Butterfly by Nelle L’Amour

CHAPTER 11

Roman

“This is my happy place,” beams Sofi as we stroll down an asphalt path, surrounded by a riotous display of vivid flowers, exotic plants, and colorful butterflies in all shapes and sizes. “My parents gave me a membership to the museum for Christmas, so I come here all the time. What do you think?”

“Wow!” I’m in awe. In all the years I’ve lived in Manhattan, I’ve never been to New York’s American Museum of Natural History’s Butterfly Conservatory. In fact, I never knew it existed.

Enclosed by glass, the twelve-hundred-square-foot domed vivarium, located in the heart of the museum, is a tropical paradise. Canned artificial lighting simulates sunshine. The climate is warm and humid, and I’m almost tempted to take my jacket off. Or maybe I’m just hot because of the energy radiating from my companion. Neither of us has mentioned the nail salon incident—something that was not intentional on my part. It just happened. And she let it.

“How many butterflies are in this place?” I ask, suppressing the memory of her pussy fluttering around my big toe. And the flush that accompanied it.

“Over five hundred with close to eighty species represented.”

“Where do they come from?”

“From farms all over the world. They’re sent here when they’re pupa.”

“Pupa?”

“In their chrysalis state. Cocoons. There’s even a pupa gallery. If we’re lucky, we’ll see a butterfly hatch.”

A little boy wearing a sweatshirt whizzes by me, knocking into my hip. Letting out a groan, I want to curse him out.

“I hope you don’t mind kids,” says Sofi with a smile. “It’s a really popular exhibit with families and many schools take field trips here.”

The conservatory is indeed filled with children of all ages, their squeals of delight tickling the air while butterflies flit all around them. “I don’t mind them,” I say half-heartedly. The truth is I avoid children at all costs. My chest clamps as a sharp pang of sadness shoots to my gut. She would have been going on nine.

Sofi’s perky voice stops me from getting depressed. “I love kids. When I was in college, I participated in a community outreach program and taught underprivileged kids how to paint.”

Before I can ask her how she learned to paint, she points a finger at a medium-size butterfly. “Look! There’s a Heliconius Charithonia”

“A what-the-hell charithonius?”

She laughs. “A Heliconius Charithonia”

I repeat the name back, barely able to say the syllables. My vision shifts to the black-and-white-striped winged insect that’s perched on a purple flower.

Sofi smiles. “Yes. The scientific Latin name for the Zebra Longwing.”

Wow! It does look like a zebra! I learn from my adorable guide that it’s the official butterfly of Florida and can be found in many parts of the world. I also learn it’s one of the few butterflies that feeds on pollen. Most species prefer nectar and fruit juices, but they all need water, hence why the museum staff regularly sprays the plant leaves at night.

“And look! There’s a rare one!” She points excitedly at another butterfly, but I can’t see it. Even squinting with my good eye.

“Look closer!”

Certain that no one will recognize me here, I lift my Wayfarers on top of my head to get a better look. My eye zeroes in on the stem of a leafy plant, but I’m not sure what I’m looking for.

“There!” my companion says, zooming in on what looks like a dead leaf. “It’s an Indian Leafwing from Asia. When its wings are closed, it looks just like a leaf, ribbing and all. It’s how it camouflages itself and protects itself from predators.”

Still dubious, I stare at the brownish leaf, and when its wings spread and it flies off, I blink hard. My doubts fly away too.

“That’s amazing!” I say as we continue through the exhibit. She points out numerous other species and I’m awed by her knowledge of the winged creatures. She’s a veritable walking encyclopedia. I bet she can identify every kind of butterfly there is.

“What’s your favorite butterfly?”

“The Luna. But it’s actually a moth.”

“What’s the difference between a butterfly and a moth?”

She explains that butterfly antennae are thin with club-shaped tips whereas those of moths are feathery or comb-like. Butterflies flit around during the day while moths are nocturnal. Moths also tend to be stout, fuzzy, and smaller than butterflies, though the majestic Luna is an exception and more closely resembles a butterfly.

“Will we see one here?”

“I’m not sure. They may not have one, and if they do, it’s hard to spot because it may be sleeping under a leaf. Its green wings make it difficult to see.”

Halfway through the exhibit, a disconcerting thought hits me. I should be taking pictures. As well as videos. I reach into my back pocket and slip out my phone. Dammit. It’s dead. Sofi hears me curse under my breath.

“What’s the matter?”

“My phone died. I should be photographing all these butterflies for reference.”

“Don’t worry. I have photos of most of these butterflies on my phone. Plus, you can buy a reference book in the gift shop and watch YouTube videos of the exhibition online.”

Relieved, I shove my phone back into my pocket. On my next breath, I feel a prickle on the back of my hand. I glance down. To my shock, a shimmering crimson butterfly has landed on top of it. Slowly, I raise my hand and show Sofi.

Her eyes grow wide and her face lights up. “Oh my goodness! It’s a Red-Spotted Monarch from Nigeria.” We both stare at it as it stays perched on my hand. It doesn’t move. I think it likes me.

“You know, when a butterfly lands on you, it’s good luck,” Sofi tells me. I can’t help but smile thinking that in some serendipitous way, Sofi landed on me and my life’s about to change. It already has. It’s been years since I spent so much time out of my studio or surrounded by so much color. Or with a girl who can put a smile on my face. Another green-eyed beauty . . .

“Are you getting hungry?” My stomach rumbles after the butterfly flies off. It’s way past noon and I haven’t eaten a thing since early morning.

“Very! The museum has a nice café we can go to.”

“That sounds perfect.”

“But before we go, let’s check out the pupae.”

A few minutes later, we’re standing before a lit-up glass case. Inside it, there’s a long branch from which several pupae hang. They look like mini punching bags. A little African-American boy and his mother are huddled next to me.

“Do you think we’ll see one hatch?” I ask, getting hungrier and more impatient by the second.

“Maybe.”

The word “maybe” is not part of my black-or-white vocabulary. For me, it’s got to be yes or no. Yea or nay.

“C’mon, let’s go. I’m starving.”

“No, wait!” Sheesh! She’s worked for me for not more than an hour and she’s giving me orders? Before I can give her a piece of my mind, her voice grows animated. “I think I see something!” She points her finger at the branch. “Look!”

Suddenly, I see something break through the middle pupa. My eye blinks several times. It’s a wing. My pulse speeds up with excitement and I involuntarily grip Sofi’s warm hand as we silently watch the butterfly emerge. I’m mesmerized. Five astonishing minutes later, a huge butterfly—bright blue laced with black—is clinging to the branch. Its wings still closed. New to the world. Afraid to move.

“Holy fuck!”

“Mama, that man said a bad word!” It’s the little boy standing next to me, whom in my trance-like state I totally forgot about. I turn to the kid and shrug. “Sorry.” His mother shoots me a scathing look, then grabs the child’s hand and yanks him away.

Sofi bursts into laughter. “You’re forgiven.” I can’t help but laugh too. Her joyous laughter is infectious. When was the last time I laughed? I can’t remember, but it feels good. So good. Quieting down, our attention returns to the newly born butterfly, still afraid to make a move. Sofi squeezes my hand and I let her.

“See, that butterfly that landed on your hand brought you luck.”

You bring me luck.

“I’ve been here many times and this is only the second time I’ve seen a butterfly hatch.”

“What kind is it?”

“It’s a Blue Morpho. They hail mostly from the rainforests of South America, and with their six-inch wing span, they’re one of the biggest butterflies in the world.” She pauses reflectively. “They remind me of you.”

It resembles the decal on my thumbnail. Still mesmerized, my good eye stays fixed on the blue butterfly. “Why is that?”

“Because they’re so imposing. Plus, on account of their coloring—the combination of black and that fiery blue—the color of your eyes.”

Yes, my eye. She doesn’t realize her faux pas, but I don’t bring it to her attention. Why turn this amazing day into a downer?

“I’ve actually begun to paint a Blue Morpho,” she adds.

“I’d love to see it.”

Then, without warning, the butterfly spreads its wings and leaps to the top of the branch, facing us and proudly holding its wings outstretched as if to say I’m the king of the jungle.

A feeling that I can’t put into words surges inside me. A collision of lightness and power. Of renewal and strength.

I feel like I’ve emerged from a dark cocoon. Like I’ve been . . .

Reborn.