The Butterfly’s Daughter Read online

  The

  BUTTERFLY’S

  DAUGHTER

  Also by Mary Alice Monroe

  Time Is a River

  Last Light over Carolina

  Gallery Books

  A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2011 by Mary Alice Monroe, Ltd.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Gallery Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

  First Gallery Books hardcover edition May 2011

  GALLERY BOOKS and colophon are trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.

  Designed by Renata Di Biase

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Monroe, Mary Alice.

  The butterfly’s daughter / by Mary Alice Monroe.

  p. cm.

  1. Monarch butterfly—Migration—Fiction. 2. Voyages and travels—Fiction.

  3. Self-actualization (Psychology)—Fiction. 4. Mothers and daughters—Fiction.

  5. Female friendship—Fiction. 6. Psychological fiction. I. Title.

  PS3563.O529B87 2011

  813’.54—dc22

  2010045544

  ISBN 978-1-4391-7061-8

  ISBN 978-1-4391-7102-8 (ebook)

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  To Lauren McKenna,

  who understands the chrysalis will become a butterfly

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I have had an amazing education into the marvelous monarch butterfly and the unique phenomenon of its migration, and I owe a debt of gratitude to many people for helping me on this journey.

  For riding as my navigator and for expanding my vision of the novel and the characters with grace and wisdom, I thank my sister Marguerite Martino. Loving thanks to Gretta Kruesi for reading drafts and for sharing delightful anecdotes of her adventures on the road.

  I’m indebted to Linda Love for her mentorship and an education on raising monarchs. Linda was also a source of information on the topic of equine therapy for drug addiction, which made her a gift from the gods for this novel.

  Heartfelt thanks to Lauren McKenna, my editor, for her excitement and support of the story since the book’s inception and for the patient and inspirational editing that gave me and my novel wings. Thanks also to Louise Burke, publisher of Gallery Books, for her continuing support of my work. And to my agents Kim Whalen, who loves butterflies as much as we do, and Robert Gottlieb—I’m fortunate to have your advice and support. I also send my thanks to the enthusiastic team at Gallery Books/Simon & Schuster.

  I warmly thank Angela May for her endless and cheerful support and encouragement in every aspect of this business of writing a novel, Lisa Minnick for keeping track of the books so I can look after mine, and Ruth Cryns and Diana Namie for countless kindnesses. Many thanks to Barbara Bergwerf for spending hours chronicling the metamorphosis of butterflies with her beautiful photographs; to Leah Greenberg for reading an early draft and for talking through story points; and to Patti Callahan Henry for a memorable retreat for revisions. A special thank you to Suzanne Corrington for her support and the use of her name.

  Thank you to Billy McCord of the South Carolina Department of Natural Resources for an education on tagging monarchs; to Carlos Chacon and Natalie Hefter of the Coastal Discovery Museum for their generosity and time (and monarch eggs); to Sally Murphy for her expertise; and to Bill Russell for pointing me in the right direction for monarch research.

  I’m beholden to Trecia Neal and Susan Myers of Monarchs Across Georgia for a truly memorable trip to the butterfly sanctuaries in Michoacán, Mexico, that was both educational and spiritual. Thanks especially to Trecia for reading an early draft of the manuscript for content on butterflies and the Day of the Dead. We were a hearty bunch climbing more than nine thousand feet, and for all their support and camaraderie I fondly nod to Ellen Corrie, David and Mozelle Funderburk, Dave and Audrey Harding, Sharon McCullough, Mary Moyer, Raina Neal, and Cindy and Kathleen Wolfe.

  In Mexico, I came to appreciate the threats facing the monarch sanctuaries and am indebted to Jose Luis Alvarez, the head of La Cruz Habitat Protection Project, an amazing organization dedicated to forest restoration in Michoacán. Thanks also to Estella Romero in Angangueo, and to Guadalupe Del Rio and Ana Maria Muniz, founders of Alternare, for their efforts to educate local farmers about alternatives to logging for the protection of the sanctuaries.

  I am indebted to Maraleen Manos-Jones and her wonderful book, The Spirit of Butterflies, for inspiration and education about Aztec myths and legends. I read many books and journal articles that educated me and piqued my interest in the subject. Though there are too many to list here, I especially note the following books: The Last Monarch Butterfly, by Phil Schappert; Four Wings and a Prayer, by Sue Halpern; Chasing Monarchs, by Robert Pyle; An Obsession with Butterflies, by Sharman Russell; My Monarch Journal, by Connie Muther and photographs by Anita Bibeau; and Through the Eyes of the Soul, Day of the Dead in Mexico, by Mary J. Andrade. I’d also like to acknowledge the many websites that educate us all about the monarchs—their biology, current status, migration, and rearing—especially Journey North, www.learner.org/jnorth; and Monarch Watch, www.monarchwatch.org.

  Love and thanks to Zachary Kruesi for the backbreaking effort of creating my butterfly garden, and to Claire and John Dwyer for a constant stream of support and for giving me Jack and Teddy, my great joys. And as always, I’m grateful to my husband, Markus, for his expertise in fine-tuning the personalities and problems of my characters, for helping me understand car maintenance, and for his constant support and love throughout this book and others all these many years. I am blessed to be traveling this journey with you.

  “We delight in the beauty of the butterfly, but rarely admit the changes it has gone through to achieve that beauty.”

  —MAYA ANGELOU

  The

  BUTTERFLY’S

  DAUGHTER

  The Fall Monarch Migration

  This map represents the routes taken by migrating monarchs to Mexico during the fall migration (September–November). The route reverses during the spring migration as monarchs leave the mountains and follow the milkweed north.

  PROLOGUE

  Long, long ago, before time began—can you imagine so far back, querida? The world was plunged in darkness. There was no dawn. No dusk. It was always night. S
o the gods journeyed from all points of the compass to gather in Mexico at the Sacred Circle to create a sun. One among them would have to sacrifice herself to the fire and become the new sun that would endure for all time.

  The gods called out the challenge: “Who will light the world?”

  The gods were silent. Then one god, Tecuciztecatl, stepped forward. He was a proud and vain god. He thought by sacrificing himself he would win immortal fame and glory. While the gods created a great bonfire, Tecuciztecatl painted his body in brilliant colors, put on flame-colored feathers, and adorned himself with gold and turquoise. When the blaze was roaring the gods called out, “Jump now into the flames!”

  Tecuciztecatl stood before the inferno, felt its great heat, and lost his courage.

  Then the gods called out again, “Who will light the world?” Again the gods were silent. Only Little Nana, the smallest and humblest of the gods, stepped forward. She was ugly and covered with sores. “Little Nana,” they said to her. “If you sacrifice yourself, your wretched body will be transformed into the glorious sun and you will bring light and warmth to the people of the world till the end of time.” Little Nana did not want to die, but she thought of the light she would bring and stood at the precipice of the inferno.

  The gods commanded her, “Jump now into the flames!”

  Little Nana closed her eyes and bravely jumped into the heart of the fire. The red flames shot high into the heavens; Little Nana rode a fiery path to the sky and was transformed into the resplendent new sun.

  Then the gods saw that the world had no color. They called out to the gods, “Who will bring life to the world?”

  Xochiquetzal, the goddess of all things beautiful, called out, “I will do it!”

  The gods loved Xochiquetzal and cried, “But you will die!”

  “No, I will not die,” the goddess replied. “I will fly into the sun and when I fall back to the earth I will transform into new life. I will be the mother of all to come.”

  It was as she said. Xochiquetzal gave herself the plumed wings of a butterfly and flew high into the heavens to be filled with light. When she fell back to the earth she was transformed into flowers and butterflies of every color.

  Since then, every year when days grow short and a cold wind blows, the butterflies fly from all points north to the Sacred Circle in memory of the goddesses who stood at the precipice and bravely jumped, sacrificing themselves to bring light and life to the world.

  “So, querida, do you understand that in every life there is death and rebirth? Life cannot be renewed without sacrifice. Now I ask you, my daughter, mi preciosa. My young goddess. Will you bring light to the world?”

  One

  Each fall, millions of delicate orange and black butterflies fly more than two thousand miles from the United States and Canada to overwinter in the mountains of central Mexico. The annual migration of the monarch is a phenomenal story—a miracle of instinct and survival.

  Esperanza Avila had told the story so many times over the years that it was accepted as truth—even by herself. She’d meant only to blanket her granddaughter’s frightening loss, not to mislead her. She saw the story she’d created as a safe, happy cocoon for her to grow up in.

  But in the end, she’d created a lie. Now she was caught in her own trap of deception. The only way out was to tell Luz the truth, no matter how painful that truth might be.

  Esperanza counted the strokes as she brushed her long, white hair in front of the bureau mirror. Morning light fell in a broken pattern across her room. Her gaze fell upon an old sepia-toned photograph of herself and her second husband, Hector Avila. She paused her brushing as she gazed at his brilliant smile, his hair that waved like the ocean he loved, and his eyes that were as impossibly blue.

  Hector Avila had been the love of her life, taken too soon from her. When she was a younger woman her raven hair flowed down her back to swirl around her hips. Hector had loved her hair, whispered to her how it was like a waterfall at night that captured the reflection of the stars. He used to wind her hair in his hands, wrap himself up in it when they made love. Even after all these years, closing her eyes, she could remember the feel of his skin, and her hair like silk pressed against her body.

  Opening her eyes again, she saw that her long hair was no longer the lustrous skein that Hector had relished. So many seasons had passed since those halcyon days, so many joys, and so much sadness. Her hair was a blizzard of snow falling around her shoulders. She pressed the brush to her heart as it tightened. Where did the time go?

  Suddenly the room felt like it was tilting. Esperanza closed her eyes and grasped the bureau for balance. She was tired, she told herself. She didn’t sleep well the night before. Ever since she’d received that phone call from her daughter Maria, old memories and worries had plagued her. They spilled over to her dreams, haunting her, and lingered after the pale light of dawn awakened her.

  Her troubled gaze traveled across the other photographs on her bureau, resting on a small silver frame that held the treasured photograph of her daughter Mariposa, aglow with happiness. In her arms she carried her baby. Luz couldn’t have been six months old but already her pale eyes shone as bright as the sun. Tears filled Esperanza’s eyes as her heart pumped with love for this child, who’d been a gift to her in her later years, after Mariposa had vanished.

  “Hector,” she said aloud. “I need your wisdom, now more than ever. I could bear this hardship alone. But Luz . . . she is twenty-one, no longer a child. Still, I can’t endure to see her hurt. I’ve told Luz so many stories about her mother. But now this! What words can I say to make her understand this truth?” She shook her head with grief. “How will she not hate me?”

  She finished gathering her long locks in fingers that were gnarled from age and hard work. While she methodically wound the hair like a skein of wool, her mind reviewed her plan to tell Luz the truth about her mother. She needed uninterrupted time and a safe place to tell her granddaughter the story from beginning to end.

  Her hands trembled as she finished pinning the thick braid of hair securely at the base of her head. Taking a steadying breath, she opened her drawer and pulled out the amber plastic medicine bottle she kept hidden behind socks and underwear. She didn’t tell Luz about the pills that kept her heart from skipping its beat. Luz already had to worry about too many things for a girl her age. There was a fine line between being responsible and being burdened.

  That thought strengthened Esperanza’s resolve. She pried open the bottle and shook out the last pink tablet into her palm, then sighed. She needed to get the expensive prescription refilled. How would she pay for it after today? She placed the pill on her tongue and washed it down with a glass of water. Tomorrow she’d worry about that. Today her course was clear.

  With great care Esperanza applied smudges of rouge to her cheeks and dabbed on some lipstick. The ruby color added fullness to her thinning lips. She cast a final, assessing glance in the mirror. There were times when she looked at her reflection that she caught a peek at the girl she once was, trapped deep inside of her, barely visible behind the wrinkles and sunken cheeks. That young girl shone bright in her eyes this morning, excited for the task ahead.

  Sitting on the edge of her bed, she put on her tennis shoes, then slipped down to her knees. Usually she’d pull out her rosary for her morning prayers, but today she reached her arm under her mattress all the way to her shoulder and began groping. The mattress was heavy and Esperanza panted with the effort. At last, her fingers clutched the small leather pouch and pulled it out.

  She sat cross-legged on the hardwood floor, catching her breath, and then gingerly opened the worn, hand-sewn purse that had traveled with her from her small village in Mexico all the way to Milwaukee so many years before. Her fingertip traced the image of a butterfly etched into the golden leather. Without hesitating further, she opened it and pulled out a thick wad of bills. She counted the dollars in her lap, smoothing each bill. Her ruby lips spread into a satisfie
d grin.

  She had enough.

  Esperanza put on her black trench coat and slipped a triangle of red silk scarf over her head, a gift from Luz. Before leaving, she made sure the coffee machine was turned off and the iron was unplugged, then made a fervent sign of the cross in front of the framed portrait of La Virgen de Guadalupe in the front hall. With a puff, she extinguished the candle and pulled the door closed behind her.

  A north wind hit her face and she tugged the collar of her coat higher around her neck. Fall came early in Wisconsin and spring took its time. She made her way down the stairs to the cracked cement sidewalk.

  “You off?”

  Esperanza turned toward the throaty voice of her neighbor, Yolanda Rodriguez. She was dressed for the weather in a thick black sweater and gloves as she raked leaves from her tiny front yard. Yolanda stood with her head cocked and her dark eyes gleaming, like a crow at the fence line.

  “Yes,” Esperanza called back with conviction as she walked closer to the chain-link fence that divided their front yards.

  At the sound of her voice, two small black-and-white mixed-breed dogs rushed to the fence, barking wildly. Yolanda hushed them, then paused to lean on the rake. “This is a good thing you’re doing,” she said, nodding her head for emphasis. “Luz is not a little girl anymore. She should know.”

  “She will know soon.”

  “You should have told Luz the truth long ago. I told you so!”

  Esperanza held her tongue but felt her heart squeeze in anxiety.

  “You still planning on driving to San Antonio?” Yolanda’s voice was filled with doubt.

  “Yes.”

  Yolanda shook her head doubtfully. “I still think you should fly. It’s faster. Not so much trouble. Not so dangerous.”

  “It’s better this way. And I did it before, don’t forget. I have it all planned. It will take only three days to drive to San Antonio. It’s perfect, don’t you see? That will give Luz and me enough time to talk, where it is quiet and safe.”