I Lived on Butterfly Hill Page 2

  “Sí, Mamá.” Then I remember what I wanted to ask my parents. “Mamá, Papá, have you noticed more ships in the harbor lately?”

  They glance at each other.

  “Not really. But we aren’t always watching from our perch on the roof like someone we know.” Mamá’s voice sounds a bit high and strange. “Maybe the ships—”

  But Papá interrupts her. “Do what your mother told you and get your grandmother, Celeste. The humitas are getting cold.”

  Why is his voice so stern? It was just a question. “Sí, Papá.” I can’t help giving him an annoyed look as I head toward the parlor.

  Abuela Frida is still asleep in her chair, but she wakes with a sigh as I kiss the top of her head. I’ve always loved my grandmother’s hair, as fine and white and soft as a cirrus cloud. “Celeste of my soul!” she says with a smile, taking the hand I hold out for her. “Hmmmm . . . is it true what my nose tells me?”

  “Delfina’s made your favorite tonight, Frida,” my father answers as I lead Abuela Frida to the kitchen table. “Lucky for Celeste, humitas are her favorite too!”

  “¡Ay, que rico! They smell delicious, Delfina,” my mother says, inhaling. There is a special magic, like opening a present, when you eat a humita. It’s best to lick your fingers first, so the hot corn husks don’t burn them. Then you peel back the layers and find a steamy, sweet cake made of ground corn.

  “Eat up, mi joya.” Delfina looks lovingly at my mother. “All that work is making you thin!” My mother was named Esmeralda because she has green eyes, but Delfina still calls her “my jewel,” like she did when my mother was a little girl and Delfina was her nanny.

  My parents are doctors. They work in a hospital for the poor on the outskirts of Valparaíso, and also run a small clinic where they see patients free of charge. That is why at home we always have an endless supply of fruit jams, fresh eggs, and corn on the cob: this is the currency that poor people use when money is short.

  “Humitas are like heaven,” Abuela Frida pipes up, grinning at the corncake on her plate. “I am just glad you let us share with you, Celeste!” My grandmother is teasing me because, like her, I love humitas—love, love them. Abuela’s Viennese accent is thick as she peels half a lemon and begins to chew on it. She loves to chew on lemons. Besides knitting long blue scarves, it’s the thing she loves to do best all day. We call her the Empress of the Lemon Tree.

  The Empress of the Lemon Tree places another humita on my plate, but I pause before picking it up. My parents care for people who don’t have homes to keep them warm or sometimes don’t even have enough teeth to chew the little food they have. “So many toothless people in this country!” my mother always says, and sighs. So no matter how much my mouth waters, I always bow my head and whisper a little “Thank you” before I take the first bite.

  The Rain Gives

  After dinner I go up to my bedroom. My blue room is one of my favorite places. It has a great window as tall as my father and as wide as his outstretched arms. I always leave the window open, even when it’s raining, because Valparaíso is full of life. It’s a mysterious city where fairies and lost sailors live, and ghosts stroll through the port. They are usually happy ghosts and a little bit tipsy. That’s why at night things seemingly float through the air and land somewhere else in the morning. In my window I have found blue scarves, anti-wrinkle creams, a bottle of rum, and—what I loved most—a dozen pink balloons.

  Below my window lies one of the several gardens that surround our house. Some are diurnal gardens that dance in the sunshine, and others are full of shy, nocturnal flowers that wait until Valparaíso is sleeping to bloom. There is a garden of lilacs and honeysuckle vines that wrap their spidery arms around the corner of our house where Abuela Frida sits by her window and knits. By our front door is a garden that touches the sky. And below my window is a plot with nocturnal flowers that reach out to touch the ocean. My mother planted this garden below my room when I was a baby so that I could be lulled to sleep by the fragrance of moonflowers with heart-shaped leaves, angel’s trumpets, and fairy lilies, all blossoming in the moonlight.

  Delfina once told me that the fairies dance to the music of the angels under my window while I sleep, so I thought that next to the moon garden would be a good place to put my own garden for my dolls. This is an invisible garden, and the plants have names like Malula Gomez or Cactus Face. The flowers are named Rainbow and Hope of the Hills, and my favorite flower is called Butterfly Hill because it spreads its petals from the insides of tiny stones.

  My reverie is interrupted by a knock on my bedroom door. “Come in!” I say without turning my head.

  My father opens the door and finds me seated on the cushions below my window.

  “Just watching the rain, Papá.”

  “It’s still raining?”

  He sits beside me and lets out a low sigh. My father doesn’t like the rain. “It’s another one of life’s mysteries, Celeste,” he says in that serious way of his. “The rain gives us water to drink and cleanse ourselves, food to eat, flowers to admire, puddles for my daughter to splash in. But”—my father peers over my shoulder toward the hills on the outskirts of the city—“the rain also takes away. In the poor neighborhoods where the houses are nothing but cardboard and aluminum, the hard rain and mud sliding down the hills will leave people homeless.”

  I lean against his arm and wait for him to continue—I can tell he has something more to tell me.

  “Your mother and I are going out to visit some places where our patients live to make sure they are all right, since it’s been raining for over a week now. We’ll go to other neighborhoods tomorrow morning too. Would you like to come then, hija?”

  Ever since I was little, I have gone with my parents to see their patients on the outskirts of the city, but only on routine visits. Come to think of it, the sun has always been shining—they’ve never invited me to come with them during rain like this. The storm must have left things really bad out there.

  “Can I go with you tonight?” I plead. I’m eager to help, and I like going out at night.

  “No, you know your mother doesn’t like it when you are out too late. But tomorrow is Saturday, and we can head out early. Tonight you can help Delfina and your abuela prepare baskets of food and clothing.”

  “All right, Papá. Buenas noches.”

  “Good night, Celeste.”

  He’s getting up to leave, when suddenly I remember something. “Papá, wait—I want to ask you something. Why didn’t you want to talk about the ships in the harbor?”

  “Oh, Celeste, I’m sorry. I was just tired after work, that’s all. I’ll take a look at them tomorrow. Now get some rest.”

  “All right, Papá.”

  Tonight the rain strums its long fingers up and down the roof. I can barely make out the familiar sounds of my grandmother snoring like the letter Z and Delfina talking to her saints. I sit by my window and wish Valparaíso good night. The lights on the hill are hazy, their usual brightness washed away by the water pouring from the sky. Mamá and Papá aren’t home yet—they must be soaked and shivering, wherever they are. I’ve never liked going to sleep when they’re not here. I hope they come home soon.

  . . . And the Rain Takes Away

  I wake to gusts of salty air and a creaking noise through my open window. At last the rains have cleared. Two swings move back and forth—creak, creak, creeeeak—in the morning fog. The swings are wooden, and one is painted pink and the other purple. My Abuelo José made them for his daughters. The knots he tied to secure the thick ropes to the long branches that extend from either side of the old eucalyptus tree never unraveled. “That’s because your Abuelo José was as dependable as the tides rolling in and out, and he is here holding this whole house up so we never fall in an earthquake,” Abuela Frida says. My mother swung on the pink swing, and her big sister, my Tía Graciela, on the purple, which goes a bit higher, I think.

  I love hearing the swings creak in the morning. But what
I love most about our house in the mornings are the pelicans that always fly over it. I really could say the pelicans are my next-door neighbors. They are the kind of neighbors who stick to the same routine day after day. I see them when I leave for school, and when I return home, they are coasting lazily in the purply blue of the evening sky. Pelicans are strange. They look as if they are dressed in tailcoats, and their mouths are huge—no, humongous!

  Since before I can remember, I have always called out to the pelicans:

  “It’s Celeste Marconi! Good morning, pelicans!”

  They eye me and move their long beaks up and down as if they’re responding to my greeting. Sometimes I wonder if I am only pretending that I hear the pelicans say hello. But my grandmother always says that people are what they imagine. So maybe I really do hear them call out:

  “Good morning, Celeste Marconi!”

  “Good morning, Celeste’s garden!”

  “Good morning, Valparaíso!”

  There are always eight of them. The first seven fly by in one very straight line. And then a few feet behind them is this one old, lazy pelican, with his wings dipping up and down in the sky, always lagging a bit behind.

  The sky reminds me of a highway. I imagine the clouds are traffic signs, but this makes me wonder what the pelicans would do when the signal says STOP. They’d have to stop flapping their wings, and would need a sturdy place to rest their big webbed feet and not fall from the sky. Someday I will ask them.

  My mother pokes her head into my room. “Celeste, Querida, put on your rain boots. Your father is anxious to get an early start. He’s already pacing at the front door with his stethoscope. We’ll need a lot of help from you today.”

  Our taxi driver, Don Alejandro, helps us load bags full of food, medical supplies, and Abuela Frida’s scarves into the car. Then he takes us as far as the rising waters will allow toward the outskirts of Valparaíso. “I will pick you up here at eight tonight. May God save them and protect you, Señor and Señora Marconi. And Niña Celeste.” Don Alejandro speaks to us, but his eyes are fixed on our surroundings. It is an awful sight. What is left of the houses floats like driftwood. The little children play on them while the older ones rush to help their parents collect the remnants of their possessions, floating every which way and sinking down into the mud.

  I don’t know if it is the stench of rotting homes and putrefied food, or the sight of the vestiges of entire lives floating down a murky street, but suddenly a great wave of nausea passes over me. I clutch my stomach and bend over, keeping my face turned toward the ground, praying I don’t call attention to myself. Calm yourself, Celeste. Please, don’t get sick! I feel so embarrassed—I want to be strong and capable like my parents. Haven’t I seen them cleaning wounds and setting bones all my life? I am here to help. I have to be able to handle this. But this isn’t one patient or one ailment—this is so many people, all suffering from loss and hunger, shivering in the damp morning cold. My head spins as fast as my stomach. It’s almost too much to bear. . . .

  I feel Mamá’s hand on my shoulder. “Celeste, what’s wrong? Are you all right?”

  I stand up straight and manage to nod. “Sí, Mamá. I’m fine.”

  Mamá understands without me telling her. “Here.” She unties the kerchief holding her hair back from her face and hands it to me. “Tie this around your neck. When the stench is bad, put it over your nose.”

  “Gracias, Mamá.” She gives me a look that says, I know you can do this.

  We wade through streets that are now black rivers. It is difficult for me to walk; my feet sink and stick, and the water splashes far past my knees. My father takes my hand. “This is poverty, Celeste. A deep puddle that you can’t step out of.”

  I turn my eyes upward to see his face. My father doesn’t speak much. He says he is most comfortable in the quiet next to the people he loves. But when Papá does speak, especially in his low voice with a furrow in his brow, I know his words come from such a deep place of thought that I never forget them.

  That long, cold day we walk up and down two hills whose names don’t match the neighborhoods built on them: Cerro Campana and Cerro Delicia. Bell and Delight. All sorts of people—men, women, old people, children, sometimes their dogs—shiver with pinched faces around fires. My mother approaches huddled group after huddled group and gives them food from the large basket she carries and a pint of milk from the backpack on her shoulders. She always tries to give extra to the families with babies and young children. My father cleans the wounds of those who have been hurt, and I reach into my backpack stuffed to the brim and pull out Abuela Frida’s blue scarves. My mother takes three and wraps one around a shivering woman with hair like a black waterfall, and two small, silent babies tied in a blanket to her back. Then she offers the remaining scarves to two passersby and presses a packet into the woman’s hand.

  “Put this powder in the milk I gave you, Minerva. Just a bit each day will help your twins gain weight and grow strong.” Minerva bows her head in gratitude, but my mother turns to me quickly and says. “Come, Celeste. Your father is determined to get to one more neighborhood before night falls.”

  “Sí, Mamá.” But I take one look back at Minerva. She is walking in the opposite direction with her back hunched. Four bare baby feet stick out of the blanket. I gasp. Even from this distance I can see . . . they are blue.

  Frozen, I stand knee-deep in the murky street, watching those little feet grow smaller and smaller as Minerva makes her way to . . . where? Where will she go? Her home is destroyed. Oh, those poor babies, those poor little feet . . . Maybe if I wrap them in scarves . . . ?

  “Wait!” I call out to my parents and run to catch up with them. “Can I just go back and give Minerva—”

  “No, Celeste.” Papá’s eyes are sympathetic, but the rest of his face is stern. “We have to keep moving—there are so many people to help and so many problems to solve. We’ll never get to them all—”

  “But her babies!” I interject.

  “Celeste.” Papá’s voice is even firmer now. “There are so many babies. We just have to accept our limitations and do the best we can.”

  I can’t accept that! I look to my mother. Surely she will understand. But she just nods and puts her arm around my shoulders, gently guiding me forward.

  I plod ahead, defeated. We pass a wiry old man seated on what looks like the remains of an aluminum roof. His head rests upon his knees. His legs are shaking. I take the longest scarf from my backpack and silently approach him, averting my eyes like I am witnessing something I shouldn’t. I feel bad for him—maybe he is embarrassed to have a young girl’s pity? I drape the scarf over his shoulders. He looks up quickly with red-rimmed eyes, and then just as quickly looks down again. I hurry to catch up with my parents.

  Maybe Papá is right—there is always another person who needs help. An endless number, it seems, on the outskirts of Valparaíso today. And we are only three people!

  “Mamá?”

  “¿Sí, Celeste?”

  “Why are you and Papá the only ones here helping? How come everyone doesn’t come up the hills to help? At least other doctors should, shouldn’t they?” My mother glances at my father, who is walking fast with a fierce look and a set jaw.

  “People like us, lucky to have more than we could ever need . . .” Her voice trails off, and her eyebrows scrunch into tiny knots. “Well, it’s our duty to share with those who have so little. But many people are so quick to forget this.”

  “But we have new hope,” my father adds, “now that Presidente Alarcón took office last month. He promised to help the poor, not just by giving them food and shelter but by making all Chileans responsible for looking out for one another. There will be all sorts of new programs.”

  “Like what, Papá?”

  “Well, for one, there is the Smile for Chile campaign your mother is helping with, which will help set up dental clinics in poor neighborhoods. And the president will pay young college students to teac
h adults who are illiterate.”

  “Is that a new one for your notebook, Celeste?” my mother asks, and repeats the sad-sounding word: “ ‘Illiterate’?”

  “No, I already know it.” I shake my head, thinking of Nana Delfina, who doesn’t like people to know she cannot read or write.

  I look back at the ramshackle neighborhood and think about Minerva. Can she read? Even if she can, how could she keep any books in a house that floats away? She must have to make up stories from her head to put her children to bed. What must she imagine at night, after seeing what she sees each and every day?

  The Smell of Sundays

  Butterfly Hill is filled with many smells. Most of them are delicious, like the scent of buganvillias in full bloom or of dulce de leche—caramel—cooking in kitchens. And there are some that make my nose curdle. Like today, when the rains have made the marsh behind Marga Marga Street overflow, everyone in the house gets a bit dizzy.

  But that murky smell will be overcome by my favorite smell in the world, the one I call the smell of Sundays. Today our house will smell of empanadas, delicious meat pies shaped like half-moons.

  I stand barefoot on the balcony in my pajamas, watching my parents walk up the path that leads to our house—home at last from our favorite bakery, Panaderia Estrella, with a big package of empanadas and other goodies. Delfina doesn’t cook on Sundays. It’s her day off and time to just enjoy being part of the Marconi family too. I rush to the table and set down plates. Papá begins making café con leche. Abuela Frida tiptoes in with blue yarn trailing from her skirt. Her small, wrinkly feet are bare like mine, and her hair hangs down her back in long white braids. She grins mischievously, grabs the empanada I just placed on my father’s plate, and takes a bite while his back is turned toward the stove. I stifle my giggles. Sometimes Abuela Frida reminds me of a girl my own age.