Chasing Butterflies (12 page)

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.

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.

My eyes are burning and blurry from tears that I cannot stop from falling. My heart aches. I am so overwhelmed. He wrote this to me four years ago. I stare at the letter for a long moment. Then I read it a second time, then a third, then a fourth. I read it over and over and over until the words become blurred and the black ink begins to smear from my tears.

“Nia, he’s here,” Aunt Terri says, poking her head in the doorway.

My heart sinks.

My eyes and nose are running.

OMG!

He’s here!

I reach for the box of tissues on my nightstand, pull a few tissues out, then blow my nose with trembling hands. I pull more tissue.

“Are you ready to come down to meet him?”

Is she kidding?

Am I ready?

Heck no.

Never.

I shake my head, sniffling. “Give me a moment,” I say in almost a whisper, trying to find my voice.

She walks out, leaving me to my moment. I lie back on my bed. I do not wipe my tears. I allow them to stream down my temples, an agonizing groan escaping my lips.

I feel like I am floating in a sea of pain.

The kind of pain I am in ebbs and flows.

The throbbing in my chest now matches the wave of pain building in my head.

I close my eyes, willing myself to be gone from here.

Daddy’s face swims behind my lids. He is smiling at me. Then he says,
“I love you, Butterfly. Always have, always will.”

I hear his voice clear as day.

Holding my breath, I slowly open my eyes.

I exhale.

Sadly, I am still here.

And Daddy is gone.

* * *

After ten excruciating minutes, I finally make my way down the stairs and into the living room. Aunt Terri eyes me as he stands up. “Damn,” he mutters. And then, without words or warning, he is grabbing me and pulling me into an embrace. “I’ve waited sixteen years to do this. To finally hold you in my arms.”

I am engulfed in his muscular, tattoo-covered arms. Tightly pressed against him. He clutches me so close I think he will squeeze the breath out of me.

I feel his heartbeat.

And struggle within his arms, fighting against awkwardness, and the shock of being hugged by a man whom I never knew existed.

Until one day ago.

My so-called father.

When he finally pulls back from me, he stares at me.

His eyes are wet.

I avert my gaze.

I am not sure what I was expecting.

But this,
he
, isn’t it.

“Damn, yo. You’re a real beauty. I can’t believe how much you look like your moms, word is bond . . .”

I blink.

Shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

He . . . he . . . looks and sounds like a . . .
thug
.

His gaze sweeps around the living room, then lands on a crystal-framed black-and-white photo of my mom, positioned under a lamp on one of the marble-and-glass end tables. He walks over in its direction. In the picture my mom is young and beautiful, smiling, holding a baby in her arms, looking down lovingly at her bundle of joy.

Me.

I eye him as he picks up the framed photo and stares at it.

“Damn, yo. I can’t believe this . . .”

I see something flicker in his eyes.

Memories, I think. Maybe mistakes.

Perhaps a mixture of the two.

“On everything, I wish I woulda did right by your moms.” He sets the photo down, careful to place it back where he’d taken it. He stares down at the picture. “Ya moms was my heart; my everything.”

I tilt my head and stare at him.

I swallow.

Try to find my voice.

I open my mouth to ask the question, but the words refuse to follow. They somehow get stuck in the back of my throat.

Memories of my mother come rushing back to me.

The pain of losing her resurfaces, the scabs slowly open.

And, now, I feel myself bleeding out.

The room starts to spin.

I feel myself swooning.

She’s gone.

Daddy’s gone.

And all that is left is anguish.

Never-ending.

Agonizing.

Haunting.

Pain.

And now . . .

This man, this stranger, with the sagging pants and three teardrops inked in his face.

He catches me before my legs give out and I hit the floor.

“I want a paternity test,” I say to Omar three days later. He’s sitting in the family room talking to Aunt Terri when I barge in and blurt it out. There are no hellos. There’s no need for pleasantries. I have nothing to be cordial about.

I’ve thought it over.

And my mind is made up. I don’t care what the adoption papers say, or what was written in Daddy’s letter.

I want—no,
need
—more proof.

I want a blood test done.

For the last several days since his arrival, all he and Aunt Terri have been talking about is me going back to New Jersey with
him
. “Just for a while,” Aunt Terri had had the audacity to say, trying to convince me that going would be good for me. “You need to get away from all of this.”

Yeah. Okay.

But my question is this: Why was that man invited here as if to recover a long-lost prize?

I am not his to claim.

Or reclaim.

“He’s not my father,” I insist. I shake my head. “He can’t be. I don’t care what those stupid adoption papers say. Or what Daddy’s letter says. That man is nothing to me.”

Aunt Terri gasps, giving me a shocked look. “Nia, you know that’s not how you address adults. You were taught better than that. Where are your manners?”

Buried with Daddy.

I don’t say this, though.

But I do dismiss the question and say, “Not to be rude, but the two of you don’t get to plan my life without me. I have some say, too. And I’m not going anywhere unless—”

“You’re still a child,” Aunt Terri says. “And provisions need to be made
until
your . . .
my
. . . brother’s estate is resolved.”

I blink. “Daddy might have been your brother. But he’s
my
father. He’ll always be my
father
.” I shoot an icy glare over at Omar. “Not”—I point a finger—“
him
. He doesn’t get to waltz into my life and start playing the concerned parent role. Sorry.”

“Nia!” Aunt Terri scolds. “You watch your tone, young lady. I know you weren’t raised to be disrespectful. I know you’re grieving, so you’ll get a pass.
This
time.”

I give her a half-hearted apology, then shift my eyes, glancing down at the floor.

“Nah, it’s cool,” Omar says. “Yo, check it. I ain’t tryna take ya pop’s place, feel me?”

I cringe. “No. Sorry. I don’t feel you,” I say, ignoring Aunt Terri’s burning glare. “And I’m
not
feeling this situation. It’s so not fair!”

“Yo, I respect that. I know ish is crazy for you, li’l mama . . .”

Li’l mama?

I frown. “Please don’t call me that. My name is Nia.”

He puts his hands up in mock surrender. “My bad, Nia. I’m not lookin’ to complicate ya life. I’m only here after all these years of wanting to be in ya life ’cause ya pop’s lawyer hit me up.”

But
why
?

He tells me two weeks before he was released from prison he’d received a certified letter from the attorney’s office advising him to contact their office. He’d waited until he was released to call. And then he broke down and cried when he’d heard the news. Not of Daddy’s death. But of the fact that he’d get what he’d been praying for over the last sixteen years. A chance to finally be in my life.

“I wanna be in ya life. Not take over it,” he says. I can see the tears swelling up in his eyes as he seemingly struggles to keep any from falling.

Aunt Terri has the audacity to say, “Look at it on the bright side, Nia. You’ve had sixteen wonderful years with your adoptive father . . .”

I cringe. Adoptive father. It sounds so dirty the way she says it.

I feel like a reject.

Daddy’s gone from
Daddy
to “your adoptive father.”

Tears flood my eyes.

“Now it’s your chance to get to know your biological father,” she continues. “This is something you need, sweetheart.”

“But why can’t I stay here, in California? And he get to know me
here
?”

She tells me the house is being
sealed up
—my words, not hers—until things are resolved in court. Daddy’s attorney has been appointed as custodian over me; whatever that means. Aunt Terri isn’t happy about it, she says. She claims she is fighting to obtain a legal order to be able to have custody of me.

“But for now, we all agree this is for the best, Nia. You need to get to know your . . .
father
.”

He isn’t my father!

I scowl at Aunt Terri.

She has no idea what
I
need.

I need the man who raised me. The man who tucked me into bed and read me bedtime stories, every night until I was too old to be tucked in, and too old for his bedtime stories.

I need the man who loved me unconditionally. The man who shaped and molded me. And loved me unconditionally.

I need my Daddy.

“It’s only for two weeks, Nia. Just for me to get everything in order.”

“And I repeat,” I say, enunciating each word, “I want a DNA test. I don’t care what those adoption papers say. They still don’t prove that
he’s
my father. I
need
proof. I’m not going
any
where without a blood test.”

Aunt Terri sighs. “Fine, Nia. And when it proves that he is . . . ?”

I take a deep, pained breath.

Choking back tears, I say, “Then I guess I’ll have to go.”