I Lived on Butterfly Hill Read online

  I don’t want to talk about what happened to Cristóbal, so I tell Delfina I want to take a nap, and run upstairs before she can ask me about my day. That night when my father comes home, he knocks on my bedroom door.

  “How was school?” he asks, opening his arms wide like the sea. I fall into them, and he hugs me tight.

  “It was fine, Papá.” I can feel his relief.

  If I told him about Cristóbal, he would be more worried about me than ever, but instead Papá tells me, “You can keep going if that’s what you want.”

  Is that what I want?

  “Gracias, Papá.”

  Never before have I been untruthful with my father.

  Even the Sea Has Stopped

  Delfina no longer sweeps the path that leads to our house with rose water. She constantly tells me, “Celeste, child, don’t look out the window!” I stop myself from looking, but when I turn on the radio, the music is gone, replaced by the harsh blaring of military marches. I quickly turn the radio off.

  I stop adding new words to my notebook. Because the one word that repeats and repeats in my ear terrifies me too much to write it down. If I imagine it, it might come true! Was it only a few months ago that the word “disappear” made me think of the magician at Café Iris, always trying to pull a rabbit out of his hat and losing doves all over the café instead? “Disappear” is no longer a magic trick. The more I listen to the radio, the more I sit under the table late at night, the more I look at the grim faces on the cable cars and watch my teacher’s trembling hands, I realize that “disappear” can now mean death.

  The man in the uniform who stands at the front door of the school every morning, we are supposed to call Admiral Retamales. He never smiles, and walks around with a toothpick in his mouth, constantly inspecting everything. Today he tore down a poster of Chile’s great poets that hung over the blackboard in our classroom. In its place is a giant portrait with a gilded frame. And staring down at us from inside that frame is the General—the General who has taken over Chile—with his enormous black cape and enormous black sunglasses. Nobody has ever seen the General without those sunglasses.

  “Mamá says the eyes are the window to the soul,” Marisol whispers to me as we file outside in two lines—there is now one for the girls and one for the boys. We are going out for physical education, which is now taught by another scowling man with a mustache like the General’s. As we walk past the other classrooms, we see the framed sunglassed general over every blackboard!

  “Abuela Frida does too,” I whisper back.

  “So maybe the General doesn’t have eyes?”

  Our own eyes meet.

  “Maybe he doesn’t have a soul?” I say.

  Cristóbal, at the end of the boys’ line, passes close to us. “Chicas! Listen!” His voice is panicked. I put my finger over my mouth too late. “The sea has stopped speaking!” he says too loudly.

  The instructor, by his side in a flash, hits Cristóbal twice across the back with a long sharp pointer. Marisol and I wince and clutch each other’s hands. “Keep walking!” the instructor barks at us.

  My burning eyes turn to the ground and watch my feet move one in front of the other, as if I were a robot. But I have to know if Cristóbal is all right, so I peek back for a quick second. Cristóbal’s eyes, wide, alert, and angry, meet mine. His shorn head nods defiantly. “Sí. Even the sea has stopped.”

  Curfew

  That night the sirens begin to wail. “What is it? What is it?” I cry out and run downstairs, race into the parlor. Abuela Frida puts her arms, which smell of lemons, around me.

  “That sound announces the curfew,” she says. Her voice is calm but very sad as she explains what that means. That night I am determined to add the new word “curfew” in my notebook. It means that nobody can leave their homes. And if they do, the police take them prisoner. I know what happens then, what word follows, but I am not going to write that one down.

  Every evening I can hardly draw a breath until my parents return from the medical clinic. Every minute past seven o’clock feels like another stone placed upon my chest. They always arrive just as the sun begins to set, minutes before the call for curfew blasts needles up and down my spine. And then, with the door latched behind them, the stones fall to the ground, and I finally am able to catch my breath.

  Tonight I sit outside my parents’ room. It sounds like they’re arguing.

  “Mi amor, we should all stay together! We can go north to my sister’s!”

  “No, Esmeralda! There is no way the military can stay in power! We must be here to help when this is all over. It won’t be long!”

  “But what about Celeste?!”

  “It’s better for her to be with Frida and Delfina. . . . Our friends will let us know if it becomes dangerous.” I lean in closer to try to hear better, and my head bumps against the door!

  “Ow!” Afraid they heard me, I run to my bedroom and put my head under the covers. I am half hoping they come to check on me and tell me I was just having a nightmare, but they never do. All night I try to forget what I heard, but I don’t think I sleep one minute.

  * * *

  The next day at school I keep replaying my parents’ conversation in my throbbing head. What were they talking about? Going north? To that faraway place called Maine my Tía Graciela moved to when I was little? Staying close? Me being with Abuela and Nana? So . . . where would they be?

  For once, my parents are home when I get home from school. “What are you doing here?” I snap at my father when I walk in the door.

  “Well, hello to you, too! Don’t be too happy to see us!” he jokes, and I feel my shoulders drop and my lungs exhale as I drop my backpack onto the floor.

  “It’s just that everyone and everything is so tense lately. . . . I feel I am always expecting bad news.”

  “I know, hija.” He rubs the top of my head until the static makes my hair stand on end. I used to love for him to do that when I was little. Now I don’t. At all! But I stay quiet, wishing I could be, pretending that I am, that little Celeste again. “Delfina told us she would prepare her famous chicken stew tonight,” my father continues, “so we decided to get home early so we could all enjoy it together. That’s all.”

  Papá lets go of my hair and walks toward his study, suddenly preoccupied. “Why don’t you see if Delfina needs any help . . . or maybe do your homework . . . ?” His voice fades as he closes the door to his study, but not before I get a glimpse of a box of books and a pile of maps on his desk.

  Love Is That Powerful

  I climb to the roof and stare out at the dark fog that covers the houses, covers the harbor, even covers my hand when I reach it out far enough. I look toward Señora Atkinson’s house. She never strolls out to her balcony like she used to. I sit like that for what feels like a long, long time, until finally I hear Mamá calling me.

  “Celeste, I’m afraid that fog will swallow you up! Come downstairs!”

  Everyone is gathering around the kitchen table. I notice that Abuela Frida has brought out the candles she reserves for religious holidays. What used to make me happy now makes me feel uneasy. “Abuela, what’s going on?” I whisper, but she just bows her head and begins to pray in Hebrew. When she finishes, she keeps her head lowered and starts to eat Delfina’s chicken stew in silence.

  My parents do the same. I have never heard such quiet around our kitchen table. Finally Mamá says, “This is delicious, Delfina!” But her voice sounds so sad, like a broken necklace.

  Papá coughs, clears his throat, and says, “Celeste, we need to talk to you about something very painful.” I freeze as he begins, “We don’t need to tell you these are difficult times.” My heart begins to pound so loudly, I can hardly hear my father. A fear like ghostly fingers wraps around my throat.

  “Celeste, your mother and I worked very hard here in Valparaíso to support Presidente Alarcón in his campaign to make health care a right for everyone. Everyone in the city knows about our free clinic
and our visits to treat people in the poorest neighborhoods. They know how your mother was on the board of the Smile for Chile campaign.”

  “Yes, but what does that matter, Papá? Now that Presidente Alarcón has been killed?”

  Mamá reaches across the table for my hand. “Celeste, it was not enough for the General to kill the president. For him the only way to control the country is to rule by fear. So anyone he perceives as having been in support of Alarcón is being threatened.”

  “What do you mean, ‘threatened’?” The fear tightens its grip around my throat.

  Papá’s face pales to a strange shade of gray. “Your mother and I have received letters at the hospital. And . . . the clinic has been vandalized. It isn’t safe for us to be here in Valparaíso right now. And it isn’t safe for you, and Frida, and Delfina, either. Your mother and I . . .” He clears his throat and tries to begin again. “Your mother and I . . .” He coughs and looks to Mamá for help.

  “Celeste.” Her voice is so firm, she almost sounds like a robot. “Papá and I must leave you for a little while. We are going into hiding.”

  What?! My mind screams, but no sound emerges from my open mouth.

  I turn my face down. I can’t bear to look at them right now. Leave me?! Hiding?! What are they saying?

  My mother continues. “Celeste, how can I explain to you something I myself can barely comprehend? But I have to trust in that wise old woman who lives inside our little girl. That somehow you will find a way to understand what we must do, and to forgive us.”

  Suddenly the kitchen begins to spin. I feel nauseous. “Oh!” I clutch my stomach and run to the bathroom. Mamá follows me in, and in that soothing way that only Mamá has, holds back my hair and rubs my back.

  “Come.” She leads me to the sink. “Let’s wash your face and your mouth. There!” Then she gathers me into her arms. “Nana is brewing you some ginger tea to calm your stomach. Celeste, I am so sorry! My poor girl!” Mamá begins to weep, and teardrops like frail little pearls roll from her chin to the top of my head. “Please believe me, it hurts us so much to leave you, but it would hurt us even worse to lose our lives and not be there for you anymore. We must take precautions. My brave girl, we must all endure this sacrifice so that when finally peace is restored in Chile, we can all be together again.”

  “But when will that be? How long will it take, Mamá?” I press as she leads me back out to the kitchen, where Abuela Frida, and then Papá, hold out their arms to hug me. Then Delfina sets a steaming mug before me. “Ginger tea now, Niña Celeste, and questions later. You must settle your stomach.”

  And Mamá finally answers my question. “I don’t know how long we will be apart.”

  “But . . . but . . . where will you go? When will you leave?” I blurt out, choking back tears.

  “Celeste of my soul,” Abuela Frida speaks up. “Your life will go on as normally as it possibly can, given the circumstances. You will stay here with me and Delfina. And the three of us will take good care of each other.”

  Papá nods. “Celeste, I don’t like to hide things from you, but it is better that you don’t know any of the details about where and when your mother and I will go. That way, in case anyone ever asks, you can answer truthfully that you don’t know.”

  Tears roll down my cheeks. “You mean, we can’t even say good-bye?”

  “No good-byes, Celeste,” Papá says sorrowfully.

  “But we will carry you with us in our hearts.” Mamá smiles through her tears. “And in that way we will never be far from you. Love is that powerful, Celeste. Even though you won’t see me, I will tuck you into bed each night in my heart.”

  I Can’t Bear to Say the Word

  I leave early for school because I can’t stand to be in the house anymore, knowing that our family might not be together tonight. I walk to school in a daze, as if all the strength has been sucked from my bones. Somehow I find myself at the gate to Juana Ross. My heart beats faster. I don’t want to see anyone. I am afraid to tell my friends about Mamá and Papá. Partly because Abuela Frida told me not to mention it to anyone, but mostly because I can’t bear to say the word “gone” out loud. But Cristóbal and Marisol run over to me as soon as they see me enter the school yard.

  “We’ve been waiting for you, Celeste!” Marisol hugs me. “Our parents told us about your par—”

  “Marisol, hush!” Cristóbal cuts her off midsentence.

  Marisol quickly changes the subject, keeping her voice low. “I might not be coming to school anymore.”

  “Why?!” Fear makes its familiar flip-flops in my stomach. “Are you in danger? Are you going into hiding too?”

  “Papá says that all I am learning now is lies. I hope I don’t have to go anymore. I have nightmares every night about the guard who hurt Cristóbal.”

  “What about you, Cristóbal? Are you afraid to come to school?”

  Cristóbal scratches his head. “It’s strange, but I was more afraid before the guard and the gym teacher hit me. Now I know what to be afraid of, which is better than just being afraid of the things I imagine.” He looks down at his feet and shifts back and forth. “I think . . . I will stay. That’s what my pendulum tells me I should do.” Cristóbal’s jaw sets with determination. “It says I need to stay and see all this.”

  The rest of the day is a blur. I walk home from school with my eyes turned toward the ground. One scuffed black shoe in front of the other. I don’t feel like seeing anyone and having to stop and say hello. Especially Señora Atkinson! She never fails to ask me if my parents are still working themselves to death at the hospital and clinic. But as I near the top of Butterfly Hill, I hear a creaking noise and look up. The front door of the Vergaras’ house is swinging open. That’s odd. Chills run up and down my spine. I approach cautiously. “¿Hola? Anybody home?”

  I enter the house on tiptoe. There, in the hallway, is their poodle. “Princesa! Come here, girl! Are you sleeping?” I take a few steps closer. The stench overwhelms me, and I cover my mouth in horror.

  She is dead.

  Señor and Señora Vergara are gone.

  How could they just leave and forget to take Princesa?! Or did someone come and take them away?! Could that someone have killed their dog?

  I run home with a cry caught in my throat.

  “Celeste! Is that you?” I hear Nana Delfina’s voice from the kitchen, but I don’t stop to say hello. I just keep climbing until I reach the roof. I sit there and wish I could cry until the sirens ring for curfew.

  “Celeste!” Nana appears on the roof. “That’s enough of being alone, Querida. It’s time to come in and eat your supper.”

  It’s hard to swallow the saffron rice Nana has set before me. I keep looking at the door expectantly. But they don’t come home. What I knew in my heart all day is true. Papá and Mamá are gone.

  Abuela Frida keeps her head down. I watch as a tear slides down onto her plate. Our house that used to hum with voices has gone mute.

  I go up to my room after supper. I could go back up to the roof. But I don’t want to look at the sky, so gray. I don’t want to see what is happening to my city. Instead I try to sleep. That way, I won’t have to think. But instead I have nightmares that the soldiers are coming to take us away. I creep downstairs and look at the clock in the hallway. It is midnight, but I tiptoe into Abuela Frida’s room anyway.

  She is awake, sitting up in bed. The moonlight shines through the window on her nightgown and sheets, on her skin and hair—all are ghostly white.

  “Come here, Celeste of my soul.” Abuela Frida holds her arms open and makes room for me in her bed. I gratefully snuggle down beside her.

  “Your pillow smells like lilacs . . . ,” I say, and then I take a deep breath. I don’t want to say a word about Mamá and Papá. But something else is also bothering me. “Abuela, I don’t want to go to school anymore. Marisol’s not going anymore, and my only real friend left is Cristóbal, and he . . . he . . . well, he’s much braver than I am
!”

  “We can all be brave in our own way, Celeste,” Abuela Frida murmurs into my hair.

  “I’m not, Abuela. I’m afraid of so much. Of the cable cars—that I’ll be trapped on them with a soldier! Of the soldier who marches around our school! I’m afraid of never seeing Mamá and Papá again! I am afraid something awful is happening to Lucila!”

  Fear. So much! Fear that slithers up and down my body and walks beside me like a shadow.

  “Abuela Frida, please don’t make me go to school! Papá didn’t want me to! He was right!” And I can’t stop myself—I start to sob.

  “Shhhh, Celeste, shhhh! That’s enough, child! There, there, my brave girl.” She begins to stroke my forehead the way Mamá does. “Celeste, you have so much courage—always know that. But something I have learned in life is that we must not waste our courage, but rather save it for the right battles. I learned early when I left Vienna that sometimes it is best to walk away. . . . I believe this has helped me survive. . . .”

  I lift my head and look into her big blue eyes. They are not as sad as they are determined. “You don’t have to go, Celeste, if you don’t want to. I wanted to respect my daughter’s wishes and let you choose, but she also left me in charge of your well-being, and, well, I also feel safer having you home on Butterfly Hill.”

  The Empty Calendar

  Days go by. Days I spend mostly on the roof. I watch and wait, but Mamá and Papá don’t return. Another day passes, and another. A week passes, then another. I decide to stop counting. Still, they don’t come home.

  My jaw feels so tight, I am afraid my teeth could shatter into a million pieces. “Too young, too young.” Delfina’s voice has the cadence of prayer. “Do you have a headache, Celeste?” I nod. She reaches out and rubs my temples with her fingers. They are still wet with olive oil, the softness of cilantro from the soup she’s just made. My head aches all the time since my parents disappeared. And none of their medicines or Delfina’s herbal remedies can lift the weight of this constant fear from my shoulders.