He was well aware that he had made mistakes, but he had had no idea how long the list actually was.

At first, he was driven by a desire to give Julie proof of his feelings. He called his father and had a lengthy conversation with him for the first time in years. He then wrote to Julie about the happiness that had flooded through him as he confided his feelings for her to his father and the relief he felt when his father expressed both his delight and his fears with regard to their baby. He also told her of his invitation to the South of France.

He contacted Dr. Wangenroth and proposed to take his own pictures of his wounds for the doctor’s book. Dr. Wangenroth had been delighted and given him a list of the sequences he needed. It had taken a great deal of willpower for him to stand in front of the camera and take photos of all his defects, but he managed to do it. He took care not to look too closely at the pictures and sent them off before he could have a change of heart. But he had done it, and he wrote to tell her.

However, there were still some things that were not so easy to put right. Bastian was on the verge of despair, as he had no idea how to make Julie understand that he was genuinely pleased about the baby.

He had tried to buy the music box that she had looked at so wistfully back in the warehouse all those months ago. The advertising agency had given him the contact details of the vendor, but they told him it had already been sold. Despite his best efforts to turn on the charm, he had been unable to discover who bought it. He searched in vain for something similar, but was eventually forced to abandon the plan.

Another time, he browsed the baby section of the nearest department store for two full hours yet had left with nothing but a yellow rubber duckling, overwhelmed by all the products on display. He searched the Internet for infant equipment and had a mild panic attack when he realized how many pitfalls awaited those who chose the wrong crib sheets. The risk of crib death woke him in the night and made him want to keep constant watch by his baby’s cradle.

He eventually bought a brown teddy bear that reminded him of Fred, a safety-approved blue teething ring in the shape of a fish, a small rattle full of colorful balls, and a cute romper covered in a green frog pattern. Imagining his son or daughter wearing it made him grin like a Cheshire cat.

He sent these things to Julie, saying how much he hoped they could buy the other things the baby needed together.

But weeks went by, and there was no response from her.

Bastian rubbed his face in despair. He was sitting in the cozy bistro where he and Julie had eaten together after their trip to the zoo with Luke. He waited there for her as he did every Friday, the evening she had set aside especially for him. And she knew as much, because he had reminded her of it in every letter he had sent her, including the last one.

A young waiter placed a second pot of coffee down on the table before him, but he hardly noticed. His gaze scanned the busy restaurant, its symmetrically arranged tables surrounded by chairs with dark-red leather seats, its redbrick walls lit with subdued lighting, the singer bemoaning her fate in a husky voice interrupted by the clatter of cutlery and the laughter of the other diners. When the door opened, Bastian instinctively held his breath but was disappointed yet again. Two young women came in and sat down at the table next to his.

He had been waiting for a little over two hours. He had felt little enough hope when he set out, but now he had sunk into an abyss.

What was he supposed to do?

He had delivered his soul to her on a silver platter, showered her with declarations of love and gifts, but none of it seemed to be enough. She accused him of being unable to love her because he didn’t love himself, but in that regard, she was wrong. He loved her. Never in his life had he been so sure of anything.

But to love himself? The very idea was a source of turmoil. In a fit of despair, he had even researched it on the Internet—he would try anything to convince Julie of his love. He had tried to approach the topic with an open mind, but when he read that he should send himself a love letter, he gave up.

Everyone had something they didn’t like about themselves. Even Julie had confessed that she wished she were a little taller, when, in fact, she was perfect as she was. Unlike him.

But deep down he didn’t have all that much against himself; apart from his obvious blemishes and defects, he was more intelligent than many people he knew. He was an extremely reliable friend. He had carved out a successful career as a photographer, and his financial position was sound. He handled his disorder well, overcame the pain successfully. Since beginning his letter writing, he had even come to terms with his fears, or most of them.

And he loved Julie with devotion.

He realized that his self-confidence was still lacking. Julie had quickly seen through his veneer of pride, recognizing it as a pretense that had little to do with reality. Sadly, however, that was not something that could be bought from the nearest corner store, and he doubted that would ever change.

He frowned and stared at his gloves.

Before exposing his skin to Julie, he had always been convinced that his numerous wounds and scars made him ugly, and other people’s reactions had only reinforced that impression. But she had shown him that she found him desirable and told him that she thought him beautiful as he was. Though he had initially found it hard to believe her, he eventually stopped trying to hide from her. And it had made him feel good, liberated.