The Butterfly

By Lauren Seeze

I am going to share the content of my recurring nightmare with you and the story itself, of course. But, nothing beyond that. No last names and no exact pinpointable information. I choose to be discreet and to remain anonymous for merely selfish reasons - I wish to protect my family’s good name and my own good standing in my family.

In the nightmare, I accompany my 10th grade class on an exploratory field trip to the local mountains; a long-standing tradition amongst many in my all-boys high school that can pride itself of having generations of highly distinguished school alumni. The visit to the mountains offers us young men the opportunity to bond and develop camaraderie and an appreciation for nature. The mountains, naturally, offer a variety of venues to quench the thirst of adventures; breathtaking vistas, glorious peaks, mountain goats that linger for a minute or two to salute visitors before continuing their path, observant hawks with wider stretched out wings, and eager, talkative hikers all around. I am walking along my group, as we come across a butterfly; an unusually large and colorful butterfly determined to display its impeccable beauty by performing a dance in front of our eyes while forcing our heads to follow its movements, as it circles, bows, sprints, and rotates in order to make sure we get to see its grandeur in its entirety. Suddenly, a boy standing next to me grabs the butterfly in his fist like a hungry bear grabs a fish from the icy river with his sharp claws; a look of triumph prints itself on the boy’s face as his fist gets tighter and tighter; blood streams to his fingers and hand with great force making them look a balmy red. A minute later, he opens his fists, and the crushed and mutilated butterfly follows the laws of gravity willingly and descends to the earth like a crumpled-up tiny receipt. I watch this incident unfolding in utter horror. Filled with wrath and outrage, I open my mouth to scream at the boy when I realize that it is my hand that killed the butterfly. That’s when the nightmare ends.

Several nights a week, I dream this same dream in various tones, lengths, and speeds. It is always the same dream, yet each time a minor detail might have been corrected or rearranged. Perhaps the size of the mountains; or the time of the year; or the colors of the butterfly. But it is the same dream. I feel I have been dreaming about it for so long that it has almost become an ingrained part of my existence. I haven’t shared it with anyone, just with you. My mother has noticed the dream catchers above my bed and had inquired about any possible nightmares I might have, but I have been evasive - with good reason. My father on the other hand yells at me. He tells me to be a man and not play with such girly things like dream catchers. He’s upset because I read and write and I don’t play basketball or football.

I began having this nightmare, ever since Rosa left our household sometime in late February of last year; 11 months ago to be precise. It was a rather swift and trash departure; she had been listened to and ordered to leave. It was a chilly afternoon, the sun had been quite lazy and almost too shy to show its usual vehemence; when Rosa opened the door to leave a mellow ray of sunshine hit her red purse and wrinkled old face, as she looked at me with a blank, bewildered expression. I didn’t meet her gaze for very long. I knew her face well enough, I could spend the day counting the number of lines around her mouth and eyes; to me, she looked old, but I suspected that she must have been younger than my eyes could judge. I didn’t need to look at her one last time to remember her features. I knew I would never forget Rosa. Rosa had been with us for a great many years. She had a particular routine; first, she would begin in my room, she would take off the sheets, pillowcases, and the blankets and pile them up in a large heap in the middle of my room, then she would begin dusting. I always assumed that dusting was a passion of hers; like piano is a passion of mine, and fencing is a passion of the neighbor’s daughter. She would use a soft, silky cloth to softly caress all my statutes, figurines, books, souvenirs, and the paintings on the wall in a focused and determined way, as though her life or my life depended on the contents of my room to be dust-free. She would wipe my desk, my bookshelves, and my closet doors, with precision and gusto. Under her arduous labor, my room would become so enviably clean. But I didn’t appreciate it much; in her thorough devotion to cleaning my room, Rosa would sometimes take a slight change such as the direction of Picasso, or the exact location of Mark Twain. Sometimes, a piece of clothing would find its way into a closet even though it belonged in a drawer. An open journal on the table would be then closed; a pen on my nightstand would find its way into the pen bin; an open drawer containing my school papers would get shut; the three green sailboats next to the window would have a new order; my antique china cat collection would face east instead of west; the familiar spider web in the corner of my desk would disappear. These small miniature changes irked me deeply, and I would ungratefully long for my room the way I had last left it.

Unlike me, my mother had a great capacity for appreciating Rosa’s work. She had known and employed Rosa for almost two decades, much longer than I had existed. In her own words, my mother understood the value of excellent domestic help. She also trusted Rosa fully and completely and prided herself on it. You see, my mother is very big on integrity; she believes in doing right over wrong, in ethical conduct, and in character. She believes that it is not wealth that determines the value of a person, but their choices and their conduct. With such a mindset, of course, she had great respect for Rosa who she considered a trustworthy and reliable person. She was always very kind to Rosa. Sometimes, I would hear them talking about her children and their progress in school. Rosa had a son about my age of whom she spoke with a special maternal pride. She had high hopes for him. When I would grow tired of my possessions, or when I would have no more space for them, my mother would forward them, gleefully, to Rosa who gratefully would give them to her son. As I would grow out of my clothes, my mother would fold them neatly and gift them to Rosa for her children and her neighbor’s children. When Rosa’s sister had difficulty with the law, my mother asked a lawyer friend of hers to step in and assist Rosa’s sister. On holidays and special occasions, there were always gifts for Rosa and her kids. By all accounts, my mother was very fond of Rosa and by all accounts, my mother and Rosa had a long history together that reinforced their natural good understanding of each other.

That was until that fateful February morning of last year. I had been looking forward to traveling with my friends to go skiing for a week. The family of my best friend was going to chaperone us. Excitement and anticipation were abundant, as I was going to indulge in a long-believed sport of mine, skiing, and spend a full week in the company of my friends away from home. We had been the object of envy by all the other boys in my school, as we had been boasting of all the great fun we would have while mastering the challenging mountain slopes; we would be crazy boys doing crazy things feeling empowered and glorious. My mother was ambivalent about sending me off but understood that it was ultimately beneficial to me and so it had to be done. The cost of the week was $500; my mother put the cash in an envelope which she intended to give me. She placed the envelope on the entry table in the foyer of our house and rushed to answer her phone, as it was ringing away. Rosa used to always put her purse and some of her cleaning supplies underneath the entry table in the foyer upon entering the house beginning her chores. Rosa was cleaning the kitchen at that moment and my mother was speaking on her phone. Suddenly, a jolt of a breeze flew inside from the open living room windows facing the foyer and placed itself underneath the envelope with the money, and threw it up in the air. The envelope made somersaults in the air a few times and it softly landed inside the red purse of Rosa. I watched the breeze get a bit stronger and rattle the dense leaves of the ficus next to the entry table; it grew weak and unnoticeable. I traced the envelope with my eyes, and I saw that it was sitting next to Rosa’s wallet and address book inside her purse in a diagonal position. I returned to my room and began packing for the trip. My thoughts circled around the packing list; I pondered if I really needed fleece shirts; if two sets of gloves were more than appropriate; if I needed to pack wool scarfs; of I should bring my guitar just for fun; if I was going to room with my best friend or if all of us boys were going to room together. It was early in the day. By late afternoon, it was common knowledge that the envelope with the money had disappeared. My mother kept looking for it in every place possible while asking me repeatedly if I had taken it. I reiterated no. A thick layer of anxiety had etched the atmosphere in the house, and my mother’s impatience had reached an unusual peak whereby her voice shook, and her words had lost their usual pronunciation. It was at 4pm when Rosa approached my mother with the envelope in her hands. I was too far to hear what words she was uttering, or what words she was hearing. I made no attempt to hear them. I watched as my mother’s facial expressions became the ever-changing unexpected notes of a modern classical piece with no repetition or harmony involved.

I could have run towards them both and explained what I had witnessed. Hours earlier, I could have stopped my mother’s panicked searching for the envelope by simply telling her what had occurred. Even earlier than that, I could have simply picked up the envelope and put it back where it began its journey downward. I did none of that. I stood by the foyer and watched Rosa take a leave of her 20-year-relationship with my family looking into my eyes with a void, empty, stunned gaze. Just a month after Rosa’s departure, our neighbor told my mother that Rosa had been deported to her home country and that her children had been scattered with child protective services. My mother was, of course, terribly sad for Rosa’s children, but in her view, had it not been for Rosa’s dishonesty, such an unfortunate end would not have befallen her children. 

No one really remembers Rosa anymore; a year is a long time in our collective family memory. We have new help and we are also planning to move to a bigger house. It is quite late now, and I am afraid I must take leave of you, as I must attend to a favorite nightmare of mine.

Lauren Seeze lives in Maine with her husband, two children, golden retriever, and bird. When not teaching elementary school, she writes poetry and plays.