I Lived on Butterfly Hill
Page 22
I shake my head stubbornly. “Not until Mamá returns, Papá. I know you sent a letter, but we need to do more! Why can’t we go look for her?”
“It is still dangerous out there, Celeste. Looking for her, asking around for her, would put her in more danger. It would let others—those who mean harm—know that she is out there. And revenge—well, it’s an ugly thing. Trust me, there are some things you are still too young to understand.”
I cross my arms and glower. My father rarely says things like that—too young to understand—and I hate hearing it. But then I inhale quickly. My arms drop to my sides as I take in the full meaning of his words. Had I put Papá’s life in danger by looking for him? I feel the anger dissolve from my face as I reach my arms around him and hug him tight. How lucky I was! How lucky we both were!
“She is on her way, Celeste. I feel it. You must too, deep inside.”
“Sí, Papá . . .”
“I know waiting is almost unbearable . . . but I think it will help if you’re more productive. I want you doing something that makes you happy. I will allow you to wait until your mother returns to go to school. But that doesn’t mean your talent is going to waste. I had Delfina go down to the market today.” My father puts his hand under my chin and looks into my eyes. “Celeste, it is time for you to write again.”
Papá pulls a little blue notebook from his pocket, places it beside me, and climbs back down into our house.
I have been too afraid, ever since returning from Juliette Cove. The thought of burned books, of smoke rising from the hills, of the ash remains of ink and paper and dreams and thoughts and lifetimes of hard work scattering to the winds is too awful. I know that the Dictator is dead, but fear remains with me. How could it not, when even Papá is afraid—afraid to search for Mamá? Afraid to tell me about everything he’s been through? And what if what I write gets my family in trouble? That is what happened to the families of so many writers. Like Lucila’s. It was most likely her father’s weekly opinion column that got them in trouble. He was always praising Alarcón’s policies. I shiver when I think that writing—simply putting an idea into words on a piece of paper—caused Señor López to be taken away in the middle of the night and made an entire family disappear.
Slowly, reluctantly, I open the notebook and stare at its first blank page. “What do I dare write about?” I ask it. The distant cry of a seagull is the only incoherent reply. How I wish my pelicans would return!
I set the notebook down and watch the harbor. The different-colored sails float here and there in the wind. I especially love the little white sails of the dinghies the fishermen take out into the ocean every day. Maybe the best thing I can do for Ana in México, for Tía Graciela in Maine, for Lucila somewhere in this wide world, for Gloria now a stranger to me in Valparaíso, for Cristóbal who no longer sleeps, for Abuela Frida gazing out the window waiting for her daughter, is to write what we all know and love, write what I see coming back to life before my eyes.
I begin:
Night falls over the harbor. In the distance I can see the first boats light up as though they’re sleeping angels. Every day the fishermen of Valparaíso risk their lives by going out to sea, and every night their women wait up for them. Many of the vessels are named for wives, mothers, daughters—Marisol, Azucena, Eugenia. Tonight the boats sleep side by side along the docks of Valparaíso Harbor.
Her Bare Feet Make No Sound
Writing must be magic. It summons the spirits. That night I dream about Mamá. That is, I think it is a dream, but it seems so real that I almost feel her arms wrapping around me as we curl up to sleep together on my bed. She sings me a lullaby about sailing to the stars on firefly wings.
I wake up happy, and with more of an appetite than I remember having in years! The coffee brewing downstairs smells delicious, and I run downstairs to make myself a cup. “Hola!” I smile at Abuela Frida and my father, already helping themselves to breakfast.
“Delfina, you made eggs!” I clap my hands excitedly. “And it’s not even the weekend or a special occasion! It’s like you knew how hungry I was . . .” I ramble on, distracted by my growling stomach, not noticing how one by one the gazes in the kitchen turn away from me and toward the hallway.
She must have come in without knocking at the door, her bare feet making no sound at all. I don’t know how long she stood at the entrance to the kitchen, listening to me chatter on, her wide green eyes filling with tears of joy.
Then all of a sudden Abuela Frida stands up, her chair clattering to the floor! She lets out a cry. “Esmeralda! Daughter! ¡Hija mía!”
Mamá. Mamá! Can it be? And we erupt into cries, practically scrambling over one another to reach her, my mamá who looks so frail, with her long hair that’s been dyed black, and large, sad eyes.
Papá—trembling, laughing, and crying all at once—catches her in his arms and leads her to the empty chair—Mamá’s chair!—next to Abuela Frida. I run to throw my arms around her. I can’t say a word, but Mamá holds me on her lap, buries her face in my hair. Everyone gathers around us—overjoyed, tongue-tied, incredulous, and grateful. After a long silence, the most beautiful silence I have ever heard, she says, “Celeste, can you still hide under tables?”
“Yes, I can!” And I show her how.
Above, I hear everyone erupt into peals of laughter. Then Delfina pulls me to my feet, wipes her face and mine with her apron, and starts to prepare boiled eggs and toast for my thin and weary mother.
And I am with my entire family sitting around the table!
I am with my mother!
I feel happier than I ever have.
But I also sense how much she has suffered. Her fingers intertwine with my father’s as if making a knot so that she will not blow away in the wind.
All I Wanted Was to Talk to Her
Mamá tucks me into bed that night. For so long all I wanted was to talk to her, to hold her hand, and now that I can, I feel so strange. Almost shy. How do you tell someone every thought and feeling and experience that makes up two years? Two years that were so dark and sometimes so light? How do I tell my mother all these things? I realize there is nothing to do but plunge in.
“I missed you so much. And sometimes I was happy. And I know you and Papá sent me away to protect me so I wouldn’t have to suffer in hiding like you did. But it was so hard for me, too!”
I am taken aback by the words rushing from my mouth. Mamá gets under the covers and wraps her arms around me. We lie there cheek to cheek, tears flooding both our faces. And all of it—two years of loneliness and fear, and two years of happiness, too, comes out in a jumble: the Juliette Cove school, being laughed at, feeling so different, not understanding anything, the silence of Tía Graciela’s house, Miss Rose teaching me English, Sal’s Pizza, watching soap operas, playing in the fog on the beach, the lighthouse, the trailer park, Kim and her paper birds, Tía Graciela’s conch shells, Mr. Carter and his letters, the lonely darkness of winter nights, the deer that danced over the lawn, how hard I laughed the first time I saw wild turkeys fly into the trees to sleep, and despite my constant worry about people and places so far away, the peace I found the day I lay in the fresh spring grass to look at the clouds with a boy named Tom.
“. . . and one day, Mamá, he reached out and held my hand. Right there in the grass. My whole body shook from head to toe. I felt so nervous and shy, but I didn’t want him to ever let go. And then . . . one day . . . Tom and Kim were gone. Just like that. Gone without saying a word.” I begin to sob.
“Shhhh, shhhhh! My baby girl. It’s all right. Everything will be all right.” Mamá pulls me to her chest, softly rocking me back and forth.
So Strange Here Sometimes
Dear Tía Graciela,
I know that Mamá has written you, but I wanted to tell you too. There is still some fear that phones may be tapped, but Papá promises that we will be able to call you soon and hear your voice. Yes, we are all together again! I found Papá! And Mamá returned
soon after! Now the only one I am waiting for is you, Tía. But I know you have to take your time, and thank goodness whoever made the world made plenty of time in it.
It is so strange here sometimes, Tía. My parents hardly talk about what has happened. They hold hands often, like they are afraid they will fall from each other’s fingers. Their clinic was looted and vandalized, but they haven’t said a word about putting it back together. . . . They haven’t gone back to work.
I also have to tell you about Tío Bernardo. You remember how he used to make costumes for the community theater you acted in when you, he, and Papá were at the university together? Well, Mamá and Papá said Tío Bernardo fled across the mountains dressed as a nun! They think he is in Argentina, and they are hoping to get word to him so that they can help him return home.
How is the mailman Mr. Carter? In your last letter you said he came over unexpectedly on Sunday—even though there’s no mail on Sundays—and convinced you to go see a movie with him. When I told that to Mamá, her eyes lit up and for a moment she seemed like her old self again—not so anxious and unsettled. She got a mischievous grin on her face, and told me to ask if he has come to visit again, and reminds you to always make sure your hair and makeup are done, just in case. She promises to write you again soon, and explains that her silence is only because her head aches too much to concentrate on letters these days.
As for me, I am just glad you have found such a good friend in Mr. Carter, Tía.
Nana Delfina sends her love, and I do too.
Your niece,
Celeste Marconi
There Will Always Be a Young Person Who Remembers a Poem
I ask my mother the questions I’ve kept inside for so long. “Will you tell me what happened to you while we were apart?”
We are on the roof, sitting side by side. My mother puts her willowy arm around me and pulls me close.
“Celeste, so many times I was more like a small boat than a person. My heart was beating as fast as the rhythm of the waves. I had peaks and valleys as the waves carried me from one shore to another, from one cove to a different one. I moved from place to place, always lived on the kindness of friends and strangers. But I want to tell you about the last place, the months I stayed in Isla Negra, where Pablo Neruda used to live.” She smiles at me but then rubs her temples and squints in the sunlight. She seems to have a constant headache, and the shadows under her eyes look like bruises.
“Like so many things in Chile, things there are not as they seem. Isla Negra is not an island. It’s a peninsula. And it is not black! It is a fishermen’s cove. Abuela Frida and Abuelo José used to take me and Graciela there on vacation. On one trip I saw the poet. He walked slowly out of the forest toward the ocean, like a fish on land.
“On my first night in Isla Negra I slept in one of those friendly trees from my childhood. I was so hungry and so, so cold. But I wanted to live to tell you that each tree of this universe is like a loving arm. I hid in the forest all the next day, and then the next night I started hunting for the poet’s house.
“When I finally found my way there, some fishermen saw me. I told them that I was going to seek shelter at the poet’s house. They said it had been abandoned for nearly a year, and all offered me their homes, but I thanked them and said that if I needed them, I would knock at their doors.
“On my way there all I could think of was you. I had heard that Neruda’s home was a child’s house, full of bells and canaries flying free, telescopes and kaleidoscopes, colorful wine goblets, huge blue glass bottles, and even a purple locomotive that wound its way throughout the house and let out real smoke! When I arrived, I felt my heart break as I saw the broken bottles, the canaries dead at the bottoms of their cages, the smashed glass goblets, and the train broken into a thousand pieces.”
“What happened?”
“The same thing that was happening everywhere—the soldiers. Because Neruda had supported Presidente Alarcón. But Celeste, Celeste! There was one thing the soldiers couldn’t destroy—his poetry! Every day young people would come to carve his poems into the wood beams of the house. Sometimes one of them would recite a poem out loud. You should know, Celeste, that they can destroy the furniture, burn the books, but there will always be a young person who remembers a poem and will share it with others.
“I can’t remember how long I stayed there, but I was still there when spring came and there were tiny yellow flowers everywhere. At times I had to talk to myself or sing out loud just to hear a voice. But other times I discovered the enormous generosity of the people of Isla Negra.
“The fishermen would come to bring me firewood. And their wives would come when they could to bring me bread and honey and a cup of hot tea. They told me not to worry, that things would turn out fine. And when I was sitting by the fire, I could see your face, or your father’s face, emerge from the flames.
“An old fisherwoman let me know that it was safe to come home. I saw her approaching the house with a dirty envelope in her hand, and I knew immediately it was from your father. Her face, usually lined with wrinkles, became as smooth as a wild peach when she smiled and handed it to me. I cried and cried when I saw your father’s handwriting. And even more when I saw that it had become a bit wobbly. Probably like mine. Like all of me, it feels at times, Querida.”
Although she remembers these details so well, Mamá is forgetful when it comes to everyday things. And she always seems scared. But right now a smile is coming to her face.
I look up. Her smile is so like Tía Graciela’s, like Abuela Frida’s, and so—I realize—like my own! “But now”—her voice brightens—“I want to hear more about your time on Juliette Cove! You have grown up so much, my beautiful girl!”
I lean my head on her shoulder as I tell her about Miss Rose’s class, and John Carter the mailman, and my second blue room at Tía Graciela’s house. We talk until way past midnight.
And when she finally tucks me into bed, like when I was a little girl, I whisper, “Mamá, I want to tell you more about Kim’s brother, Tom. But I don’t really know what to say . . .”
“You liked him a lot, didn’t you, Querida?”
“Sí.” I nod and feel so relieved to see the understanding in my mother’s green eyes.
“We’ll have to have café con leche, Chantilly cream pastries, and a long talk at Café Iris this Sunday. Just us girls. How does that sound?”
“Muy bien, Mamá.”
I Knew There Would Be Changes
Another week passes, and I start to believe that I am at home with my parents. They are still quieter than I remember, but other things are as they always were: drinking café con leche in the morning, reading books in the afternoon. And at night—the thing I missed most when we were apart—Mamá comes to the roof to help me name the stars.
“There, Mamá.” My finger outlines two shimmering strands in the sky above us. “There’s the Southern Cross.”
Mamá leans close to me and says, “And so it is. How I love that cross of light.” She waits a moment, and then puts her lips to my hair and murmurs, “I don’t see a shooting star tonight, but I am going to make a wish. It’s a wish for you, Querida.” I glance up at her serious face and suddenly dread what she is about to say.
“Celeste, tomorrow’s Monday. A new week. A fresh start. It’s time for you to return to school.”
I shake my head and look down. A cold knot of fear pulls tighter and tighter across the soft hollow below my heart. “Celeste, you always loved your school. Are you afraid, hija?”
I choke back tears. “Sí, Mamá. I am. I don’t know why, but my stomach gets julepe whenever I think of it!”
My mother reaches for my hand. “I understand. Believe it or not, as much as I wanted to see you all, I was scared when it was finally safe for me to return home to Butterfly Hill. Because I knew there would be changes. That life would never be precisely the same as it was before.”
I nod. That’s exactly what I’m feeling about school.
I think for a while. Slowly I feel a new energy replace the fear. The julepe shrinks and hides in a little corner of my heart.
“Mamá, if I go back to school, will you reopen the clinic?”
“My smart girl!” Mamá smiles her firefly smile. “That’s an offer I can’t refuse. Yes, we’ll reopen the clinic. I promise.”
Julepe at Juana Ross
Today is my first day back to school. Nana Delfina worked late into the evening to let out my old school uniform so that it fits. I remember it used to swallow me whole like a brown paper bag. Now I have to tug at the skirt so it fits over my hips and the hem doesn’t ride up above my knees. I glance at myself in the mirror, and then I quickly look away. Then, almost shyly, I face myself.
Mamá says I am still too young to wear lipstick to school like I see some girls my age wear on the street. “You look prettiest with your face fresh as a daisy,” she promises. But as I glance at myself again in the mirror, I put my hand over my mouth and begin to laugh. Partly in happiness, partly in surprise, and a little bit in fear. My legs have grown stronger, and my waist is becoming a guitar like my mother’s. My face is serious, but when I smile, I like what I see. It seems what everyone has been telling me is true! I am not such a little girl anymore. I decide not to put my hair in braids and leave it flowing down my back like a waterfall.