In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

231 Chapter Thirty Rainbows and Moonbows “When you die, you will be spoken of as those in the sky, like the stars.” —Yurok proverb Or, like the most wondrous of all, the moonbow The end came without warning. Without signs. She stepped into the steaming tub, soaked, and sang as was her habit, then suddenly her voice was still. No sound, but for the water, drip by drip pulling through the drain. The stillness alerted him. He opened the door to see if she was all right. The water had run out. She lay with her head touching her shoulder, lashes fanning her cheeks, and wet hair streaming over her face, a half smile on her lips. He tried to revive her. Mouth to mouth, one more kiss. But she did not awaken as in a fairytale. The paramedics arrived, and then the police. And all that time I was alive. Perhaps I was watching television or reading a book. I knew Duane was with Stephanie, a man who loved her and with whom she would be safe during the torrential rains, these January floods with mud slides that blocked the road between our two houses. How could I have slept? How could I not have known? The call came at 9:30 a.m. A sheriff asked if he could come to see me. I thought he wanted to solicit funds and asked him to state his business over the phone. “Are you alone?” he asked. A strange question. “No, someone is with me,” I said. “Mrs. Finell, this concerns your daughter, Stephanie—” My heart skipped a beat, a wave of cold washed over me. Stephanie. Maybe she was hit by a car on her way to Peabody School? I asked, “Was there an accident?” 232 Broken Butterfly “No, Mrs. Finell, your daughter—she’s dead.” “Is what?” “Your daughter died last night.” “Whaaat?” I might have heard the words but did not understand. He repeated, “Your daughter died last night.” Silence. Then my shriek. As from far, far away I heard him say, “That’s why I wanted to come over Ma’am, to tell you in person. . .are you sure there’s someone with you?” Martin had taken the phone. I dimly heard him speaking to someone, who? while I sank onto the carpet. Thoughts began to stir. Last night? Why had no one called me earlier? I screamed and wept and could not comprehend. Stephanie dead? My vibrant , laughing Stephanie. No, this was a mistake. Everything surrounding me seemed disconnected from reality. I looked out the window. The clouds were still holding up the sky, the wind still rustled the palms, the rabbit sat near its hiding bush munching grass. All things went on as they had before. But everything continued living in another plane of existence. And you—lay dead What happened? A massive seizure killed Stephanie. Duane called 911. When the police came, summoned by the ambulance crew, they arrested him. In the early morning, they let him go, after the coroner determined that no foul play was involved. I knew I had to pull myself out of my haze. I knew I had to function. And I did, like an automaton. Arrangements had to be made. Calls to Marvin, to Steven in St. Louis, to Aida, still in Guatemala. Martin called our friends. I asked Father Simon, from St. Michaels on the Navajo reservation, to officiate at the funeral. All were on their way to Santa Barbara within hours, or within a day. My friend Grace couldn’t decide which one of Stephanie’s poems to choose for the In Memoriam leaflet she offered to design. She loved them all and then chose seventeen. This beautiful booklet in Steff’s favorite color, pink, was Grace’s last gift to my daughter—as it would be a gift to the mourners who received it during the funeral service. She had so many friends, my Stephanie. Later they filled the little chapel at the Santa Barbara Cemetery and overflowed to the portico outside. Her life had touched those who knew her, and she was loved by them. And I? Her death wrapped me in opaque grayness. The California winter air, breezy and cool, seemed to withdraw from me—forcing me to take deep, deliberate breaths. My mind was blank. The blade churning in my chest was sharp. There are no words that can describe this pain. No words. My brain turned the phrase—Stephanie, my...

Share