The Butterfly’s Daughter (29 page)

Sam reached out to put his hand over hers on Opal's neck. Mariposa flinched but he didn't move his hand away. Instead, he tightened his hold.

“Then we deal with it,” he said.

Mariposa looked at his hand over hers. “We?” she dared whisper.

“You won't be alone. I'll be there with you.” He moved his hand from hers to bring it to her face. He found a tear tracing a dusty path down her cheek and gently wiped it away. “That is, if you want me to be.”

Tentatively, she looked up at Sam. His face was so close to hers that she could see his pupils pulse. She looked away from his bruising intensity. His sincerity frightened her, more than any menace she might've found lurking in that darkness. Cruelty she'd learned how to deal with over the years. She doubted goodness when she found it, or someone who wanted to help her for nothing in exchange.

She was shivering and Sam didn't move. He knew to give frightened animals space and time in order not to spook them. Slowly, tentatively, Mariposa moved her shaky hand from Opal to let it rest against his chest. It felt like a very great distance to move.

Sam closed his eyes and she heard him slowly expel a long breath. She hadn't realized he'd been holding it.

“I want you to be with me,” she said, lifting her eyes to his. “I'm ready to make the call.”

Mariposa glanced over her shoulder as she pushed her apartment door open wider to allow Sam to pass. “Come in,” she said, hearing the tremor in her voice. It wasn't because Sam was a man who made her nervous, though that played a part. Sam was the first person she'd ever brought into her sanctuary. Watching him cross the threshold was the breaking down of another boundary she'd set up.

Mariposa had always thought hers was the apartment of a nun. Spare and tidy and chaste. It was the caretaker's studio in the basement of the upper-class condominium building. Her entrance was down a short flight of dreary cement steps from the garden to a bulky and unattractive bolted door. But inside there were large windows that allowed copious amounts of light to drench the small space. The paucity of furniture suited her. A twin bed covered in a white matelasse coverlet was pushed against the back wall and near the windows sat a small, dark wood table and two mismatched wood chairs painted a bright green. Dominating the room was a long shelf constructed of lumber and cinder blocks. The lower shelves were crammed with books but along the top were several ten-gallon aquariums.

She went directly to the sink and began making coffee. She needed to keep busy. As she poured water into the coffeepot, she was intensely aware that Sam was idly walking around her space. He would not miss an iota, she thought, but she shook off her unease, for there was nothing in here that she was ashamed to reveal. While she measured coffee into the pot, she saw Sam walk by her bed and pick up the book left open on the bedside table. It was a used, worn copy of
The Encyclopedia of Insects.

“A little light reading before sleep, huh?” he said.

“It's my bible.”

He set the book down and walked to the aquariums. He bent to inspect and saw the dozens of bright yellow and black monarch caterpillars of different sizes, all ravenously eating the milkweed leaves set in glass jars.

“Look at them go,” Sam said, bending low to watch the caterpillars more closely. “They're eating machines.”

“That's all they do. Eat and grow.”

“And poop.”

She laughed, acknowledging the truth in that, and came to his side. “Nearly as much as they eat. We call it frass.”

“I'm always amused at all the names we give animal excrement—mutes, guano, dung, cow pies.”

She laughed again and moved to the third tank. These caterpillars were bigger, over two inches in length. One was wandering across the glass wall, leaving a barely visible streaky trail. “These guys will wander about till they find the right spot to go into chrysalis,” she said, lowering to her knees to look up at the top of the lid.

“Come see,” she said, urging Sam to scoot lower. “There are two caterpillars hanging from the top. See how the head curls up to look like the letter
J
? My mother used to say it was an
upside-down question mark and the caterpillars were asking,
¿Qué sigue?
What's next?” She smiled at the memory. “They hang there for hours, aerialists without a net.”

Sam obliged, going down on one knee, leaning on the other as he bent his head to look. His leather jacket creaked and he made a soft grunting noise as he found a comfortable spot on her hardwood floor. She hid her smile, even as she felt her body coil at his close proximity.

“Oh, look, Sam! That one is changing to a chrysalis! Can you see that small patch of green there, on the one on the left?”

“Yes,” Sam replied, his voice tinged with surprise. “I've never seen that.”

She looked over at his face, delighted that he took an interest in a subject that meant so much to her. His was a strong face, tawny colored with sharp angles. The faint stubble of a five o'clock shadow grazed his chin and she could catch the faint scent of soap and leather that always lingered on his skin.

“I'd better check on that coffee.” Mariposa rose to her feet and went directly to her galley kitchen to gather two mugs.

Sam went to the chair and sat, setting one polished boot on his knee. “My people have a lot of myths about butterflies,” he said. “The butterfly is the totem of transformation and change and a symbol of courage. That should be your totem.”

“Courage?” she asked, setting a mug of steaming coffee on the table. She went to gather cream and sugar and placed these on the table with two spoons. Then she took the seat across from him and poured a liberal amount of cream into her mug. “Is it courage to change when you don't have much choice in the matter?”

Sam didn't reply, and brought his coffee to his lips. His dark eyes glittered, watching her over the rim.

“My sobriety was no act of selfless courage, Sam. I was forced to quit drugs by a judge when he sentenced me to three years for trafficking. I was sent right into treatment and though it was the hardest thirty days of my life, in the end I was grateful for it. Looking back, I'm ashamed to think of all the things I've done as an addict. I was as low as a caterpillar, driven only by an insatiable appetite.”

“Symbolism can be an important ally,” he argued, setting his mug back on the table. “The lowly caterpillar changes into a creature of great beauty. It's a powerful image.”

An enigmatic smile played on her lips as she gently shook her head. “Why does everyone always think only of the butterfly as beautiful?” she asked him. “It's the change itself—the metamorphosis—that is the true wonder.” She lifted her hand to indicate the aquariums filled with caterpillars. “No one stops to think of how the caterpillar must shed its skin five times before it forms the chrysalis. The caterpillar doesn't just change. It completely transforms. The old form dies and the new is reborn. That's the miracle that gives us hope.”

Sam leaned back in his chair and put his tanned hand on his knee. His large turquoise ring caught her eye. An eagle was carved into the silver.

She turned to look into the tanks again, feeling an overwhelming urge to explain herself so that Sam would understand.

“When I first came out of treatment, I was like that first tiny caterpillar out of the egg. I had no idea of who I was. My senses were numb. All I could do was eat and exist. I was afraid—all the time—but I had to keep going forward. Each phase was like bursting out of an old coat. Over the last few years I went through these phases again and again. It takes great courage to go into the darkness, to
face your demons. Yet, it's not so much courage that keeps me going. It's more a fear of falling back into the darkness.”

Mariposa took a sip of her coffee, savored the richness of it, then slowly lowered the mug to the table. She looked up at Sam. “But I'm not afraid now. I'm ready for the next step. I'm ready to make the call.”

It was only because he'd given his word to Luz that Sully went to her bungalow. The moment he stepped inside, his heart fell. Abuela was gone and so was Luz. The house felt as cold and empty as the great hollow ache in his chest where his heart used to beat.

Sully methodically set the mail on the front table, mostly circulars and junk mail. Then he walked down the hall to the kitchen, his footfall echoing loudly. Of all the rooms, this one felt the most desolate. When Abuela was alive, there was always music and food and laughter. He didn't sense anything of her spirit left here. Perhaps Luz was right after all. She'd flown off with the butterflies.

Luz . . . He shook his head. Hell, he was thinking so much about her, now
he
was even starting to believe stuff like that. He filled the watering can at the sink, then one by one dutifully watered Abuela's plants. He couldn't let them die, no matter what was—or wasn't—going on with him and Luz.

He'd loved that old woman. She never said a mean or rude word to him, or to anyone else. She always greeted him with a warm smile and something to eat. She treated him like a prince in these walls, used to tease him that her life's mission was to “fill out his bones.” They'd had a special bond, or at least he liked to think so. In all honesty, he enjoyed the trips to pick things up with her. She'd tell him stories about Luz from before he'd met her, things Luz would
never tell him herself. Like how she sang to the trees and flowers, how her favorite food was ice cream, and how she hadn't let go of Abuela's hand for days after her mother died. Often at the end of the errand, when he dropped her back home, Abuela nudged him in his ribs, winked, and said, “So, when are you going to marry my granddaughter, eh?” He loved her for that. It told him she approved, and Abuela's approval had meant a lot to him.

Sully put away the watering can and went down the hall. He paused at the threshold of Luz's bedroom. The lavender and pink room was the room of a child, but he knew Luz had been a woman with a woman's responsibilities for several years before her time. He respected Luz for giving up school to get a job, knowing how much she wanted to study for a degree in social work. That's when he'd first seen her. Leaning against the locker, one foot on the wall, her nose deep in her book. He had to cough three times to get her to look up. One look in her pale blue eyes fringed with all those black lashes and he was gone.

But he loved her most for her heart. She was a lot like her grandmother, only she didn't see it. For whatever reason, she didn't have a lot of self-confidence. She was always criticizing herself—she was too heavy, her face was too plain, her hair too thick. She didn't fit the model's bony profile, as if he'd ever wanted that. No matter how many times he told her how beautiful she was, she'd shake her head no. She had this crazy idea in her head that she'd never be as beautiful as her mother.

After Abuela died, he worried that Luz was going to have a breakdown. She imploded, sort of like the way he'd read a black star did. All the light she carried was sucked into some dark place.

Sully ran his hand through his hair, feeling the ache in his heart expand and contract. Since she'd left on this crazy trip, he'd had a
lot of time to think. He could see now how much she'd needed to take this trip. He just wished he could've taken it with her.

But why didn't she answer the dozen messages he'd left on her cell phone? All he got in the past few days was a single message from her telling him that she was fine, that she'd lost her phone charger, and that she'd call when she bought another. That he was not to worry. How the hell was he not going to worry? That was like telling him not to breathe!

Suddenly the sound of the telephone ringing rent the stillness of the house. He tensed, hope springing to life in his heart. Maybe it was Luz leaving a message, he thought. It rang five times before the answering machine clicked on. He stepped closer to the machine on the desk, listening intently. At the beep he heard a woman's voice.

“Hello? Hello?
¿Estás aquí? Por favor.
Please answer!”

Sully stood frozen. He didn't recognize the voice.

“Mami, it's me. I know it's been a long time. What can I say? There are no words to erase all the years. But I'm sorry.
Perdóname,
Mami.”

Sully heard the heartbreak in the voice and was unsure whether to answer the phone and take a message. He hovered over the phone in indecision.

“Mami, if you are not there, please call me.” She left a number and Sully scrambled to find paper and pencil in the desk drawer to write it down. “I beg you, even if you call only to tell me never to call you again. Please, call me.” The woman's voice broke.

Sully lurched for the phone, but it was too late. He heard the fast busy signal of disconnect. He slowly set the phone back into the cradle. It had to be Luz's aunt, the one she couldn't reach. Luz hardly ever talked about her family, but he knew Luz was going to
San Antonio to visit her aunt. Her
tía
Maria in San Antonio. He remembered because he'd helped Luz search this desk for the address and telephone number.

“Shit,” he muttered. This was the woman Luz needed the phone number for. He should have grabbed the phone sooner. He picked up the paper and dialed the number he'd written. After two rings, the same voice answered.

“Hello?” The woman's voice was hesitant, cautious.

“Uh, hi. This is Sully Gibson. You don't know me, but I'm a friend of Luz.” He heard a quick intake of breath. “I-I heard your message. I wasn't listening in or nothing. I was just here watering the plants for Luz. Collecting the mail, that kind of stuff, while she's gone. I couldn't help but overhear and I thought I should call you back.”