The Truth About Butterflies: A Memoir (24 page)

Nicole and I
were visiting Shirley, a friend of mine, and Shirley wanted to show me
something in the kitchen.  Nicole, who was ten and newly diagnosed with
diabetes, sat on the sofa watching cartoons.  When we returned, a candy dish of
gummy bears that was sitting on the coffee table was empty.

“Sally, did
you eat the gummy bears?”  Shirley asked.

“No.”

“Nicole,” I
said, “there were gummy bears in the dish when we went in the kitchen, and now
they’re gone.  Are you saying that you didn’t eat them?”

“No, Mommy. 
I never saw any gummy bears.”

“Well,
Shirley said winking at me, “they
were
bears; maybe they came to life
and walked away by themselves.”

“I don’t
know,” Nicole shrugged.

Later that
day, I found a note taped to the bedroom mirror: “Mommy, I ate the gummy
bears.”  After a lengthy discussion, I told Nicole to call Miss Shirley and
apologize for eating her gummy bears and for lying about it.  In the meantime,
I wrote a letter back to Nicole and taped it to the mirror.

When I saw
Shirley at work the next day, she gave me an envelope to give to Nicole.  I delivered
the envelope but never asked Nicole or Shirley what the letter said. 

Now 17 years
later I held the letter in my hand: “Dear Gummy Bear Eater, I really don’t mind
the last of those little treats.  The only thing that concerns me is I hope you
don’t get sick.  Guess what?  I love you! ~Shirley.”

The second
folded letter in the envelope was the letter I’d taped to the mirror: “Nicole,
I forgive you for eating the gummy bears.  I’m glad that you are taking full
responsibility for what you did and admitted that you were wrong.  I’m proud
that you thought enough to apologize.  That shows that you are growing up.
~Mommy.”  On the back of the same letter, Nicole had written: “!!!!I love you,
and thank you for forgiving me!!!!  P.S. I love you!  ~Sally.” 

The last
envelope was by itself at the bottom of the box.  It had three words on the
front, all underlined and written in pencil.  In the upper left corner was
written
Nicole
.  In the upper right corner was written
Airmail
. 
In the center of the envelope was written
God
.  The letter was
dated July 1996: 

It’s
difficult for me to pray because it seems like other things just pop into my
mind while I’m praying.  This way seems a lot more comfortable for me.  It’s
just that it’s kind of hard to stop doing what you shouldn’t be and start doing
what you should.  Lord, you know what I need help in, so please lend me your
hand.  It’s so much to thank you for, so I’m just going to say, Thank you for
everything you’ve done and for
All
you’re going to do.  Thank you for
keeping my mommy strong, and keeping her from giving up on me.  Thank you too
for not giving up on me, Lord.  Amen.

By
the time I’d finished with the second shoe box, it was nearly 4 a.m.  I had
spent seven hours reading letters and cards, many of which I hadn’t known
existed.
I read page after page of her poetry, some haunting, some
lighthearted, some erotic. Also in the folder were what appeared to be rap
lyrics, raw, edgy and cutting. And with every turn of a page, I was filled
with pride.

I was
overjoyed to have found these things, and surprised that Nicole had so meticulously
saved and stored a lifetime of mementos.  Of course, I myself have a vast
collection of everything Nicole has given
me
over the years.  But I’m
the mother; mothers are naturally the savers.

Secured away
in a tightly sealed container are the scores of cards and letters Nicole has
given me over the past 26 years.  The handmade gifts and Christmas ornaments
are safe and secure.  A stationary set she’d made for Mother’s Day 1990 is
still tucked away unused.  “Mommy, do you like the paper and envelopes I made
for you?”  She’d often ask.

“Yes,
they’re beautiful!”

“Then why
haven’t you used them?”

“Well, if I
use them, then I won’t have them anymore.”

Now it seems
such a silly way to look at it. Four sheets of paper and matching envelopes
customized with her chalk-covered thumbprints have become discolored with age. 
Nicole is gone, and the stationary still sits turning to dust. 

I’ve kept
little messages written on scrap paper that she’d often slip into inconspicuous
places for me to find. One of the notes is a constant reminder of her childhood
jealousy of Rux:  “My mom loves Rux more than she loves her own daughter Nicole.”

Another note
is just one of the many “bribes” I’d get after she was diagnosed with
diabetes:  “I love you mommy very much, and if you give me m&m’s I’ll be
the best girl ever born. I love you.” 

Then there
are the notes she would write for no particular reason, other than to say she
loved me:  “Dear mommy, I love you very much, when I look at you, you look like
flowers, and I can smell you all the way.  But I still love you very much.”

I have the
first poem she wrote me: 

Don’t be
sad, and don’t be mad,

Get glad
cause I have something

For you!

2x2 means I
love you

3x3 means
come get me

4x4 means
come out of that apartment door

6x6 means
I’ll never get mix

8x8 means
will you be my date

9x9 means be
my Valentine all the time

10x10 means
write by pen for me

Roses Are
Red

Violets Are
Blue

My Heart
Skips

A Beat When
I

Think Of You

And I have
the last poem she wrote me:

Year after
year, I learn a lot more from you

I love it
when you share with me something new

The wisdom
and knowledge that you’ve acquired

Through the
years

Have been
accepted through smiles and tears

I love to
hear you laugh, and I’m amazed

At all the
strength you have

I secretly
watch everything you do so

Year after
year I can become more like you.

Happy
Birthday

I gathered
all the letters and placed them back in the second box.  The only things
remaining were the folders that had been at the bottom of the box.

One of the
folders was filled with report cards, standardized test score sheets,
certificates of attendance from Vacation Bible School and elementary school,
certificates for participating in the science fair and the art fair, and awards
for volunteering.

Another
folder was filled with Bible study notes.  On a 2x2 square of paper taped to the
inside cover of the folder, she’d written, “The spirit is willing, but the
flesh is weak.”  And even though many of our long talks often ended on the
topic of redemption, her notes would indicate she had a fascination with the
Book of Job, having hand written a three-page narrative of the first 20
chapters. 

A
third folder was filled with her own poetry.  Aside from the poems she’d penned
for me on the occasion of my birthday or Valentine’s Day, I had no clue that
she was even remotely interested in it.  I was in awe as I read the beautifully
crafted verses. 
But it was the final folder in the bottom of the box, a dark blue
binder with some of its pages falling out, that would grip my heart more than
the contents of the other boxes put together.

When she was
17, Nicole asked me, “Ma, why does God speak to people through dreams?”

“Many
reasons, I suppose, but I know why He gives
me
dreams.  If He spoke to
me while I was awake, I wouldn’t trust it.  I would rationalize it away or
chock it up to my own imagination. 

“But why do
only some people have dreams?”

“I think God
speaks to us in ways each of us can best understand.  The method really isn’t
as important as the message, though.  As long as you understand what God is
saying, that’s all that matters.  Why are you so interested in dreams?”

“Because I
had one this morning.”

And without
seeming too eager, I asked Nicole what her dream had been about.  As she told
it to me, I knew it wasn’t just an ordinary dream.  “What do you think I should
do, Mommy?”

“Write it
down.”

“And then
should I pray about it?”

“There’s
really no need; just document it, and when God is ready for you to understand
it, He’ll open it up right before your eyes.”

She never
mentioned it again, and I never asked her about it.  I had assumed that this
dream had been her only dream, but here in this folder that sat buried at the
bottom of the box were pages and pages of documented dreams.  I could hardly
contain myself.  I had already been up all night reading letters and cards, but
instantly, at the prospect of reading her dreams, I was rejuvenated.  I was
thankful that when she’d come to me about her dream, I knew what to tell her
without making a big deal of it.  Years earlier, I myself had been in the same
situation.

I was 21.  I
woke up the morning of May 4, 1987, a bit confused.  I sat up in the bed and
looked around the room.  The dream I’d just had was so vivid, so real that if
it weren’t for the utter impossibility of it, I would’ve sworn the events in
the dream had actually happened.  I told Erma Lee the dream, and she had me
tell it to Paw-paw.  “You ever dreamed like that before?”  He asked.

“No, never.”

“I think you
should tell it to the pastor, see what he says.”

So I met
with the pastor that same day and told him my dream.  “Well, Daughter, God
speaks in sundry fashion,” he said.  “Do you feel like He’s speaking to you?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“I’m
inclined to agree.”

“What should
I do?”

“Just pray
about it.”

And after
we’d finished talking and I got up to leave, he said, “One more thing, Daughter...”

“Yes, Sir?”

“Don’t
mention this to another soul.”  I was taken aback and didn’t quite know what to
say.  “Spreading word that God spoke to you through a dream,” he said, “is not
something that’ll set well with people.  You may very well become a laughing
stock, so you just keep this between you and God.”  I agreed to keep quiet
about it, and even though I had no reason to talk to anyone about the dream,
being sworn to secrecy made me feel abnormal.

I thought
about the dream from time to time, but I never mentioned it again, to anyone. 
But six months later, on November 19, I had another dream and shortly after
that, another.  At that point, I thought it best to document the dreams.  I
purchased a notebook, and I wrote down all three dreams.  And as the pastor
suggested, I didn’t mention the dreams to another soul, not even to him.

As time
passed, the dreams continued to come.  They came at random times and without warning. 
Also, just at the moment when I needed to understand the dreams, their meanings
were revealed.  Sometimes I understood the meaning of a dream immediately upon
awaking.  At other times, dreams I’d had a year or two earlier would slip into
their meanings like a hand slips into a glove. 

Because
Nicole was only six when I had my first dream, it wasn’t something I shared
with her, and as I’d assumed the dream she’d had when she was 17 had been her
only one, I still saw no reason to go into great detail about them.

On many of
our evening chats in the driveway, we would talk about life, and change, and
hope, where we’d come from and where we were going.  Occasionally, we’d talk of
how tumultuous her life had been in her teens; between the ages of 18 and 21,
had been, what she called, her crisis years.  “It’s a wonder you’re not in the
booby hatch,” she’d joke.

During one
particular chat, she asked me how I was able to weather that period with such
grace.  It was the only time I ever felt inclined to fully share with her one
of my dreams.  In the dream:

I was in
the desert seated on the crest of a rocky summit.  I was singing, and even
though I was alone, others were singing with me.  After some time, I came down
from the high place to a pool of water at the base of the rock.  The pool was
closed in on the east and south by tall cliffs. 

As I
knelt over the pool, I heard a large splash.  I looked up and noticed that just
adjacent to my pool was another pool.  The water was sanguineous and floating
on its surface were the carcasses of fish, their skeletons showing through bits
of rotted flesh.  Someone had thrown something into the water, but as I scanned
the desert landscape, I saw no one. 

Then
there was a stir in the water and emerging through the surface was you.  With
your eyes closed, you wiped the water from your face and swept your hair back. 
You climbed from the pool and made your way to the cliff.  Your eyes were still
closed.  I called out to you, but you didn’t respond.  I watched as you climbed
the rock, positioned yourself for the dive, and jumped once again into the putrid
water.