The Butterfly’s Daughter

by Mary Alice

  “Common names of a plant often change with location,” she told her. “It can get confusing. The scientific names are always correct.”

  Luz nodded politely, but in her heart she wondered why Margaret would want to stumble over those long names that didn’t make a whit of sense when they could just call the flower by a name picked for what the flower looked like: Indian blanket, gayfeather, black-eyed Susan, goldenrod. Most of all, why would she prefer to twist her tongue around Asclepias when milkweed did the job?

  Margaret was in seventh heaven at seeing the native wildflowers along the highway. “We have Lady Bird Johnson to thank for all this,” Margaret told her. “She’s the patron saint of native plants and wildflowers, in my opinion. Look at all that goldenrod blooming out there. Did you ever see anything so beautiful? I’d be happy to accomplish a fraction of what she did in her lifetime. I just have to figure out how. Maybe I’ll find out on this trip. Do you think?”

  “Absolutely. A wise woman once told me that we’re supposed to find out where we’re supposed to be.”

  Margaret tossed her head back and laughed heartily, from her belly. Luz glanced from the road to look at her. Margaret was blooming. She had a new look of determination in her eyes, a new perked-ear alertness, like Serena had when she caught a scent.

  “Hey, slow down and pull off to the side a minute,” Margaret exclaimed. “I want to make a stop.”

  “What for? Is something wrong?”

  “No, just do it!”

  Luz slowed El Toro and came to a stop on the shoulder. She held on to Serena as Margaret hopped out and walked into a roadside field brilliantly lit by countless vivid orange flowers. She walked through the stalks with the carefree joy of a child playing in the field. When she bent to pick a handful of blooms, her hand rose to idly chase away a bug, and when she stood up she was beaming. The sun shone on her face and she seemed to absorb the brilliant colors that surrounded her. She’s in her element, Luz thought as she watched her walk back to the car with her flowers.

  “What’s that for?”

  “Well, I know they’re cosmos, not marigolds. But I thought it could be a contribution to Abuela’s ofrenda,” Margaret exclaimed, her flush almost as bright as the flowers.

  An hour later, just as the sun was setting, Luz caught her first glimpse of the outline of the city of San Antonio. Looking out, Luz understood why so much fuss was made about the Texas sky. Poets, writers, painters, grandfathers telling stories—they all struggled to put words or color to what they couldn’t fully capture. Seeing a Texas sunset stretch out to infinity in reds and oranges so surreal they defied description made Luz believe that there had to be a higher power. Only God could paint like that.

  She felt a shiver of nervousness, wondering what awaited her in this city that had been the first American home of her great-grandparents. She was the fourth generation passing through, her lineage as tied to this city as it was to the small mountain village in Michoacán. Yet, as she approached the vista of tall buildings on the horizon, she felt as if she were nothing more than a tourist seeing it for the first time. She’d been on the road for a week and knew nothing more about the family that had settled here generations ago.

  They chose a modest motel on the outskirts of the city. There were a few to choose from but their budgets were tight, so they selected the cheapest clean one with a room available. As they stepped in, the air felt close, and the multicolored polyester fabrics on the beds and drapes looked like they were put up in the 1970s.

  “Even then, they should’ve shot the decorator,” Margaret declared. Everything was minuscule—a mini white refrigerator, a mini Mr. Coffee machine, a minidresser that served as a stand for the small television, and in the bathroom, teeny-tiny bottles of shampoo and conditioner.

  After camping, however, it felt like a five-star hotel. Luz grinned as she washed her hair with the shampoo. The hot water sluicing down her body had never felt so luxurious. She took her time applying lotion to her dry skin, careful to leave some in the teensy bottle for Margaret.

  The mirror was fogged when she was through. She took a washcloth and wiped the condensation from the mirror. As she swiped, her reflection gradually appeared in the filmy glass. Her hand slowed, then dropped to her side as she stared at her own reflection.

  Her body was still full at the breasts and rounded at the hips, but now she saw the definition of strong bones and sharper curves. When did she get such a pronounced waist? She turned to the side. How much weight had she lost? she wondered. She’d noticed over the past week that her jeans were looser, but she’d been too preoccupied to give it much thought. Even after years with Sully, she still felt self-conscious about her full hips. She often strategically braced half her weight against the chair armrest when she sat on his lap so he wouldn’t think she was too heavy. Or snapped at him when he pinched the soft rolls on her side or lay his hand on her belly. The rolls were gone now.

  Her grandmother’s death had shocked her with its suddenness. The funeral and grief had taken its toll on her and the trip had its unscheduled stops. Luz realized she’d missed a lot of meals. She leaned forward and with her fingertips gently traced the sharper contours of her cheeks, the bridge of her nose, down to her lips. Her eyes seemed larger in her face. The youthful pudginess of her cheeks, the girlishness in her expression, had given way to a new maturity that wasn’t there before. She marveled at how the changes she felt occurring inside herself were reflected outside as well.

  She was curious to see her aunt Maria. Did she have Abuela’s nose, her cheekbones, her laugh? Would Maria look at all like her mother? What new stories could Maria tell about Mariposa and Abuela?

  Luz emerged from the bathroom eager to find her aunt’s address. Margaret was sitting at the desk in front of her computer, thrilled to be back online and reading up on the sanctuaries. She sat with one leg curled beneath her and dipping french fries in ketchup. The smell of the fast food in the greasy bag made her mouth water. Serena was curled up on the bed, her pointed nose resting delicately on her forepaws. The moment Luz grabbed the bag of food, Serena leaped up and began whining. Luz fed Serena part of her hamburger and ate the rest as she began flipping through the address book.

  As she had before, Luz methodically went through all of the entries written in the well-worn pages. The penmanship was old-school, taught by the nuns. Every letter was well formed in her feather script. Luz’s index finger scrolled down each page. Her grandmother had been neat. Several entries had been crossed out and new ones added over the years as her aunt moved. Luz took a breath, then picked up the phone and dialed the last number listed for Maria Avila. It was the same number that she’d dialed before the funeral. The phone rang twice. Luz heard the same announcement that the number had been disconnected.

  “Any luck?” Margaret asked.

  “No. I didn’t really expect an answer but I hoped. Next, the phone book.”

  Undaunted, Luz pulled out the bottom drawer of the bedside stand and found a phone book for San Antonio. Pulling it up to the bed, she opened it, eager. Moving Serena back, Luz began to search for her aunt’s name in earnest. She gasped when she saw how many there were.

  “There have to be at least fifteen Maria Zamoras in San Antonio!”

  “I know. I checked the Internet. It’s about the same. At least it’s not fifty.”

  “I guess I’ll just have to call each and every one. Maybe I’ll be lucky and hit the jackpot on the first try.”

  “Maybe, but it’s getting late. It’s nine o’clock already. You don’t want to get people angry. Why don’t you start tomorrow when you’re fresh? It’s been a long day, and I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted.”

  Luz sighed and closed the phone book and set it on the floor. She felt her enthusiasm pall in the wake of apprehension. “What if I can’t find her? What if she’s not even living in San Antonio anymore?”

  “We keep on going,” Margaret replied, not missing a beat. “This isn’t our fina
l destination, you know.”

  Luz looked at the resolution on Margaret’s face. At the moment, her determination would have to be enough for both of them. For Margaret, the end of the journey wasn’t San Antonio, but the butterfly sanctuaries in Mexico. This was just a stopping point. Luz knew her own journey could end in this city if she didn’t find her aunt.

  She went to rummage through her suitcase and pulled out Abuela’s photo album. It, too, was made of soft leather with edges dulled from use. She brought it back to the bed. Folding her leg under her, she began to leaf through the familiar pictures.

  “I love photo albums,” Margaret said, abandoning her computer to sit beside Luz on the mattress. She leaned forward, squinting. “Is that Abuela?”

  “Yes,” Luz replied, her heart pumping with affection. Abuela stood straight, dressed in a traditional white ruffled dress heavily embroidered with brightly colored flowers. Her black hair glistened, wound in braids and gilded with fresh flowers. “That’s on her wedding day to Luis, her first husband.”

  “I thought she’d look like that,” Margaret said softly. “Kind, but strong. A wise woman.”

  Luz felt again the aching heaviness in her heart that came whenever she saw a photograph of Abuela or got lost in thoughts about her. She tried not to dwell on her grief and for most of the day she’d succeeded. Now, night had fallen and Luz felt the darkness keenly.

  Margaret reached over and handed Luz a paper napkin. Luz wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

  “And who’s that guy holding the machete?” Margaret asked with a laugh, trying to add levity.

  Luz chuckled. As they sat shoulder to shoulder, Luz focused again on the photographs while the tightness in her chest loosened. “That’s Luis Zamora, her first husband. From what I could tell he was a character but a real hard worker. He came to America as a bracero.”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “During World War Two, a lot of men in the States were in the military overseas and worker shortages were becoming a problem. So the U.S. government began recruiting workers from Mexico, mostly for agricultural jobs. They called these men braceros, which means laborers. After that it was back and forth, always sending money back home. He’d be gone six to nine months of every year and Abuela told me how lonely it was for her. She raised her children almost alone. Two daughters and a son.”

  “Two daughters? I thought your mother had a different father.”

  “She did. Abuela had a second daughter with Luis but she died soon after she was born. I think about that sometimes, about how afraid she must’ve been to be alone at a time like that. I’ve always wondered if that wasn’t why Abuela came all the way from Mexico to Milwaukee to help my mother when I was born. She didn’t want her daughter to be alone for the birth, like she was.”

  There were more pictures of Esperanza with Luis and their children Manolo and Maria. And more of their extended families. Luz was embarrassed that she didn’t know the names of all the cousins she’d never met.

  “He’s handsome,” Margaret said, pointing to a photograph of Mariposa standing beside a young, tall, blond-haired man in front of a fountain.

  “That’s my father,” Luz said dispassionately. “I don’t know him. He’s not a part of my life.” The words fell cold from her mouth. She couldn’t muster any feelings for him.

  “At least I know where you got your blue eyes from.”

  “Not completely. My grandfather Hector has blue eyes.” Luz pointed to a photograph of a clean-shaven man wearing round, wire-rim glasses and a suit and tie. His light brown hair fringed his collar and he had thick sideburns in the style of the 1960s. “He was a professor at the university. There’s a lot of European ancestry in Mexico. You’ve got the Spanish, the French, and the German. Mexico is a nationality, not an ethnic group.”

  “What color are Sully’s eyes?”

  “Blue. Why?”

  “Just trying to figure out the odds of your kids having blue eyes.”

  Luz jabbed her playfully in the side and turned to the next page. This held a crumpled photograph of Abuela standing beside Mariposa, who was holding a baby.

  “Is that you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Look at you. You were so cute. And look at all that hair!”

  Luz studied the photo that she’d found in Abuela’s hands when she died. It had been Abuela’s favorite. In it, a slender Mariposa with long, softly flowing brown hair that fell nearly to her waist held chubby-faced baby Luz wrapped in a white lace blanket. Mariposa was gazing at her daughter with adoration. Luz had removed the photograph from Abuela’s hands, carefully smoothed it out, and taped it into the album. Whenever Luz looked at this photograph it sparked a desperate yearning for her mother.

  “So that’s your mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s beautiful.”

  Luz halfheartedly smiled. “Everybody says so.”

  “You don’t remember her?”

  “I’m not really sure if what I remember is from my own memories or from these few photographs. And, of course, from what Abuela told me about her.”

  “How did she die?”

  Luz stared at the picture, feeling the fog slowly slide into her head. Whenever she asked herself that question she felt a tight ache in her stomach. Was her mother murdered? Did she jump off a cliff? What happened to her?

  “I don’t know,” she said softly.

  After a pause, Margaret asked with disbelief, “You don’t know? You mean you don’t know what the illness was?”

  “No. It was an accident. In Mexico. But I don’t know anything more. My grandmother refused to talk about it. She was devastated. If I even mentioned it she got upset. I didn’t want to hurt her, so I learned early on to stop asking.”

  “I had an uncle Phil who died. My mom’s brother. Whenever I asked how he died my mother just shook her head and said, ‘It’s none of your business. Run along and play.’ I knew they were covering something up. He was the dark family secret. I found out years later that he killed himself.”

  Luz drew back, appalled. “Jeesh, Margaret. What are you saying?”

  “No!” Margaret reached out to touch Luz’s sleeve. “I’m just saying that sometimes parents have a way of deflecting questions they don’t want to answer, for whatever reason. Kids pick up the undercurrent when something’s off. If they don’t get the truth, what they imagine is sometimes worse.”

  Luz nodded her head, tentatively letting the argument sink in.

  “Luz, doesn’t it strike you as odd that you don’t know the details of your mother’s death?”

  She was about to say an automatic no, but instead, she chose to open up and remain honest with her friend. “Yes. I tried to Google her name a few times but nothing ever popped up. It happened in a remote area of Mexico. Abuela said it was difficult to get information.”

  “You don’t need a newspaper clipping at age five, but by the time you were twenty-one, you’d think your grandmother would’ve heard some details.”

  There is much you don’t know about Mariposa.

  “I wonder if that’s what she wanted to tell me when we were on this trip. Right before she died, she kept telling me how there was a lot I didn’t know about my mother. She was going to tell me more during our trip.”

  “That’s cryptic.”

  Luz shrugged, frowning. “I don’t want to make more of this than there is.”

  “See what I mean? If you don’t get the truth, you can imagine some pretty wild things.”

  Luz felt herself shutting down and didn’t answer. She closed the photo album, brought her knees close, and wrapped her arms around her legs. In her mind, she saw the images of her relatives in all the photographs. “I wonder what other genes I carry. Whose laugh do I have? Does anyone else like to cook like I do?”

  Margaret yawned and rose from the bed. She walked toward the bathroom, grabbing a towel en route. “I guess you’ll find out tomorrow.”

  Thunder ru
mbled in the late night sky. Luz lay in her bed, her blanket clutched in stiff hands. She hadn’t been afraid of the thunder for years, not since she was a child. She blamed the photographs and talking of family secrets for eliciting these old feelings of longing and the gale of insecurity.

  She stared at the ceiling while the thunder clapped and flashes of light lit the room. She wondered if her desire to reach out to her family hadn’t morphed into something more than familial obligation. She wanted to know who she was and where she came from. She wanted to belong to a family.

  As Aunt Maria was her only living female relative, it fell to her to take Luz to the mountains to see the monarchs, as generations of women had done before her. Would Tía Maria feel any obligation to her niece? Would she be angry that she’d shown up unannounced, or be grateful and help bring Abuela’s ashes home? What if Luz couldn’t find her?

  Thunder clapped loudly overhead, so close that the motel’s power flickered. Luz yelped and curled into a ball, bringing the blanket over her head. When she was a child Abuela used to hear her cries and come to her bedside to find her shivering in a cold sweat. She’d gather Luz in her arms and let her cling tight and her face burrow in her soft breasts. Abuela stroked her back and her hair, curling locks around her ear in a soothing rhythm while she told her stories of the Aztec gods of rain and thunder. In time, Luz would hear only the words as they resonated in her chest, feel her grandmother’s arms around her, and forget the storm outside.

  Ah, querida, you remember how Little Nana leaped into the fire to become the sun? She was so radiant in the sky. A marvel to behold. The gods knew that for this resplendent sun to survive for eternity they would have to give the sun their own blood. So the gods sacrificed themselves and with a tremendous roar the god Ehecatl created a powerful wind that blew the gods back into the spiritual world. He blew again and the great wind pushed the sun and it began to move in the sky and the earth began to rotate around it.