Chasing Butterflies (10 page)

21

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.

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

L
oneliness 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
.

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
.

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?

I am still in . . . shock.

Daddy’s gone!

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.

The pace quickens.

The beating grows louder.

Thump-thump-thump
.

And louder . . .

And louder . . .

Until 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.

S
leep 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.

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.

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.

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 . . .”

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.”

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

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.