The Butterfly’s Daughter (6 page)

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 pronounced 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.

She'd never known a fatigue so total it made her want to dissolve into tears. Sully knew just what to do. He gently led her to the lavender chair and seated her as if she were made of glass. He removed the clasp from her hair and watched as it fell like black water down her shoulders and back. Sully loved her hair. He'd made her promise that she'd never cut it short. He picked up her small brush with his big hands, more accustomed to heavy tools and machinery, and with steady, even strokes ran the soft boar bristles from her scalp down to the ends. Rhythmic. Intimate. Luz sighed heavily, a sound like steam released from a valve as she cried silent tears. She'd loved this man for three years, known him to be gentle, but never had he done anything so precious to her as this tender caring when she could not care for herself.

When he'd brushed her hair till it felt like silk, Sully pulled down the comforter and turned off the light. She gratefully lay in bed in the velvety blackness, eyes wide and seeing nothing. A moment later she felt the mattress sag with his weight as Sully stretched out beside her, scooping her close to lie like spoons. His chin rested on her head and she caught the scent of soap and axle grease as coarse fingertips skimmed her forehead, smoothing strands of hair from her face.

How long they lay together she couldn't guess, but at some point she felt Sully's familiar warm breath on her cheek followed by a soft kiss.

“Sleep now,” Sully said in a low voice by her ear.

Luz knew that someday she'd have to find the words to tell Sully how much she appreciated his knowing just what she needed, when she needed it. But speaking was beyond her now. Luz heard the door click shut and slipped into oblivion.

Luz waited for the dream of the butterflies. She longed to hear her mother's voice, to feel some connection to her mother and grandmother. But the dream didn't return. Despair bloomed larger in her chest as she began to fully grasp the profound depth of her isolation. Luz pushed back her blankets and walked directly to her grandmother's bedroom. Clutching the doorframe, she peered inside. The room was exactly as it always had been while Abuela was alive. Everything was tidy and in its place. Luz wasn't afraid. She'd welcome her grandmother's ghost, even prayed she'd come. With an impulsive rush Luz ran into the room, pulled back the coverlet, and climbed under the wool blanket. The sheets were crisp and ironed, cold as death, and she shivered, desperate to feel some spark of warmth, some connection to her grandmother.

Maybe it was Abuela's scent still lingering on the sheets, but the fragile thread that held Luz together during the past week suddenly snapped. Clutching her pillow, Luz felt a rush of emotion.

“Abuela!” she called out into the darkness. “Are you there? Do you hear me? Why did you leave before I got to say good-bye?”

She was crying so hard she had doubled up, and her throat burned like she'd been screaming at the top of her lungs. She wiped the tears from her face with the sheet and took a deep, shuddering breath. Her emotions, so mercurial in grief, quickly turned to self-loathing.

“I didn't get to tell you I'm sorry. I'm so very, very sorry. You gave me everything I needed and you never asked me for anything. Not once in all those years. And what did I do when you asked me to do one thing? To go on this trip with you? I said no. I always say no!”

She squeezed her pillow tighter and brought her knees closer to her chest. She repeated “I'm sorry” in a litany, over and over, counting apologies as a child would count sheep. In time her grip loosened from the pillow, and she felt her muscles slowly relax and her ragged breathing grow more even. Before falling into a fitful sleep, Luz murmured a final prayer.

“Abuela, won't you send me a sign that you hear me? Some signal that you're still with me. I don't need to hear your voice or see a ghost or anything like that. I'm not asking for much. It's just . . . I don't know what to do. I feel so alone. Please, Abuela, just some small sign that you're still with me and I'm not alone.”

Luz awoke to the sound of tapping against her window. She licked her dry lips and rubbed her eyes, grainy from tears, then pulled herself up on one elbow and looked around the room. She caught the scent of vanilla and maize and thought Abuela's death had been a dream. Then, waking fully, she recognized Abuela's dark wood bed, the crucifix on the wall, her bureau and mirror adorned with photographs. Abuela was gone. Luz squeezed her eyes against the fresh wave of grief.