Chasing Butterflies

by Amir Abrams

  And then comes the sobbing again.

  “Shhh. It’s okay, sweetheart. Let it out. That’s right, get it all out. I’m here for you, Nia. We all are.”

  But my daddy isn’t.

  “I promise you, sweetheart.” She’s rubbing my back. “You’ll get through this.”

  How?

  I am gulping between sobs, trying to catch my breath, trying to fill my burning lungs with air. I try—want—to speak, but no words come out.

  How can I get through this when I can’t live for today? When I don’t want to live for tomorrow?

  I want to know, how can I get through this when I am barely holding on?

  How can I get through this when there is literally nothing else left of me?

  I look up at her. Try to blink her into focus through the tears. “How?” is all I can manage to push out. “H-h-how?”

  She pulls me in closer, her arms wrapping me tighter, rocking me as one would a baby.

  “One day at a time, sweetheart,” she tells me. “One day at a time.”

  I look at her, not saying a word, breathing heavy and hiccupping. I’m sure she means well. I’m sure she believes this. That “one day at a time” is all I’ll need to get through this.

  But for me . . .

  It’s the emptiest promise I’ve heard.

  * * *

  In the wee hours of the night, against the clutter of my weeping heart, words finally find me. And I do something I haven’t done in what feels like forever. I open my journal and write:

  When I am done, I close my eyes, take in a deep breath. I wait. And I wait. And I wait. Praying for strength. Praying for direction. Praying for answers. I need to know, what will happen now? Need to know what will be in store for me without Daddy.

  I can’t imagine life without him.

  Not another minute, another second.

  Can’t imagine my existence stuck in this emptiness.

  And, yet, here I am.

  Alone.

  I close my journal, clutch it against my aching heart, and cry.

  24

  I open my eyes. Rub sleep from then. I feel disoriented. Lost. I have to look around the room to get my bearings.

  I blink the room into view. Everything looks familiar. It’s my bedroom.

  I glance over at the digital clock: 7:39 a.m.

  For the last three days I’ve barely slept. Last night, I slept four hours, the most I’ve slept since Daddy’s death.

  I don’t feel better, or worse.

  I simply don’t feel.

  I just wish I could go back.

  Just wish—

  I don’t want to think about it. No. Not right now.

  I sigh, flipping the blankets off me. I sit up and hold my head in my hands.

  My head hurts.

  It’s pounding.

  My stomach tightens.

  I haven’t eaten much in the last several days.

  God, why?

  I wish I could free myself.

  Grow wings.

  And fly.

  Wish I could reach out and touch the hands of time.

  Rewind the clocks.

  And start back to when life, my life, was full of happiness, full of joy, full of Daddy’s love.

  My bottom lip starts trembling.

  My vision starts to blur.

  Stop this. No tears, Nia.

  I blink them back.

  You have to be strong, Nia.

  Isn’t that what everyone’s been saying to me?

  “Be strong, Nia.”

  “You’ll get through it, Nia.”

  “Push past the pain, Nia.”

  Nia.

  Nia.

  Nia.

  Do this. Do that.

  Don’t do this. Don’t do that.

  It isn’t fair. None of this is.

  Daddy dying on me.

  Aunt Terri—a lady I hardly know—making decisions for me.

  How dare he. How dare she.

  How dare God.

  How dare all of them do this to me?

  I’m tired.

  So, so tired.

  Tired of being told what I should do.

  Tired of being told what’s best for me.

  Why can’t I just be left alone?

  Just let me be.

  Doesn’t anyone know what all this has done to me?

  It’s infected me.

  It’s left me sick.

  Sick.

  Sick.

  And I’ve succumbed to it.

  I wonder obsessively if I will ever be able to think of Daddy and not feel pain, if this gaping hole in my heart will ever close.

  I glance over at the time again. Then I crawl my way out of bed and begrudgingly drag myself to the bathroom. My legs feel wobbly.

  I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror and almost fall over. The tear-stained face staring back at me is unrecognizable. I am a total catastrophe. Eyes swollen and caked with crust, puffy bags hanging beneath them, hair matted. My once flawless complexion is blotchy. My full lips are ashy. There’s dried spit in the corners of my mouth.

  I look a horrid mess.

  Run down and crazed.

  But I am still too numb to care.

  I blink back fresh, unexpected tears. Then I turn from the mirror.

  This is what my life has become.

  A sad state of disarray.

  I turn on the faucet, then stare down into the sink. Just the thought of standing here and brushing my teeth overwhelms me.

  I am so exhausted.

  From crying.

  From not sleeping.

  From hurting.

  I ache all over.

  My head.

  My eyes.

  My chest.

  My heart.

  I honestly don’t know how much more of this I can take.

  I just want it all to go away. But it won’t. It’s etched into every part of me. There’s no forgetting it. There’s no way of escaping it. It’s all around me.

  Aunt Terri is still here, taking over everything, packing up the house, my house. My life. A constant reminder that nothing for me will ever be the same.

  She says she will stay until I am finished with school.

  But then . . .

  “Other arrangements will need to be made . . .”

  What arrangements?

  What does she plan to do with me?

  The thought of being shuffled around like a piece of unwanted furniture makes my stomach knot.

  I am still too sick with grief to dissect the implications of what Aunt Terri said to me. Still too overwhelmed to try to decipher the meaning behind her words.

  My gut tells me that no matter what she has in mind, I’m not going to be happy with the idea. But what other choice will I have?

  None.

  So, somehow, someway, I will have to find a way to accept my fate.

  I am doomed.

  I blow out a long breath.

  Then I bend down to cup water into my hands and rinse my mouth out. I swirl the cool liquid around in my mouth, then spit it out. Even that drains me. Makes me want to turn around and crawl back into bed. Get lost beneath the covers.

  I keep rinsing. Keep swirling. Keep spitting.

  And then I am lowering my head into the sink bowl, splashing cold water on my face.

  Trying to revive myself.

  I look back up into the mirror. Stare at my reflection. Then with my thumb under my left eye, and my pointer finger under my right eye, I pull down on the skin under my eyes and peek inside. I’m not sure what I expect to see. But I look anyway. Stare at the pink flesh of my lower lids. Then let go.

  I keep my gaze locked on my reflection.

  Vacant eyes stare back at me.

  Bloodshot eyes.

  Sad eyes.

  Lonely eyes.

  I don’t want to be alone.

  But I am.

  And I am scared.

  So, so, very afraid.

  Never
in a million years did I think I’d one day wake up and be an orphan.

  But I am.

  Feeling shaky on my legs, I grab onto the sink.

  I’m falling.

  Falling.

  Falling.

  And now I can’t get up.

  I am on the floor.

  Crumpled.

  Sobbing.

  25

  “I can’t keep tiptoeing around this,” I overhear Aunt Terri saying into the phone a few days later. She’s out on the patio, the glass door slid open. And I’m eavesdropping. Something I’ve found myself doing of late because, for the last several days, there’s been all kind of hushed talk of wills and probate and executors and trusts.

  And...

  The child.

  Me.

  The child.

  My name is Nia.

  Nia Daniels.

  Not the child.

  Aunt Terri is the culprit.

  She’s been talking about me behind my back as if I don’t exist.

  As if my opinions, my feelings, my wants do not matter.

  As if I am not important in all of this.

  As if I’m not the one who is affected by all of this.

  On the phone, whispering, and gossiping, and speaking freely about her dismay that she wasn’t appointed as the executor to Daddy’s estate. Still accusing him of stealing her inheritance.

  I’ve overheard her saying all of this.

  Talking about Daddy.

  Daddy’s gone. Yet she’s relentlessly bashing him.

  All over money.

  His money.

  Or whatever.

  And now this...

  “No. She’s upstairs locked in her room, probably crying herself sick . . . I can’t wait to get the hell out of this house. I’m trying . . . for her. I know she’s innocent in all of this. But I’ll be glad when this mess is all over with. I’m ready to get back to my life.”

  I lean up against the frame, out of view, curiosity getting the best of me, to hear more, know more.

  “. . . He didn’t even have the decency to appoint me as her guardian . . . He’s such a bastard . . . I know, I know... Well, it’ll be up to a judge now . . .”

  I blink.

  All of this is way over my head.

  I decide I’ve had enough, but then I stay planted in place when I hear her say, “No, no. I haven’t said anything. I’m trying to be sympathetic . . . Julian’s lawyer suggested we tell her together, but I said I’d rather do it myself. Yes, I know... She deserves to know.”

  To know what?

  My ears burn to hear more.

  “. . . Yes, before he gets here . . .”

  Before who gets here?

  I know I probably shouldn’t be eavesdropping on her conversation, but what is it they always say about curiosity?

  Yeah. That.

  So I stay put.

  Curiosity slow-killing the cat.

  “. . . He’s supposed to arrive tomorrow . . . No, bus . . .” Aunt Terri laughs at something being said on the other end. “. . . You heard me. He’s riding Greyhound here.” She grunts. “Too trifling to fly . . . It’s a three-day road trip . . . No, no. I haven’t spoken to him. I’ve never even seen him. The attorney’s been in contact with him . . .”

  The attorney’s been in contact with whom?

  God, the suspense is killing me.

  I’m dying to know whom she’s talking about.

  “. . . No. All I know is, he’s been in prison for the last sixteen years . . .”

  Wait.

  WHAAT?

  I blink.

  “. . . No. For guns and armed robbery . . .”

  I blink again.

  O-M-G!

  My heart starts racing.

  Who is she talking about?

  And why the heck is some gun-toting robber coming here to see me?

  It’s all starting to sound too crazy now.

  “. . . He just got released two months ago . . .” She pauses. “Yeah, I know. A convicted felon. One big mess. Well, we’ll see how it all pans out. Yes, I know. Well, let me go. Uh-huh. . . . I need to go check on this girl, make sure she hasn’t done anything foolish . . .”

  I frown.

  “. . . Okay . . . Yes . . . I’ll keep you posted.”

  She ends the call.

  And I slide the screen door open, surprising her.

  “Oh, Nia. Hey,” she says nervously, craning her neck to look over her shoulder. “You startled me. I thought you were still up in your room.”

  I give her a look. Uh-huh. I bet you did.

  “Who just got out of prison?” I ask, narrowing my eyes and cutting to the chase. “And why is he coming here to see me?”

  Aunt Terri’s eyes widen. “Oh, sweetheart, you weren’t supposed to hear all of that. But we need to—”

  I stop her with a hand. “No. Aunt Terri. Who’s been in prison for sixteen years? Obviously it has something to do with me. So I want to know. Like you said, I deserve to know.”

  “Oh, Nia, sweetheart,” she says, her eyes full of what could be regret. She motions to me with a hand. “Come have a seat, so we can talk.”

  I swallow. Shake my head. “Just tell me. Who is he?”

  Her shoulders slump in her chair. “He’s your father . . .”

  26

  I can’t believe what I’ve just heard. There is absolutely nothing wrong with my hearing, so I am certain I’ve heard wrong.

  My eyes are now as round as dinner plates. “He’s my what?” I shriek, still trying to process what she’s said. My cocoa eyes search her face closely for understanding.

  Clarity.

  She repeats herself, slowly. “Nia. The man coming to see you tomorrow is,” she pauses, pulling in a breath, “your father. Your real father.”

  I shake my head, still not comprehending. My real father was buried weeks ago. I saw him lying in that casket. I witnessed them closing it. Then rolling it out of the church. I saw the gloved men hoist Daddy up into the hearse. I followed behind them—and him, in the limo. I saw the ground open and ready. I’d laid the single white rose onto his casket and watched them lowering it—and Daddy—down into the earth.

  I was there.

  I know what I saw.

  Has she been drinking?

  Using drugs?

  I swallow. “Th-that . . . that can’t be. It’s impossible.”

  Her eyes never leave mine. “I’m so sorry, Nia. But it’s true. He—”

  “It’s a lie,” I croak out, shaking my head. I feel like she’s trying to play a nasty trick on me and at any minute, someone’s going to jump out from the bushes and yell, “You’ve just been punk’d!”

  But there’s only Aunt Terri and me out here.

  And there are no cameras. And from the look on her face, I’m not being punk’d.

  Still. I am standing here, staring at her in disbelief.

  Daddy would have told me this, wouldn’t he?

  Yes, yes. Of course he would.

  “That’s a lie,” I say, feeling my stomach clutch. “It can’t be true.”

  “Sorry, sweetie. But it is.”

  I shake my head. “My father is dead.” My lip quivers. “Julian Daniels was—is my father. W-why would you say something like that, Aunt Terri? Why?”

  “Because it’s the truth, Nia,” she says, almost sounding apologetic. A far cry from how she sounded when I’d been eavesdropping on her conversation moments ago.

  A hand over my stomach, my insides churn. I feel myself getting sick.

  “But I have the same last name as Daddy,” I say warily. “His name is on my birth certificate. So how . . .”

  Aunt Terri gives me a pained look. “Nia, honey . . .”

  Suddenly, I am heaving.

  Everything around me is spinning. I feel like I’ve been stuffed inside a vacuum, the air being quickly sucked out of me.

  Clutching my stomach.

  I open my mouth to cry out, but instead...

 
I lean forward.

  And vomit.

  Then it hits me. All the air rushes out of my lungs, and I crumple to my knees.

  27

  I was adopted.

  No, no. I am adopted.

  The following morning, Aunt Terri hands me the adoption papers given to her by Daddy’s attorney, along with a letter. He said that Daddy kept them both in a safe deposit box. Daddy wanted me to have them, to know the truth—in case something were to ever happen to him before he had the chance to tell me himself.

  I stare at the document.

  Stunned.

  Angry.

  And, eventually, numb.

  Yet I am trembling from the inside out.

  My heart leaps in my chest as I grip Daddy’s letter in my hand. My gaze shifts to the framed photograph of him and Mommy sitting atop my nightstand. The picture was taken during a trip to London. We’re standing in front of Madame Tussaud’s, the famous wax museum. Daddy and Mommy are on either side of me, holding my hands.

  I am five.

  It was the last trip I took with both my parents. I touch the glass. Then I bring the picture frame to my lips and kiss the glass.

  I am so alone.

  I miss you both so much.

  But I miss Daddy more.

  I’m not sure if I should feel guilty about this. I am not sure what I should feel about any of this. All I know is, both of my parents are gone.

  And there is only me.

  “Do you want me to stay with you?” Aunt Terri asks, sitting beside me on the bed. Setting the picture back on the nightstand, I shake my head. I tell her I want to be alone.

  “Okay. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

  I don’t look at her when she says this. I find myself understanding more and more why Daddy didn’t like her.

  I do not like her, either.

  I wait for her to leave, shutting my door, before I open Daddy’s letter. I slowly pull it out and breathe in the folded white sheets of paper. Pressing the crisp letter to my cheek, I close my eyes and try to imagine what it must have been like for him to write this letter to me. I imagine him painstakingly considering my feelings as he pressed the tip of his pen to these sheets of paper and started writing.

  I so desperately need to believe that writing this letter to me was one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do.

  I open my eyes.

  My hands shake as I unfold the letter, and the tears fall before I start reading.

  Saturday, November 10, 2012

  My beautiful Butterfly,