The Butterfly’s Daughter (5 page)

Abuela leaned back in her chair, her eyes bright with resolution. “But you and me, we must jump now.” Her wizened face softened and she reached out across the table, wiggling her fingers, luring her granddaughter to place her hands in her outstretched ones, as she did when Luz was a little girl. Luz obliged.

“I see in your eyes your doubts. Do not worry. This journey will answer many of your questions,” Abuela said. “We will go to San Antonio in our fine car. We will see our family there. Then, we will continue on to Mexico. To Angangueo, where Manolo and my family live. What a reunion we shall have! Then finally, we will go to the mountains to see the butterflies. Together, as we always planned we would. Soon you will stand at the precipice of the Sacred Circle, as my mother stood with me, and I stood with your mother. As we have done for generations. You will dance with the butterflies. You will take your place with the goddesses.”

Luz sighed with resignation, having heard this story many times before. Other children heard fairy tales about Hansel and Gretel, Sleeping Beauty, or Jack and the Beanstalk. Abuela had told Luz myths about the Aztec gods and goddesses and the monarch butterflies in the mountains of Mexico. But that's all they were to Luz—childhood stories.

“Last I looked,” Luz said with a self-deprecating smile, “goddesses didn't work for minimum wage in a factory.”

“Oh, yes they do!” Abuela said with a squeeze of her hands. “Goddesses are everywhere, if you look for them.”

“Even if I wanted to go, I don't think that car can make it all the way to Mexico.”

“That little car has great heart. I have faith. And so should you. I dream of going all the way home to Mexico. But in truth, all that car has to do is get us to Texas. After that . . .” She shrugged. “We will hope for the best.” Abuela brightened and in a burst of enthusiasm rose from her chair. “I have studied the map. Wait!”

A few minutes later Esperanza came hurrying back into the kitchen carrying sheets of paper and maps. She spread out a map on the table and pointed a gnarled finger at a spot she'd circled in red.

“Here is Milwaukee, see? First, we go to San Antonio. Today I called Jorge Delgado. He owns the taqueria on Greenfield. Jorge made this drive a few months ago. He said if we have no problems, we can make it to San Antonio in three, maybe four days.”

“If you return the car tomorrow and get your money back, you can buy a plane ticket to San Antonio and get there in one day. And you can visit with Tía Maria for as long as you like. Wouldn't that be easier?”

“But that would not include you. I also called the airlines today. To fly is very expensive. And,” she said, wagging her finger for emphasis, “when we get to Mexico, we would still need to drive a car to get to the mountains where your uncle Manolo lives. Look,” she said, pointing again at the map. “This is Morelia airport and this”—her finger moved several inches across the map to where the terrain was mountainous—“is where I grew up. See? We need a car.” She said the last in a manner that implied her logic was flawless and couldn't be argued with.

Luz's lips twitched. “You've been busy today.”

Abuela nodded her head with conviction. “
Sí
. I plan and plan.
We must arrive in Angangueo by November first, for the Day of the Dead. This is very important. It is when the monarchs return to our village on their way up the mountains.”

Luz couldn't deny the flurry of excitement she felt at the idea of making this trip with Abuela. She yearned to leave on some adventure, to see the world. Yet, her stomach also clenched at the thought of all the bills waiting to be paid, and now the added expenses of the VW.

They put away the maps and enjoyed a leisurely dinner of chicken tamales with a verde sauce that was Abuela's own recipe. While they ate, Luz listened patiently as Abuela talked about the journey and discussed their route, which would chase the monarch butterflies as they migrated south across the country.

When dinner was finished and they began washing up the dishes, however, the harsh realities of their finances took root in Luz's mind. It was fun to dream together, but she couldn't let Abuela go on believing that in a few days' time they would actually pack up and drive off on this adventure. She dried the last of the heavy green pottery plates and put it away in the cabinet. Abuela was rinsing the suds from the sink.

“Abuela,” she began hesitatingly, folding the towel neatly in thirds. She set it on the counter. “I know how important this is to you. But . . .”

Abuela's hands stilled at the sink and she slowly turned. Her beautiful dark eyes turned wary as her smile fell.

“Let's think about the timing, okay?” Luz continued in a cajoling tone. “First, I have my job. I can't just take off on a trip tomorrow. Then there are the bills. We really have to finish paying off our credit card debt. I won't be getting a raise this year. But I'll get a second job on the weekends.” She put on a brave smile. “We
can do this, I know we can. But I really can't see how we'll be able to leave this week. We just can't. Unless we win the lottery.” She laughed at her little joke but it fell flat. Abuela's face crumpled with distress and disappointment.

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.

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.

M
orning 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 window, 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.