Butterfly (11 page)

I lean back in the uncomfortable
plastic chair and cross my foot over my knee, wondering whether
Grace read the book I gave her yet.

‘You can go in now,’ the
receptionist says without a smile. She probably thinks I’m a
worthless piece of rubbish, too.

I walk along the corridor to an
office with a nameplate that reads, “Mark Graves—Parole
Officer”.

I know the first thing he’s
going to say when he sees the state of my face. The bruises have
faded a bit, but you still can’t miss them.

I knock. Push the door open.

He looks up at me from behind
his desk. ‘Please tell me that’s not from a fight.’

‘I was in a car accident.’ I sit
in front of his desk piled high with paperwork and folders.

He regards me sternly for a
while. I don’t take offence. He’s only doing his job, and he’s been
incredibly helpful and supportive over the last two years since I
was released from prison on license. As a condition of my license,
I have to do a certain amount of volunteer work, and Mark managed
to set up the volunteer self-defence classes I teach. He’s also the
one who got me the part-time counselling jobs I’ve had so far, and
enables the supervised sessions I’ve done so I can be accredited to
the counselling association and finally apply for full time work.
So, yeah, I’ll never have a bad word to say about the guy.

‘You can check with the
hospital,’ I say. ‘They’ll tell you what happened.

‘I will.’ He opens my file and
writes something down. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’ He sits back in his seat
and studies me. ‘So, this is your final appointment with me. After
this, you’re officially released from your parole license.’

‘I want to thank you for
everything you’ve done.’

‘I’m just glad to help with your
rehabilitation back into society again. I have to say, you’ve been
a pleasure to work with, Ben. You should be proud of how far you’ve
come.’

I smile, even though ‘proud’ is
the very last thing I feel.

He leans forward and reads my
file. ‘I see your counselling accreditation has come through, so
you’re officially able to counsel unsupervised. Good job, Ben. Have
you applied for any full time jobs yet?’

‘I’ve got an interview
soon.’

‘Excellent. Where?’

‘The Clover Project. It’s a
drop-in centre that supports women in violent or abusive
relationships.’

‘I’m familiar with The Clover
Project. It would be good for you, since you want to specialize in
rape counselling.’

I don’t tell him about working
in the coffee shop, too, because officially, I don’t need to tell
him any of that as of today. The last thing I want is for him to
pay a surprise visit there and check up on me for old time’s sake.
What would I tell Grace? And anyway, it’s only going to be for a
few weeks, so I swallow the words.

‘I hear the volunteer
self-defence classes are going well.’

‘I’ve had to postpone them this
week.’ I point to my face. ‘But next week I’ll carry on.’

‘The Women’s Centre is getting
good feedback about them.’

‘Good. I’m glad I can help
them.’

‘Anything else to report before
I sign you off?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘OK, then.’ Mark stands, giving
me a warm smile, and reaches out his hand for me to shake. ‘Good
luck with the rest of your life, Ben.’

21

GRACE

I critically appraise myself in
the mirror as I apply my makeup. When I finish, I stand back and
stare.

I’m trying to work up to saying
the words aloud, but they don’t feel right.

Come on. How hard can it be to
say a few stupid words?

I hurl my mascara across the
floor.

Just say it!

I look at my reflection and
laugh. It’s hollow and echoing. It makes me sound crazy.

‘I love myself,’ I whisper.

The girl who stares back at me
doesn’t believe it. She’s mocking me with her eyes. Maybe I’m not
ready for this part yet.

‘You can do this,’ I say.

The girl nods back at me.

‘You can do this. You can
survive. One step at a time, Grace.’ I inhale deeply. ‘I love you,’
I say, louder. ‘I love you.’

The girl in the mirror gives a
barely-there smile. It’s a start.

~~~~

By the time Ben arrives at the
shop, I’ve almost sold out of food in the display counter, and I’m
getting ready to bring in a new batch from the kitchen.

‘Hey.’ He smiles, his presence
filling up the counter behind me.

‘Hey, yourself.’

A young woman in her early
twenties interrupts us. ‘Can I have a caramel latte, a cup of tea,
and two scones?’

‘Coming right up,’ he says to
her.

Her eyes follow his movements
with appreciation, and I feel a twinge of something I don’t
recognize.

She sits at the table with her
friend, and they’re obviously talking about Ben. They keep looking
over at him and whispering to each other, but he doesn’t seem to
notice the attention. Looking like he does, he must get it all the
time.

Neither of us gets time for a
proper break, but at one p.m., Ben gives me a prawn and mayo
baguette that he’s made. The way he’s taken time to prepare
something for me makes my eyes water with gratitude. It’s only a
simple thing, but it’s so kind of him.

It takes me five minutes to eat
it in the office, and by the time I come out the queue hasn’t died
down, so I get back to work.

He pours an espresso into a
take-out cup, and next to him, I fill an order for another
customer. He leans in close to me and whispers, ‘You’ve got a crumb
on the side of your mouth.’

I surprise myself by not
flinching at his proximity. He’s talking about a crumb, but the
moment feels intimate somehow, our faces only inches apart as we
work. I smell faint traces of spicy aftershave and soap and
something minty. I inhale his scent, trying to breathe him into
me.

I giggle. Yes, I actually
giggle. For some reason it’s funny, because it’s so sweet of him to
tell me. ‘Thanks,’ I whisper back.

‘You’re welcome.’ He turns back
to hand over the coffee to the waiting customer.

~~~~

I turn the open sign to closed,
and he’s already behind the counter, making us hot chocolate. It
seems to have become our after-work ritual, and it beats any of the
other ones I’ve done so far, like checking the locks.

I sit in my usual seat and watch
him work. The way his lower lip juts out slightly as he
concentrates. How he moves with a relaxed sureness about him.

He lifts his head and catches me
watching him. My cheeks heat up, and I avert my gaze to the
window.

‘Busy day.’ He sits down
opposite me and puts the drinks on the table.

‘I’m knackered.’ I cradle the
mug in my hands, staring at the froth and chocolate sprinkles on
top. It’s hot and creamy, and it reminds me of Mum making it for me
when I was a kid. For some reason the sprinkles make me smile.

‘What do you do on your day
off?’ he asks. ‘Do you get to relax at all, because I’m not
surprised you’re knackered. You start at stupid-o-clock in the
morning and don’t finish until late.’

I almost laugh. I can’t tell him
the truth. I usually hibernate in my flat and end up with a panic
attack because I’m there alone, and all I think about is Theo
coming to get me, which makes the lock-checking and sitting there
staring at the door a million times worse.

‘Um…I usually catch up on
housework and stuff,’ I lie.

He takes a sip of chocolate.
‘You know I mentioned about ways you can get rid of anger?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you want to try it tomorrow?
Even if you don’t realize it, anger’s a big emotion that people
who’ve suffered this kind of trauma have to cope with. Except
usually it’s directed at themselves and not the people who deserve
it.’

I know all about the anger, how
it feels like a coiled serpent inside, wanting to lash out and bite
at a second’s notice.

‘What did you have in mind?’

‘We could go to the gym. I’ll
show you how to hit a punch bag.’ He pauses. ‘Then maybe we could
get some lunch.’

‘I’m not sure. I don’t really
like crowds.’ But the thought of not being alone on a Sunday inside
my flat for once is so tempting. It makes me feel more positive,
and that’s what I want to be. Positive Grace. Happy Grace. Carefree
Grace.

‘I can understand that,’ he
says. ‘But I’ll be with you.’

And somehow, that’s enough to
make me say, ‘Yes. OK.’

We sit in silence. I like the
way he doesn’t ask me about the book and the journal. He doesn’t
pressure me. But I don’t want him to leave yet, so I tell him
anyway.

‘I read the book you gave
me.’

‘What did you think?’

‘I think you were right. That
woman was so strong and courageous.’

‘So are you.’

I shake my head. ‘I don’t feel
strong.’

‘You will. It doesn’t happen
overnight.’

‘I think…’ I trail off, not
quite sure what to say. Again, he doesn’t prompt me to speak. He
sits there and waits patiently. Always patient. ‘I think it helped.
Reading about how she put her life back together. It gave me hope
that I can do the same.’

‘Hope is the antidote to fear.
Having hope and faith in the power of women survivors will lessen
the fear you feel.’

‘Thank you,’ I say again, even
though I’ve said it so many times lately it’s as if I’m stuck on
repeat.

‘You don’t have to thank me.’ He
shrugs, as if it’s nothing.

But it’s not nothing.

What he’s doing for me is so
huge I can’t even begin to describe it.

22

BEN

I wait outside the gym for her
on Sunday morning. I’ve been up since five a.m. giving the punch
bag in my flat a good seeing to. I didn’t suggest she come to my
place to do this. Being alone with me on my territory is probably
too much, too soon, and it seems like we’re making progress, so I
don’t want to frighten her off.

I can’t wait to see her again,
though, and it scares the crap out of me. Even though she’s not
‘officially’ a client of mine, I’m probably breaking so many
counsellor-client rules I can’t even imagine.

As she parks her car and gets
out, all those thoughts vanish.

She approaches me with hesitant
steps. When she gets closer, the first thing I notice is she’s
wearing less makeup. Today, she’s only hiding behind mascara and
lipstick, none of the thick eyeliner and eye shadow she’s worn
before. She doesn’t need any of it, to be honest.

‘Hi.’ She gives me a wobbly
smile.

‘You look great.’ I give her
what I hope is a killer smile in return, my gaze roaming over her
face. I’ve only ever seen her in her uniform, and today she has on
black jogging bottoms and a black T-shirt. She’d look amazing even
if she were dressed in an old sack.

She looks puzzled for a moment,
as if she can’t believe I’ve given her a compliment, and again I
want to punch her ex so hard my fingers twitch. But that’s what the
punch bag is for, and that’s why we’re here.

‘Er…thanks.’ She squints up at
me through the morning sunlight then looks away, her cheeks
flooding with colour.

‘You ready to kick some arse?’ I
smile.

She laughs. ‘I think so.’

We dump our bags in the
respective changing rooms, and I meet her by the punch bag. For ten
minutes, I demonstrate how to hit the bag properly so she doesn’t
injure herself. She nods and asks a few questions.

I step behind the black leather
bag to hold it steady for her. ‘OK, so when you hit it, I want you
to imagine his face. Imagine giving him a good pummelling and
taking all your anger out on him, where it belongs, except now
you’re doing it in a healthy, controlled way. And regaining control
in all areas of your life is a big thing to help you heal from
this.’

She bites her lip, unsure.
‘Really?’

‘Yes. Try it.’

She lets out a cry as she lands
the first heavy punch on the bag.

‘Good. Just lift your shoulders
a little more and try again.’

She follows up with two punches.
Left, right, in quick succession.

‘That’s great. I feel sorry for
the bag.’ I laugh. ‘Keep going.’

Her eyes narrow with hatred and
her lip curls up, distorting her face into a snarl as she puts all
her effort into blow after blow. Months of frustration and grief
flood out of her and into the punch bag.

After fifteen minutes, she leans
forward, resting her gloves on her thighs and catching her
breath.

‘You OK?’ I ask.

She lifts her head up, her hair
glistening in the lights of the gym. She breathes deeply, and her
face cracks into a huge grin. ‘This is great! I feel…’ She pauses
for another breath. ‘I feel energized and exhilarated and…I don’t
know…free.’

‘Do you want to stop? If you’re
not used to it, your arms are going to hurt tomorrow.’

‘No.’ She straightens her spine
and wipes the sweat from her forehead with the back of the glove.
‘I want to do a bit more.’

I hold the bag steady and she
carries on, gloves smacking against the bag with a satisfying
sound, every strike increasing in force as she gains
confidence.

She finally drops to the mat on
her back, wiped out. ‘Now, I can stop,’ she pants.

‘You did an amazing job. I’m
going to do a few now before we leave. I think I need to get in
some more practice in case you decide to punch me next time.’

She laughs and lies there,
watching me pound into the bag.

Having her eyes on me is the
best feeling in the world.

23

GRACE

I sit up and stretch my arms,
trying not to watch how his every punch is powerful and precise.
With each movement, his T-shirt lifts slightly, revealing the hard
lines of his abs. His arm muscles flex and bulge as he works. Those
muscles could so some serious damage, but surprisingly, I’m still
not afraid of him. Far from it. I want to know what it’s like to
have those arms around me.