Return of the Butterfly

by Sharon Heath

  As it was, what could they do but add their voices to the symphony conducted with myriads of variations by the Soul of the World? Hurry up! Wake up! It’s time!

  Chapter Seven

  SIX WEEKS POST-PARTUM. Talk about incarnations. I’d never realized there could be simultaneous ones, not unlike multiple universes, but with each visible to the next. Here I was in a brand new world, smack dab in the midst of the old one. Everything mattered: the chill of the morning; the barely discernible shape of the sycamore outside my bedroom window, softly smudged by a grey mist; the faint tick of the bedside clock; the sensation of my breasts filling with milk; the ominous headline of today’s New York Times that Adam had set on my breakfast tray, “Sixth Crippling Storm to Hit the Northeast: Another Sign of Climate Change?”

  Before going downstairs to prepare my Swiss cheese and spinach omelet, Adam had flung the softest of cashmere throws atop our summer duvet. I held it up to my nostrils now, much as I used to thrust the edge of Nana’s cave-scented, furry green bathrobe up my nose as a child, seeking refuge in her closet from Mother’s mysterious medicinal smell, Father’s high-pitched shrieks and ever-pinching hands.

  Outside of that discordant headline, there was no shouting here.

  But there was Mother, freed from the scents of Sauvignon Blanc and Chateau Lafite that had once spilled from her pores. And finally freed of the silly laughter that had initially followed her concussion.

  And there was Callay. My little Monkey lay quite still in her bassinet beside the bed, her breath a whisper that announced that the world had been reborn.

  I’d fallen asleep after breakfast and had awakened to see Mother staring at me with such tenderness, such interest, that my eyes welled up. I fancied I knew what she was feeling. She’d come to claiming the fruits of motherhood slowly. Too distracted by her alcoholism, my father’s abuse, and then later the rowdy pull of her Bill W. gang, at last in middle age she’d found her place within that ancient matrilineal covenant. Me, I was luckier. I’d felt the indissoluble bond with Callay as soon as I beheld her wrinkled little face. In an instant, she was the north pole of a magnet, I her smitten south.

  From outside, ever so faintly, came the susurrations of a distant leaf blower. Closer, a car crawled past the house.

  The baby stirred, and Mother peeked into the bassinet. “She’s smiling. Wind.”

  I wanted to preserve this moment forever, or at least keep it close by so I could draw on it anytime I needed. I’d been needing it a long time.

  A seagull plied the air with its plaintive cry. Whatever was it doing so far from the sea?

  It occurred to me that if I’d whimsically assumed that Assefa was somewhere in the mix of Callay’s soul, then Mother was certainly present in every cell of her. But then it occurred to me that Father had to be in there, too. I was going to have to make an effort to be less of an asshole in order to balance him out.

  “Darling, I don’t know about you, but I’ve got an awful thirst. Would you care for some chamomile tea?” She paused. “I read somewhere that it helps with milk production. Not that you need any help in that department.” We exchanged a grin.

  “Yes, please. It sounds wonderful. I don’t know where Adam’s gotten to.”

  Mother reappeared a few minutes later with a tray and a frown.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “I don’t—you don’t want to know.”

  “What?”

  “It smells ‘off’ downstairs. Especially in the pantry.”

  “Maybe some food is spoiled. Can you tell Lukie to go over it?”

  “Of course. Don’t worry. We’ll take care of it. I’ll just pop back down.”

  But, as it happens, taking care of it turned out to be a little more complicated. My first clue was when the silence of the nursery was rent by the unmistakable squeaks and rattles of Ignacio’s battered old Ford truck. As Callay nursed surprisingly vigorously for one who’d seemed fully sated just an hour and a half before, I pondered why Ignacio had come today. His days were Wednesdays, when he single-handedly tackled our formidable back garden—deadheading the Austins, weeding the dymondia and creeping thyme, and cleverly clipping the jasmine and bougainvillea to keep the yard just this side of wild. These past months, we’d had a ritual of lunching together every Wednesday at the kitchen table, he in his socks, and me heating up whichever amazing curry Dhani had packed up for us that morning in an extra-large, insulated cooler. As soon as I’d dollop out our portions, we’d set to with ravenous hunger, he from having worked his behind off all morning, I from lugging around my ridiculously bulbous breasts and my increasingly heavy bun.

  But today was Sunday, which I knew was Ignacio, Dhani, and No-Longer-a-Baby-Angelina’s day to spend at the track, treating themselves to LA Weekly’s “Brunch at the Races” on the days when Dhani wasn’t cooking for the event herself. We’d all been so proud when the cooking school Dhani had founded had earned her pride of place amid the ranks of Brandon Boudet’s Little Dom’s, the L&E Oyster Bar, and—piggy me’s favorite—Poppy + Rose.

  Laying Callay back into her bassinette after my delicate little flower issued a gratifyingly rude burp, I took myself down the stairs just in time to see Adam, Ignacio, and Mother whispering just outside the back door. Even with the door wide open, the kitchen reeked with a sickly sweet smell. Clapping a hand against my mouth and nose, I moved toward the trio and saw that Ignacio was covered from salt-and-pepper head to heavy gardening boots in a thick layer of dirt.

  “What’s going on?” I demanded.

  Adam cast me a worried, but somewhat sheepish look. “Ignacio’s just tried crawling under the house to find it.”

  “Find what?” I asked, but of course I knew. Living things didn’t smell like this.

  “Oh, don’t —” Mother started.

  But Adam was at my side in an instant. “You should go back on up. We’ll deal with it. It’s probably a possum. Or a rat.”

  I had a sudden terror. I felt all wobbly and had to put a hand on his arm to steady myself. “How do you know? How did it get in? It couldn’t be a bobcat, could it?” Please God, no.

  Mother screeched, “A bobcat!”

  Ignacio said, “I’m so sorry, Fleuricita. I promise you there’s no bobcat under there. Whatever it is was smaller than I could find.” He looked mortified. “There was a torn screen behind one of the jasmine bushes. It was a very small opening—much smaller than a big cat could fit through, but if I had kept that bush better trimmed, I would have seen it. It is my fault.”

  Relief flooded through me, and I said a silent Thank you on behalf of my four-legged sister. I turned to my husband, “Adam, how could you have let him?” Ignacio was no spring chicken; I knew he battled arthritis.

  The shame that etched itself hotly across Adam’s face drove home what a lousy thing it had been to say. He had a hard enough time tugging his left leg when walking. How could he have possibly navigated the narrow crawl space himself?

  Mother shot me a look of rebuke. Ignacio stared at the kitchen floor.

  I leaned in toward Adam’s ear and whispered so quietly that only he could hear, “Sorry, my love. I’m an asshole.” I really was.

  God bless him, he laughed and whispered back, “That, my pretty, you most definitely can be. Thank God you’ve got a redeeming feature or two.”

  Ignacio seemed confused, but my ever-practical mother turned away and said over her shoulder, “I’m leaving. I’ll call Sister F. as soon as I get home. I think her landlord hired a skinny wildlife rescue guy to go under their building when her neighbor’s cat got stuck under there.”

  As Ignacio, too, departed, accompanied by innumerable shouts of apology from both Adam and me, we two went upstairs and tiptoed into our room to stare at our sleeping daughter.

  She was still a bit red-faced under her fine lanugo hairs. Beautiful black lashes curled perfectly over her delicate, slightly purplish eyelids. She scrunched up her little lips and wrinkled her nose as if to register
an objection.

  “It’s creepy, isn’t it?” I murmured.

  “Huh?” he said, taking a step back.

  My hand flew to my mouth. “Oh, no. Never her. Never, ever her. You must think I’m crazy. Certifiable. I meant the animal. Whatever it is. It’s dead down there. So soon after we’ve brought home this precious new life.” I bent over Callay, captive to the subtle scent of her. “She’s so innocent. So vulnerable. Still smelling of vernix caseosa.”

  Adam looked confused.

  “Amniotic fluid. They continue to have invisible bits of it in their hair and creases for six weeks or so.” But my voice caught. “That poor animal. You don’t think it’s some kind of sign, do you? I could never bear it if—”

  “Fleur, that sounds dangerously woo-woo.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “No buts. Every millisecond on this planet, millions of creatures are dying and being born. You know that better than anyone. It’s a constant exchange of energy.” He pretended to knock on the side of my head. “Even in our bodies. Remember C-Voids?”

  “I know. It’s not rational, but I don’t want any hint of death near her.”

  He encircled me in a tight hug. I still wore an apron of spongy fat across my middle, but at least he could get his arms around me now.

  “Of course, you don’t,” he murmured. “But trust me. You saw that determined chin of your mom’s poke itself out. We’ll get rid of that thing before you know it.”

  “I suppose so,” I said, “but it’s not really a thing, and it’s still sad that it died under there. I hate it. I hate how cruel life can be.”

  Adam had leaned forward and was carefully tucking the end of the swaddling blanket a bit more tightly under our sleeping child.

  “Adam?”

  He looked up. “Mmm?”

  “Why do you think death smells so sweet? Don’t you think that’s more than a little weird? What purpose could that possibly serve?

  By now, you probably have some sense of my difficulties with the voidishness of not knowing. Somewhere between the times of Callay’s subsequent feed and her nighttime sponge bath, I ended up plowing through most of my pile of Journals of Medical Entomology to enquire into the purpose of the particularly cloying odors of a dead carcass. For someone who hadn’t wanted to taint the preciousness of her daughter’s first days with any hint that there would one day be a last, I went at the material with surprising gusto.

  I learned quickly enough that it was all down to the necrophages, those species of insects such as Diptera, Calliphoridae, and Sarcophagidae (otherwise known as true flies, blow flies, and flesh flies), who commence their cycles of creation with others’ destruction, laying their eggs and thereby colonizing an enticingly honeyed—and very dead—host. In turn, these sugary larvae were consumed by carnivorous species of ants, wasps, and carrion beetles (but not butterflies, Nature having to ethically draw the line somewhere). It was, of course, as Adam had pointed out, the way of life on this earth: death begetting life, life begetting death. And emblematic as well of the universe itself—our own lives dependent on the illuminating warmth of a dying star and our very atoms composed of the dust of dead ones.

  I’d told Adam that I hated the whole show, but of course I didn’t. Callay would never have been born without the death of my relationship with Assefa. I’d never have met Assefa without the death of Nana prompting Mother to hire Abeba to care for Cesar. And Cesar himself ... well, that was another story entirely, one that as sure as Chutes and Ladders slid me right back down to the cruelty of the cosmos.

  My hypocrisy was hardly lost on me. In our application of the Principle of Dematerialization to humans, we’d be purposely propelling members of our own species into near-death via their own cellular black holes, only to (hopefully!) bring them back again in a designated new location. Like all scientific advances, we’d be taking a rather grandiose leap into the unknown, but one predicated on other successful leaps by thousands of fine thinkers before us. (As I’d heard a ballerina respond when an interviewer asked her how she regained her center after one of her famously majestic leaps, “But no, it is the center itself that leaps, taking me with it!”)

  Our own leap involved slowing or quickening movement from one location to another via the ripples in spacetime first predicted by Einstein’s theory of relativity and later confirmed in the detection of gravitational waves by LIGO’s twin detectors in Louisiana and Washington state. But it was Hawking who had moved the center along dramatically with his emphasis on the nature of the event horizon, noting that space itself falls into a black hole at a speed greater than the speed of light. Perversely, due to the extreme gravity around a black hole, matter in its gravitational field actually slows down at the horizon, dimming increasingly to the point of invisibility.

  Here the literal leap of Dreamization would occur via an analogous, slowed-down cellular passageway through which we hoped to propel people from one place to another. The process would be experienced as quite gradual for them, with their bodies making the necessary sensory adjustments, but the whole thing would in fact take a mere couple of minutes. Hawking was, of course, working on a quite different track and hadn’t entered that particular area of speculation in his own thinking. But he had suggested that black holes are far from being prisons, but could instead be passageways through which things could move into another universe. Our initial experiments had indicated it was possible to trigger a return to our own.

  I woke the next morning to the sounds of Adam’s snores and a murder outside the window. Not the bad kind, mind you. It was a convention of crows. I wondered what they were gabbing about. I hoped to God they wouldn’t wake Callay. She’d had a rather miserable, comfortless night, and I’d only just gotten her down to sleep a while ago. Everyone in the world had been right: the sleep deprivation was awful. Each day it was a toss-up whether I’d want to bite Adam’s head off or swoon at the pleasure of his touch.

  Today would evidently be a good day. Sighing with pleasure despite my profound fatigue, I luxuriated in the moist pressure of Adam’s back against my own, inhaling his Campbell’s chicken soup smell, which had always been pheromonic for me. My hands felt around behind me, and I twisted just enough to find a space between his thighs and trail my fingers across his member. I felt a surge of power as the soft curl of him hardened. He gave a little gasp, and I murmured, “You know that butterflies mate back-to-back, don’t you?”

  He rubbed his back against mine in a slow undulation. “Like this?”

  I laughed. “Well, sort of. The male inserts his wings in between the female’s.”

  He turned around and urged me around, too, planting a sloppy kiss on my lips. His mouth tasted garlicky-gingery from last night’s yetaklitk kilkil. Makeda was the queen in our kitchen these days.

  “I don’t have wings, but I do have this. Will it do?”

  My opening felt a little tight, but not too tight to stop me from getting wet. “Well, Dr. Abalooni said we should give it a try at six weeks.”

  “Should or could?”

  I laughed. “Well, that was a Freudian slip if there ever was one.”

  “I was going to say, we must certainly do what the good doctor says we should do.”

  “We could do,” I temporized teasingly.

  “We shall do,” he said, and proceeded to lick his way down to the portal to an alternate universe of the most delightful variety.

  But even the sweetest of fruits are vulnerable to spoiling. The day that had started so well took a decided dive shortly after Adam took off for the lab. Soon after Callay’s next feed, Makeda showed up rather hesitantly at my doorway.

  “Come in, come in,” I cried with pleasure, closing the final snap on the baby’s elephant and giraffe onesie and laying her on her back in the bassinette. Makeda, who was generally like a pile of mush over Callay, gave the baby a cursory look, then bit her lip. “Out with it, woman,” I said.

  “I am very rude to bother you with this when I know you
are so tired. The bébé takes all that you have and more ...”

  “Makeda, you are my sister, remember? I won’t be able to rest knowing that something is bothering you, so you may as well tell me now.”

  “It is the boy. At school.”

  “Ah.” It had taken me embarrassingly long to report to Makeda the snatches of conversation I’d heard taking place between Sofiya and Melesse on the stairway. Sammie and I had decided it might spoil Sofiya’s party if I raised the topic right before the event, and then the birth of Callay had consumed me. I’d finally remembered it in the middle of a hellishly sleepless night, clapping my hand so hard to my lips that I’d actually wakened the baby all over again.

  Afterward, with a little coaching, Makeda had coaxed from Melesse that a boy in her Raccoon Group was making her life hell over her slight lisp. I think we were all relieved that the bullying hadn’t been over her chocolate skin; it would have been too distressing if racism had reared its ugly head amidst the young Bunnies and Beavers and Raccoons. But the boy’s taunting over her lisp proved to be just as painful, as she hadn’t even known she had one until now. She’d retreated to her books and had to be cajoled to join the circle of children for the morning sharing, solemnly looking down into her lap whenever her name was called.

  As Makeda filled me in on the latest installment of the miserable drama, I learned that the little monster was now teasing her for her shyness. (And if you’re asking yourself how I could call a child of four a monster, then you fall in love with a girl like Melesse— AIDS-orphaned at six months, nearly starving to death before that, being separated for a terrible couple of weeks from her one surviving relative while a hospital staff struggled to bring her back to health after a dreadful bout with the flu, then being dragged to a daunting new land and facing a brand new language to learn—only mitigated by the miracle of being claimed for life by the woman who’d saved her and her sister.)