The Butterfly Sister Read Free Page A

isn’t wearing her reading glasses. I read the title then, small black letters on a white binding. Trying to control a visceral reaction, I barely made out the words.
    â€œVirginia Woolf , ” I said. “ A Room of One’s Own .”
    â€œIsn’t that the book? The one you wrote your senior thesis on?”
    I nodded and paused to recall Woolf’s lengthy essay, based on lectures she’d given at two women’s colleges. In the book, the modernist writer asserts “a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.”
    Mom handed me the book without sensing consequence, like handing a bottle of Nyquil to a recovering alcoholic. Per Gwen’s instructions back in December, I’d donated my own copy. And yet, somehow, temptation had found its way back to me.
    Like failing at a game of hot potato, I dropped the book, let it fall to the ceramic floor with a plop. A postcard stuck out from the pages then and I pulled it, instantly recognizing the blue expanse of water, ornate streetlights, mounds of yellow and orange mums, and the name Tarble etched in stone. It was a postcard announcing Tarble’s Reunion—the women’s college equivalent of Homecoming—set to take place the following weekend.
    Mom retrieved the book from the floor and opened it. “You’re in luck,” she said, attempting to hand it to me once more. “She wrote something inside.”
    I looked down then to see Beth’s name neatly printed in blue ink at the top of the inside flap, and below that, a phone number with a recognizable area code for southern Wisconsin.
    â€œWith all the sickos out there, that’s a dangerous thing to do,” Mom said. “It must mean an awful lot to her.”
    It means a lot to me, I thought.
    Mom suggested I wait until after dinner to make the call, but I knew the sooner I called, the sooner the suitcase—and the book and the temptation to read it—would leave my hands. So I took the cordless phone to the porch swing. I’d left my empty tea mug there, and I held it as I listened to the rings, running my finger along the inside groove of the handle. Finally, a woman answered; a paper-thin voice prickled my skin.
    â€œThis is Ruby Rousseau,” I said. “I’m trying to reach Beth Richards.”
    I endured an awkward silence. All I heard was breathing. “Hello?” I tried again.
    â€œI’m Beth’s mother,” the woman said.
    â€œOh. Good. Look, I went to Tarble College with Beth, and I actually have her suitcase. They just delivered it to me by mistake. Is she back from her trip?”
    A gasp. “This is a miracle.”
    â€œYes, very strange. For some reason, she left my name on the tag.”
    I heard the woman begin to cry, what sounded like a weeping elation, tears of sadness mixed with joy. “I’ve been praying for this. For something. Anything. A sign. She’s going to come back to me.”
    â€œBack? Back from where ?”
    â€œBeth has been . . .” The woman started but stopped. She got the rest out in fragments:
    â€œMissing. Since. Friday.”
    The mug slipped from my hand then and shattered on the floorboards at my feet, the remaining drops of tea seeping into the porch cracks. “Mrs. Richards, I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I mean, Beth and I weren’t close. I mean, we just kind of knew each other,” I rambled. I wanted to pick up the mess, wanted to say something more appropriate but couldn’t formulate words.
    â€œThe police say they have no leads,” Mrs. Richards continued, as if she hadn’t heard me. “They said ‘Hope for the best and prepare for the worst.’ ”
    Prepare for the worst . Beth Richards was missing but hopefully not dead, hopefully not like the hundreds of people I’d written about at the Chronicle. I told Mrs. Richards I was sorry once more.
    â€œNo, Ruby, don’t