Free The Truth About Butterflies: A Memoir by Nancy Stephan Page A

back porch that I
realized where I was.  My mother fumbled in the dark for the key.  At one
point, I thought she would break the door down as she threw her full weight
against it several times. 
    When she
finally found the key, we ran into the front room and lay on the floor under
the big picture window.  I was on my right side with my back against the wall,
and my mother was on her side facing me so that I was tightly sandwiched
between her and the wall.  The glare from the single headlight crawled across
the ceiling as the man cruised up and down the road.  Finally, he stopped, and
after sitting idle for a while, turned off the motor.  Even though I was quiet,
my mother instinctively clasped her hand over my mouth.  I don’t know how long
we lay there, but eventually the man started his bike and slowly rode away. 
    As the roar
of the motorcycle faded in the distance, I could feel the tension in my
mother’s body release; she began sobbing.  She immediately took me and put me
in her bed, and we curled up there together, never undressing.  Hungry, and not
fully understanding the situation, I asked if we could go back and get our food
now that the man was gone.  Every time I awoke through the night, my mother was
crying.
     This is
what I thought about as I read the words, “When you’re crying your heart out,
God listens.”  Aunt Betty told my mother, “It isn’t necessary to be in church. 
When you awake and are afraid, just start talking as if someone was right
there.”  She encouraged my mother to get well soon, “so you can come home to
Nancy.”  My mother did come home to me but only for a short time.  She
would die within months of this letter. 
    Though
major, it would be misleading to say that her death alone set off the chain of
events that would shape my life.  There were other events, and people, and
words spoken in hush-hush tones.  I have no memory of my father, who left when
I was two.  The only thing I know for certain is that in the mid-60s, my
mother, a White, all-American girl, and my father, a Black jazz musician, found
their way into each other’s arms.  Beyond this, I have only disjointed stories
told to me by this one and that one, and the well-intentioned advice of my
aunt, “Honey, it was so long ago, leave it be and get on with your life.” 
Within weeks of my mother’s death, my journey would take its first hairpin
turn, and everything I thought I knew about me and my life would quickly
come undone.
    September
18, 1973, is the day my mother died.  October 9, I arrived at my new foster
home.  That morning as I’d sat watching television, a woman knocked on the
door.  Aunt Betty, neatly dressed as always, her blond hair pinned up in a
giant bun, came from the back of the house and opened the door.  Her eyes were
wet and red.  There wasn’t much said before me and my things were loaded into
the caseworker’s car.  Aunt Betty told the caseworker that she’d bring my
bedroom furniture to the foster home later, and then she stood like a helpless
kitten as we pulled out of the driveway. 
    I can only
imagine the torment that follows having made such a decision.  I, however, had
no idea what was happening, but as we rode along quietly in the car, the
caseworker asked, “Do you know any Black people?”
    “I know Mrs.
Peters.  She’s a nurse that works with my mom.”
    “Well,
you’re gonna go live with a nice Black family.”
    “But I live
with Aunt Betty.”
    “You’ll
still see your aunt Betty; you just won’t live with her.”
    For the rest
of the ride, I anticipated this “nice Black family,” and wondered why I
couldn’t just live with Aunt Betty. 
    As we pulled
into the driveway, a short, heavy-hipped woman came out of the house and down
the porch steps to the car.  She had golden-brown skin and dark,
shoulder-length hair.  Her large, almond-shaped eyes led me to believe she was
Japanese even though the casework had said she was Black. 
    I