by Amir Abrams
Just the slightest of a beat, but still his heart is beating.
He’s still alive!
I scream into the phone. “I found it! His heart is still beating!”
“Okay, Nia. That’s great. Now I need for you to see if he’s still breathing.”
I swallow.
She tells me to place my face up to his mouth and nose to see if I can hear and feel his breathing.
“Feel for air coming from his mouth and nose for me, sweetie.”
Ohmygod!
There’s a brush of air against my skin. I didn’t feel it before, but...
I croak back a sob, my body shaking with emotion. “Y-yes. He’s still breathing. Barely. P-p-leeeeease, you gotta send someone ASAP!”
“Okay, Nia. Help is on the way. I’m going to stay on the line with you until . . .”
I don’t hear anything else.
I cling to Daddy, wailing at the top of my lungs.
17
Why won’t they let me see him?
None of this can be any good.
It’s a bad sign.
An omen.
All of this waiting.
I am alone in the hospital’s waiting room.
An utter wreck.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting.
Watching the clock.
Watching the doors.
Watching the phone.
Then I am up, pacing the floors.
Back and forth.
Up and down.
Pacing.
Pacing.
Pacing.
Wringing my hands.
Hoping that everything is okay with Daddy.
He never gets sick.
Rarely catches a cold.
And now he’s here.
How can this be?
I just want to see him.
Just want to know that he’s okay.
I can’t do this alone.
But here I am.
Alone.
Waiting.
Waiting.
All of this waiting is driving me crazy.
If the waiting doesn’t kill me, this dark cloud of doom hovering over me will.
It feels like these white walls are closing in on me.
I have no other family here.
Except for Crystal and her family.
I’m so glad I called her.
She and her mom are on their way to be with me.
My head is pounding.
It feels like I’ve been sitting here for an eternity.
Waiting for news from a doctor, or from anyone, who might be able to tell me what’s going on with him.
Two fricking hours! That’s how long I’ve been sitting and waiting.
And still nada.
No word.
Nothing.
The thought of something . . . of Daddy not—
Oh, God!
I should have come right home from school.
Should have looked for Daddy the minute I stepped across the threshold.
I should have never been on the phone with Crystal.
My conscience is burdened with “should haves.”
I bite my lip.
Then I jump when my cell phone rings. I fish it out of my jacket pocket and glance at the screen. I sigh a breath of relief when Aunt Terri’s name flashes across the screen. She’s Daddy’s older sister who lives in Georgia.
Norcross, I think.
I’m not really sure since I’ve never been out to visit.
Daddy has two sisters. My other aunt, Priscilla, lives in Arizona. She comes to visit once a year. But I don’t have her new number.
Daddy does.
And it’s in his phone.
So I called Aunt Terri. And it’s only taken her almost an hour to call me back, even though I marked the call URGENT.
Still, I break down the moment I hear her voice.
She waits for me to calm, then starts firing off a series of questions. What happened? What hospital is he in? What are the doctors saying? Have I seen him yet?
“I’m still waiting,” I tell her after replaying the events leading up to now.
“Well, keep me posted,” she says, sounding distracted. She sighs. “I knew something like this would happen one day. God doesn’t like ugly.”
You knew what would happen one day?
Does she know something?
And what does she mean by God doesn’t like ugly?
I wipe tears from my face with the bottom of my T-shirt.
“Aunt Terri, you knew s-something was wrong with him?”
There’s a brief pause.
“Aunt Terri?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“I asked if you knew something was wrong with Daddy?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Something on the television caught my eye.” I frown. “But, no. I don’t know anything. All I was saying is, karma is . . . I mean, your father should have taken better care of himself; that’s all.”
I swallow, thinking...
More should haves.
I knew this was a mistake.
Calling her.
She and Daddy have been estranged since forever.
She—from what I’ve overheard over the years—thinks Daddy stole all of her and Aunt Priscilla’s inheritance when their mother, my granny, passed away, waaaay before I was born.
So there’s tension between them.
Still . . .
She’s Daddy’s sister.
She should be more sympathetic.
Or at least act like she cares.
But what do I know?
I’m just a kid.
“There’s really not much I can do from here,” she says, slicing into my thoughts.
I blink. Umm. How about trying to be a bit more supportive?
“But call me the minute you hear something, okay, sweetheart?”
I don’t know why I even bothered calling her. “I will,” I say, feeling dismissed. “Can you give me Aunt Priscilla’s number?”
“Oh, sweetie. I don’t give out numbers. I’ll have to call her and see if it’s okay for you to have it.”
I blink.
Really? “It’s okay. If you speak with her, can you please tell her about Daddy.”
“I will. Once I know more.”
There’s nothing more to say. She tells me she’ll keep me in her thoughts. That she’ll pray for Daddy. That she loves me. But even that sounds . . . um, questionable.
I tell her I love her, too, because it sounds like the right thing to do.
Then there’s silence on the other end.
I’m not sure if she’s hung up on me, or if the call dropped.
All I know is, I won’t be calling her again.
18
“Hey, 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. “S
he 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.
Ohmygod!
He looks so, so . . . old.
What is happening to him?
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 . . .
God, please don’t let anything happen to Daddy.
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.”
Then why am I so scared?
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.”
19
The 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.
Oh no no no no. Pleaaaase. God. No.
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.”
