Chasing Butterflies (9 page)

“H
ey, sweetie,” Mrs. Thomas says, walking over toward me.

I stand and race over to her.

She opens her arms and I immediately fall into them.

And sob.

“There, there now, sweetheart,” Mrs. Thomas says soothingly. “It’s going to be all right. You’ll see. Your father is as strong as an ox. He’ll fight this. Whatever it is.”

I nod into her shoulder and swallow. “I-I hope so.”

She puts an arm around me and rubs the middle of my back as she walks me back to my seat where I’d left my book bag and cell phone.

She takes a seat beside me. “Have you eaten anything?”

I shake my head, wiping my face with tissues given to me by one of the nurses. “I’m not really hungry.” I blow my nose. “I-I can’t eat. All I keep thinking about is Daddy. What if h-he doesn’t—?”

“Sssh,” she says. “Don’t say it. We’re not claiming any negative thoughts. Okay? All positive energy and lots of prayer to see your father through this.”

I nod. So, so thankful and relieved that she’s here. “Where’s Crystal?” I ask, looking around the waiting area. “I didn’t see her come in with you.”

“She’s downstairs,” Mrs. Thomas says. “She should be up shortly.”

A wave of disappointment washes over me, but then quickly evaporates as soon as I see Crystal. She comes over and wraps her arms around my neck. “Aww, Nia-pooh. I’m so sorry about your dad. We’re going to be right here with you, okay?”

I sniffle and nod.

A petite-framed Asian woman comes through the swinging doors, pulling her mask from her face. She introduces herself as Dr. Lee. Her face is void of any expression. My heart immediately lurches.

My breath catches. “Is m-my daddy okay?” I ask. But what I really want to ask, but can’t bring myself to say the words, is, “Is Daddy still alive?”

She says he’s in his room, resting. That they are still running tests.

A relieved breath escapes my lips. “Can I see him?”

She nods.

I get up, then glance back at Crystal and her mom.

“You go on, sweetheart,” Mrs. Thomas says. “We’ll be right here waiting for you.”

I nod, then follow the doctor through the swinging doors.

* * *

“Daddy,” I push out, bracing myself as I fight back tears.

I slowly walk into his hospital room, on legs I feel will collapse under me with each step I take. This is all too much for me. Seeing him like this.

Frail looking.

Bound to a bed.

Tubes running out of him.

Monitors hissing and buzzing all around him.

This is not how I want to see him.

Sick...

Sickly.

I walk closer to Daddy, and he looks over at me. His hand peeks out from under the white sheet covering him. I want to collapse right here.

I want to fall to my knees, and scream out.

Sob.

Beg.

Ask God to be merciful.

To spare me from, from...

Oh, God, please.

I lower my gaze to the shiny white-tiled floor.

Take another step toward Daddy.

A faint smile forming on his face, he motions for me to come closer.

He looks so, so . . . old.

He does not look like himself.

I swallow hard and will my feet toward the bed. I feel weak. Feel helpless seeing Daddy like this.

“Hey, Butterfly,” he says, his voice sounding strained. Small.

When I finally reach his bed, I throw my arms around his neck and hug him close to me.

“Oh, Daddy. Please tell me you’re going to be okay. Please.”

He lets out a slight chuckle. “Well, let’s hope you don’t smother me to death.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, loosening my arms from around his neck. I kiss him on the cheek.

“How long will you have to be in here?” I ask.

Daddy coughs. Then he says, “Hopefully not long. They’re still running some tests.”

“I know. The doctor told me. But you’re going to be all right?”

Daddy doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks into my eyes and tells me how much he loves me. That no matter whatever happens, he will always love me. He tells me this as if he knows something’s wrong. As if he knows there’ll be no happy ending.

I blink, once, twice, then again, clinging onto hope. That everything will be fine with him.

It just has to be.

I can’t bear the thought of... of something—

A single tear falls from my eye, and Daddy reaches up with his hand and wipes it with the pad of his thumb.

“Everything’s going to be fine, sweetheart,” he tries to reassure me. But anxiety rushes through me. My pulse quickens. I have to be perfectly honest. I’m frightened. I’m scared for him, for me. I want to be strong. Want to trust that Daddy will be home in no time. But I am experiencing déjà vu.

Mom.

Nana.

They both were here.

Neither came home.

This is where they died.

And, now, five years later, I am right back at this same hospital.

And this time . . .

I have to bite the inside of my lip to keep from crying out. No. This is different. Daddy wasn’t in a car accident like my mom was. And he doesn’t have cancer like Nana did.

No. This isn’t anything like the other times.

I don’t know what I’ll do if . . . if . . .

“Promise me you’re going to be okay, Daddy,” I croak out. “Promise me you won’t ever leave me.”

I lean my body forward, covering my face with my hands, pushing the heels of my palms into my eyes.

Daddy pulls me into him. “Don’t worry yourself, sweetheart,” I hear him say as I’m trying to hold back an avalanche of emotions. But, despite Daddy’s arms around me, the tears come anyway, gushing past my hands and sliding down my face. I don’t even try to fight it any longer. My body starts to jerk, and I am sobbing.

He tries to console me. Rocks me as best he can. Rubbing my back. “Ssssh. It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m going to be fine.”

I look up at him, eyes pleading, flooded with tears. “P-p-promise?”

Daddy gazes back at me; a painful silence fills the room before he closes his eyes and blinks back what looks like tears. When he fixes his gaze on me again, it’s as if he’s weighing his words, racking his brain, trying to decide what to say to me. Then he smiles slightly and says, while taking me in his arms again, “Don’t ever forget how much I love you.”

I hug him tighter. “I love you, too, Daddy.”

His lips slowly curve into a smile. “I know you do, Butterfly.”

T
he following morning, I’m in school. Not because I want to be. But because I know it’s what Daddy would want.

So here I sit.

In my AP literature class. Distracted. My mind is back at the hospital with Daddy. Not here. Not listening to Mrs. Stump prattle on about the conflict in an African-American family over an heirloom piano.

I thought the play
The Piano Lesson
, by August Wilson, was an interesting read since I play the piano. And under different circumstances I’d be heavily engaged in the discussion on the conflict around an African-American family’s heirloom piano, decorated with carvings that date back to the slavery era.

Not today, however.

Today, I am stuck in thoughts of Daddy.

Deep thoughts.

Troubling thoughts.

I can’t focus on anything else besides him.

I have to get back to him before something . . . before something bad happens.

I have to be by his side, every second. Every minute.

Whatever he’s going through, I have to be there to see him through it the way he’s always been there for me.

I don’t know what I’d do if Daddy doesn’t get better.

I know he told me he was going to be fine. And I want to believe him.

But the man I saw lying in that hospital bed last night didn’t look fine to me.

His eyes were sunken.

He looked worn out. Tired.

And beneath that white hospital blanket, he’d looked like he was shrinking right before me. Withering away.

Maybe he really wasn’t.

Maybe my eyes were playing tricks on me.

Maybe not.

All I know is, I can’t shake the image.

The vision is implanted firmly in my memory.

Even after the bell rings, and all through fourth period French, I am still obsessing, still ruminating.

The rest of the day drags slowly by as I aimlessly wander from class to class, meandering down the halls, trying to focus on my studies and shake these feelings of dread.

When the bell finally rings to end sixth period study hall, I leap from my seat and quickly gather my things. I can’t take it anymore. I have to call. I have to hear Daddy’s voice.

I clutch my backpack to my chest as students hurry by in all directions trying to make their way to their next destinations.

Mine is inside the girl’s room. Locked inside the last stall on the right side. I fish my phone out of my bag, then call Daddy’s cell.

No answer.

I call the hospital, then have them connect me to Daddy’s room.

No answer.

My heart sinks.

Blood drains from my face.

Something’s wrong. I just know it is.

I call the hospital again.

This time have them connect me to the nurse’s station.

I am clutching the phone, on the brink of a meltdown, waiting.

The phone rings once. Twice. Three times...

It’s a bad sign.

The feeling of doom flashes brightly inside my mind.

A collage of fluorescent colors and muddled images swirls in and out of focus, one on top of the other, converging into one big mess.

The phone keeps ringing. Four times. Five times . . .

My mind’s eye starts playing tricks on me.

Daddy is being lifted up on a stretcher.

I am chasing behind them, screaming, sobbing, yelling out Daddy’s name. Begging them, the paramedics, the faceless men in white coats, to stop. To bring him back to me.

They keep going.

And I am stepping off the curb, oblivious to the oncoming traffic.

And then, and then...

There are lights flashing, sirens blaring.

I blink, my eyes watery with tears.

Another image comes into view.

Mommy and Nana are covering Daddy’s body with a white sheet.

Mommy’s face is no longer disfigured, her body no longer mangled. Her back is no longer broken. She is standing. Smiling. She looks just the way I remember her.

Beautiful.

She steps aside.

And there’s Nana.

She’s dressed in all white. Playing the piano. But . . . but... she’s never played before. Mommy plays the piano. Nana sings. She doesn’t play the piano.

My palms are sweaty, my heart racing, my throat closing with dread.

My stomach churns.

Something isn’t right. I know it. I can feel it.

Oh, God. I feel myself about to get—

“Nurses’ station,” someone answers.

My heart thuds against my ribs. Hard.

“Y-y-yes. This is Nia Daniels. I’m trying to get in touch with my father. Mr. Julian Daniels. Is he . . .” I choke back a sob. “Please tell me if my d-d-daddy’s okay.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the nurse responds calmly. “Mr. Daniels is doing fine. He’s downstairs having tests done. He should be back up in his room within the next hour or so.”

Relief washes over me.

I burst into tears. “Oh, thank you, thank you! Will you tell him that his daughter called and that I love him, and I’ll be there right after school? Please.”

“I’ll let him know. Try to enjoy the rest of your day.”

I sniffle.

I can’t let her hang up yet. My heart won’t let me. The nagging feeling in my gut keeps gnawing at me. “Wait. Don’t hang up,” I say frantically.

“Yes, ma’am?” the nurse says. Her voice is calm and even. But it does nothing for my anxiety level.

I am on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

I feel it.

“Is m-m-my daddy g-g-going to be okay?”

“No need to worry, sweetheart,” she offers gently. “Mr. Daniels is in good hands.”

My stomach clenches.

That isn’t the response I was hoping, looking, for.

But I take it because it seems like it’s her best answer. No matter how scripted it sounds.

I reach for the toilet paper, yank some off its roll, then wipe my eyes, and sniff. “Okay, thank you.”

Hands trembling, lips quivering, I press
END
.

W
hen Crystal’s mom finally drops me off at the hospital, I’m a frazzled mess. She tried to encourage me to stay positive, but no.

Daddy is resting.

I tiptoe into the room, hoping not to wake him. He needs his rest.

I sink into the chair beside his bed and watch him sleep. I glance up at the IV bag hanging from its stand, then bring my gaze to Daddy’s hand. I stare at the IV in his hand.

My bottom lip trembles.

I can’t help but wonder how much pain he must be in; yet he looks so peaceful. I find myself wondering how he can look so peaceful and be in so much pain at the same time?

Painfully peaceful, I think.

An oxymoron.

I watch Daddy sleep for almost an hour, my heart hurting.

Lurching.

My eyes stinging.

Burning.

I can’t stop obsessing.

Worrying.

Can’t stop the memories from flooding back.

Can’t stop from slipping back into time, back into a kaleidoscope of painful recollections.

I lean my head back against the chair’s headrest.

And allow myself to get lost in my own emotional time capsule.

My eyes roll into the back of my head and slowly drift closed.

I’m six again.

Mommy is in her hospital bed.

Unconscious.

Her face smashed in.

Her body mangled.

Daddy hadn’t wanted me to see her like that.

But I’d begged him to let me see Mommy.

I cried so hard that he finally caved in. Took me by the hand and led me in.

And there she was.

A shell.

An empty vessel.

And there was Nana.

A saint.

Crying and praying over her.

Giving it all to God.

And there was me.

Frightened and wet-faced.

Unsure.

Yet determined.

To touch her.

To kiss her.

To tell her how much I loved her.

How much I prayed for her.

How much I needed her to come home.

That night, Daddy had lifted me up, and I leaned over and kissed her on her bandaged forehead. I didn’t want to leave her. But Daddy had said she needed her rest. That I could come back in the morning.

But in the morning there was nothing but mourning.

Mommy died in the middle of the night, while I was home tucked in bed.

I didn’t fully comprehend the weight of Daddy’s words at the time: “Mommy isn’t coming home, Butterfly.”

“Why not?”

I remember the tears in his eyes when he said, “Because she’s resting in Heaven now.”

I didn’t know what it fully meant to die, or to be
resting in Heaven
.

Mommy wasn’t ever coming home.

Ever.

I’d had no other loss in my life. So I couldn’t comprehend it. Couldn’t conceptualize it.

That kind of loss was all new to me.

Still, I felt numb. And I cried.

Daddy groans, pulling me from the painful memory.

I stare at him.

He groans again, but doesn’t open his eyes at first.

My heart skips two beats, then stops in anticipation.

“D-d-daddy,” I stammer, looking at him anxiously, trying to contain my emotions. “Are you going to die?” The words come stumbling out of my mouth.

He looks at me.

His brown eyes are unusually intense. “I don’t want to,” he says, reaching for my hand. I take it. “T-t-there’s s-something I want to tell you. I need for you to l-listen c-carefully, okay, Butterfly?”

I nod, my tears falling freely down my face.

“Your mother and I . . .” He closes his eyes as if he’s trying to remember something. He swallows, then slowly opens his eyes. They are filled with tears.

The only time I’ve ever seen tears in Daddy’s eyes is when he had to tell me Mommy had died. I brace myself for the blow, then push out, “What is it, Daddy? Y-you’re scaring me.”

Daddy pauses, looked away from me for a moment, then looks back at me. “I’ve loved you from the moment your mother brought you into my life, Butterfly. It was love at first sight . . .”

He closes his weary eyes. Swallows. The medications are keeping him groggy.

He’s in pain. I can see it. Feel it.

And I still don’t know what is wrong with him. No one will tell me anything.

He’s been here for two days now, and he isn’t getting any better.

He’s worse.

Seeing him lying weakly in this hospital bed is killing me.

“Daddy, p-p-please don’t leave me,” I say, wrapping my arms around him, burrowing my face into his chest. The tears won’t stop. They fall fast and heavy.

It’s as if I already know the outcome before it happens.

“Shhhhh. Look at me, Butterfly.”

I lift my head from his chest and look him in his sunken eyes.

“I’m always going to be with you,” Daddy breathes, trying to stretch a smile across his face. “Your mother and I . . .” He closes his eyes again, then slowly opens them. “We . . . I . . . hoped to tell you at the right time . . .”

“Tell me what, Daddy?”

His eyes flutter.

“Tell me what, Daddy?” I repeat, my heart racing and breaking into tiny pieces at the same time.

He swallows. “Y-you’ll always be my daughter, Butterfly,” Daddy says. “No matter what. Never forget how much I love you.”

I nod. But what he says isn’t making any sense because I
know
I’m
his
daughter. And I know how much he loves me. It must be the drugs, I surmise.

Yeah. That has to be it.

His eyes shut.

And now I am on my knees at his bedside, clutching his hand, desperately holding on. But I can feel the air seeping out of my body.

He’s still breathing. His heart is still beating.

Still I—

Daddy’s eyes slowly open.

They are full of tears. Mine are full of tears. “This is the hardest thing I have to tell you.”

“What is, Daddy? Please tell me.”

He swallows. “I’m not . . .” he swallows again. “I . . .”

Machines beep.

Daddy’s eyes flutter shut.

And then it happens.

The machine flat-lines.

“Daddy!” I scream, hysterically, shaking him. “No! No! No! Wake up!
Noooooooo
!”

My worst fear realized.

Daddy is gone.