The Butterfly’s Daughter (21 page)

“I lost my mother, too,” Luz told her.

Margaret's eyes went soft and Luz knew that she felt the bond, too. Margaret offered a small smile and asked, “How old were you when she died?”

“Five.”

“Oh, so young.”

“I hardly remember her.”

“I'm sorry. I can't imagine. At least I had my mother for twenty-one years. I was a woman when she passed. But I still miss her.” Margaret's smile was bittersweet. “Sometimes at the strangest moments I'll see or do something and think Mom would've liked that.”

Luz tightened her grip on the cup. She'd never know what her mother might have liked. She didn't have even that much. “So, you must love it at Hidden Ponds, then,” she said, clumsily changing the subject. “Being a horticulturalist and all. It's an amazing place.”

“I do,” Margaret replied, but her voice was tenuous and she looked out the window.

“I hear a
but
. . .”

Margaret held back a smile and poured herself more tea from the pretty floral china teapot. “But somehow I got stuck in the office. I'd always thought I'd end up in the nursery, experimenting, maybe testing new plants. Anything outdoors.”

Margaret straightened in her chair, physically collecting herself as though she'd suddenly realized she'd divulged too much. “Don't get me wrong. It's a very good job,” Margaret said with emphasis. “And Mrs. Penfold needs me. She's a wonderful woman and has the gift of a green thumb.” She cleared her throat and added, “But she can be impulsive.”

Luz thought of Abuela's words. “Impulsive?”

Margaret nodded. “Especially when it comes to spending. Look how she was with Ofelia. You know she's going to pick up the hospital bills, and help her get a start. No one knows better than me that she really can't afford it. She can't seem to help herself. I'll have to help her through the muddle she'll no doubt get herself in.”

Luz sat back in her chair. The woman was able to turn on a switch that changed her personality from warm to frigid, she thought.

Seeing Luz's thunderous expression, Margaret rushed to add, “Not that it's Ofelia's fault, of course.”

Luz swallowed the toast that seemed stuck in her throat. She waited a minute, letting the words digest. “You call Mrs. Penfold's giving impulsive.” Then, envisioning Abuela's face, she smiled. “My grandmother would have called it kindness.”

“Well, I . . .”

“Hey, I get what you're saying,” Luz said. “Sometimes I'd get frustrated with Abuela, especially about how she gave so much of her time to the neighborhood children. Every summer she taught them how to hunt for the tiny butterfly eggs in her garden. She'd let them gather fresh milkweed leaves and feed the caterpillars. They'd hang around all summer, playing in the garden and begging for more cookies or juice. You know how kids are.” She leaned back in her chair, remembering. “We never had two dimes to rub together. I was working at a job I hated and I'd get frustrated to come home and see her doling out more snacks I paid for when I didn't have money to go out for a beer. I sometimes complained we were running a summer camp.

“Abuela used to just smile at me in that wise-woman way she had and tell me kindness was like the sun and the rain. If you were miserly with it, your world would wither up. But the more you
gave, the more you reaped. Well, at her funeral, I was surprised when a number of older boys—young men—came up to me to tell me those summers with La Dama Mariposa, that's what they called her, kept them from the streets.” She paused, holding back a rush of emotion that again threatened tears. “Hearing those words were a revelation. They made me feel both contrite and grateful for all the years I had with Abuela.” Her lips eased into a soft smile.

“So, I think that Mrs. Penfold is a lot like my grandmother. She's full of the sun and the rain. One look at her garden tells me all I ever need to know about her.”

Margaret tightened her robe in silence and looked pensively out the window.

Luz gathered her napkin and dishes and rose to put them on the counter. “I guess I'd better gather my things and check on Ofelia. Breakfast was great. You were kind to take such good care of me. Thanks.”

“So, where do you go from here?”

“Well,” Luz said, leaning back against the counter, “after I see Ofelia, I'm off to San Antonio. And then, if all goes well, I'm continuing on to Mexico.”

“Mexico?” Margaret said, surprised. “That's a long drive. Are you going to visit family?”

“Yes. My aunt lives in San Antonio. I'm hoping she'll come along to see the rest of the family in Michoacán. It's a long story, but there's a tradition in my family to greet the monarchs when they return to the mountains in the fall, around the Day of the Dead. My grandmother died recently, you see, so I want to be there when the monarchs arrive.”

Margaret straightened and leaned forward with interest. “You're going to Michoacán?” she asked. “To see the sanctuaries?”

Luz was surprised she knew about the sanctuaries. “That's the plan.”

Margaret seemed at a loss for words. “You're talking about the monarch sanctuaries? Up in the mountains?” When Luz nodded, Margaret's eyes danced with excitement and she set her elbows on the table, cupping her chin.

“I've read about them. And seen videos on television. I'm always so amazed that those fragile creatures can make such an amazing journey. Miraculous, really. I think I still have the
National Geographic
magazine my parents got back in the seventies when they first discovered the sanctuaries. It was a huge find; everybody was talking about it. Until then, nobody knew where the butterflies went.”

“Except the villagers, of course,” Luz added wryly.

“Well, yes. Of course. But not the scientific community,” Margaret replied, and it was clear from her tone that in her opinion, this was the group that mattered. “My parents collected moths and butterflies. They had an impressive variety of species. For them, the discovery of the monarch sanctuaries in Michoacán was as exciting as Neil Armstrong's walk on the moon. They used to talk about all of us going to the sanctuaries one day. They even bought tents and sleeping bags and planned out the trip. It was our dream. My father is a typical German—he loves detail and outlined our adventure to the minutiae, even the clothes and equipment we'd need to pack. He especially loved the tiny flashlights, the compass, and, oh yes”—she chuckled softly—“the Swiss Army knives. He even designed our observation notebooks.” She smiled at the memory.

Luz smiled, thinking to herself,
like father like daughter
.

“But we never made it.”

Luz caught a flicker of regret in Margaret's eyes. “You still can go,” she said.

“What? Oh, no. Dad's not well. He has a heart condition and would never make it to those high elevations. And of course, Mom . . .” She pinched her lips. Margaret picked up the teacup again. “No, we missed our chance,” she said. Then she sighed and her face softened. “But imagine, seeing millions and millions of butterflies.” She sipped her tea slowly, her eyes lost in thought. “You're lucky to be going.”

“Hardly luck,” Luz said. “I missed my chance to go with Abuela, too. I've had a lot of time to think in the car and one of the questions I've been preoccupied with is, How many people lose opportunities to spend time with loved ones before it is too late? Abuela and I talked about this trip for as long as I can remember. But we kept putting it off and putting it off. There was never enough time or money. And now . . .” She shrugged, feeling the weight of remorse in her shoulders. “Anyway, I'm going now. It might not be the way Abuela had planned the trip, but at least we're making it together.”

Margaret's face turned wistful. “My mother used to tell me that we make our own luck.” She set down her cup, rose, and wrapped her arms around Luz in a heartfelt hug. “I admire your courage,” she told her.

Luz was surprised by the sincerity of the impulsive gesture. She felt Margaret's slender arms around her and hugged her back, feeling even more strongly that sisterly bond.

The moment was broken by the phone ringing. They both pulled back and looked at each other with wide eyes, thinking at the same time that it was news about Ofelia. Margaret dashed for the phone on the kitchen counter. Luz was right behind her.

“It's Mrs. Penfold,” she mouthed, waving Luz closer. Holding the phone from her ear, she punched the speakerphone key. A second later, Mrs. Penfold's voice could be heard, ringing with excitement.

“Oh, my dears!” she exclaimed. “Tell Luz to come quick. Ofelia is having the baby!”

“Oh, Ofelia, she's beautiful. A perfect, pretty-in-pink darling!” Luz said, looking at the sweet innocence of the baby.

The hospital's birthing room was decorated in floral chintz, like a big, cozy bedroom. Ofelia lay in bed propped up against pillows, sipping ice water. She looked more herself this morning. Someone had given her a new pink cotton robe and she'd applied pink lipstick that made her smile a vision of glossy joy. Her happiness was so evident that it overshadowed the dark bruise around her eye.

“She is, isn't she?” Ofelia replied with pride. “
Ay,
Luz,” she said dramatically. “I was so worried when they told me she was coming. I kept saying, ‘No! It's too soon.' I was so afraid for her. But look at her! Here she is and the doctor—who's a saint, I tell you—she says she was only like two weeks early and that wasn't too much.”

Luz tore her gaze from the baby to look at Ofelia. “But I thought you weren't due for another month!”

Ofelia shrugged with a smirk. “Yeah, well, my math was never too good.”

Luz rolled her eyes and they both laughed at the absurdity of that statement. It felt good to laugh in a safe place with the baby born and healthy. “Hey, it doesn't matter,” she replied. “We made it. Maybe you didn't get to Mexico, but this might be as far as you were meant to go. Karma and all that.” She looked at the
pink perfection of the infant's face. Then she walked to Ofelia and placed the swaddled baby in her arms. “I'd say you made it straight to heaven.”

Ofelia took the baby in her arms hungrily. “Luz, thank you,” she said in a softer voice. “I wouldn't be here, in this safe place, without you. All I ever wanted was a family. That's why I tried so hard to make it work with Angel. But there was nothing there. I was scared and trapped. You saved me, you know that? The first time I saw you I knew you were special. It must've been those crazy blue eyes of yours.”

Luz chuckled but the words fell sweet on her ears. “You saved yourself.”

“No, but I'll tell you this!” she said with typical Ofelia bravado. “I found my strength again when I laid eyes on my daughter. She's everything to me. I love her so much I want to eat her up. Now I know I have all I ever wanted. She
is
my family.” Her dark eyes narrowed and she said in almost a snarl, “And I'll kill anyone who tries to hurt her.”

Luz felt a tremor at hearing the ferociousness of a mother's love. “Abuela used to say that goddesses are everywhere. Looking at you, I see she was right.”

Ofelia lowered her head to place a kiss on her infant's forehead. “All mothers are goddesses.”

“She used to tell me a story about the goddess who became the mother of all things beautiful.”

“Tell me that one,” Ofelia said with a yawn, settling back against the pillows. The excitement of the morning was at war with her physical exhaustion. She shifted her weight to rest her arm on a pillow and cradled her baby. “Tell us both a story.”

Luz relished the thought of taking on Abuela's role of storyteller.
She sat in the comfortable armchair beside Ofelia's bed, remembering how she used to listen to Abuela's melodic voice. She could paint a scene so vividly that the story would come alive in Luz's imagination. And there were so many stories.

Luz began her favorite, the tale of the two goddesses who sacrificed themselves for mankind. As she told of how Little Nana courageously jumped into the fire, she felt akin to the meek goddess who in the end exalted in glory for bringing light to the world. And when she embellished the details of Xochiquetzal's selfless decision to be the mother of all things to come, she felt her usual longing for her own mother, especially as she watched Ofelia cradle her infant daughter. Did my mother gaze at me in that way? Luz wondered.

When she was finished, she looked up. Ofelia's full mouth was turned down in a frown of confusion.

“Didn't you like it?” Luz asked.

“No, I love that story. It's one of my favorites, too,” Ofelia replied. Then she shook her head. “But you got one part wrong. It wasn't Xochiquetzal who brought the flowers and butterflies to earth. It was Quetzalpapalotl.”

Luz's cheeks flushed with indignation. “Abuela told me this story a million times.”

Ofelia shook her head. “We learned all this Aztec culture stuff in school back in Mexico. Mexicans are really into insects, especially butterflies and moths. I get a lot of them mixed up but I remember
her
because she was kind of kinky. Xochiquetzal is the goddess of beauty and pleasure. She followed the warriors to the battlefields and made love to them at the moment of death—with a butterfly in her mouth. I mean, really. You don't forget something like that, right? It had something to do with her giving them courage and
how, if they died, they'd go to her secret garden high in the mountains in the afterlife.

“Quetzalpapalotl is the god of butterflies. In fact, that's even the name the Aztecs gave the monarch butterflies. He has this bird-butterfly temple in Teotihuacán that I went to when I was a kid. It's really beautiful. You should go there when you're in Mexico.”