by Amir Abrams
“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.
20
When 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 w
orst fear realized.
Daddy is gone.
21
Why God, why . . . ?
For three days after the funeral, I stay locked in my room. For three days, I block out the world around me. I do not eat. Do not bathe. I stay in bed. The curtains drawn, I remain cocooned beneath the covers.
Wrapped in heartache.
Enveloped in shock and disbelief.
Grieving.
I feel so broken.
In the blink of an eye, my whole world has been turned upside down, then inside out. My happiness has been snatched from me. My whole world has unraveled. And, now, my life as I once knew it is . . . over!
And I have nothing.
Nothing left of me.
Nothing to be happy about.
Nothing to believe in.
Nothing to look forward to.
I am sixteen.
Motherless.
Fatherless.
Now orphaned.
And I am angry, so, so, very angry with God for taking Daddy from me. And I’m angry with Daddy for leaving me here.
Alone.
Afraid.
Sad.
My daddy’s gone!
Dead!
How could he do this to me?
I feel abandoned by him.
He told me he’d always be here for me.
Told me he’d never leave me.
That he’d always take care of me.
Love me.
Protect me.
He promised me.
But now he’s departed. Gone! Buried beneath dirt, his body an empty shell.
How could he not tell me he was sick? That he was dying? How could I not know? Didn’t I have a right to know?
This whole thing feels so unreal. One minute, Daddy’s fine. Then the next minute, he’s dead. I keep pinching myself, hoping to wake up and find that I imagined it all. That it’s all just one big, horrible nightmare.
But I know it’s not. I know it’s real. I saw it with my own eyes. And now I am hurting. My heart is aching. This piercing pain is excruciating. And there’s an unexplainable tightening in my chest. My emotions are choking me, strangling the air out of me, wringing out what’s left of me.
I feel like I am dying inside.
Dying.
Dying.
What’s there left to live for? Everyone I’ve ever loved is gone. My grandmother. My mother. Now Daddy.
Oh, God! My chest hurts. I take several deep breaths. Try to will away the emotions welling up inside of me. But I am too overwhelmed with grief. And memories. And loss. My bottom lip starts quivering. Just a little at first, then it’s shaking and I have to bite it. Before I can stop the flood of feelings pooling inside of me, my vision shimmers.
Tears brim my eyes.
The storm is coming.
I blink back the burning sensation.
Then I close my eyes, just as someone taps on my door, gently at first.
“Nia, honey?” It’s my aunt Terri’s voice, Daddy’s sister from Atlanta.
I wipe tears from my eyes. I feel a headache pushing its way to the front of my head. I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, trying to will it away. But the steady throb slowly starts to pound.
And pound.
And pound.
The knocking becomes more persistent.
“Nia, sweetheart?” Aunt Terri’s voice sounds filled with concern.
I start hyperventilating.
A wave of emotions washes over me.
And then...
I am slowly being pulled under.
And, now, I am drowning.
Drowning in sorrow.
Drowning in pain.
Drowning in loneliness.
Drowning, drowning, drowning.
I hear the door open. “Nia?”
I don’t speak. I can’t speak. I can only cry. It’s a boo-hoo-snot-flying-every-which-way sobbing that burns my chest, and swells my eyes almost shut.
I am choking.
Gasping.
Thrashing about.
Fighting for air; fighting for breath; fighting to keep from sinking; fighting to hold one, fighting to get through this.
Fighting, fighting, fighting—to survive.
22
Loneliness has no mercy...
I spend the next several days floating, in and out of a fog, in and out of consciousness. I mean, I am aware of what has happened—but everything around me has become one big blur.
I am dazed and confused.
It hurts to breathe.
It hurts to think.
Pain finds every part of me.
And I am not sure how much more of this I can endure before I, before I . . . lose my mind. I wonder how I can be so numb, and yet feel so much grief, so much heartache, so much despair all at the same time. How I can be so full of conflict, yet feel so much emptiness.
I am an oxymoron, a ball of contradictions.
A tortured soul.
A bleeding heart.
Slowly withering.
Withering.
Withering.
The things I have loved the most are now the things I try so desperately to avoid.
Playing the piano.
Journaling.
My poetry.
Things that remind me of Daddy, things too painful to enjoy knowing that he is no longer going to be here to enjoy them with.
I close my eyes.
Listen to the thump-thump-thump of my heavy heart as it pounds in my ears.
Thump-thump.
Thump-thump.
Thump-thump.
Like that of a beating drum; rhythmically pounding.
Slicing into the silence.
Morphing me into a wave of vibrations.
Trapped beneath skin.
I lie stone still, holding my breath.
Thump-thump.
Thump-thump.
Thump-thump.
The sound resonates through my body.
It pounds louder.
Echoes through the hollowness of my soul.
And leaves me feeling so, so empty.
And trapped.
Trapped in sadness.
Trapped in uncertainty.
The reality of my situation has me wondering what will become of me. Who will care for me now, now that Daddy’s gone?
Oh, God, why? Why? Why?
I am still in . . . shock.
Daddy’s gone!
Thump-thump.
Thump-thump.
I repeat this truth in my head, over the sound of the beating drums. Over and over and over again. Daddy’s gone. Daddy’s gone. Daddy’s gone. It plays in my mind like a scratched disc. Over and over and over. And no matter how hard I try to trick my psyche into believing that he’s coming back, that he’s on some extended vacation, that he’s going to one day soon walk back through the door and call me his little butterfly and tell me how much he loves me, I know it’s a bold-faced lie. That he isn’t ever coming back. And my mind won’t be deceived.
The painful reality is: My daddy’s gone!
And I am feeling resentful. And I’m angry, very, very angry. My troubled heart points a finger at him. It blames him for this pain I am in.
I open my eyes. Reach under my pillow and feel for my journal. I clutch it to heart. My fingers trail its edges as I pull in a deep, shaky breath . . . and wait.
And wait.
And wait.
For the steadying of my heartbeat, for the heaviness in my chest to lift, for silence to finally claim me; instead, my chest shakes. My body throbs. The drumming, its steady beat, reverberates through me.
Deafening vibrations.
Thump-thump.
Thump-thump.
The pace quickens.
Thump-thump-thump-thump.
The beating grows louder.
Thump-thump-thump.
Thump-thump-thump.
Thump-thump-thump.
And louder . . .
And louder . . .
Un
til my head starts to spin, until my vision begins to blur, and everything around me starts to fade in and out.
I am too afraid to sleep.
Restless nights of weeping have taken its toll on me.
I’m tired, so, so very tired.
I don’t want to give up.
Don’t want to let go.
And, yet, I’m standing at the cliff—
Heart pounding.
Soul crying out.
Arms stretched open.
Drums beating.
Waiting, waiting, waiting...
Swaying back and forth, with bated breath, for someone, anyone, to finally push me over the edge.
23
Sleep evades me. Avoids me like the plague. I am afflicted. Cursed. Chained to this zombie state. I am listless. Yet the camera in my mind’s eye won’t stop clicking.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Nonstop snapshots of Daddy flash through my head. Daddy teaching me to ride my first bike; Daddy buying me my first pair of Rollerblades; Daddy nursing my fevers and runny noses; Daddy, front and center, at my piano lessons and every dance rehearsal; Daddy reading me bedtime stories; Daddy teaching me to drive . . .
Daddy.
Daddy.
Daddy.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Our first daddy-daughter dance in second grade, then third grade, then fourth and fifth and sixth grades come to me in a kaleidoscope of memories, bursting in vivid colors, flashing painfully bright in my mind.
I don’t want to remember any of this. Not now. But I don’t want to forget, either. No. I can’t ever forget. But the memories are unbearable, just too painful.
Daddy’s gone.
My heart is shredding, shredding, shredding.
Hot, angry emotions take over me. And then, I am wailing.
I don’t know when Mrs. Thomas comes into my room, but she is at my bed, sweeping me up in her arms, holding and rocking me.
“Shh. It’s okay, sweetheart,” she says, over and over. But it’s not okay. It’ll never be okay. Never. My daddy is gone.
How am I supposed to recover from this?
I’ve lost hope.
Lost faith.
Lost my anchor.
I am crashing against fear, against uncertainty.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” I hear her say over and over and over again to me, trying to soothe me with her calming voice. She keeps rocking me until my crying eases some. Then she whispers, “You’ll get through this. You’re not alone . . .”
But I am . . .
