by Amir Abrams
He arches a brow. “Why not? You painted them.”
Now he’s smirking.
I swallow. “I know I did. But it was a joke.”
Daddy lets out a loud ha. “So the joke was on me last night, but now it’s no joking matter, huh?”
“Well, no. I mean. It’s still funny. Behind closed doors. Not out in public.”
He shrugs. “I kind of like it, though. The color looks great on my skin tone. Don’t you think?” He doesn’t wait for me to respond. “I think I’ll wear a pink T-shirt, too, in support of Cancer Awareness month.”
I give him a mortified look.
He glances at his watch. “C’mon. You better get a move on it. I’ll be downstairs when you’re ready.”
* * *
Ohmygod! I can’t believe him!
Daddy has officially humiliated me.
I’m the town laughingstock.
Okay, okay. Maybe I’m exaggerating just a teenie bit.
He hasn’t shamed me that bad.
But he’s definitely made me uncomfortable walking through the Grove on a Saturday afternoon baring his pink toes for ALL to see.
Oh, how shameless he is.
And, now, here he is.
Standing in line in Banana Republic all decked out in his pink T-shirt and pink toes with his wallet out, ready to pay for my purchases. Crazy thing is, no one else seems fazed about what he has on, except for me.
So I need to just get over it.
Huh?
Yeah. I guess.
Daddy is simply proving a point, I think as I eye the lady who has inched herself close enough to engage Daddy in small talk while we wait in line. The point being, be comfortable in your own skin. Something he’s always instilled in me.
I find it quite interesting how I’ve spotted several women smiling and trying to catch Daddy’s eye, but once again, he’s acting like he’s too blind to see that he has admirers.
A few brazenly flirt with Daddy.
Others tend to be coy about it.
But I notice everything.
Like this lady now in her black-and-white sundress and white strappy sandals. She looks really nice. And she seems really, really smitten with Daddy.
“Mm. Excuse me. What’s the name of that cologne you have on? It smells so good. You smell so good.”
Daddy smiles. “Oh, thanks. I can’t remember the name of it right off the top of my head. It’s something my daughter picked up for me.” He looks over at me. “Nia, sweetheart, what’s the name of that cologne you bought me last Father’s Day?”
The lady sweeps her gaze over at me.
I shrug. “Um, I—”
“She’s your daughter?”
“Yeah. This is my beautiful butterfly, Nia. She’s sixteen,” he tells her.
“Sixteen? Oh, my. I wouldn’t have guessed. You look too young to have a teenage daughter,” she says teasingly. She touches his arm.
Daddy’s grin widens.
Oh, Lord.
I silently roll my eyes up in my head.
I can’t remember a time when Daddy’s ever gone out on a date. If he has, he’s never mentioned it. “I’m keeping it easy, breezy; light and easy,” he always says.
He says I’m his number one priority.
“What do you think about my pink toes?” Daddy asks her, the question slicing into my musing.
My eyes widen.
I can feel the floor opening and slowly swallowing me in.
She tears her starry-eyed gaze from his and glances down at his feet. Her eyebrows rise. “Oh. Different,” she says coolly.
Daddy chuckles. “Yeah. I thought so, too.” He gestures with his head toward me. “My lovely daughter here decided to paint my toes while I was asleep.”
“Daddy,” I say shamefacedly.
She chuckles, touching his arm again. “Well, she did a fabulous job, I might say. I’d love to have a daughter who painted my toes.”
Daddy proudly throws an arm around my shoulder. “Yeah, I’m a real lucky guy.” He kisses me on the temple. “I think I’ll keep her around for a while.”
My heart melts.
I want to tell him, no. I’m the lucky one.
Instead, I squeeze him back.
And for the rest of the day, Daddy spends every chance he gets drawing attention to his feet and telling random women the story behind his painted pink toes.
I can’t help but smile.
And love Daddy even more.
8
I close my journal.
Shut my eyes.
Take a deep breath.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Then slowly open my eyes.
Don’t ask me why I wrote that.
It’s not like I’m in love, or have a boyfriend.
Nor am I looking for one.
Not now, anyway.
Boys are distractions.
They require time and patience I don’t have.
I shake my head, a smile slowly spreading across my lips.
Okay, okay...
If I’m really, really honest with myself I sometimes fantasize about having the kind of love that Daddy had with my mom before she passed away.
They always looked so happy.
You saw his love for her.
You felt it.
It was in the way he looked at her.
In the way he spoke to her.
In the way he held her hand.
There was never any question what was in his heart for her. Real love.
Unadulterated.
Unwavering.
He always made her feel special.
And appreciated.
I can remember my mom’s eyes lighting up every time Daddy stepped into the room. He’d lean in and kiss her on the lips. And she’d smile. And then he’d scoop me up in his arms and smother me with kisses. And tell me how much he loved me.
Mommy would watch him with me, her smile widening. Then she’d wait until Daddy left the room and say, “I love the hell out of that man.”
“Oooh, Mommy,” I’d squeal, “you said a bad word. Don’t say that.”
She’d pull me into her arms, then she’d sweetly say, “I’m sorry, sweetheart. But my heart dances and skips a beat every time I see your father. When you’re old enough, hopefully, you’ll be blessed to have a man whom you love as much as I love your father. And, if you’re fortunate enough, he’ll love you back. And make you feel like you are the most important woman in the world to him.”
And I’d say, “When I grow up, I’m going to marry Daddy.”
She’d laugh. Tell me I couldn’t marry him, because he was hers.
And I’d say, “It’s okay. I can share him.”
She’d burst into laughter every time. Tell me I’d have to find my own knight in shining armor.
So, let’s try this again.
Why did I write that?
I wrote it because I hope to one day have a husband like Daddy—a man who is full of love for me, who makes my heart dance and skip beats the way Mommy’s once did.
Mommy’s face, her smile, her wide bright eyes, flash in my head, and I find myself becoming nostalgic.
Not a day goes by that I do not think of her.
That I am not wishing she were still alive.
Emotions welling up inside of me, I fight back tears.
It’s been ten years, six days, and almost nine hours since her passing. And, for me, it still feels like yesterday.
They say time heals, but I am still waiting.
The pain is not as intense as it once was.
Maybe because I was too young to really understand the impact of her death.
Still, it left a hole in my heart.
But I had Daddy and my nana to fill it with their love.
And eventually the hole closed.
The pain of being motherless subsided.
And I learned to move on.
Still . . .
She’s always in my heart.
Forever.
When Mommy first died, I cried every day, and I’d ask my nana why she had to die, why that man in the truck had to hit her car?
And Nana would say, “Because Heaven couldn’t wait for her, baby. God called your momma home to be with His angels.”
Nana’s voice floats through the room. “When God looks to place flowers in His garden, my sweet baby, He always picks the prettiest ones . . . your beautiful momma is amongst some of the most beautiful flowers in His garden. So breathe in your momma’s sweet scent, knowing she will always be in bloom. . .”
I inhale deeply.
Breathe in my mother’s presence.
Then glance up at the sixteen-by-twenty-inch portrait of her hanging on the wall.
I love you, Mommy . . .
Needing to feel close to her, I place my journal down on the sofa, then climb the basement stairs to the main level of the house.
I walk into our formal living room, with its white Persian rug and crisp white walls. There’s only one piece of furniture in here, positioned in the center of the room.
A Steinway.
My mother’s prized possession.
And gift from Daddy.
I saunter over to the baby grand piano.
Pull out the bench.
Slide onto it.
Then lift the fallboard.
My fingertips graze the piano keys, and I close my eyes.
Breathe in.
Conjure up the sweetest memories of my mother.
And then I am transported back in time.
I am five again.
Mommy is sitting beside me, close, so very close.
Her leg brushes mine as she gently rests her hand over my right hand.
“Okay, sweetheart. What will it be today? Mozart or Beethoven?”
I’m shaking my head. “My favorite Little Mermaid song.”
She is smiling at me. “Okay. Just this once.”
I giggle, knowing she doesn’t mean it. She always says that.
I go into character.
I am Ariel.
The Mermaid.
Then her hands swoop down on the piano keys, her slender fingers, flying over the keys, graceful and almost balletic as she belts out “Part of Your World.”
I can hear every word.
Feel every note.
The song ends, and I open my eyes.
Exhale.
Then allow my fingers to settle on the keys, my feet on the pedals as I play one of my mother’s favorite tunes.
A song that speaks to the heart. And to the love she and Daddy shared. “The First Time I Ever Saw Your Face” by Roberta Flack.
The music comes alive.
The melody takes over.
And I get lost.
Lost in my mother’s love.
Lost in her love for Daddy.
Lost in his love for her.
Lost in her memory.
So wrapped up in the music, I am oblivious to the fact that I am not alone.
It is not until I reach the end of the song that I realize Daddy has slid onto the bench beside me.
And I am crying.
9
Two days later, Daddy and I are sitting at the breakfast bar. He’s sipping a cup of his favorite vanilla bean coffee, and reading the Los Angeles Times, which he has delivered every morning. I’m eating a bowl of vanilla Greek yogurt and sliced strawberries. I never like eating anything too heavy in the morning; well, not on school days, that is.
I’m on my phone, scrolling through my Facebook newsfeed and accepting new friend requests, when Daddy looks up from his paper, and—right out the blue—asks me who the first African-American poet is, as if this is some difficult trivia question.
He knows I know.
I smile.
Set my phone down on the table.
And indulge him anyway.
He grins. “Now before you answer, Butterfly, I want you to think about it carefully. There’s a fifty dollar bill riding on this.”
Ooh, yeah. I clap my hands. “Ooh, easy money, Daddy. You might as well just hand it over to me now.” I laugh. “Please and thank you.”
He chuckles, his brown eyes lighting up. “You sure?”
I raise a brow.
Am I sure?
Of course I am.
Everyone knows anything about African-American history knows Phillis Wheatley is the first African-American poet.
I tell him so.
Then extend my hand out. “Pay up, Daddy.”
“Ahh, not so fast, young lady.” A smile eases over his lips, as if he knows something I don’t. “Are you one hundred percent certain?”
“Yes, Daddy. I’m sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“So Phillis Wheatley is your final answer? Is that what you’re telling me?”
Um. It’s the only answer. Isn’t it? “Yes. Final answer. There is no other answer.”
I hold my hand out and wiggle my fingers. “Money, please.” “And if you’re wrong?”
“Daddy, stop playing,” I say, laughing. He’s so silly. “You know I’m not wrong.”
He grins. “But if you are?”
I furrow my brows. “Okay, hypothetically speaking, if I were wrong—which I’m not, by the way—then I’d make you breakfast in bed for the next two weekends.”
Now he lets out a hearty laugh. “What, a bowl of cereal and two slices of toast?”
I keep from laughing myself. I can’t cook. Can barely boil water.
Daddy knows this.
But I’m okay with telling him I’ll fix him breakfast, knowing I won’t have to because I’ve given him the correct answer.
“Nope. Pancakes, eggs, and bacon, and grits.”
He smiles wide. “Oh, I’d like to see this. And I get to take pictures and post them up on Facebook, right?”
“Daddy!” I squeal. “No one really posts pictures up on Facebook anymore. That’s so last year.”
“Oh, is that so? Well, then, how about I post them up on Facebook and Instagram? Or is that still so last year?” he teases.
I giggle. “I’m not telling.”
He shakes his head and takes a sip of his coffee. Then he sets his cup down, before saying, “I want you to look up Jupiter Hammon.”
“Jupiter what?”
“Not what. Who.”
“Okay. Who?”
“Jupiter H-a-m-m-o-n. Hammon.”
He pushes back from the table and stands.
I give him a perplexed look. “Now?”
“By all means.” He starts whistling toward the sink with his breakfast dishes, rinsing them in the sink.
I reach for my cell. Type in my password, then click onto the Internet and Google this Jupiter Hammon person.
I click the link for Wikipedia.
I blink.
Crinkle my forehead.
It says he’s a black poet who, in 1761, became the first African-American writer to be published in the United States.
“See anything interesting?” Daddy says.
I look up from my phone to catch him smiling.
Sigh.
“This is so not right. Everybody knows Wikipedia can be manipulated by anyone. Half of the stuff on there probably isn’t even true.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “Okay, if you say so. Keep browsing the search engine, then.”
I do just that as Daddy stacks the dishwasher.
I find something else on him that calls him the “Father of African-American poetry.” That says he was born in 1753, before Phillis Wheatley. That he is believed to be the first published male African-American poet and essayist.
Wow.
“So who was the first African-American poet?” Daddy probes, grinning.
I playfully roll my eyes at him. “I still think it was Phillis Wheatley,” I say as I keep reading. “But, for argument’s sake, I’ll go with this for now. But the verdict is still out.”
He laughs. “Whatever you say, Butterfly.” Daddy walks ba
ck over to the table holding something rolled up in his hand, a shirt or something. “Here.” He hands me what’s in his hand. “You’ll need this.”
“What is it?” I take it from him.
Daddy chuckles. “Your apron.”
My jaw drops. “Apron?”
“Yes. You’ll need it for Saturday.” He leans over and kisses me on the forehead. “And I like my eggs scrambled hard. But you already know that.”
Oh joy. “Hey, how about I take you out instead?” I say as he heads out the kitchen.
“Fat chance,” he says over his shoulder. “I want blueberry pancakes, too.”
I suck my teeth and turn my attention back to my phone. “Love you, too, Daddy.”
“I know you do. Don’t be late for school.”
“I won’t,” I say, opening another link about the life of Jupiter Hammon.
“See you tonight, Butterfly.”
“Bye,” I say absentmindedly, reading more about this eighteenth-century poet.
The security alarm chirps.
Daddy has opened the door.
It chirps again.
He’s gone.
I know without looking at the clock on my phone what time it is: 6:30 a.m.
And time for me to get ready for school.
10
“Soooo, are we hanging out after school?” Crystal wants to know as we climb the stairs toward our lockers on the second floor.
I shoulder my backpack, shrugging. “I don’t know. I guess.”
Crystal stops walking and places a hand up on her narrow hip. She’s wearing her WTH face. “Umm, you guess? That is sooo not the answer I was looking for, Nia. You do not get to ditch me today, girlfriend. I need a friend.”
I shake my head, smiling. “Sounds like you need a hug more.”
“Well, I’ll take that, too.” She spreads open her arms and gestures with both hands for me to come to her. “Bring it in, Nia-pooh. Give me hugs.”
I laugh. “You’re so silly, girl.” I give her a hug, then grab her right arm and pull her along. “C’mon, before we’re late.”
She groans. “I have calculus first period. You know my brain doesn’t fully awaken until after twelve. I should have never chosen that class so early in the morning. It’s slowly killing my brain cells.”
“Oh, well,” I say, still dragging her down the hall. We’re almost at our lockers when we run into Cameron and two of his basketball friends, Nate and Cole.
Oh, did I mention that Cameron is a starter on the team?
