The Butterfly’s Daughter

by Mary Alice

  “You made the call.”

  “Yeah? I talk a good game,” Ofelia said. “But do you know what I was doing while you were standing up to Angel? I was locking the doors, crying like a baby. I should’ve stood up to that scum long ago. But I just take it. Over and over. If it wasn’t for you”—her breath hitched and she reached out to grab Luz’s arm tight—“you maybe saved my life. My baby’s life. I’m nothing to you but you came to help. You’re my hero.”

  Luz didn’t think she was a hero. That seemed such a grand word for what she’d done. She used to wonder what she’d do if she saw a stranger get hurt. She read in the paper a story about how a man got beaten on a city street and, even though people saw it happening, no one came to his aid. And there was also a girl who was jogging through the park and murdered in full daylight while people watched.

  “It all happened so fast,” she tried to explain. “I guess it’s not something you can prepare for. I just knew that I couldn’t let him hurt you. It’s like, you and me, we were one and the same.”

  Ofelia’s face crumpled with emotion and, closing her eyes, she let her head drop back against the cushion. After a minute she said in a thick voice, “Well, one thing’s for sure. A lot of people wouldn’t have bothered.”

  They drove for a while in silence as the wheels hummed beneath them, each passing mile a hymn of safety. The dim light of the snug car made the atmosphere intimate, like a confessional. Beside her, Luz heard the soft, muffled sound of crying.

  “It’s okay, Ofelia. You’re safe now.”

  In a broken voice Ofelia said, “He wouldn’t stop hitting me. Even when I begged. I loved him! I tried so hard to be what he wanted me to be. But he never loved me.” She sniffed loudly and reached up to wipe her nose. “Sometimes, the way he looked at me . . . made me feel like nothing.”

  Luz didn’t respond.

  The intimacy of the night had tapped into Ofelia’s already waning strength. She leaned forward to rub her back, groaning softly. “My back is killing me.”

  Luz looked at her nervously, focusing on her huge belly. “Like a backache or cramps?”

  “Kinda both.” Ofelia stretched her spine and moved from left to right in her seat while her facial muscles pulled into a grimace. “Maldito,” she swore. Then she looked at Luz, her dark eyes limpid with fear. “I don’t know if I’m gonna make it to Texas.”

  Luz’s heart raced. “You mean, you think you’re in labor?”

  “I don’t know! I never had a baby before. But this lady told me that a backache is the first sign the baby’s coming.”

  The news slammed into Luz. “Jesus, Ofelia, what should we do? Go back to Chicago? To Suzanne? She’d help us.”

  “No! You know I can’t go back there.”

  “Then where?” Luz felt panic rising in her chest.

  “Let’s just keep going. I’m not gonna have the baby now. Just, well, maybe sooner than I thought.”

  “We need to think a minute,” Luz said, gathering her wits. She needed a plan of action. “One thing’s for certain, you can’t have the baby in my car. I’ll take you to the nearest hospital,” she said decisively.

  “I can’t just go to some hospital! I don’t have insurance and I’m not legal.”

  Luz leaned back in her seat and with a free hand rubbed her temple. Did being legal make a difference? Her mind was working on only one cylinder. Her tired brain went over and over what choices they had, and whether the services she’d thought she could count on were available to Ofelia. It scared her that she didn’t know.

  “What are you thinking?” asked Ofelia anxiously. “Are you, like, planning to just dump me at the hospital and shove off? I guess I couldn’t blame you if you were.”

  “No, I wouldn’t do that,” Luz replied, shaking her head, though in truth the thought had briefly crossed her mind.

  “Thanks, Luz.” Ofelia’s voice was very small.

  Luz’s fatigue hit her like a brick wall. She mopped her face with her hands and tried to come up with a solution to this new problem—and it was an enormous problem—but her brain felt like it was made of cotton. Why was this problem hers? she asked herself for the tenth time. And for the tenth time she told herself the answer. She had inherited the responsibility for Ofelia the moment she’d agreed to take her along on her journey.

  “Okay,” she began slowly. “First thing you need to do is get checked out. There’s got to be a hospital or clinic we can go to in St. Louis.”

  Ofelia swung her head around to peer out the window, squinting as though searching for something to identify on the horizon. “Is that where we are? St. Louis?”

  “Pretty close. Why? Do you know someone there?”

  “Not in St. Louis. Near Kansas City. That’s not too far.”

  “Who?” Luz asked with hope.

  “My aunt.”

  “Wait,” Luz said. It took her a minute to process the startling admission. “You have an aunt in Kansas City?”

  “My tía Luisa, the aunt I told you about. She lives in Lawrence.”

  “Why didn’t you ask me to take you there in the first place?”

  Ofelia picked at her nail. “I wanted to make it to Mexico, to be with my mother when the baby comes.” She looked up and her face was without guile, easy to read. “I know you lost your abuela. I know you want to bring her ashes home and you want to be with your family. After everything that’s happened, I guess I wanted that, too.”

  Luz thought of how lonely and frightened Ofelia must be now that she was on the verge of giving birth. She couldn’t even imagine how much Ofelia must want to be close to her mother. “I only wish I could take you all the way to Mexico.”

  Ofelia reached out to pat her arm. “Hey, girl. You’ve done plenty.”

  “Right now, I just want to get you to Lawrence before the baby comes. How far is Lawrence from St. Louis?”

  Ofelia grimaced as she rubbed her back again. “Not too far. It’s a straight shot from here to Kansas City and from there, I dunno, maybe an hour more. If you take me there, I’m sure she’d take us in. We could spend the night, get some food. I mean, she has to. She’s family, right? You could leave me there and I’ll be out of your hair.”

  Luz felt her shoulders sag with relief. “I don’t want you out of my hair. I just don’t want your baby born in my car, silly.” With one hand steering the car, she reached far into the backseat, blindly rummaging through bottles of water, trail mix, and an umbrella to pull maps out of her canvas bag. Ofelia spread the map of the United States over her lap and found St. Louis. She traced west to find Kansas City. Just like she’d said, it looked to be a straight shot down I-70.

  “I don’t think it’ll take more than four hours, plus however much extra time it’s going to take to find your aunt’s place.” Luz looked anxiously at Ofelia. “Can you make it?”

  Ofelia nodded. “I’ll make it. Can you?”

  Luz exhaled and thought to herself that with lots of coffee, she could make it, too. She had to try. Ofelia’s aunt was a lifeline. At least now they had someplace to go.

  “Try to rest,” she told Ofelia, whose lids were drooping again. She was still in obvious discomfort. “Do you want anything? Should I stop at the next exit?”

  “I just want to sleep.”

  “I’ll wake you when we get near Kansas City.”

  Ofelia obliged, tugging the voluminous coat up over her shoulders and curling against the pillow. It wasn’t long before Luz heard the soft, guttural sound of her snoring.

  Narrow shafts of pale yellow and pink light stretched across the sky, brightening the horizon and revealing the vast, rolling farmland of southern Illinois. Luz thought of Ofelia’s desire to be with her mother, and her thoughts drifted to her own mother, as they often did when she let her mind wander. Was it possible that Mariposa felt like Ofelia did when she found herself pregnant and abandoned with only very little money? Mariposa had been eighteen, like Ofelia. Still a girl, yet about to become a mother. And her fath
er . . . All she knew about him was that he was a German student studying in Mexico when Mariposa met him. They’d run off together and soon after, Mariposa discovered she was pregnant. Did they even talk about getting married? Or did her father simply do the cowardly thing and run off? What name fits a man who would leave a girl pregnant and penniless in a foreign country, utterly alone? Luz was ashamed to be the daughter of such a man. Would Ofelia’s child feel a similar humiliation?

  A new thought dawned as Luz’s fingers tapped on the wheel. Was it possible that her mother had been physically abused, too? What if her father hadn’t just abandoned her? What if he’d beaten her mother, and she’d fled, like Ofelia?

  It could have happened like that. It would explain why her grandmother came running. Abuela would never have told Luz such a story about her mother. She’d only told stories of how clever and beautiful Mariposa was. Until the day before she died . . . Abuela had been intent on taking this trip with her. Luz now knew that Abuela had planned to tell her the truths about her mother that Luz, now an adult, could accept. There is much you don’t know about Mariposa.

  Now she might never know the truth. The only hope she had was to find her tía Maria.

  The early hours after dawn were always a time of hope for Luz. The sun was an enormous red ball in the gray sky hovering over miles of shadowy fields. Luz yawned and looked out over the highway that stretched long and flat for miles. She was beginning to see life as a long highway with a series of stops. She hadn’t made many choices before, but now she was in the driver’s seat. She saw the road with a new perspective. What the stops were in the future, she didn’t know yet. But in her heart, she knew they would be important.

  Eight

  How do the great-great-grandchildren of the butterflies find the overwintering sites each year? Is it instinct? Genetic memory? The mother-daughter cell? How their homing system works is one of the many unanswered questions in the butterfly world.

  A woman in a pale suede jacket sat astride the palomino horse, overlooking a vast expanse of rolling hills and valley. She sat very still, closing her eyes in concentration as the wind whistled, rattling the leaves of the trees and rippling her black hair like waves down her back. She shivered and, tilting her head, leaned forward in her saddle.

  “Mariposa? Is something wrong?”

  She startled at the sound of Sam’s voice and jerked back on the reins. Her concentration snapped and her horse snorted and tugged at the bit. She loosened the reins and steadied herself in the saddle. She’d thought she’d heard someone calling out to her. Of course it was her imagination, or perhaps a bird call carried in the wind. But sometimes, out here in the hill country of Texas where the horizon was so vast that the line between earth and heaven seemed to blend, the line between what was real and surreal grew fuzzy, too.

  “No,” she replied, her eyes on her horse’s long, golden mane. “I’m fine.”

  She heard the crunching of hooves in the rocky soil as he rode closer. Her hands tensed on the reins, causing her horse to paw the ground. Mariposa settled her, then looked up to see the distinctive black and white rounded markings of Sam’s Texas Paint, Tank, as it halted beside her more delicate palomino. Sam Morningstar loomed over his large quarter horse, sitting like he was molded to the saddle. He reached up to tip back his cowboy hat, revealing a proud face the golden color of the Texas prairie grass. Moisture beaded his broad, tanned forehead and soaked the edges of the thick, black hair that framed his face.

  “Well,” he began in his slow drawl. The leather from his saddle creaked as he leaned toward her and searched her face with his piercing dark eyes. “Your horse doesn’t seem to agree. She says you’re nervous about something.” A slow smile added another crease to his leathery skin. “And I’ve never known a horse to lie.”

  Mariposa released a shaky, reluctant smile. There was no use arguing with him. She could lie to Sam, but she couldn’t lie to her horse. Opal was finely attuned to her emotions and sensed her disquiet. There were no secrets when Mariposa was on her back. On cue, her horse shook her head and her hooves struck the soil, raising dust. “Traitor,” she murmured with affection as she reached down to gently pat the palomino’s neck. “I’m okay. I can handle her,” she said to Sam.

  “I know you can. But I don’t want you to feel spooked. We can wait a while, if you need time. We’re in no hurry.”

  She slanted a look at Sam Morningstar. He owned this 140-acre ranch on which he raised his prize Texas Paint quarter horses. She’d come here for a year to do equine therapy, and after she finished, she continued taking riding lessons from Sam. He wasn’t her therapist, a point he was clear to make from their first session. Sam had told her that he was simply someone who wanted to help her connect with the “four-leggeds” and the energy that surrounds them, so that in time she could connect again with the “twoleggeds.” He’d laughed and referred to himself as a “six-legged,” as ancient warriors of his Native American tribe were called because they were so connected to their horses. In the past year, Sam and Mariposa had become more than teacher and student. She didn’t know quite what to call their connection, but it was at least friendship.

  Mariposa thought it fitting that Sam raised horses, since he was a lot like them. He didn’t talk much, and he was alert to body movements—especially the language of the eyes. He was watching her now, assessing her mood.

  “I’m fine. Really.”

  “Okay, then. Let’s follow the trail a while longer.” Sam made a soft clucking noise with his tongue and his enormous Texas Paint began walking.

  Mariposa settled in the saddle, then guided Opal to turn and follow Tank on the trail. In the past four months, Mariposa had developed a bond with Opal. During her first sessions she’d spent time grooming her, feeding her, and cleaning her stall. Sam said she had to learn the body language of a horse before she could put one boot into a stirrup. Now she rode with Sam through the rolling Texas Hill Country, and coming here was the highlight of her week. Everywhere she looked it was beautiful. Today the wind blew soft waves over hills exploding in golds, scarlets, and bronzes.

  They rode in a companionable silence along a wide stone trail that wound around clumps of mesquite trees, pines, and rail fencing that held in pastures. The loudest sound was the crunch of gravel as hooves hit the ground in a steady gait. It was a perfect day for a ride—sixty degrees, breezy, and with a sky so bright it hurt to look at it without sunglasses. Not a single cloud dared to mar the vast blue, though she knew farmers and ranchers alike were praying for rain. Mariposa prayed, too, because the monarchs would be migrating through here soon and a good rain would guarantee a plethora of flowering plants for nectar.

  She looked over at Sam. They’d been riding for almost an hour and he’d said nothing. He just kept on riding, Tank’s hooves kicking up the dry earth in clouds of dust as Sam pointed out a deer or a turkey. Nothing seemed to be on his mind but the beautiful day. After a while the path split. One path led back to the ranch house and the barn where they’d say the usual perfunctory good-bye before he went to his next client and she returned Opal to her stall. The other path went north.

  He surprised her by heading north. They climbed a steep hill, then rounded a bend, and suddenly, there was the lake. She sucked in her breath, captivated by the small body of crystalline water that reflected the sky, shining in the light like an aquamarine.

  “We can sit and rest here a spell,” said Sam.

  He’d said “sit and rest,” but what he really meant was talk. Sam wasn’t nosy and didn’t pry or ply her with questions like her therapist did, but he was good at finding out what he wanted to know.

  Sam dismounted, then came to her side. She swung her leg around the saddle, then felt his large hands grip her hips and guide her to the ground. She tensed beneath his palms. No sooner did her boots hit the ground than Sam cleared his throat and dropped his hands. He took a few steps back, creating a respectful space between them. Mariposa’s chest eased when he let go a
nd she leaned a moment against Opal, pressing her palms against the damp hair, comforted by the heat emanating from Opal’s body. She closed her eyes and breathed deep the heavy scent of sweat mingled with leather.

  Mariposa was more skittish than a wild mustang and still tensed whenever touched. Three years in jail had taught her to keep rigid boundaries. She’d been out for two years but she still maintained a distance from most people. Truth was she preferred to be alone or in the company of critters. That was why when she finished her time at the rehab house and was offered a spot in a horse therapy group, she’d leaped at it. Horses were big, powerful animals, as definite about their boundaries as she was. There were no pretenses with them. When she entered their space they weren’t concerned about what happened in her past. They lived only in the moment. They didn’t ask for anything from her but to be calm and relaxed.

  And her trust.

  That was the hardest part. It had been a long time since she’d felt she could trust anyone or anything. Even herself. Especially herself. But she was trying hard to change all that. If she could learn to trust herself with horses, she hoped, in time, she could trust herself with people again. Mariposa had lived mute and guarded for too long. Sam—and Opal—were trying to help her open up. She had to, if she ever hoped to have a relationship with her daughter.

  She straightened and stepped back from her horse, patting Opal’s hide gently. She reached out to hand Opal’s reins to Sam. With a nod, he took the reins and walked on ahead, guiding both horses across the scrubby grass to a cooler area of shade under a cropping of mesquite trees. Mariposa followed to join him at the intricately carved wood bench.

  Sam eased down onto the bench with a low sigh and stretched his long legs out before him. He took off his hat and wiped his brow with his sleeve. Mariposa stole a glance at him. Sam was born on the Alabama-Coushatta reservation, and though he lived on his own place, his ancestral ties to the tribe ran deep. His profile was that of an eagle’s, with his serious black eyes and proud, curved nose. His hair was the color of an eagle’s wing, black interspersed with slender streaks of gray. It was thick and coarse and formed a ragged line over the edge of his pale blue denim.