In “The Quiet Butterfly” a painful separation and a search for a new life

Chapter 1

I woke to the shrill of Mom’s voice. “Ma, why can’t you just let me be? You are never satisfied.” 

Typically, I’d bury my head in the pillow to drown out the fighting and try to fall back to sleep, but this time it sounded different, serious. Quietly, I slipped out of bed. The creak of the old wooden stairs alerted them to my presence, and they went quiet for a moment. Grandma was in her chair by the window, shaking her head. She loved sitting by the window, giving her a front-row seat to the comings and goings of the neighborhood. Her once-beautiful, thick, black braids that framed her face were now white—a stark contrast to her light brown skin. Over the years, her eyes had dulled, but she was still a stunning Native woman. Grandpa liked to say, “A real looker.”

Grandma gazed out the window for what seemed like an eternity, then turned back to Mom. “Mina, I can’t do this anymore. I’m tired of fighting. You and Neepa must go.” Grandma’s voice cracked, trying to hold back her emotion. 

My heart sank. In my head, I screamed, “NO!” but as usual, nothing came out. They both could see the pain in my eyes. Instead of responding, Mom took a deep breath, looked at me, and said, “Come on, Neepa, let’s pack our things.” Before leaving the room, Mom said, “Don’t worry, Ma, we will be gone in the morning.”

Grandma looked so frail sitting in her chair, tears streaming down her face. I desperately wanted to ask her to change her mind, to beg her to let us stay, to assure her that Mom would change and we wouldn’t be any trouble. But since Grandpa died, nothing had been the same. More than ever before, Grandma pushed Mom to do more with her life. To stop chasing men and live up to her potential. 

Grandpa had never pushed like Grandma. He was softer with Mom, reassuring her that everything would be okay. Grandma thought he was too forgiving, and Grandpa thought she was too tough on Mom, which caused friction between my grandparents. Mom had never liked being told what to do, and with Grandpa gone, the disagreements between Mom and Grandma increased. I could tell Mom missed Grandpa by the lost look in her eyes after she and Grandma argued. We all missed Grandpa. Since he died, I watched my grandmother age before my eyes. I felt it would not be long until she joined him. 

Before sunrise, we packed the vintage Jeep Wagoneer with the few belongings we owned and were ready to go. Dented with a few spots of rust, it was the most reliable car Mom had ever owned. It used to be Grandpa’s, and he kept it in perfect condition. When he died, it was the only thing he left Mom. 

Before Mom could say no, I ran back into the house. There was no way I could leave without saying goodbye to Grandma. She was the most stable person in my life, and I knew this would be the last time I’d see her. Quietly, I opened her bedroom door and knelt beside her bed, taking her once strong and guiding hand that had now become frail in mine and whispered, “I love you.” Grandma opened her eyes; tears filled them. 

“Neepa, you are an exquisite young lady; you are our beautiful butterfly. Know your grandpa is watching over you. Think of him, and he will come to you if you are frightened, lonely, or just need a friend.” She squeezed my hand and slowly repeated, “Know he will always come to you.”

“Grandma, I don’t want to leave you. Don’t make me go,” I pleaded.

“Neepa, you must. It will not be long before I join your grandfather. You and your mother need to learn to stand on your own two feet. Your mother needs you, and you need her. Stay strong and know we love you, always have, and always will. Now go, your mother is waiting.” 

Gently, I kissed Grandma on the forehead. Feeling her soft skin on my lips and looking at her loving face one last time, I seared the moment into my memory and then quietly closed her door behind me. Forcing myself to leave the only place I considered home, I was also leaving the last person who truly saw me. I climbed into the car as Mom quickly wiped a tear from her eye. We drove in silence. 

I woke up as the car jerked when we pulled into a diner parking lot. “You awake? It’s time to eat.” 

“Where are we?” 

“We just crossed into Iowa.”

“Iowa?” I yelled, pushing myself up to see more clearly out the window. “What are we doing here? Mom, where are we going?” I have always hated waking up in the car and realizing we are in another state. If we weren’t going back to Chicago, we were moving somewhere else for Mom to find a new job or a new boyfriend.

“Whoa, whoa, slow down. We’re heading to Colorado. I thought that would be a good place to start our new lives, plus I have a friend, Josie. She and I worked together in North Dakota when you were young. She’s made a good life for herself in Denver as a counselor and has offered to help us out. We can stay with her ’til we get on our feet.”

I didn’t hide my concern. 

“Don’t worry, Neepa, it will be okay this time. I promise.” I really wanted to believe what Mom said, but if I had a dollar every time I heard that, my last name would be Bezos, not Irving. 

Mom and I have always been on the road heading somewhere. Our family was from back east, Massachusetts, but when the government offered a one-way ticket to Chicago for Natives to find work, my grandparents took it, and they never looked back. Like many Natives who moved from their reservation to the city, they lived in the poor part—the red ghetto—which enticed kids to grow up faster than they might have otherwise. 

Mom had me at age sixteen, the same age I am now. Who my father is, I don’t know; I don’t think Mom even knows who he is, either. Due to my unexpected arrival in her life, she didn’t finish high school. My grandparents made sure she at least earned her GED, but college was out of the question. It was too bad since my mother is really smart. She has a real knack for numbers, but she chooses to highlight her physique, 36-24-36, versus her intellect, as she believes those numbers will get her a husband. This belief, along with the male attention she’s always received, has gotten us into more unfortunate situations than I like to remember. In the end, we’d return to Chicago, my mother’s tail between her legs, so she could have time to lick her wounds, pick up the pieces, and for us to start again. 

Not knowing anything about my father, the best I can tell is that I got his skin coloring. I like to say I am a coffee with two creams. Apparently, I also got his curls. Mom would pull my hair into two pigtails, creating big cascading curls on each side of my head when I was young. But as I got older, and the bullying began, I chose to wear my hair in a long braid down my back. It hid my curls and made me feel like I actually fit in with all the other Native kids. 

Not much has changed. Better to blend in and not be seen or heard. Keeping my clothing simple—T-shirt, jeans, and no makeup—my sole focus now is to get through high school and not end up like my mother.   

Sixteen times around the sun, and I’ve attended eight different schools from Massachusetts to Washington State. Along the way, I picked up the nickname “the quiet girl.” No matter where I went or who was talking about me, they always called me the quiet girl. At first, it was deserved because I was painfully shy. A mixed-race kid; people not knowing if I was Native, black, or Asian; then add constantly being the new girl at school, and the name stuck. As I grew older, I did whatever I could to blend in. The less I talked, the easier it was for me to not stick out. To simply disappear into the background. In the end, I grew to like it. It gave me an out to not have to talk. It seemed like every year and every new school, I got quieter and quieter. Now I barely talk to anyone. 

Mom grabbed my hand. “Come on, let’s get some lunch.” 

My eyes flashed with surprise. 

“Yes, you have been asleep for that long.” 

We walked into the diner and found a booth in the back. It was just like every other diner we had eaten at. There was a long counter with red spinney seats, a glass carousel of pies and cakes, and booths with high backs. The plastic covering on the menu was yellowed and cracked, making it hard to read the handwritten modifications. Nothing looked good, but I knew we wouldn’t eat again until we got to Colorado. When the server came to the table, Mom ordered the chicken salad sandwich. 

“So, what will you have, honey?” she asked, giving me a warm smile. 

I pointed to the cheeseburger and fries on the menu. 

She looked at Mom. “She’s a pretty thing but a quiet one.” Mom smiled and said, “Thank you.” 

Waiting for the food, I stared out at the parking lot. As cars came and went, my mind drifted to Grandma, and a lump formed in my throat. God, I missed her so much. Sitting at this random roadside diner felt like all the others we had been to: sad and lonely. 

Dread began to grow inside me. Another place, another school, no Grandma or Grandpa. How could Grandma do this to me? I loved my mother, but I didn’t believe we could make it on our own. We never had to before, at least not for very long. Now we didn’t have a safety net. There was a part of me that wanted to be mad at Grandma, to hate her, but how could I hate the person who’s always cared for and loved me? Deep down I knew she did this for our own good, but it still hurt. The lump in my throat got bigger. I swallowed hard, pushing the sadness down.

A squirrel pranced across the parking lot. It stopped and looked at me. Mom didn’t notice; she was looking at her phone, checking the map to see how many more hours we still had to go.

“Mom, do you see that squirrel?” 

“Huh, what?” She looked up. 

“The squirrel.”

“Oh yeah, what’s it doing?”

“I don’t know, but doesn’t it look like it’s watching us?” Before she could answer, it darted off into a tree. 

With a full belly back in the car, I slumped down in my seat to try to fall back asleep. Staring off into the empty landscape, my thoughts turned to Grandpa. 

“Grandpa, why is the squirrel collecting nuts now? It’s summer?” I had asked many years ago.

“They’re always collecting, so they will be prepared.” 

Squirrel, squirrel, you gather like no other.
Making sure there is something for another.
Change may come at any time.
Help me to be prepared with open heart and mind.

“Grandpa, what was that?”

“A poem to help you remember what the squirrel symbolizes. When you see one gathering nuts, remind yourself that change can happen at any time.” 

That memory of Grandpa made me smile. Maybe this move will be different. 

Sixteen hours and a few pit stops later, we rolled into Colorado. In all our travels, this was the first time we had been to Denver. Seeing the city skyline on one side of the highway and the majestic mountain range on the other made me feel calmer. The scenery looked so picturesque that it gave me a sliver of hope that everything would be fine. Mom pulled over to the side of the road to call her friend. 

“Josie, we made it. We just arrived in Denver.” I could hear an excited voice on the other end. “Okay, hold on . . .” Mom looked at me. “Neepa, write this down. 1625 West Leaf Circle. Okay, great. See you soon.” She looked at me with a huge smile. “Are you excited? We’re about to start our new life.” 

I gave a half-hearted smile and turned back to stare out the window. Grandpa said change can happen at any time; I just hoped this change would be for the better. 

As we drove through the streets, I noticed that the landscape of the neighborhoods had changed from city streets and apartments to manicured lawns, mature trees, and houses set back from the street. Finally, we pulled into the driveway of 1625 W. Leaf Circle. It was a beautiful house, two stories, lots of windows, and a big front lawn. Mom looked in the rearview mirror and smoothed her perfectly straight hair. She lovingly looked over at me, moved a curl from my face, put it around my ear, and gave me a smile, which I knew was to reassure me. Deep down, though, she was asking the same from me.  

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