The Butterfly’s Daughter Read online

  From outside the house they heard the blare of a car horn. Luz glanced up at the clock. “That’s Sully. It’s raining cats and dogs, so I’ll run out.”

  Abuela brightened. “Ah, Sully! Tell him to come in. I will make him a plate.” She turned to grab a plate from the cabinet. “I want to show him the car. He will tell you it is good.” She nodded her head in emphasis.

  “Oh, Abuela, I wish he could. He has to work late tonight. But I’ll bring him a plate.”

  “Work will always be there,” Abuela said quietly, and turned to the stove.

  Luz reached for her jacket and put it on while watching Abuela scoop mounds of tamales, beans, and rice onto the plate. Abuela had Mexico’s sense of time. There, time was considered circular. There was always more coming later. Unfortunately, Sully worked for an automotive repair company run by Germans who believed time was shot from an arrow to get from point A to point B in as short an amount of time as possible. Clients were always in a hurry to get their cars back.

  “Well, I’d better go.”

  Abuela wrapped the plate in foil and handed it to Luz. “Here, give this to Sully. A man can’t work on an empty stomach.”

  “You spoil him.”

  “He’s a good man. Why you two don’t get mar—”

  The truck’s horn blared again.

  “Got to run,” Luz exclaimed, relieved to be spared another of Abuela’s grillings about getting married. She grabbed her purse and headed to the door, but paused to cast a final glance back.

  Abuela stood with a natural dignity beside the kitchen sink. A mountain of pots and pans lay washed and drying on the counter behind her. She was looking down, wiping her reddened hands on her apron. Her long braid fell over her shoulder. When she looked up again, Luz’s breath hitched at the sight of the deep creases of worry she saw carved into Abuela’s face. When she met Luz’s gaze, Abuela smiled again. But it was a sad, defeated smile.

  Luz felt a twinge of worry. “Will you be okay? I can stay home with you if you want. Sully will understand.”

  “I’ll be fine. Go to your young man before he blasts that horn again and riles Mrs. Rodriguez’s dogs. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “If you have any trouble or don’t feel well, call me. I have my cell phone.”

  The horn sounded again. As though on cue, Mrs. Rodriguez’s dogs began yapping hysterically. Luz and Abuela’s eyes met and they shared a commiserating laugh. Luz rushed back to wrap her arms around Abuela and kiss her cheek.

  “That was impulsive,” she teased.

  “Sí. The good kind. From the heart.”

  “Thank you for the car, Abuelita. You’re right. It’s a fine car. I love you.”

  “Mi preciosa . . .” Abuela reached up to pat Luz’s arm. “Now go.”

  Luz released her but lingered, her hands resting on Abuela’s thin shoulders.

  “You won’t fly off to Mexico with those butterflies while I’m gone, will you?” she asked jokingly.

  Abuela smiled, her dark eyes shining, but didn’t reply.

  Three

  Monarch butterflies that emerge in the fall are unique. Butterflies that emerge in the spring and summer live two to four weeks. But the fourth-generation monarchs that emerge in the fall do not mate. They follow their instincts and migrate south. Called the Methuselah generation, they live for six or seven months.

  Morning light flowed freely through the window, its brightness poking her from sleep. Luz curled away from the light, eager to go back to sleep. Back to her dream where butterflies of all colors—the tawny, spotted fritillaries, the yellow swallowtails, the iridescent blue morphos, the magnificent orange and black monarchs—were spiraling and swirling in luminous light, coming together to form the wavy visage of a woman. The sight filled Luz with unspeakable joy. The butterfly goddess had no face, but Luz instinctively knew that she was her mother, Mariposa. She reached for her, eager to touch her. Instantly, the butterflies scattered and the goddess was gone.

  Blinking in the harsh morning sun, Luz no longer felt like a brave or beautiful goddess. Rather, her heart was filled with yearning for her mother.

  Luz wrestled with her sheets and dragged herself to her feet. Yawning, she looked around the small bedroom she’d slept in all of her twenty-one years. Ghostly, early morning light dappled the lavender and pink floral wallpaper, the white provincial dresser with its matching mirror, and the shadow boxes filled with butterflies on the wall. It was the room of a little girl, outgrown long ago. This room with its frayed ruffled curtains and peeling paper had been decorated by her mother and held all the dreams of her childhood.

  Luz crossed the hall to the cramped bathroom she shared with Abuela. She bent over the sink to wash her face. Slowly she lowered her hands and saw her eyes emerge from behind the thirsty towel. They were pale gray, a mercurial color that changed to green or blue depending on the light. Moody eyes, her boyfriend, Sully, called them. Gringo eyes, her abuela called them. The eyes of the German father she never knew.

  She may have inherited her blue eyes from her father, but her skin was the same creamy tan color of her Mexican mother. Her hair was as black as the tip of a monarch’s wing, and her strong cheekbones and straight nose she inherited from Abuela and their Mayan ancestors. Luz turned from the mirror, tossing the towel into the basket. Pretty, some said . . . but hardly the stuff of a goddess.

  In a hurry now, she quickly brushed her thick mane of hair, so much like her grandmother’s and her one point of vanity, and tied it back with an elastic band. She didn’t need to primp for her job at the foundry. She slipped into a sweatshirt and old jeans, then pulled on her tennis shoes and walked down the darkened narrow hall, flicking on lights. It was odd that the house was so quiet. She didn’t hear Abuela’s ranchero music blaring from the kitchen radio or kettles rattling. Sniffing, she didn’t catch any of the usual tantalizing scents of maize.

  “Abuela?” she called out. The kitchen was dark and the stove was cold. Luz shivered as a sense of dread swept over her. Was Abuela in the garden again? she wondered, and hurried to the porch. The small screened porch was cluttered with her grandmother’s tools. A row of empty aquariums perched on a low wood shelf. During the summer, these were filled with fresh milkweed leaves alive with hungry yellow and black monarch caterpillars. Bright, jade green chrysalises hung by the dozens from the screen tops like delicate lanterns. Caterpillars moved fast and Abuela didn’t always catch them all as she cleaned the habitats. Luz remembered how, as a child, she’d spent hours hunting for the hidden chrysalises, finding them in niches, hanging from the porch rafters, the shelves, the curtains, even the terra-cotta pots.

  This late in the season, however, the caterpillars had transformed to butterflies and migrated south. The aquariums sat empty save for a few milkweed leaves that lay curled and dry; chrysalises hung from the screened tops like shredded bits of transparent paper.

  Luz pushed open the creaky screen door. The air was chilly and ripe with scents of autumn. Squinting, she stepped out onto the first step under the awning.

  “Abuela?” she called out, and was met with silence.

  The house and garden occupied a narrow city lot wedged between two tilting stockade fences. Abuela had bought the bungalow with her life savings soon after Luz was born. A few years later Luz’s mother, Mariposa, died. Abuela had rolled up her sleeves and raised both a garden and a girl.

  But she wasn’t here. The porch door squeaked as it slipped from Luz’s hands. She wrapped her arms around herself for warmth. The empty kitchen, usually a place of refuge, frightened her now as a deep unease chilled her blood.

  It was a small house. The only room she hadn’t checked was her grandmother’s bedroom, but Luz couldn’t imagine her tidy, disciplined grandmother lying in bed in the morning. Unless she was sick. Luz’s feet felt like lead as she made her way down the hall. The silence now was oppressive. Abuela’s bedroom door was open but the room was dark. The only light was from the streetlamp outside her w
indow, casting pewter stripes through the blinds across the floor.

  Luz paused at the threshold. Each minute seemed a lifetime. She took a ragged breath, then bent forward to peer into the darkened room. In the shadowy light, she saw Abuela lying on the bed, one arm across her chest, the other flung out across the mattress. She looked like she was still sleeping.

  Except something inside of Luz, something raw and primal, knew that she was not. She began to shiver uncontrollably and her heart pounded so loudly she could hear its tympanic beat in her ears.

  The door whispered a sigh as Luz pushed it wide. Details of the room loomed large as Luz gazed at everything except her grandmother. On the bureau a brush held a few long, white hairs. Abuela’s wooden rosary beads rested on the bedside stand. Beside it, a common plastic pill jar lay on its side, empty. Abuela’s black, sensible shoes sat neatly on the floor by the bed. Slowly, by degrees, Luz lifted her gaze to her face.

  “Abuela . . .” Luz’s heart constricted as her cry caught in her throat.

  Her grandmother’s eyes were closed and her mouth, which had told Luz so many stories, was slightly ajar. In one hand she clutched a photograph to her heart. It was of Abuela and Mariposa holding an infant Luz. It had always been Abuela’s favorite photograph, the one she called the three goddesses.

  “Abuelita,” she cried, slumping to her knees. She reached out to hold her grandmother’s hand, so cold and lifeless. “Please, don’t leave me.”

  Luz didn’t remember calling Sully but suddenly he was there, holding her tight while she clung to him. Nor did she remember her grandmother’s body being carried away. Snippets of conversations from the EMT crew came back to her: A heart attack. Massive. Nothing could be done. She vaguely remembered an ambulance with a flashing red light. And the curious neighbors standing in the street: old men standing straight, young men leaning against cars, women in tight clusters, whispering, holding wide-eyed children.

  She remembered clearly Abuela’s words: I must go home.

  Death, Luz learned, was complicated.

  There were countless legal forms to be completed, information to gather, papers to be signed, an obituary to write, and people to inform. Abuela had left a will giving the small bungalow and all her worldly possessions, such as they were, to Luz. She had been a woman who lived by her senses. She didn’t plan for the future or dwell in the past. She had made decisions based on what was right in front of her at that moment. So she’d never discussed with Luz what she’d wanted done in the event of her death, and Luz had never imagined a world without her beloved Abuela in it.

  But now that horrible possibility had become a reality. Abuela was dead. Luz had to face it and grow up fast, to set aside her grief and assume responsibility for Abuela’s sake. With no family in town, it fell to Luz to make all the arrangements. A week passed in a blur of activity. Sully was at her side as she went through the motions, and she found some comfort in tending to the myriad details of Abuela’s funeral.

  She’d tried calling her tía Maria in San Antonio immediately after Abuela’s passing. Since Maria was Abuela’s only surviving daughter, Luz thought it was her rightful place to make the funeral decisions. Luz had searched through the rolltop desk in the living room and found her grandmother’s leather address book. Fifty years of names and addresses were stored in its slim, dog-eared pages. Many of the entries had been crossed out and replaced with new addresses and phone numbers. Several had the word muerto, dead, written beside them.

  Luz dutifully dialed the number listed for Aunt Maria in San Antonio. Her hands shook as she listened to the phone ring—she’d only talked to her aunt a handful of times—and she stood still with shock when she learned the number had been disconnected. Luz followed up with operator assistance, but to no avail. She had worse luck for Uncle Manolo in the remote village in Mexico. In the end, it was Father Frank at St. Anthony’s who helped Luz decide on a mass and cremation.

  It was a simple but tasteful funeral at her parish church, and Luz felt her abuela would have approved. Abuela had never been ostentatious. The choice of Our Lady of Guadalupe holy cards and her favorite psalms and hymns came easily. Flowers of all kinds filled St. Anthony’s, more than Luz could ever afford, all brought from the many friends and neighbors who came to pay their respects to La Dama Mariposa, the butterfly woman who had shared the gift of flowers all her life. The Mexican men stood silent while the women wept openly and made exclamations to the Virgencita. And so many children! Every day after the funeral the mailbox was filled with hand-painted pictures of butterflies. Luz wept as she read each sweet note.

  For several days after Abuela’s death, friends of her grandmother had come to clean the house. Now the floors smelled like vinegar, the garden was weeded, and Abuela’s refrigerator had been cleaned and stocked with casseroles, vegetables, fruits, and cakes. They were good women who’d hugged Luz, cried with her, told her how much Abuela had meant to them. A cry stuck in Luz’s throat for days. It held tight, like a wad of cotton that made it hard for Luz to breathe or do more than utter a short yes, no, or thank you. She’d managed to hold herself together during the daytime hours when she was busy and people surrounded her.

  Nights were lonely. After the funeral and the reception at the house, the little bungalow felt so empty and cold. Luz felt utterly alone and longed to hear Abuela’s voice calling to her, Mi nene, come to dinner, eh? The house and everything in it was a reflection of Abuela. Her colorful kitchen redolent with smells, her garden filled with host and nectar plants and countless butterflies. It was a home where children had come to play, women shared secrets, and a granddaughter was loved.

  Luz was only five years old when her mother died. She only remembered the sudden emptiness she didn’t understand and a darkness where there had been light. For a long time afterward she’d wept inconsolably for her mother and looked for her everywhere. Eventually Luz found solace in the constant nurturing of her grandmother. She’d clung to Abuela and felt panic flutter in her chest whenever Abuela left the house, thinking she wouldn’t come back.

  But she always did. In the years that followed, though she might not have fully understood the murky concept of death, Luz knew that her mother was never coming back. In all those years Abuela had seen to it that she’d never felt unloved or unwanted.

  Now, as darkness fell after the funeral, Luz understood that Abuela was never coming back.

  Luz walked through room after room, switching on lights in the empty house. Her house now. Outside, traffic moved. She was amazed how life went on around her when her own life felt over. Her gaze lingered on the folk art from Mexico that Abuela had loved. She remembered how Abuela’s heart broke when the huge, brilliant green ceramic pineapple made in Michoacán arrived in pieces, packed poorly by family. Abuela had spent days with glue and tweezers, piecing it back together again. Luz traced the barely visible veins of cracks in the glaze.

  Beside it was the intricate ceramic Tree of Life, a favorite of Luz’s growing up. She remembered Abuela pointing to the different colorfully painted people on the tree and naming the family members they represented. Though she’d never met them, hearing their names made Luz feel part of a bigger family.

  She paused at the large painting of the Virgin of Guadalupe. A snuffed red votive candle sat cold. Tears filled her eyes as she remembered how Abuela lit the candle each evening to say her prayers.

  The only place she couldn’t look was the fireplace. On its mantel sat a small cardboard box. Inside that box were Abuela’s ashes. For a flash Luz regretted not picking out one of the fancy, pricey urns. But she’d held back because she believed that she’d find her tía Maria and allow her the opportunity to make that important, intimate choice for her mother. Still, to think of Abuela in that plain box . . . She shuddered.

  “You okay?”

  Luz sucked in her breath and turned to see Sully leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his long sleeves rolled up over muscled forearms. His sharp cheekbones appeared more pronou
nced in his fatigue. Behind his stoic expression of support, his eyes seemed at a loss as to how he could help ease her pain; he was searching, she knew, for signs that her fragile hold on composure might snap as silence and darkness took hold of her spirit.

  “She’s really gone,” she said, her voice breaking. “I feel so alone.”

  In two steps he was at her side, holding her. “You’re not alone. I’m here. I’ll always be here. You know that, don’t you?”

  She tightened her lips and nodded. His arms felt so safe, but his words didn’t fill the void. “I know, but this is a different kind of alone. I lost my grandmother. I don’t have a mother or father, no sisters or brothers. Not even aunts, uncles, or cousins that I know. I don’t have a family. You can look around the dinner table and see people who have the same nose as you, the same eyes, the same laugh. What about me? I’m not connected to anyone who shares my DNA. Maybe Abuela knew she was going to die and didn’t want to leave me all alone. That’s why she wanted me to meet my family. But she did die, and I feel like I’m in the dark.”

  “I’m here,” Sully said again. “And I love you.” He squeezed her tight. “Come on, babe. Let’s get you to bed,” he said, slipping his arm around her shoulders and guiding her to the familiar comfort of her bedroom. The frilly lavender lamp offered meager light—neither of them had had the time or energy to change the overhead bulb that had burned out after Luz had slept with the light on every night the past week.

  Luz felt beyond tired. She felt unwashed, overwhelmed, and utterly spent. She moved with sodden lethargy as he helped her out from the now despised black A-line wool dress and lifted one foot, then the other, from black pumps she’d purchased for the funeral. She stood slack shouldered as he unhooked her bra, then she lifted her arms as he slid a long flannel nightgown over her head.