Summer of the Mariposas

by Guadalupe Garcia McCall

  Mamá took my hand in hers, kissed it, and rubbed my knuckles with her thumb. “No, I loved them. I really did. But it wasn’t the roses that made my day. It was seeing your faces again, looking into your eyes, and knowing that you still love your mamá. The love in your hearts fills mine. It’s what keeps me going. The roses were nice and very much appreciated, but it was you and your sisters, my children, that I needed to hold. Without you, I would be nothing more than a ghost of a woman, a spirit wandering this earth with no purpose, no direction — un fantasma with no one to love.”

  Goose bumps popped up on my arms and chills ran down my spine, shaking me to the core. “You mean like — La Llorona?”

  Mamá crinkled her brow and looked at me like she wasn’t quite sure what I was talking about. “La Llorona? I suppose so — yes.”

  “Oh my God — you’re right!” I exclaimed. I hauled myself up and out of her arms. “Thank you, Mamá. Thank you for loving us so much!”

  I ran into the kitchen, plucked the roses from the vase, and headed for the front door. “Odilia, hija?” Mamá called after me. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m sorry Mamá, but I have to deliver these to the right person,” I said. As I left the house, the screen door slammed itself shut behind me and I yelled, “I’ll be back soon. I promise.”

  LA CORONA: “La corona más grande y preciosa

  le pertenece a una reina humilde.”

  THE CROWN: “The biggest, most precious

  crown belongs to a humble queen.”

  Telling a woman who had just gotten her daughters back not to worry was like telling the river not to roll, but I couldn’t help leaving. I finally understood what I was supposed to do with las rosas Tonantzin had bestowed upon me.

  There was only one person who needed to be reminded of who she was, and that was La Llorona. Her sadness, her grief over her lost children, overwhelmed her. Maybe the roses were a token from the Virgencita, a small light in her otherwise gloomy existence, a gift to brighten her spirits. Although how they were meant to transform her, I had no idea. All I knew is that she was definitely the only other mother the Virgencita could have been talking about. She was, by her own account, responsible for the death of her own children. If anybody needed a magical remedy for her plight, it was La Llorona.

  As I pedaled my bike down El Indio Highway in the stillness of the dark summer night, I could feel the magical power of the roses propelling me toward the Rio Grande. Lying sideways within the basket attached to the front of my bike, the rosas shimmered in the moonlight like fallen stars, and I took special care not to ride too fast for fear of having the roses fly off or fall onto the road.

  I pedaled down our soft dirt path through the woods, all the way down to the river’s edge, where I hoped I might find her. I stopped, still straddling my bike, and at first all I could hear was the river, its waters churning out an eerie lullaby. Then, as the reverberation of my own heartbeat stopped hammering loudly against my eardrums, I heard her. Hers was a distant, unending sob echoing the mournful song of the ancient river as it passed by.

  I picked up the roses and dismounted my bike, letting it fall to the ground as I walked toward the water. My legs felt like thin fideo noodles from pedaling so hard, but I didn’t let that stop me. Slowly, I made my way through the brush toward the place we’d met that first time. There she was, a spectral figure illuminated by a sad, wavering light.

  “I think these are for you,” I said, holding the roses toward La Llorona.

  “¿Rosas?” she asked, bemused by the white, blushing petals glowing magically in the dark. She didn’t reach for them. “For me?”

  “Yes,” I whispered. “A gift from the Virgen de Guadalupe, for all you’ve done for us.”

  “I was only honoring a request,” she whispered, still not taking the roses. Her longing was almost palpable. “I was merely following orders given by One who is wiser than you or I. It is part of my penance.”

  “You were following more than orders. You were following your heart.” I deposited the roses into her arms. She took the bundle and cradled it lovingly in her embrace, as if it were a fragile baby.

  “Gracias,” she whispered. The thin rivulet of a tear fell quietly down her pale cheekbone, disappearing into the darkness.

  “You deserve them.” The tearstain on her cheek began to glisten. The shine spread across her skin inch by inch. Then right before my eyes, her tired middle-aged face regained a bright, youthful complexion. The skin of her bare arms and face glowed with health and vitality, but her skin was not the only thing transformed. Her entire facade changed, until the ghostly La Llorona became as radiant and alive as a young woman bronzed by the sun.

  Behind her, a newly emerged brood of tiny snout-nosed butterflies crawled out from under the spiny hackberry bushes and began to creep upon her. They fanned their wings in slow motion as they made their way up her long, pale dress from the hem up to her neckline, forming an intricate floral pattern. Once in place, they sat perfectly still for a moment, and then the fabric of her gown came alive. Delicate silver and gold threads unraveled and wove themselves into the fragile wings of the frozen mariposas, converting the tiny creatures into magical designs stitched meticulously into the bodice of La Llorona’s gown.

  To crown her beauty, a floral wreath appeared on her head, transforming her into an Aztec princess. The metamorphosis was bedazzling, and I was mesmerized by her exquisite face, her dark luminous eyes, her appreciative smile. It was so breathtaking, the change in Llorona, that it rendered me speechless. Then out of the corner of my eye, a light swirled and unfurled beside us. I took a step back as la Virgen de Guadalupe. Tonantzin, materialized. Shocked by her appearance, both La Llorona and I dropped to our knees and bowed our heads.

  “Great Mother,” La Llorona said, as she knelt before Tonantzin. “We are grateful for your divine presence.”

  “It is I who am grateful,” the Virgen said in her serene, heavenly voice. “Rise, my most cherished children, mis Mariposas.”

  “The Virgin Mother is kind and generous.” La Llorona remained kneeling, clutching the roses to her chest. “She honors me with this transformation.”

  “You have done well, my daughter. Your migration through the voyage of pain and sorrow has been hard, but you are at the end of your journey. The Ancients have waited a long time for you to emerge, to spread your wings, to take flight. And now, they are ready for you to come home.”

  The Virgen lifted her right arm and opened her hand. Millions of tiny specks of gold flew out from the center of her palm. The iridescent particles soared above La Llorona and fell over her in a divine shower that bathed her in what I can only describe as sunlight. Lighter and lighter La Llorona grew until she was more than translucent; she was a silhouette of radiance.

  “Rise, Malitzin. Rise, faithful daughter,” Tonantzin commanded. “It is time for you to be reunited with your loved ones, time for you and your children to claim your place among the stars.”

  Beside me, La Llorona’s silhouette began to disappear until she was completely gone. Then, to my amazement, I heard distant but distinct sounds, a whisper of music and something else, the laughter of children coming from high up in the sky. In the heavens, five bright blue stars climbed out of the horizon and up into the studded sky. They circled each other playfully before settling to the right among a cluster of smaller stars, forming a new constellation just below Ursa Major — woman and her two children, forever reunited in the sky.

  “So this is what it was all about, a new constellation — new life in the universe,” I whispered, overwhelmed by the magic my sisters and I had helped the goddess create.

  “Yes, restoring that which was once lost. You have done your part, my tiniest of butterflies,” Tonantzin said, turning to me. “Odilia, you are a true princess, and you’ve made your ancestors very prou
d. The courage and wisdom you have acquired through this ordeal, this odyssey, will serve you well as you grow into womanhood. You will have a very prosperous life.”

  “Thank you, I really appreciate that,” I said meekly, and then because I couldn’t help it, I had to ask. “But what about Mamá? At first, I gave her the flowers. Then when nothing happened, I realized they were intended for La Llorona, so I delivered them to the right person. But I’m still worried about Mamá. Will she be all right without Papá?”

  “Your Mamá is Mariposa too, tenacious and fierce, but generous with her love,” the Virgen assured me. “She will be transformed soon enough. From this pain, she too will gain the strength to fly. But now, it is time for me to take my leave. Thank you once again, for letting your heart be your guide.”

  With that, the Virgen de Guadalupe, Tonantzin, our Great Mother in the sky, disappeared. Her splendid image dissolved into the brush, and I was left standing by myself in the shadow of a thin, waning moonlight.

  “Will we ever see you again?” I whispered, trembling all alone in the darkness. “Will you ever come back to help us if we need you, or must we face things alone from now on?”

  “Only the sun is alone in the sky,” the Virgen’s voice answered me from beyond the shadows of the night. I couldn’t see anything, but I could feel her presence all around me. “I am with you every day. I am the moon, the stars, the sky. I am the river. I am the morning sigh. Remember, mi Mariposa pequeña. You are one of many. You are one of us.”

  At her words, a swarm of butterflies fluttered out of the hackberry shrubs and flitted around me, dusting me with delight. With her voice still echoing in my ears, I got on my bicycle and pedaled home. A brood of cheerful, incandescent snout-nosed butterflies trailed behind me, glistening in the moonlight — like fireflies, like hope.

  LA LUNA: “La luna todo lo ve,

  pero nada dice.”

  THE MOON:“The moon sees everything,

  but says nothing.”

  It surprised me quite a bit that we should miss Papá. After all, he’d been out of our lives for almost a year before his return. Nevertheless, for weeks after the incident, the girls sat around discussing it, wishing things could have been different. That he had loved us more. That we had been enough of a family to keep him home.

  Not me. I kept my feelings for Papá tucked away, like a tiny rosebud hidden within the pages of an old forgotten book. Back in the darkest corner of my heart it lay, so well pressed that its fragile edges might chip, break off, even disintegrate if I tried to touch it.

  Some days, however, for no apparent reason and without my awareness, sorrow would crack my resolve. I’d be tending my herb garden, clipping sprigs of fragrant leaves or replanting tender roots, then all of a sudden, a single tear would fall down my face without my awareness, surprising me. Perplexed, I would touch it and wonder what had happened to bring it forth. The answer was always there, tucked away within the brittle pages of that closed book — Papá.

  After a while, however, my wounds began to heal, and I found that I didn’t cry unexpectedly anymore. My heart had accepted the loss, and like my sisters, I too began to move on. School started up again, and we all went willingly, even gratefully, back to a normal life. I tended my herb garden every day and when Mamá cut her hand peeling nopales, I put milenrama on it. When she saw that it had healed quickly, Mamá suggested I might become a doctor someday. I think I like that.

  The weekend after Easter, we celebrated my birthday with a Sweet Sixteen party. The event was strange and unusual to us. Our friends and loved ones were used to attending debutant balls, but since I didn’t have one the year before, this party was like my make-up quinceañera.

  It was a beautiful reception. Mamá had taken extra care to decorate the backyard with white ribbons. There were calla lilies at every table, and the deck was shining with the twinkling of white icicle lights that trailed over trees and shrubs to create the illusion of a fairyland, a garden for mariposas.

  Juanita and the twins were my official damas, my female attendants, and each of us had been assigned a nice, handsome dancing partner, a chambelán. We’d fretted about finding boys to be our official escorts, but Mamá had a lot of comadres and they had a lot of sons from which to choose. She did a nice job, because I was assigned the handsomest boy in the neighborhood. His name was Mario Cortés, and he had big green eyes. I liked him very much.

  The night of the party was soft and dreamy, with a warm breeze drifting in and out of our backyard. The girls and I danced with our escorts until the balls of our feet hurt, and we were forced to slip off our heels and dance in our bare feet. Mario kept stepping on my toes, so I had to jump back every time he got creative. It was silly, but we laughed about it most of the night.

  By midnight, I was still keeping an eye on his shiny shoes when I saw something moving behind the trees to the left of our house. At the rustle of leaves, I froze and Mario bumped into me head-on, almost knocking me to the ground. He grabbed at my corsage to try to keep me from falling.

  “Ouch,” he said, releasing me suddenly.

  “Are you all right?” I asked, keeping an eye to the left of me, trying to figure out who was hiding in the foliage. For a second I thought it might be Pita looking for fireflies, but she was standing at the cake table, digging into her second helping.

  “I cut myself on your corsage,” Mario said, sucking on the side of his index finger.

  “Let me see,” I said, examining his hand. “It’s just a pinprick. You’ll live.”

  “Oh yeah, tell that to Sleeping Beauty,” Mario protested teasingly.

  A man stepped out of the shadows into the well-lit yard. “Oh my God!” I whispered.

  “What? What’s going on?” Mario asked, following my gaze.

  Papá stood in front of our two lime trees, looking across the dance floor with his hands in his pockets. However, it wasn’t me he was looking at, but Mamá, who was dancing at the other end of the yard with a man in a pinstriped shirt and navy blue slacks, a man we had all come to know and love.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said, leaving Mario to wonder what was going on.

  As I walked toward him, Papá turned to look at me, and his face broke into a rueful smile that didn’t quite match the sadness in his hazel eyes.

  “It gladdens my heart to see you like this, Odilia. All grown up,” Papá whispered as I leaned in and allowed him to give me a small, reserved hug. I had not expected to see him that night, but the mildness in his voice told me he had not come to make trouble. “Feliz cumpleaños, m’ija.”

  “Thank you. You look handsome tonight,” I said, returning his rueful smile.

  “Thanks,” he said, fiddling with the boot slider on his bolo tie and looking at the ground nervously. “I didn’t want to embarrass you on your special night.”

  “Right,” I said, not sure of what else to say to him.

  “I know you probably weren’t expecting me, but I just needed to come. I wanted to talk with your Mamá. I had hoped . . . well, that she and I . . .” He looked sideways toward Mamá, who was still dancing, oblivious to us.

  “Oh,” I said, suddenly understanding.

  “She looks happy,” he said.

  I turned around just in time to see Special Agent Aaron Gonzales spin and twirl Mamá to the beat of a fast paced cumbia. Aaron had been right about CPS. After a brief investigation, they decided there was nothing wrong with our little family, but the experience deeply affected Mamá. It had taken a long time, months and months, but Mamá changed. She had inched herself into the process, like a caterpillar. First, she had changed her work schedule so she could go to night school. Within months she’d taken her GED test and received her certificate. After that, she started to attend community college and got a new job as a clerk in a private school, where her boss didn’t mind if sh
e kept a close eye on her daughters. She had grown in many ways, but especially in love.

  In Aaron, Mamá had found a strong heart, and she’d attached herself to the offered hand slowly, cautiously, making sure he was the right man with whom to start a new life. But when she’d emerged from the safety of her cocoon, Mamá was happier and more radiant than we’d ever seen her. In our eyes, she was reborn into beauty — celestial, divine. And we couldn’t be happier for her.

  “She’s like a butterfly — radiant,” I said, letting out a long held breath. “Everything’s all right now.”

  “Listen, about what happened . . .” Papá began, his voice suddenly full of emotion, and I felt kind of sorry for him because I knew what he was about to divulge.

  Stories about him and what had transpired after he left our house that last time were everywhere in our neighborhood. My sisters and I couldn’t go anywhere without someone giving us the latest gossip, filling in the holes where someone else had left off. The rumor mill had it that six weeks into his marriage, his new wife ran off with a rancher who had a big house on a hundred-acre spread in Nuevo Laredo. But that wasn’t the bad part. She’d cleaned out his bank account before she left him, taking with her every penny he’d ever saved from his years as a quasi-famous Tejano singer. I heard he was singing again, but tonight I didn’t feel up to asking him where or when. It seemed irrelevant, nothing more than idle chitchat.

  “It’s okay,” I interrupted. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

  “No. It’s not okay,” Papá continued. His voice was suddenly clipped, terse, as if what he was about to say made him angry. “What I did was wrong. I made a terrible mistake.”

  “Well, it’s over now,” I said, hugging him quickly, woodenly, trying to pull myself away from the situation. “I should get back to the party.”

  “Odilia.” Papá took my hand and tugged on it gently, pulling me in closer to kiss me on the cheek and caress my hair. “You look beautiful. Have a good time.”