The Butterfly’s Daughter (31 page)

“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 final 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 rumbled 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.

For many, many years the Aztec people made sacrifices to the gods
to repay them for the blood they gave to the sun. They wanted to woo the gods to come back down to earth. Foolish people. The gods already existed among us. They abide in the natural forces. We cannot see them, but they are here. We can feel their power.

So do not be afraid,
mi niña.
When you hear the roar of thunder, you hear the voice of Ehecatl making his presence known. He comes in his crown of clouds and carrying rattlers to shake up the sky and make thunder and bring wind. He comes with the great god Tlaloc, who brings the rain to nourish the earth. Shhh . . . listen now. Do you hear the pitter-patter of rain on the roof? Each drop is a gift from the gods. A sign of renewal and rebirth. Shhh . . . sleep now, and listen to the music of the preciousness of life.

Thunder rumbled low in the far distance as the storm passed. Outside Luz's window, the rain beat a soft and rhythmic beat. With memories of Abuela fresh in her mind, Luz nestled Serena closer against her and surrendered to sleep.

The milkweed that monarch caterpillars eat contains toxins called cardenolides. It is a poison stored in the adult monarch's abdomen and acts as a form of defense from would-be predators. The brilliant colors of the monarch butterflies and caterpillars advertise their toxicity.

T
he metal slop bucket rattled as Mariposa pushed it down the hallway. She washed the lobby floor of the four-story condominium building every Monday and Thursday with hot water and vinegar. The pungent scent triggered memories of her mother scrubbing the wood floors of their home early every morning. Mariposa rested against her mop and closed her eyes as a fresh wave of regret burned so sharp that she felt her shoulders curl like a leaf caught in a flame.

She took a long, shuddering breath and forced herself to keep working. She couldn't afford to lose this job. It was menial but honest, and given her record, she was grateful to have it. Her duties included sweeping, dusting, and cleaning the general areas of the building. In exchange, she was given the caretaker's garden apartment and a modest salary.

The lobby door opened. She heard the tip-tapping of high heels and the clickety clack of dog's nails on the floor. Mariposa turned her head and said, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Barrett.”

“Hello, Mary,” the woman replied in an absentminded manner.

Mariposa had greeted Mrs. Barrett daily for two years, yet Mrs. Barrett never called her by her full name. Mariposa had corrected her many times early on, but Mrs. Barrett insisted on calling her Mary, as she insisted on being called Mrs. Barrett, despite the fact that she was divorced. Hearing herself called by the wrong name grated on Mariposa, but she'd stopped correcting her.