The Cries of the Butterfly - A LOVE STORY (77 page)

HER
heart was jammed with a rainbow of emotions as she went looking for Grant this Tuesday, July 29th, just past noon. So seized was she by excitement, she could hardly breathe.
Where are you Uncle Grant, where?
She badly needed to see him.

But Rochelle couldn’t find him. Not in his room, nor in the living rooms, nor in any other room, nor the garden. She inquired of Estelle, but she hadn’t seen him since early morning.

“He seems under the weather,” Estelle said. “He even skipped breakfast. I guess it’s all the stress of the past few days. He has taken things too much to heart. But he’ll come around—he’s a tough man.”

Rochelle inquired at the main gate, but was told that the only people to leave since morning had been M/s Art and Wolf. Rochelle called Grant’s cellphone. But it was turned off. Quite nonplussed and almost in panic, she went up to the terrace.

And there she found him. Under the synthetic shade of the large swing.

One look at his face and she felt completely deflated.
God have mercy, how ill he looks!
She rushed over to him.

“Uncle Grant? What’s wrong?” she cried, kneeling before him, taking his left hand. She placed a palm across his forehead and flinched—he was hot. “God have mercy, you’re burning! Come, let’s go down. You need to lie down. I’ll call the doctor.”

But he seemed oblivious of her. There was an absent, faraway look in his eyes.

She shook him. “Uncle Grant?”

And then he blinked. For a second, he didn’t seem to place her, but she was in his face and he blinked again.

“Rochelle?” he murmured. His voice was dull and listless.

“What’re you doing here all alone? Let’s go to your room.”

He gestured weakly. “Do not fuss, I am alright.”

“Why are you so pale then? And your body is burning. You have fever, Uncle Grant, you need to lie down. Come, let’s go.”

“I did not sleep too well last night,” he said, straightening himself, and she knew he was making a gallant effort to appear normal. “But I shall live.” Somehow he worked up a tiny smile, although it was obvious to Rochelle the effort made his mouth hurt.

“No, you won’t. You need to…”

“Will you please stop!” he suddenly shouted, leaning forward.

Rochelle recoiled, taken aback.

Grant quickly snatched her hand. “I am so sorry, I did not mean that.”

“Never mind.” She patted his forearm. Her brow shot up and she put a hand to his forehead again. “Wow, you seem okay now. You aren’t burning anymore.”
That was quick!

“Now that you are here, I am just fine,” he said, trying to be cheery.

She regarded him. Then she understood. “You miss
him,
don’t you?”

“Uh?”

“Wolf… You don’t have to pretend with me, Uncle Grant,” she said.

His face turned tragic.

“Obviously you do. So do I,” she said. She straightened her back and filled her lungs, bracing herself. “There is something I need to tell you.” The emotions were back.

He nodded.

“There’s no way Art could be Robin’s father,” she said.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I am pregnant.”

.

T
he sun had never felt so hot. The air never so inert. The light never so bright.

The world never so still.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m pregnant, Uncle Grant,” she said, and then was suddenly shy.

He looked at her for a long time. Then he nodded. “Thank you,” he said and patted her cheek.

“Thank you?”

“For trying to cheer me up.” He looked affectionately at her.

“I’m not joking, Uncle Grant…this is true.”

“That is impossible,” he said.

She wondered what was impossible. That she would joke or that she was pregnant.

“Look at me. Do you think I’m kidding?”

Perhaps it was the earnestness on her face, the twinkling joy in her eyes.

“You
are
serious!” he said in a hissing whisper. The shock was loud on his face.

“Yes.” Her heart was overflowing all over again.

“You went back to Art then? But you never told me…”

“It’s not Art,” she cut in softly.

“What?”

.

Returning
from Wolf’s that evening of Monday, May 26th, she had been depressed.

At Wolf’s state—at his hurt. But there was more. Holding him in her arms that day, trying to console him, then trying to feed him with her own hands, had done something to her. It had re-triggered an instinct that had continually been suppressed ever since lab tests had established that
she
was the sterile one.

Art had desperately wanted children, right since they had gotten married. And when after three years of incessant effort, nothing had happened, they had quietly consulted Dr. George Waller, the head gynecologist of Butcher Hospital. A battery of tests had been run and a week later the dreadful news was communicated to them. It was Rochelle.

Of course the whole matter had been kept a secret. Only the family knew. But as these things go, it had somehow leaked out, and rumors hung around the city-state that
it is the wife! It’s the wife!

She had felt sick. The knowledge that she was
the unproductive one
and that she could never mother a child, had driven her to despair, then depression. The family had been supportive, especially Uncle Grant. Even Art, a true victim in all this, had been kind and understanding.

“It doesn’t matter,” he had said consolingly. “One can’t have everything in life. We should count our other blessings.”

The family support had eventually helped her pull through. Life had returned to normal…as normal as it could get under the circumstances.

In time, she broached the subject of adoption. But Art wasn’t keen. It was clear that he wanted a child of his own sperm or none at all. For Rochelle, it was a second tragedy. She so badly wanted to be a mother—one way or the other. She could feel the emotions raging within her, itching to burst free. She had so much to give—all the love, the tenderness, the warmth and the nurturing of her whole being. But whenever she broached the subject with her husband, it only made him remote with frosty infuriation.

So that May evening, coming home from Wolf’s, ravaged by re-aroused instincts, she had been unable to be at peace with herself. Nothing had helped—walking the garden, chatting up Bruno, having a swim in the cold water of the night. She felt as if she was being deprived of her very essence.

Returning to her room, she began to undress, finally readying for bed, her head heavy. Then she abruptly paused, in the nude. She hesitated for a very long time, then threw up her arms. She dashed to her wardrobe and snatched the first dress that came to hand—a pink, sleeveless, V-neck. She slapped it on hurriedly, quite forgetting to put on her bra and panties. Her mind was buzzing and she was not thinking any longer.

Even the gate security was startled as she rolled her car out, for it was past two am.

She didn’t care anymore. An uncharacteristic recklessness had taken over and she was now behaving automatically, as if goaded and guided by an alien force over which she had no control.

She didn’t care what Wolf thought either. Right now she needed him. A burning, desperate need. There was no thought of repercussions…no thought of the next second. Only the absolute present mattered.

She had the spare key to the apartment of course. She watched him as he slept. She could tell he was a very troubled man. His brow was furrowed and he seemed to be mumbling every now and then.

No longer did she see him as a child that she had mollycoddled and cared for over the last month, like some fine mother would. She now saw him as a man, who in some way that she couldn’t understand at a sentient, rational level, yet sensed at the deepest instinctual level of her soul, held the answer to her very survival.

Slowly she moved toward him, like some temple goddess, step by careful step, until she was standing over him.

And then his eyes opened and he was looking at her. Her natural reaction was to shrink back, but she shocked herself by staying put, calm and supremely assured.

And then began what would turn out to be an intricate ballet of deities, where nothing would go unexplored, where the most intimate spaces would be traveled.

.

“
I
wasn’t the barren one. It was your son.” Anguish was scrawled across her face.

Grant looked into the distance.

“If he could have my fertility tests fixed, he could get his DNA paternity set up too. After all, both the institutions belong to him.” She exhaled. “Do you know Art owns eighty-seven percent of that forensic lab where Robin’s and his DNA was done? Not directly, but through a holding company, which in turn is held by another company, which in turn… It is a complex worldwide maze.”

Still, Grant didn’t say anything…continued to stare into the distance.

“So it was never about his religious convictions that he refused to let me go,” Rochelle said, shaking her head. “It was the fear that if I left him and found another man in the future, the world would realize his truth. That, in his mind, would be the ultimate image letdown. He would rather have me killed instead. Religion was only a smoke-screen.”

Finally, Grant turned to her. “How do you know all this?”

“Maddy Witcher. She moonlights as a private eye.”

Grant was shaking his head disbelievingly.

“It is shocking that he could so effortlessly manage my fertility tests, and Robin’s and his DNA,” she added. “But then it shouldn’t really be a surprise. After all, the hospital and the lab belong to him and the staff are indebted to their Lord and Master. … Most technicians and doctors wouldn’t agree to do something so unethical, even for their supreme boss, at any price. But in our human race there would always be those who’d bend over backwards for a buck or a favor. And Art would know exactly who in his various institutions he could rely on to blindly obey his illegitimate commands. In fact, he would’ve handpicked and employed just such people to work for him so they could be used if and when the need ever arose. Every society, every nation, however advanced, has such purchasable, corruptible commodities.

“I had felt all along that something was askew in all this. Some instinct kept telling me that I wasn’t the barren one, or that Art wasn’t Robin’s father,” she concluded.

Grant gave a little groan.

“We can file an appeal in court. We can get fresh DNA tests done, this time from other labs across the world, someplace where Art hasn’t any influence,” she said. “Uncle Grant? Are you listening to me?”

“He is an evil, evil man,” he said bitterly, not looking at her.

“Let’s move then. I’ll call Vasels. Or do you want to call Owen? We’ll first get a stay on yesterday’s ruling.” She stood up.

He stopped her. “No court is going to give you a stay on this. In terms of law what we know is mere supposition. It is not going to stop Robin’s handing over to that man,” Grant said. “And by the time an appeal comes up for hearing, it would be ages. Art would ensure that. And then, he would have devised some other swindle to keep mother and child apart.”

“But what would be his interest now that Wolf is not going to marry Savannah anymore? What does it matter if Savannah and Robin stay together as long as Savannah is no longer associated with this family or any of its members? That’s what he wanted in the first place, didn’t he?”

“His ego,” Grant said. “Once he has taken such a giant step, his mammoth ego would never allow him to pull back. In his perverted eyes it would hugely dent his self-image. He is a closet megalomaniac, Rochelle.”

“But we must do something!” she cried. “We can’t allow this fraud to be perpetuated.”

He shook his head tiredly. “There is nothing to be done.”

“I don’t believe you’re saying this!”

His eyes were liquid and Savannah thought perhaps he was weeping within.

He reached out and touched her. “You leave it to me,” he said. “I will think of something. You stay out of this now.”

“What’re you going to do?” she said, suddenly suspicious.

“Leave it to me,” he repeated in a small voice.

“No, tell me.”

His eyes shifted. “I will…I will try to talk to him again.”

“It’s not working. You know that.”

“Give me till evening. If I fail, you people can do whatever you like thereafter.”

Rochelle kept regarding him. There was something weird about the middle-aged man now that gave her a nervous feeling in the belly. But she didn’t have anything concrete to go by, just some vague intuition, so finally she sighed.

SHE
had a haunted look in her eyes—of a woman about to lose her all.