The Truth About Butterflies: A Memoir

by Nancy Stephan

  After spending hours reading all the notes and cards I’d written over the years, I placed everything back in the box and reached for the second box. Inside were more letters, but these were from others. A stack of about 40 letters from her boyfriend were together in an envelope box. I reached in the stack and pulled out a random letter: “Baby, What’s up? First thing, where do you get off calling me a Chipmunk Punk?” I folded the letter, placed it back in the envelope, and returned it to the stack. I lacked the energy to read 40 letters from two on-again, off-again lovesick teenagers.

  Another stack was from her younger sister. In a letter dated October 1998, her sister wrote, “If I tell you a secret promise not to tell, so here it goes I got my first kiss two months ago and that was very special to me. I have kissed him twice now. Some of my friends tell me I am sprung on him, but that’s ok because there is another boy I like.”

  There was a letter from her friend Sheena dated November 2005. Friends since they were girls, they’d grown closer with age. The letter is addressed, “Hello my beautiful friend,” and continues with some general catching up. But then her heart opens up the way a flower opens to the sun:

  “I get the feeling you’re tired, Nicole, like things are wearing on you. But let me just say that I am continuously encouraged by you; by His strength in you; by your willingness to endure. You are beautiful and amazing. I wanted to let you know that I’m thinking of you and loving you and I’m so encouraged by you simply being you—not having to do anything… just you being Nicole, beautiful Nicole. I love you, girl. Please know that.”

  Sheena put it perfectly when she once said, “When Nicole loved you, she loved you with all she had.”

  I folded the letter, placed it back in the envelope, and reached for another that was addressed to Sally. “Sally” was a nickname I’d given Nicole when she was a baby, and it had stuck. Inside the envelope were two folded sheets of notepaper. The first was dated 11-27-91 and was addressed “Dear Gummy Bear Eater.” Immediately, I thought back to the gummy-bear incident.

  Nicole and I were visiting Shirley, a friend of mine, and Shirley wanted to show me something in the kitchen. Nicole, who was ten and newly diagnosed with diabetes, sat on the sofa watching cartoons. When we returned, a candy dish of gummy bears that was sitting on the coffee table was empty.

  “Sally, did you eat the gummy bears?” Shirley asked.

  “No.”

  “Nicole,” I said, “there were gummy bears in the dish when we went in the kitchen, and now they’re gone. Are you saying that you didn’t eat them?”

  “No, Mommy. I never saw any gummy bears.”

  “Well, Shirley said winking at me, “they were bears; maybe they came to life and walked away by themselves.”

  “I don’t know,” Nicole shrugged.

  Later that day, I found a note taped to the bedroom mirror: “Mommy, I ate the gummy bears.” After a lengthy discussion, I told Nicole to call Miss Shirley and apologize for eating her gummy bears and for lying about it. In the meantime, I wrote a letter back to Nicole and taped it to the mirror.

  When I saw Shirley at work the next day, she gave me an envelope to give to Nicole. I delivered the envelope but never asked Nicole or Shirley what the letter said.

  Now 17 years later I held the letter in my hand: “Dear Gummy Bear Eater, I really don’t mind the last of those little treats. The only thing that concerns me is I hope you don’t get sick. Guess what? I love you! ~Shirley.”

  The second folded letter in the envelope was the letter I’d taped to the mirror: “Nicole, I forgive you for eating the gummy bears. I’m glad that you are taking full responsibility for what you did and admitted that you were wrong. I’m proud that you thought enough to apologize. That shows that you are growing up. ~Mommy.” On the back of the same letter, Nicole had written: “!!!!I love you, and thank you for forgiving me!!!! P.S. I love you! ~Sally.”

  The last envelope was by itself at the bottom of the box. It had three words on the front, all underlined and written in pencil. In the upper left corner was written Nicole. In the upper right corner was written Airmail. In the center of the envelope was written God. The letter was dated July 1996:

  It’s difficult for me to pray because it seems like other things just pop into my mind while I’m praying. This way seems a lot more comfortable for me. It’s just that it’s kind of hard to stop doing what you shouldn’t be and start doing what you should. Lord, you know what I need help in, so please lend me your hand. It’s so much to thank you for, so I’m just going to say, Thank you for everything you’ve done and for All you’re going to do. Thank you for keeping my mommy strong, and keeping her from giving up on me. Thank you too for not giving up on me, Lord. Amen.

  By the time I’d finished with the second shoe box, it was nearly 4 a.m. I had spent seven hours reading letters and cards, many of which I hadn’t known existed. I read page after page of her poetry, some haunting, some lighthearted, some erotic. Also in the folder were what appeared to be rap lyrics, raw, edgy and cutting. And with every turn of a page, I was filled with pride.

  I was overjoyed to have found these things, and surprised that Nicole had so meticulously saved and stored a lifetime of mementos. Of course, I myself have a vast collection of everything Nicole has given me over the years. But I’m the mother; mothers are naturally the savers.

  Secured away in a tightly sealed container are the scores of cards and letters Nicole has given me over the past 26 years. The handmade gifts and Christmas ornaments are safe and secure. A stationary set she’d made for Mother’s Day 1990 is still tucked away unused. “Mommy, do you like the paper and envelopes I made for you?” She’d often ask.

  “Yes, they’re beautiful!”

  “Then why haven’t you used them?”

  “Well, if I use them, then I won’t have them anymore.”

  Now it seems such a silly way to look at it. Four sheets of paper and matching envelopes customized with her chalk-covered thumbprints have become discolored with age. Nicole is gone, and the stationary still sits turning to dust.

  I’ve kept little messages written on scrap paper that she’d often slip into inconspicuous places for me to find. One of the notes is a constant reminder of her childhood jealousy of Rux: “My mom loves Rux more than she loves her own daughter Nicole.”

  Another note is just one of the many “bribes” I’d get after she was diagnosed with diabetes: “I love you mommy very much, and if you give me m&m’s I’ll be the best girl ever born. I love you.”

  Then there are the notes she would write for no particular reason, other than to say she loved me: “Dear mommy, I love you very much, when I look at you, you look like flowers, and I can smell you all the way. But I still love you very much.”

  I have the first poem she wrote me:

  Don’t be sad, and don’t be mad,

  Get glad cause I have something

  For you!

  2x2 means I love you

  3x3 means come get me

  4x4 means come out of that apartment door

  6x6 means I’ll never get mix

  8x8 means will you be my date

  9x9 means be my Valentine all the time

  10x10 means write by pen for me

  Roses Are Red

  Violets Are Blue

  My Heart Skips

  A Beat When I

  Think Of You

  And I have the last poem she wrote me:

  Year after year, I learn a lot more from you

  I love it when you share with me something new

  The wisdom and knowledge that you’ve acquired

  Through the years

  Have been accepted through smiles and tears

  I love to hear you laugh, and I’m amazed

  At all the strength you have

  I secretly watch everything you do so

  Year after year I can become more like you.

  Happy Birthday

  I gathered all the letters and placed them back
in the second box. The only things remaining were the folders that had been at the bottom of the box.

  One of the folders was filled with report cards, standardized test score sheets, certificates of attendance from Vacation Bible School and elementary school, certificates for participating in the science fair and the art fair, and awards for volunteering.

  Another folder was filled with Bible study notes. On a 2x2 square of paper taped to the inside cover of the folder, she’d written, “The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.” And even though many of our long talks often ended on the topic of redemption, her notes would indicate she had a fascination with the Book of Job, having hand written a three-page narrative of the first 20 chapters.

  A third folder was filled with her own poetry. Aside from the poems she’d penned for me on the occasion of my birthday or Valentine’s Day, I had no clue that she was even remotely interested in it. I was in awe as I read the beautifully crafted verses. But it was the final folder in the bottom of the box, a dark blue binder with some of its pages falling out, that would grip my heart more than the contents of the other boxes put together.

  Chapter 23

  When she was 17, Nicole asked me, “Ma, why does God speak to people through dreams?”

  “Many reasons, I suppose, but I know why He gives me dreams. If He spoke to me while I was awake, I wouldn’t trust it. I would rationalize it away or chock it up to my own imagination.

  “But why do only some people have dreams?”

  “I think God speaks to us in ways each of us can best understand. The method really isn’t as important as the message, though. As long as you understand what God is saying, that’s all that matters. Why are you so interested in dreams?”

  “Because I had one this morning.”

  And without seeming too eager, I asked Nicole what her dream had been about. As she told it to me, I knew it wasn’t just an ordinary dream. “What do you think I should do, Mommy?”

  “Write it down.”

  “And then should I pray about it?”

  “There’s really no need; just document it, and when God is ready for you to understand it, He’ll open it up right before your eyes.”

  She never mentioned it again, and I never asked her about it. I had assumed that this dream had been her only dream, but here in this folder that sat buried at the bottom of the box were pages and pages of documented dreams. I could hardly contain myself. I had already been up all night reading letters and cards, but instantly, at the prospect of reading her dreams, I was rejuvenated. I was thankful that when she’d come to me about her dream, I knew what to tell her without making a big deal of it. Years earlier, I myself had been in the same situation.

  I was 21. I woke up the morning of May 4, 1987, a bit confused. I sat up in the bed and looked around the room. The dream I’d just had was so vivid, so real that if it weren’t for the utter impossibility of it, I would’ve sworn the events in the dream had actually happened. I told Erma Lee the dream, and she had me tell it to Paw-paw. “You ever dreamed like that before?” He asked.

  “No, never.”

  “I think you should tell it to the pastor, see what he says.”

  So I met with the pastor that same day and told him my dream. “Well, Daughter, God speaks in sundry fashion,” he said. “Do you feel like He’s speaking to you?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “I’m inclined to agree.”

  “What should I do?”

  “Just pray about it.”

  And after we’d finished talking and I got up to leave, he said, “One more thing, Daughter...”

  “Yes, Sir?”

  “Don’t mention this to another soul.” I was taken aback and didn’t quite know what to say. “Spreading word that God spoke to you through a dream,” he said, “is not something that’ll set well with people. You may very well become a laughing stock, so you just keep this between you and God.” I agreed to keep quiet about it, and even though I had no reason to talk to anyone about the dream, being sworn to secrecy made me feel abnormal.

  I thought about the dream from time to time, but I never mentioned it again, to anyone. But six months later, on November 19, I had another dream and shortly after that, another. At that point, I thought it best to document the dreams. I purchased a notebook, and I wrote down all three dreams. And as the pastor suggested, I didn’t mention the dreams to another soul, not even to him.

  As time passed, the dreams continued to come. They came at random times and without warning. Also, just at the moment when I needed to understand the dreams, their meanings were revealed. Sometimes I understood the meaning of a dream immediately upon awaking. At other times, dreams I’d had a year or two earlier would slip into their meanings like a hand slips into a glove.

  Because Nicole was only six when I had my first dream, it wasn’t something I shared with her, and as I’d assumed the dream she’d had when she was 17 had been her only one, I still saw no reason to go into great detail about them.

  On many of our evening chats in the driveway, we would talk about life, and change, and hope, where we’d come from and where we were going. Occasionally, we’d talk of how tumultuous her life had been in her teens; between the ages of 18 and 21, had been, what she called, her crisis years. “It’s a wonder you’re not in the booby hatch,” she’d joke.

  During one particular chat, she asked me how I was able to weather that period with such grace. It was the only time I ever felt inclined to fully share with her one of my dreams. In the dream:

  I was in the desert seated on the crest of a rocky summit. I was singing, and even though I was alone, others were singing with me. After some time, I came down from the high place to a pool of water at the base of the rock. The pool was closed in on the east and south by tall cliffs.

  As I knelt over the pool, I heard a large splash. I looked up and noticed that just adjacent to my pool was another pool. The water was sanguineous and floating on its surface were the carcasses of fish, their skeletons showing through bits of rotted flesh. Someone had thrown something into the water, but as I scanned the desert landscape, I saw no one.

  Then there was a stir in the water and emerging through the surface was you. With your eyes closed, you wiped the water from your face and swept your hair back. You climbed from the pool and made your way to the cliff. Your eyes were still closed. I called out to you, but you didn’t respond. I watched as you climbed the rock, positioned yourself for the dive, and jumped once again into the putrid water.

  It took a long time for you to surface, but when you did, I called out to you. Still, you didn’t respond. For some reason, I couldn’t go to you, but I continued calling out. Again, without opening your eyes, you headed back for another dive. This time, you climbed even higher. I knew that the higher you climbed, the deeper you’d dive, and the longer it would take you to surface. You jumped, and I waited.

  Finally, you broke through the surface and for the first time, you were distressed. Gasping to catch your breath, you stumbled out of the pool with your eyes still closed and once again made your way to the rock. I screamed for you to stop. You climbed to the highest point on the crag. I knew that if you jumped from that height you would go so deep that you’d never resurface. I also knew that if you could only see what you were jumping into, you would stop. Out of desperation I yelled out, “Why won’t you open her eyes?” And a voice from behind me said, “Because she doesn’t know that her eyes are closed.” Without turning around, I asked the Person behind me, “Why won’t she answer me?”

  “Because she can’t hear you.”

  Completely helpless, I watched as you prepared to jump, and the voice behind me said, “But she can hear Me.”

  “I awoke, and immediately I prayed, ‘Father, open her eyes.’ And those four words became my constant supplication. Those close to us would ask if I’d heard from you, and I’d say, ‘No.’ They couldn’t understand how I could be so calm, and I would say, ‘I just pray that God will open h
er eyes.’ And I know it probably sounded to them like a canned response, but indeed it was the most confident prayer I’d ever prayed in my life.”

  After I told this to Nicole, I asked her, “Do you remember what you said to me when you came back home, and I asked you where your friends were?” She shook her head, no. “You said, ‘Those people aren’t my friends. They’re into some stuff, and they’re in way too deep for me.’ And when you said that, I knew that my prayer had been answered, that God had opened your eyes.”

  Nicole wept. “I love you so much, Mommy. You have no idea how horrible that time in my life really was.” But I had gathered that much from the dream as well. While I was in my own world, sipping water from a pristine pool, there was a rancid cesspool just adjacent to me that I was completely oblivious to. Only when there was a disturbance in its water did I look up and take notice. Because of this, I apologized to Nicole if there had ever been a time when she needed me that I was oblivious to her situation. This is the only time I fully disclosed one of my dreams to Nicole.

  In her notebook, there are a total of 11 documented dreams over an eight-year period. Two of the dreams stood out from the rest, one because of its striking similarity to one of my own dreams, and the significance of the other is self-explanatory. In the first one, she dreamt that she was in a one-room shack:

  The shack was on a beach and had a front door and back door. I was in the shack with my mother. Both doors were open, and we were watching the waves come in. At first the waves were small and far away, but then they grew bigger and closer. I was terrified just watching them. I went to the other door, and the same thing was happening on the other side of the shack.