I Lived on Butterfly Hill

by Marjorie Agosín

  “I’ll Be Seeing You with My Heart”

  I sit in school with a secret. I can hardly bear to look around the classroom. I keep my head down, scribbling Good-bye, Juliette Cove and sketching wild turkeys in my notebook.

  “Celeste, you are so quiet today!” Mr. Gary is saying something. I jerk my head up toward the blackboard. “Are you feeling well?” I fight back tears and shake my head. “Do you want me to call your aunt to take you home?” I shake my head again.

  Home. Home is where I am flying tomorrow night. And Home is also what I am leaving. “No, Mr. Gary, I will be fine.”

  “Okay, then why don’t you read the next paragraph, which begins, ‘Abraham Lincoln wrote the Emancipation Proclamation . . .’ ”

  At the end of the day I walk down the hallway to my favorite classroom, number 44. Miss Rose is bent over her desk, squinting through her purple reading glasses and grading papers.

  “Miss Rose, I am going back to Chile.”

  She looks up at me confusedly. “Celeste Marconi! Hello! I hope I heard you wrong! You didn’t say you were leaving, did you?”

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  Miss Rose puts her hands to her heart. “So soon? Just like that?” She snaps her fingers. “In the middle of the semester? I don’t understand.” Her face looks pained.

  “Me either, Miss Rose.”

  Miss Rose stands up and holds her arms out to me. I hug her, and she says, “I have never known a more courageous girl. Thank you, Celeste Marconi. You have taught us all so much.”

  My tears wet the front of her pink sweater. “Thank you,” I sniffle. “Thank you,” I try again, “for being so kind and patient. Thank you for teaching me English. And thank you for giving me books to read. I am taking Little Women home with me, and I know I will read it again and again and think of you.”

  Miss Rose wipes her eyes and smiles. “Celeste, I will never forget you. You arrived here so small and timid and sad, with your eyes always turned to the ground. And now you are a flower that is always in bloom. I will miss hearing your beautiful laughter fill the corridors.”

  I give her one more hug. “I should go. I told Valerie, Meg, and Charlie to meet me at the lighthouse. I have to say good-bye to them, too. Will you tell Mr. Gary and the rest of my class for me tomorrow? Tell them that I promise to write from Valparaíso?” Miss Rose nods, gives me one more squeeze, and lets go. I turn around quickly and run out of her classroom, all the way down the long corridor, and push through the heavy double doors into the cold winter air.

  I find the big black boulder in front of the lighthouse, but the sun is setting, and the cold fog rolling in from the Atlantic makes it hard to spot my friends. Then suddenly I hear Charlie. “Celeste! Over here!”

  “Charlie, where are you guys?”

  “Here, three steps in front of your face!” A hand reaches out from the mist and grabs my wrist.

  “Meg!” I cry, startled. She pulls me toward her, and she and Valerie hold on to me and hug me all at once. Charlie stands close by with a sullen look upon his face and drags a piece of driftwood through the seaweed.

  “Oh, Celeste, tell us what is going on!” Valerie pleads. “You have been acting so strange all day. And we just saw some kids in the school yard who said they saw you crying and that they heard a rumor you were leaving!”

  I look at them and can’t say anything. But I don’t have to.

  “But . . .” Meg shifts from one foot to the other in the sand. “But we’ve only just become friends.” She looks at her brother, who scowls even more. “Charlie, can’t you say anything, or are you just going to stand there like another dumb rock?” She turns back to me. “I know my brother. He tries to be a tough guy when he really is sad.”

  “It’s not fair!” Charlie yells. “Is that what you want to hear? Because it’s not!” He comes closer to us, and we all sit down in cold, damp sand. He looks at me, and his voice turns soft: “It’s not fair.” Meg scoots closer to her brother.

  I hear myself asking them, “Remember just now, how I couldn’t see you in the mist? But I could hear your voices? Well, I think that saying good-bye is like that. When I am in Valparaíso, we won’t be able to see each other with our eyes, but we can talk with our hearts. I’ll be close by, just in another way.”

  Valerie nods and presses at her eyes with the end of her fuzzy yellow scarf. Meg bites her lip, and Charlie looks out to the ocean. “You always were so strange, Celeste,” he says. “That’s why I teased you in the beginning. And why the girls stayed away from you.”

  “And we were so stupid!” Valerie talks over him. “We are so sorry!”

  “But . . .” Charlie takes a deep breath and continues. “You were always so great at being yourself. You never changed to try to fit in. The only thing you did was learn English, and I used to think, ‘Wow! That girl works so hard! She’s tougher than I am!’ ”

  We fall into silence and listen to the waves roll in and out as the sky grows darker. A soft halo of light surrounds us before the sun sinks fully to sleep in the sea. “We should go,” Valerie says as she lifts her long ballerina limbs from the sand. “We are happy for you, Celeste,” she adds in a rush. “Don’t think that we aren’t. We are just sad to lose you.”

  “I want you all to visit me in Valparaíso someday,” I tell them. “And in the meantime you can visit me with your imaginations. And I will visit you on a boat my Abuela Frida named the Ship Called Hope.”

  They burst into laughter.

  “Oh, crazy old Macaroni, I will miss you!” Charlie gives me a sheepish smile and a hasty hug.

  “It’s true.” Meg elbows him in the stomach. “Celeste’s Abuela Frida always says, ‘To imagine is to believe.’ ” The girls and I begin to run toward the end of the beach, with Charlie tagging slowly behind.

  Suddenly he runs off in the other direction, down the beach and toward the water. “Celeste Marconi!” he cries. “I’ll be seeing you with my heart!”

  Of Flights and Faith

  On the ride from Juliette Cove to Logan International Airport in Boston, I can’t stop braiding and unbraiding and rebraiding my braid. I don’t dare think about my parents—about where they are and if they will return. I am also afraid to think of my friends. I force myself to think of the things that will be there: my home on Butterfly Hill, Abuela Frida, and Nana Delfina. I won’t let myself think about saying good-bye to Tía Graciela. It’s a day as cold as the one on which I arrived. I lean my head against the icy windowpane and let out a long sigh.

  After a long silence as heavy as the wet snow that would block the door of the house on Juliette Cove, Tía Graciela pulls the car to the side of the road.

  “Celeste, I think now is a good time to give you something.”

  “What is it, Tía?”

  My aunt pulls a conch shell from her pouch. “This was the first one I found on Juliette Cove. Right by the lighthouse.” She places the peach-speckled shell into my hands. “So you carry the voice of the ocean of Juliette Cove back home with you. And so you have something of mine to connect us always, no matter where we go. Listen to it whenever you need help, Celeste—this conch will help you hear the voice of your heart.”

  “Thank you, Tía Graciela!” I whisper. I hold the shell to my ear and listen to a murmuring cadence that soothes me like a lullaby.

  Tía Graciela glances at her watch and pulls the rickety station wagon back onto the road. “I don’t want you to miss your flight.” Her voice is trembling. I can see the city of Boston, its buildings twinkling in the light of early dawn, on the far horizon.

  When we arrive at the airport, Tía Graciela parks the car and waits with me at the gate. We don’t say much until the flight attendant announces it’s time to board. Then I spring to my feet and look down at them, unable to move any farther.

  “Do you know how much I will miss you, Tía Graciela?” My aunt’s eyes fill like deep green lagoons.

  “Reme
mber there are no good-byes in our family, only returns,” she whispers as she kisses my cheek.

  I join the line of people boarding the plane to Santiago. The seat next to me is empty. I wish Tía Graciela were in it. And just like that, the plane takes off. “Good-bye, Juliette Cove. Gracias. You will always be my friend.”

  I must fall fast asleep, because the next thing I know, I imagine I hear a far-off cry, almost like a squawk. I rub my eyes and stretch. I hear the cry again. A few of them in unison. It reminds me of something, but I am not sure just what. I must still be dreaming. . . .

  I open my eyes wider and raise the window shade. Oh! I almost lose my breath. We are crossing the Andes. The Andes Mountains! Am I not dreaming?! Am I really flying over Chile?

  And what are those in the sky? I rub my eyes again. Could that really be?! Yes! I see a flock of pelicans! Seven pelicans, flying through the cloudless sky. I imagine them crying out once more. They are here to greet me!

  The plane descends slowly. I can hear the mountains whisper:

  “Welcome back, Celeste Marconi, child of mine. You are Home!”

  The Road to Butterfly Hill

  I’m shaking as I make my way through customs. “Chilean citizen?” a young woman asks me as she opens my passport and stamps a page. I see the word in green ink: “Return.” I can’t keep back my tears.

  “Sí, señorita. I am a citizen.”

  “You have been gone a long time.” Her voice is kind and her dark eyes understanding. “Welcome home.”

  I see Alejandro instantly. He stands outside customs with a big bouquet of red copihues, our national flower. Shaking, sobbing, and laughing all at once, I leap into his arms. “How good to see you, Niña Celeste!” he says with the shy smile I remember. “God is good to bring you home to us safe and sound.” I am so happy to see Alejandro, but in the daydreams I’ve had for the past two years, everyone I love has been waiting at the airport to welcome me home to Chile. ¿Dónde están?

  Alejandro sees me looking around and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Your Abuela Frida and your Nana Delfina are waiting for you at home, Niña Celeste, and are so excited.”

  I nod. “Oh, okay, Don Alejandro.”

  But Alejandro looks pained. “Your abuela . . .” He clears his throat, searching for words. “Your abuela . . . she is not quite as you may remember her. Two hard years have made her body weaker. But”—he pats my shoulder—“her spirit is as strong as ever!” My stomach tightens into knots. I look at Alejandro in confusion. Abuela Frida! Is it sickness? Nostalgia? Something terrible that has happened? It’s too much all at once!

  “Come, Niña Celeste.” Alejandro changes the subject and leads me toward the car. “Delfina has been preparing a stew all day that is fit for a queen!

  “How little you brought home!” Alejandro says as he puts my suitcase into the trunk. “You travel light like your grandmother. Maybe she will get out and about more now that you are home,” he continues. “She is always afraid that the wind will blow her hearing aids away! But last week Delfina and I convinced her to let us carry her down Butterfly Hill to sit for a while in the sun. She has grown so thin that she fits inside a picnic basket!”

  I shake off the idea of my grandmother getting old, and try not to think of weakness or hearing aids and all the other changes I fear facing when I arrive home. So I look out the window at the sights of Santiago. Empanada stands, street singers, children running down the sidewalks, signs in Spanish everywhere. Spanish! How strange to be speaking my language with everyone and not just Tía Graciela! I chatter to Don Alejandro and hope he can’t tell I am trying so hard to sound carefree: “Tell me about Butterfly Hill, Alejandro! What has happened there? How is the magician at Café Iris? And Señora Atkinson and her teacups and the piano she plays on rainy days?”

  Alejandro casts a grim look my way in the rearview mirror. “Niña Celeste, here so much has happened, so much has changed, so much has been lost, and yet so many of the little everyday things have remained. They are a blessing. During the darkest days they were all we had. But the most important thing, Niña Celeste, is that when I saw you, I realized that the years of pain truly are coming to an end. Forgive me if I drive faster than usual today. It’s just that Doña Frida and Delfina have been waiting so very long to hug you.” The Andes Mountains rush by in a blur, but they still look like they are topped with Chantilly cream.

  “I had actually forgotten how steep and curvy the road to our house is, Don Alejandro!” My hands begin to tremble as we pass through thick forests of eucalyptus. I dreamed of their intense scent so many times before. All of a sudden we pass by Bismark Square, at the bottom of Barón Hill. Children are playing marbles and running around. On one of the benches there is an old woman with a face so wrinkled that it looks like onion skin. I wave to her. We round another corner, and Butterfly Hill comes into view. Unable to contain my excitement, I roll down the window and sit up on the door ledge with my hair flying in the breeze so that I don’t miss seeing a single flower or neighbor, or hearing the cable cars make their familiar bumps and thumps. Alejandro looks at the backseat with a worried brow. “Cuidado, Niña Celeste!”

  “Then may I get out and walk from here, Don Alejandro?” He smiles, and his smile is even kinder than the memories I kept of his goodness. “A fine idea, Niña Celeste. I will drive up with your luggage. I know you have been waiting to take this walk for a long time.” I step out of the car and back onto my native soil. I feel Tía Graciela with me as I climb Butterfly Hill. Then, as I turn a familiar corner, I see the blue-and-yellow house I have dreamed of every day. The windows are open, and I see a huge pink scarf flying out from the balcony like a flying carpet. I hear the call of pelicans. “Oh, Abuela!”

  Abuela Frida begins to run down the stairs with her arms open wide. My feet root to the earth and pull me down upon it. I watch with tears running down my cheeks. My Abuela Frida running down the stairs like a young girl, with her nightgown on and a long pink scarf trailing from her neck! She has covered her ears, I suppose so her hearing aids don’t fall out!

  With surprising strength she pulls me from the ground and holds me tight in her arms.

  “Celeste, how beautiful you are! Let me touch your hair, just like Rapunzel’s braids! You are home! And your hands have not changed.” Abuela Frida puts her hands in mine and squeezes them tight. “Celeste, how much I have missed you!”

  We hug each other for a long, long time. Then slowly we start climbing the rest of the hill, holding hands. I feel that her hand has become smaller. Before it was so big that mine fit inside it and could get lost in it. Her gait is slower. And she is so thin! Her face is so small, almost childlike, hiding behind layers of rice powder, but her blue eyes twinkle like always. We walk up the path in silence, and I watch my house grow larger and larger. Every so often Abuela Frida squeezes my hand and pulls me to a stop. She looks up at my eyes and tells me what life has been like on Butterfly Hill while I’ve been away.

  “Every night I thought about faith, the very thing I always told you to have,” she says, “and I confess that sometimes I wondered if it was just a word. Delfina and I were so lonely without you. I played cards a lot. Solitaire, mostly. But on rainy days Leslie Atkinson would visit for tea, and we played bridge with her English cards. And sometimes after dinner Delfina and I played poker with your Abuelo José’s old Spanish cards. We gambled for buttons.” She winks at me.

  Abuela is so much older that she is almost like a little girl. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I am happy, frightened, and sad all at the same time. I never imagined that returning home would be so overwhelming.

  I walk through the long grass toward my dolls’ garden. The gardens are overgrown, and the flowers have grown so much, they resemble giant trees. They almost totally disguise the house. Abuela Frida reads my thoughts and points to the lilac bush outside the window where she rocks and knits. “Somehow they made me feel safe, hidden. It was dry and withered all these years you were away. And
this morning I looked and it was in full bloom!”

  As I walk through the front door, I am greeted by a special quiet, the quiet of sadness and waiting. I wonder where Delfina is? I find her in the kitchen shelling peas, mumbling, and looking through the window at the sky as if she is praying or searching for someone in the clouds. Then she looks at me. We hug and do not say a word. I only hear the music of her heart.

  Like Old Times

  Nana picks up my suitcase and heads for the stairs.

  “No!” I shout.

  She looks back at me, surprised. I, too, am taken aback. “I mean, ummm. I can do it myself.” Why am I so jumpy? I should be happy—I am finally home! But for some reason I want to rediscover the house on my own. But most of all, I want to climb up to the roof.

  Delfina, as always, understands me even when I don’t. “Delfina will be warming the stew in the kitchen,” she says.

  I climb the stairs, creakier than ever, and stand at the threshold of my blue room.

  My first blue bedroom. Sometimes I sat in my second blue bedroom and tried to imagine just how the quilt on the bed, or the brass handles of the dresser, looked. Now things seem strange to me.

  I put my suitcase down. It seems like things haven’t been touched for a long time. My old school uniform is folded on the bed. The dresser is covered with dust, as is my reflection in the mirror that hangs over it. I look back at a girl whose eyes are too sad and serious to be Celeste Marconi’s. And I suddenly realize that I don’t have to stand on tiptoe anymore to see myself!

  I sit down on the bed and run my fingers over my uniform. It looks so small! Nana must have ironed and left it there for me, hoping not too much time would pass until I returned. I put my head down on the scratchy fabric and catch the slightest scent of rose water, which she always sprinkled on our laundry.

  Then I spring from the bed and run down the hall toward the stairs. “Delfina! Abuela!” I call to them the way I used to when I arrived home from school in the afternoons. “I’m home!”