The Butterfly’s Daughter (32 page)

Mrs. Barrett was a middle-aged executive at an insurance company. Mariposa knew she had to be successful because she always wore the most beautiful shoes and bags. Today she wore a bright yellow silk dress and black patent leather heels that Mariposa thought must've cost more than she earned in a week. She breezed past Mariposa toward her mailbox with hardly a glance. Her expensive shoes and her corgi's big muddy paws left dirty prints across the damp floor. After riffling through her mail, Mrs. Barrett noticed Mariposa waiting, mop in hand, staring at the floor. She looked down.

“Oh,” she said with a scrap of surprise. “Bootsie, you bad girl,” she said to her dog. “Making such a mess.” She looked at Mariposa with a perfunctory smile. “I guess it's a good thing you're still here with your mop! I'll just get out of your way. Come along, Bootsie.” She walked off to the elevator without another word, trailing more mud.

Mariposa felt dead inside and immune to the slings and arrows of people who did not matter to her. She simply dragged the mop across the floor again in a monotonous pattern. When she was finished she hoisted her bucket, heavy with dirty water. She grimaced as she lugged it down the hall to the custodial closet, where she dumped the dirty water, panting with effort. Mariposa put her hand to her lower back and rubbed the sore spot.

She was only forty years old but she had aches like an old
woman. Then again, she'd lived twenty of those years hard. Drugs, poor diet, smoking—they took their toll on her muscles, skin, and hair. She saw the changes every time she looked in the mirror.

Not that beauty mattered to her any longer. There was a time when she was accustomed to the attention of men and the envy of women. That seemed so long ago. She'd made a lot of mistakes in her life and learned some hard lessons. She didn't want to make any more. Day by day, that was her mantra. She had to hold it together, to somehow get stronger so she could face her daughter. Luz's forgiveness was all she wanted from life now.

She rinsed the buckets and neatly put away her tools. As soon as she was finished she removed her dirty apron, let her long hair free from its elastic, and went directly to her garden. The small, walled garden that bordered the patio of the condominium building was her refuge. She'd received permission from the owner to plant the garden at her own expense—as long as she maintained it. Local Mexican landscape crews befriended her and helped her out, delivering soil and offering their strong backs to till it. In exchange, she shared her knowledge of horticulture and gave them young plants that she'd started from seeds in her makeshift greenhouse. Her garden had been worth all the work and expense and soul she'd put into it. It had been her salvation.

There were moments in the past three years of recovery when she felt such despair that she didn't think she could make it past another day without using. Moments like now. At these low points when her hands shook and her gut roiled, she'd go to the garden and put her hands deep into the earth. Ungloved and bare, she'd dig down deep and squeeze the dirt between her fingers, breathe in its pungent smell, and feel rooted to a profound source that connected her to a greater whole.

Her mother had often told her that when she dropped to her knees and worked in the garden, she found peace and strength. Esperanza had given this power a name—God. Mariposa, however, had lost faith in her mother's kind and benevolent God, but she could not deny the existence of a greater power. So she'd created a garden as her sanctuary, her temple. Each flower she planted, each knotty weed she pulled, each butterfly she released she offered as a prayer, with the same innocent heart that she had as a child lighting a candle in church. Today, her offerings were to her mother.

Mariposa saw the butterflies that flocked to her garden year after year as a sign that she'd been heard. The monarchs especially, these great messengers to the goddesses, allowed her to cling to the slim hope that although her mother was gone, soon she would reunite with her daughter.

She heard the squeaking of the garden's iron gate opening and closing. It was cocktail hour and people from the condominiums were coming to the garden to socialize. Mariposa couldn't bear the idle cheerfulness during her mourning. She quickly gathered the pile of weeds into a bag, eager to flee.

“Mariposa?”

Mariposa was startled to hear Sam's voice. She looked up to see him standing at the edge of the garden. He wore his customary blue chambray shirt open at the top and tucked neatly into his jeans. His large silver belt buckle was of some Native American symbol.

She rose slowly, her breath catching in her throat. Sam had stayed with her for hours after she'd heard the news of her mother's death. He'd brought her back indoors from the garden, not leaving until sometime late in the evening when she was asleep. She'd been vaguely aware of him helping her wash the dirt from her hands and
sitting by her bed while she wept inconsolably. She hadn't seen him in the two days since and despite her despair, she had missed him.

Sam smiled and raised his hand to tip his hat. Then his gaze swept across the garden. She saw his lips curl up slightly in appreciation before he turned his attention back to her. “It's a beautiful garden,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“You missed your riding lesson,” he said, calling across the garden in a loud voice.

“I couldn't come. You know why.”

“Opal doesn't know that. She missed you.”

“I missed her, too,” she said in a ragged voice, feeling another gush of grief rise up to spill from her eyes. Mariposa tugged at her garden gloves, taking them off slowly, calming herself. Just breathing hurt. She felt raw, like an open wound that hadn't had time to heal.

“Mariposa, are you going to join me here on the patio or would you rather I came out to you, because what I have to say to you I'd rather not shout out across the garden.”

“I'm coming.” She cut a path through the echinacea and asters to stand a distance away from him in the shade of the patio. She was grateful none of the tenants were around, so they could speak privately. She reached up to wipe the moisture from her brow, aware that her jeans and shirt were damp and soiled from her work.

He closed the last few feet between them in two steps. “How are you?”

She heard the deep concern embedded in that common expression of greeting. She raised her gaze, seeking comfort in his dark eyes.

“I'm afraid.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“That I can't handle this. It's too hard.”

“The death of a loved one is one of the hardest blows for us to deal with,” Sam began, his voice calm and easy. “But you have to take it one day at a time.”

“I don't know if I can make it. I'm hanging on by a thread.”

“And what's that thread?”

She exhaled a long, shuddering breath. “Luz.” Just hearing herself speak the name aloud was like a soothing caress to Mariposa. “Knowing she's coming, that she's in a car somewhere on her way here, is the only thing that's keeping me from running away.”

“And using.”

Mariposa wrapped her arms around herself and nodded curtly.

“I'm here,” he told her, putting his hand on her tight shoulder. “Opal's here. And soon, your daughter will be here.”

“I want my
mother,
” she cried, slapping her hands to her face.

Sam took a deep breath. “I know.”

Mariposa wiped her tears from her cheeks in quick, angry strokes. “Luz thinks I'm dead,” she said. “Maybe it's better off that way. She doesn't know me. She doesn't love me. Maybe I
am
better off dead.”

“Is that what you want?”

Mariposa closed her eyes tight and nodded.

“But you're not dead. That was a lie. I don't know why your mother told her that. I expect she had her reasons. But that doesn't make it right. You owe it to yourself and to Luz to face the truth. How she handles it is out of your control. You can only control yourself. The way ahead is in facing and living the truth.”

“And what's that truth?” Mariposa asked.

“You're Mariposa Avila, a recovering addict.”

She turned her back to him and fixed her gaze on a small spigot from which water was slowly dripping.

“Think a minute about Opal,” Sam said firmly. “You can't just call and tell us you're not coming. It doesn't work that way. Not because we need your help. We can take care of our animals. But because you need to be consistent with Opal. She depends on you to feed her, to brush her, to walk her. You've become an important part of her life. And she yours.

“What worries me is that you're falling into your old pattern. You're isolating yourself again. Setting up a spiral for relapse. Once the spiral begins your clever mind will seek out ways to spark self-loathing. Once that happens, you set off a sequence of failures that will lead to more depression and despair, and ultimately, to what was your goal all along—alcohol and drugs.”

Mariposa stared harder at each drop that fell with extraordinary slowness from the spigot. She felt numbed by his perfect analysis.

Sam's voice softened and he reached up to gently cradle her chin. “Come on, Brave Face,” he said, using his nickname for her. “You're strong. We'll get through this.”

His support filled the black hole she'd felt opening. She knew her impulsive behavior was at the crux of her addiction. She was good at playing this old game. Her mother had delighted in comparing her flighty behavior to that of a butterfly. Excuses were made for what they called her “spontaneity.” It was a kind of suicide.

“How do I change?”

Sam reached into his pocket, pulled out some tissues, and handed them to her. “I think you're doing a good job right now.”

Mariposa took the tissues and blotted her eyes. “Right. I'm doing great.”

“Look at yourself, Mariposa. You're doing your job. You're back in the garden. You're keeping up your routine. You aren't only in your head. That's all good.” He took the tissues from her hand and wiped a tear from her cheek. “Think of it as keeping one toe on the edge of the cliff.”

Mariposa looked up at him with the stirrings of reborn trust.

“Today is going to be hard,” he told her. “Tomorrow is going to be hard. And the day after that. And after that. You know how this works. You knew it wasn't going to be easy. But you've come a long way.”

She nodded.

“And,” he said, “so has your daughter.”

Once the caterpillar securely hooks her rear legs to the silk button, she will rest in a J position for many hours. Inside, a chemical change has already begun. As the chrysalis forms, the old caterpillar skin is forced off. She twists and turns, securing her hold and shaking off the remnants of her old caterpillar skin. The chrysalis stage begins.

T
wo days later, Luz lay in her bed in the motel and wondered how, in this day of instant communication, at a time when people complained about lack of privacy, she could not find her aunt Maria.

She had diligently called every number on her list. Some she'd reached immediately and they'd told her with varying degrees of politeness that they were not her relation. In cases where she got an answering machine, she called back at different times of the day and into the evening.

That morning, three numbers still did not answer the phone. Luz dropped Margaret off at the River Walk to do some shopping while she drove to the remaining addresses. At the first house, the person who answered the door informed her that this Maria Zamora, no blood relation, had died since the publication of the phone book. At the second address, the party had moved. The third location looked deserted. No one knew her
aunt Maria, neither by the name Zamora nor her old married name, Garcia.

Dejected, Luz returned to her cheap motel room ready to drown her sorrows in a hamburger and a milkshake. As she stepped into the room, Serena raced up to her, whimpering with joy.

“Look at you, so excited to see me,” she said, feeling buoyed by the dog's boundless affection. Her whole body wagged, not just her tail, and Luz could swear the little dog was smiling. “You'd think I'd been gone for a year, not just an afternoon.”

Looking up, she saw several shopping bags on the floor, and strewn over the beds was an eclectic collection of shirts, pants, scarves, and dresses on hangers. They were in the prettiest soft hues of pink, blue, and lavender. Margaret was standing in front of the mirror wearing a burgundy silk dress that clung to her body enough to reveal her feminine curves without flaunting them. She tilted her head as she studied her reflection, seemingly transfixed as she pivoted on her heel for a view of her left, then her right side, a Mona Lisa smile on her face.

“You look beautiful,” Luz breathed.

Margaret twirled around and when she stopped she giggled, covering her mouth like a little girl. But her face was suffused with pleasure. She hooked her hair behind her ear and asked shyly, “Do I?”

“Absolutely.”

“It's different from anything I've ever worn before. It even feels pretty.”

“What
is
all this?” Luz asked, indicating the assortment of clothes on the bed. “Did you rob a store?”

“No,” Margaret replied with a chuckle. “I just raided my savings account.” She added a quick skip to her walk as she crossed the
room and opened the small fridge. Pulling out an opened bottle of white wine, she lifted it in the air and announced, “I discovered color!”

Luz laughed and bent to scoop up Serena, who was clawing at her legs, begging for attention. “All right, you greedy mongrel,” she said, giving the dog a kiss on the head.

Margaret was pouring wine into a glass and refreshed her own. “I had the best time shopping. Did you know there are people who do an analysis of your skin color, hair color, eye color and match it up with a season? They know what colors you should have in your wardrobe.” She handed Luz the glass of wine.