I Lived on Butterfly Hill Page 9

  I cry until I fall into a light sleep. And I dream that the ocean opens to form a ring of protection around us. And overhead fly white pelicans, illuminating the night that has sunk into my heart.

  “Celeste mía, wake up, Querida. The sun is setting, and Alejandro is waiting to take us home.” I open my eyes as she says, “Remember. You’ll only be gone for a short while. I have faith that this country will come back to life. But in the meantime you will be safe. I will pray that time passes quickly. And soon you’ll return to our house on Butterfly Hill.”

  A Seashell and a Green Shawl

  Sleep is impossible that night. I toss and turn and turn and toss. My mind races with fears—about leaving my family, my friends, my country—and then suddenly the strangest worry will divert my attention.

  What if the pelicans start to fly by my window again? What will they think if I’m not here to say good morning? Who will water my dolls’ garden? And then another big worry takes over: I don’t speak English. How will I talk to people? How will I know what’s going on?

  At dinner I asked Abuela Frida about not speaking the language. Delfina had made my favorite humitas, but I could barely swallow, let alone taste them. “Graciela will be there to help you,” Abuela Frida said with a wave of her hand, as if trying to sweep English to the corners of the kitchen and the far recesses of my mind. “And you will learn. Just as I learned to speak Spanish when I came to Valparaíso. Poco a poco. Little by little.”

  I finally give up trying to sleep and sneak up to the roof to watch the night sky brighten into dawn. The sea swells turn pink beneath the first rays of the sun. It is beautiful to watch. And as the light reaches my eyes, I bow my head and pray for my parents, Abuela Frida, and Nana Delfina. “Please keep them safe. Let us all be together again soon.”

  I know it is time to go. My hands tremble as I slip back into my blue bedroom. My throat tightens, but I hold back my tears so I can take one last good look at my wall full of words. “Tears should be saved for happiness,” I repeat Abuela Frida’s words to myself. I remember hearing them so often as a little girl, when I would trip and fall or spill my ice cream in the grass. “Tears are for happiness, Celeste.” Maybe if I save my tears, happiness will follow?

  I run my hands over my desk, my chair, my photo album. I didn’t pack many clothes in the small turquoise suitcase that used to belong to Abuela Frida. Delfina gave me her green shawl, woven so many years ago by her own mother. “When you put it on, Celeste,” she said, “you’ll be wearing a hug from Delfina.”

  I bring a picture of Abuela Frida beside her lilacs, and a portrait of my parents on their wedding day. But none of Delfina—“I want you to only carry Nana’s picture in your heart, where you can see it best,” she tells me.

  I also have the class photo that was taken before I left school, but so many are missing! Lucila. Ana. I will have to keep their faces in my heart as well. And the ones who are still here? What will they think when they discover I am gone? Will Marisol and Cristóbal Williams be hurt that I haven’t said good-bye?

  Abuela Frida wants me to leave Butterfly Hill so quickly, and without saying good-bye to anyone! “It’s safer for everyone if they find out you’re gone once you are safe in the United States,” she tells me firmly in German, and even though she doesn’t even speak German, Delfina nods in agreement! No adiós? No hasta luego, see you soon? It makes me feel like I will never see my friends again! And when I think about how I can’t say good-bye to my parents, a new lump of sadness rises in my throat, then one of fear. Will Gloria tell her father once she figures it out? Will she betray me? “Please, amiga,” I whisper into the air. “You have been my friend since we were five years old. You will always be my friend. Please keep my secret safe.”

  There Are No Good-byes, Only Returns

  The morning of my departure, I open the front door like a sleepwalker. Don Alejandro and his car are waiting for me. The only thing I feel is the knot in my stomach when I think of my grandmother. She has been in bed since yesterday morning, so fragile and wrapped in so many blankets that she reminded me of an onion with its thin, delicate skin. Last night I kissed her good night like I always do, and she said, “See you in the morning, Celeste of my soul,” and closed her shiny eyes. I know Abuela Frida can’t bear to say good-bye.

  “Here, take these.” Delfina presses a little brown pouch into my hand. “These are seeds that you should plant in your new land.” She kisses my forehead and says, “The wisdom of the Lord will protect you. Have faith and believe in the universe.” She runs inside.

  I walk slowly down the stone steps. I see my dolls’ garden, and my one old pelican hovering above. “No good-byes. Tears are for happiness.” I keep whispering these words to myself, hoping they will come true. All of a sudden I hear a commotion in the sky and turn back. The old, slow pelican—my favorite—is squawking and swooping low, banging his wings against the roof.

  When I lower my gaze in wonder, I see my Abuela Frida standing at the window. She is wrapped in an enormous orange scarf, waving. Her lips tremble, but I can read them as they slowly move in her beautiful, wrinkled face.

  “I love you too, Abuela Frida! See you soon!” I call. Her smile is the last thing I see before Alejandro helps me into the car.

  The Road to Santiago

  Dew covers the grasses and wildflowers that grow alongside the highway to Santiago. I have seen snow fall only out in the country, near the mountains, but soon I will see snow fall in a city, and I don’t even know how to say “snow” in English. Everything I will see, everything I will hear, will be unknown to me. I only know Tía Graciela. I haven’t seen her since I was eight years old. Will she recognize me? Will she have changed?

  I try to count the butterflies that fly by, just like I did when I was little: uno, dos, tres, anything to keep my mind still for just a few seconds! Cuatro, cinco . . .

  Alongside the valley rises the tallest mountain in all the Americas, Mount Aconcagua. It fills my eyes like a snow squall. “I don’t see the ocean anymore, Alejandro.”

  “The sea is there. She is just behind you now.”

  Behind me. So much behind me: the sea with its taste of salt; the hills; and the fireflies like big, bright bunches of grapes. Behind me is the roof of my house. And the sky above my roof. Is it the same sky over us now? Will they be the same stars over Juliette Cove, where my aunt lives, or will I have to find a new map of the sky?

  “Celeste!”

  I jump, startled, as Alejandro’s low voice shakes me from my thoughts. “Don’t think so much, niña. Right now you have to move forward and not look back. But when you are up there in the North, have one eye see ahead and one watching behind you. Be careful of unknown things, but also have faith, Niña Celeste. God is everywhere. Wherever you go, he is there.”

  “I’ll do what you say, Don Alejandro.”

  He nods at me in the rearview mirror. “Muy bien, Niña Celeste.” I never noticed how strong Alejandro’s gaze is before now. “And now something to fill your mind with sweeter thoughts,” he says as he slows the taxi and pulls to the side of the highway. Behind a yellow stand with a sign that says MERIENDAS! SNACKS! are a small old woman and a little boy. Alejandro gets out of the car and returns with an alfajor.

  “Thank you!” I bite into my favorite sweet: caramel spread thick between two crisp shortbread cookies and covered with powdered sugar. Will I ever find someone on Juliette Cove so good to me as Don Alejandro? Why must we leave someone to realize how much we love them?

  Tío Bernardo

  Tío Bernardo is waiting for me outside the airport. I see him as the taxi approaches the curb that says INTERNATIONAL DEPARTURES. He opens the back door and reaches in for me. “Celeste!” He hugs me, and I hang on to his neck as if I could climb him like a tree and escape everything.

  He isn’t really my uncle, but I call him that because he is my father’s best friend. When I was younger, I would call him Oso, because he reminded me of a bear with his broad, hairy
arms and scruffy black beard. Papá and Tío Bernardo have known each other since medical school, and like Papá, he works in a hospital for the poor, in Santiago.

  I can’t bear saying good-bye to Alejandro. “Thank you, Don Alejandro. For everything.” Alejandro’s eyes fill with tears.

  “Gracias a ti. Thank you, niña. Remember, God is everywhere.”

  I am still clinging to Tío Bernardo, and he walks like that, with me in one arm and the suitcase in the other, through the airport doors. Then he puts me down, and I peer over my shoulder at Alejandro’s old taxi rolling away.

  “Niña Celeste, you have grown a bit!” I turn back toward my uncle. “How beautiful you look, almost a señorita!”

  It’s hard to speak. “Gracias, Tío Bernardo.”

  “This is your first time flying in an airplane, no?” I gulp and nod. He holds me close again. “I promise you will have a good trip. The plane is like a steel pelican.” He laughs and then so do I.

  I whisper, “Sí, Tío Bernardo.” Then I have to ask, “Do you know anything about my parents? Have you had any word from them?”

  “I only know that they both are safe.”

  Tío Bernardo walks me to the gate where I will board the plane. He places a ticket in my hand and gently tugs the passport that dangles from my neck. “I have to leave you now. Just hand the lady your ticket, and when you get on the plane, look for your seat, 14A.” I nod, blinking back tears. A woman’s voice, so pleasant it seems unreal, announces that boarding for the flight to Boston has begun.

  “Please, pequeña, if anyone speaks to you or asks you anything, just say you are going on vacation. Don’t say anything else. There are informants everywhere.” Tío Bernardo kisses both my cheeks. “God bless you, Celeste! ¡Adiós!”

  Steel Pelican

  I look out the window as the plane rises into the air. The landscape passes quickly. The wide green valleys suddenly grow narrow. The steel wing disappears as the plane enters a cloud. All is white. When we emerge, the ground below is full of shadows. Then sunlight returns to dance over the vineyards. I hear the words of Abuela Frida in happier days: “Wine is a yellow sun in a crystal goblet. One taste of Chile’s earth and sky could delight the whole world.” And over everything before my eyes, over every voice that echoes in my head, rise the mountains. The Andes. They rise and fall eternally. I can’t imagine a place on earth where their peaks don’t touch the sky. Yet they become smaller and smaller as the plane rises higher. Soon I won’t be able to see them. My last look at Chile. My last look at Chile! I feel a pain like a knife in my heart, and suddenly, finally, after holding back tears all day, I am crying. A moan like from some sad hidden animal comes from inside me. Sobbing and shaking with my face against the window.

  The young man in the blue suit and tie in the seat beside me pats me on the shoulder. I turn even closer to the window, hide my face in my hands, and try to contain my sobbing. After a while I feel his hand gently patting the top of my head. I glance at him. His curly blond hair and rosy cheeks make him look like Nana Delfina’s statue of the Archangel San Miguel. My sobs slowly sputter out into sniffles. Salty tears dry on my cheeks as I sleep for the first time in days.

  When I awake, the plane’s cabin is in semidarkness. I glance over at the man beside me and watch as he writes in a notebook. I love the familiar sound of a pen scribbling fast over a blank page. I don’t recognize any of the words, but I think they are English. Maybe he is a writer?

  Nana is always asking San Miguel for a sign. I think she must have magically sent him to watch over me . . . and remind me of something too! I watch the rosy-cheeked man turn to a fresh page in his notebook, and I lean my head back and make a promise:

  I, Celeste Marconi, promise to never forget. I promise that these mountains, so white like the powdered sugar that still sticks to my fingers from Alejandro’s cookies, will never be distant. I promise to always return to them in my writing. I will write the Andes with the thread of the moon that I carry with me all the way north. And this moonlight will guide my pen to weave stories.

  I close my eyes to hold on to the memory of all I leave behind.

  Welcome to the USA

  I arrive in the city of Boston, Massachusetts, at dawn. I walk with sleepy eyes from the tarmac to the noisy metal carousel where luggage from the flight is turning round and round. I spot the tiny turquoise suitcase that has just emerged from a black rectangle in the wall and lift it from the conveyer belt, glad that Abuela Frida told me to pack light.

  Passing through customs is much easier than I feared. Once I make it to the front of the long line, a police officer with a thick yellow mustache leans over to look at me and then looks at my passport. “Vacation?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I whisper, my heart beating in my throat.

  “Enjoy your stay, Miss Marconi,” he replies, waving the next person forward.

  I walk cautiously through two big swinging doors, and immediately I spot my redheaded Tía Graciela among the throngs of people waiting. She is jumping up and down, waving her long arms, and calling “¡Celeste, aquí! ¡Aquí! Over here!” I run into her arms, and she greets me in English, “Celeste, welcome to the USA!”

  We laugh and she squeezes me tighter. I feel such relief. “How happy I am to have you here, Querida! It’s been so long!” Her voice—it’s like my mother’s yet different, all at the same time.

  “Button your coat up, Celeste, and here, wrap my scarf around your neck,” Tía Graciela tells me, starting to walk to another set of doors. “We are going outside, and you have never felt such cold as January in New England! We still have to drive a couple of hours to get to Juliette Cove.” And she is right! As soon as we walk into the parking lot, a penetrating cold stings my cheeks and makes my nose run like a faucet.

  Even my bones hurt, and my voice sounds funny emerging from between chattering teeth: “¡Que frío, Tía! How cold it is!”

  “It feels like we’re in the North Pole, right?” Tía Graciela laughs. “You’ll get used to it, but I have to admit, I am still not completely a fan of this cold!” I watch my breath leave my body like big puffs of smoke.

  The Gray of the North

  The roads are empty. In the dim light of early morning I see only pile after pile of dirty snow and the dark outline of trees lining either side of the highway. Once in a while I catch a glimpse of headlights from a car very far behind us or very far ahead. “Tía Graciela, why is there almost nobody on the road? Because it’s so early?”

  My aunt smiles and says, “Celeste, here you almost never see anyone. I suppose people keep to themselves. But you will get used to solitude. And the day will even come when you love it.” I watch my hands fold and unfold on my lap. They are red with cold. Tía Graciela reaches over with her right hand and clasps both my hands in her one. She laughs. “Your hands are the same, still so small!” And then she says, “I remember how on Butterfly Hill nobody is ever alone. From morning to midnight people are making noise: talking, arguing, calling for one another, laughing at jokes, humming old songs. And the noises from the kitchens! How the pots and pans would whistle until so late into the night! Remember?”

  “It was always like that but not anymore. Now everyone is afraid, and there is such an eerie silence. But even so, Tía, I could still hear the neighbors whisper if I sat very still on the roof and closed my eyes. Even with the curfew, Butterfly Hill never felt as frozen and empty as this.”

  “Here things are different, mi amor. Something I learned to do—it’s very difficult and took a long time—is to braid my own voice into the silence of day and of night. The silences when the sky is dark and when it is light are distinct. I learned that, too. And I learned to speak to them both.”

  I look at my aunt. She has changed so much. She never used to talk like that, in riddles and poems. I don’t understand her, but I am happy to have her. I lean over and kiss her hand, still encircling my own.

  “Gracias, mi Celeste. It does my heart such good to have you here
with me,” she says, and she drives the rest of the gray highway with her left hand on the steering wheel and a smile stretched like a rainbow over her pale, thin face.

  I think about what Mamá told me when I was a little girl and Tía Graciela suddenly left Valparaíso without saying good-bye. “She has given her heart away, Querida, and so now she must follow it.” My mother’s words confused me, but she looked so sad that I didn’t ask her to explain more. Instead I crept downstairs late that night and sat under the table, where my parents and Abuela Frida were sipping cognac.

  “It’s that famous Argentine tango dancer, Guillermo Garela, Mamá,” my mother explained to Abuela Frida. “Remember? Graciela and I went to see him perform last month? He ran over to us right after the curtain went down, kissed Graciela’s hand, and told her he had been so distracted by her rose-red hair during the entire performance that he’d feared tripping over his own two feet! He invited her to have dinner the next day. She accepted, and has been seeing him ever since.”

  “Esmeralda! How could you girls keep this a secret from me?” Abuela Frida’s voice was unusually sharp.

  “It wasn’t my secret to tell, Mamá.”

  “Forgive me, hija. I am just upset. Tell me more.”

  “Last week Guillermo found out that his dance company is moving on to Canada, and so Graciela decided to follow him to Montreal.”

  “¡Ay! Why couldn’t your sister at least have said good-bye?” my abuela asked.

  I heard my father, silent until then, cough to clear his throat like he always does when he is upset.

  “I don’t know, Mamá. But she promises to call soon. I think she was afraid you would try to stop her.”

  “Ay, Esmeralda. I know you are my youngest, but oftentimes I feel Graciela is my baby. She has my own mother’s love of romance and wanderlust inside her.”