The Butterfly Sister by Amy Gail Hansen Page A

wasn’t interested in Beth’s past friends or relationships at Tarble. He had a hidden motive, perhaps. And I had mine. By that point, Beth’s book was burning a hole through my purse, and I needed to find a nonchalant way of introducing the topic to Janice.
    I remembered the postcard tucked inside the book.
    â€œDid you know Tarble’s Reunion is this weekend?” I asked, finally removing the bag from my tea. It had grown bitter from being steeped too long. “Did Beth mention it?”
    Just then, the phone rang, and Janice ran out of the room to answer it. “I don’t let any call go to the answering machine,” she explained.
    I finished my last sip of tea before picking up a stack of photos from the table. I saw Beth at age six, wearing a pink tutu. Beth at age twelve, in a ski parka and glasses. Beth at sixteen in an aquamarine evening dress, posed in front of a fireplace beside a boy with a matching cumberbund and bow tie. Janice must have collected the snapshots in the past few days, trying to scrounge up the memory of her daughter, physical evidence that she existed, and still exists. I started thinking that if Beth was dead—I wanted to believe she was alive—but if she was dead, if she never came home, these photos would be all she had left. And it was then I decided not to show A Room of One’s Own to Janice. I would not dare introduce the idea that Beth might have had an affair with a married man. I wasn’t going to be the one to destroy Beth’s reputation with her mother. It wouldn’t be fair. After all, my own mother did not know about Mark.
    I peeked around the corner of the kitchen then and saw Janice had taken the phone to a four-season room at the rear of the house, perhaps for privacy. I figured it was the only chance I’d get to return Beth’s book to its rightful place, and I took it.
    I found Beth’s bedroom door partially ajar at the end of the hall and pushed it open, forcefully, because it stuck on the thick carpet. Once inside, I felt the urge to snoop, to peek into the life of this girl I had not truly known. But I feared Janice would somehow know I’d intruded. Instead, I let my eyes examine the space. Beyond the neatly made twin bed, recently dusted dresser, and clutter-free desk, the room served as an exhibit of sorts for this budding photographer. Pictures—some portraits, some landscapes, some abstract—covered every available inch of wall space. Some were displayed in formal frames behind glass; others hung nonchalantly off metal clips resembling wooden clothes hangers.
    Along the far wall, a collection of photographs caught my eye, each an artistic-angled snapshot of the Tarble College campus. Beth’s subject choice startled me. Far from being commercial or brochure worthy, the pictures captured the day-to-day happenings of campus life with the keen eye of a student. A sunlit staircase in Langley Hall. The sun rising over Lake Michigan. A tree losing its leaves in front of the student center. The little red bridge over the creek at the edge of campus.
    The red bridge. It had been Mark’s favorite spot to meet up, conveniently on campus but private. I’d walk there and wait for him—sometimes feeding bread to the ducks swimming below, sometimes just taking in the tree-lined view of Frieburg Chapel. Coincidentally, Beth’s picture, taken in late fall, captured my exact perspective the very last time I’d stood on that bridge waiting for Mark. Bare tree branches. A muddy gray sky.
    I released the photo from the metal-and-wire hanger to get a closer look, disregarding my earlier decision not to touch anything. Immediately, I heard a whoosh sound echo off the wall, followed by a crisp tap on the baseboard. It was another picture, one Beth had concealed behind the photo of the bridge. Two faces stared back at me as I reached to pick it up. Beth and Mark. Together. Smiling. His arm around her.