Free The Truth About Butterflies: A Memoir by Nancy Stephan

expected, so she and Ed would take the boys camping that weekend.  She
mentioned how busy she’d been at work, on her feet for hours so that the veins
in her legs were beginning to break.  But as I continued reading, Aunt Betty’s
tone grew desperate. 
    “Sue, please
pray for help.  I know you think, well , if God knows how I suffer
then why doesn’t he help me?    And you know when you first got sick you
questioned that there even was a God.  Honey, you can’t do that.  Sometimes
when I’m driving by myself, I say, ‘Thank you God for what we have,’ or ‘Please
help me to do what’s right.’  Try it, Sue.  Just say, ‘Please give me the
strength to face each day and each treatment as it comes.’  When you’re crying
your heart out, God listens as no one else can.”  Reading this, I thought about
the times I’d actually seen my mother cry.  I vividly remember two occasions. 
    My mother
had been engaged to marry a man named Blair.  My memories of him are vague, but
I do have several faded black & white Polaroids of us together.  In one, I
am sitting on his lap at Aunt Katie’s gray Formica dining table blowing out the
candles on Becca’s birthday cake.  It was tradition that after the birthday
person blew out his or her candles, the adults would relight them so that I
could make wishes as well.  In the photo, I was four; there were 10 candles on
the cake.
    Blair had
been away working on a construction site but was traveling to the area to visit
my mother and me.  My mother had grown anxious because long after he was due to
arrive, he still hadn’t shown.  She received the news that Blair had been
killed in a crane accident.  I thought she’d never get out of bed again.  Of
course, Aunt Betty was at her side.  “Honey, please don’t cry; it’ll be okay,”
she promised.  Among my possessions, I still have Blair’s personalized Figaro
bracelet that my mother had given him as a gift, the back of which is inscribed
“From the Best to the Greatest.”
    On the
second occasion, my mother and I had gone to the local hamburger stand.  It was
a place close to the house, and we had gone there many times before.  But the memory
of this particular night overshadows any good memories I might’ve had of that
place. 
    I looked
forward to the hamburger drive-in.  It was a thrill having our food brought out
on a tray and hooked over the window.  That evening, as before, the hop came
out to take our order.  After my mother ordered, I leaned over and told the
hop, “Make sure you put cheese on it,” as I had once gotten a cheeseburger and
they’d forgotten the cheese.  But when the hop saw me, she stopped writing, went
inside, and never brought us our food.
    There were
customers inside and once or twice, everyone would look out at us at the same
time as if they were waiting for something.  We could see them clearly as the
brightly lit building stood out in the darkness.  I knew something was wrong
because my mother had become visibly upset.  Finally, she leaned out of the car
window and yelled, “Kiss my ass!”
    She put the
car in reverse and punched the gas.  In her attempt to make a scene as she
pulled out of the lot, she accidentally bumped a motorcycle that was parked in
the space behind us.  As a man with a long beard stood up inside the
restaurant, my mother tore out of the parking lot.  By the time we made it to
the main road, we could hear the motorcycle. 
    The
hamburger stand was a short distance from our house, and when we arrived at our
street, which was a dead end, my mother passed our house, turned off the
headlights, and coasted to the end of the road.  After skidding to a stop, she
grabbed me tightly by the wrist, and we ran to the neighbor’s backyard.  By
then we could hear the motorcycle coming down the road. 
    We ran
through each yard until we reached ours.  From the backyards, I didn’t
recognize any of the houses.  It wasn’t until we reached our