Authors: Amir Abrams

Chasing Butterflies (8 page)

BOOK: Chasing Butterflies

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“D
addy, I’m home,” I call out, dropping my keys onto the foyer table, removing my shoes, then walking toward the spiral staircase.

“So, he’s cute right?” Crystal says as I ascend the stairs to my bedroom. We’ve been on the phone the whole ride home with me listening to her go on and on about the tall poet with all the tattoos.

What was his name again?

Six-Eight, I think.

Yeah, that’s it.

“He’s okay, I guess.”

She shrieks. “You
guess
?! Girl, what is wrong with your eyes? Are you blind?”

“Nope. I simply don’t see what you see.”

“Yup. Blind. Say no more. That explains a lot.”

I laugh. “What exactly does it explain? Do tell.”

“Welllllll, for starters, it proves that you will never get a boyfriend if you don’t start opening your eyes and expanding your horizons.”

“I’m not looking for a boyfriend. They’re too much of a headache.”

“And that’s what Tylenol is for. To relieve the pain.”

“No thanks. I’ll pass on the drama. I have my sights on bigger and better things, like college. There will be plenty of time for boyfriends after graduation.”

Wow. Did I just say that?

Yup, sure did.

It’s what Daddy has been saying to me since I was old enough to talk. And it’s stuck.

Whereas Crystal has had at least twelve boyfriends since fifth grade, I’ve had none.

“Borrrrring,” she says in a singsong voice. “Nia, it hurts me to say this. But you’re turning into an old maid right before my eyes.”

“Ohmygod!” I shriek. “I can’t believe you just said that. I am not an old maid.”

“Now, see there. I didn’t say you were. I
said
you were on your way to becoming one. Face it. You’ll be seventeen in what . . . ?”

“Six months,” I say. “And?”

“That’s too old
not
to have had at least
one
boyfriend.”

Well, she’s wrong there. I’ve had a boyfriend before. Lorenzo Adams. We spent practically every day together, passing cute little love notes back and forth. We were the cutest couple ever.

But then he dumped me for Chrissy Evans.

And left me devastated.

I remind her of that.

She bursts into a fit of laughter. “
Lorenzo? Bwahahaha-haha
. Ohmygod!
Hahahahaha
! Good one, Nia. But, sorry, second grade doesn’t count.”

“Whatever.” I suppress a chuckle. “Anyway, you’ve had enough boyfriends for the both of us.”

She laughs again. “That’s true. But I can’t seem to keep them for longer than a month, or two.”

True.

That’s because she keeps choosing the same type of boys—all the
wrong
ones.

Nice boys seem to bore her.

Crystal seems to be a magnet for boys with drama.

I never knew boys could be such drama kings.

Until Crystal started dating them.

Liars.

Cheaters.

Players.

Horndogs.

All Crystal dates are shallow boys with good looks.

“Well, that’s because they don’t know what a catch you are,” I say earnestly.

“Awww. And that’s why you’re my BFF for life.”

I smile. “So do you think I should perform at the Poet’s Corner for Black History month?”

“Oh no, oh nooo,” Crystal says dramatically. “I will not be dismissed. I am not finished talking about the boy of my dreams.”

I shake my head, plopping down on my bed. “Well, I am.”

“You’re such a joy-kill. But answer me this, then I’ll leave it alone. Did you see how he kept eyeing us? That boy is totally hot.”

“I really wasn’t paying attention to him,” I say, pulling off my socks.

I stretch open my painted toes.

She sucks in air. “I’m flat-lining as we speak. Going, going, gone! How could you not notice him? He was to die for.”

I laugh, stepping out of my jeans. “You’re already dead, remember?”

Now she’s laughing. “Oh, right. Stone-cold dead. So you really weren’t paying him any attention?”

I shake my head as if she can see me. “Nope. The only thing I was captured by was his poetry.” I pull off my shirt. “Not his looks.”

In my mind’s eye, I see her rolling her eyes. “Unh-huh. So all you
heard
was his poetry, but you didn’t
see
him?”

“Of course I saw him. But I wasn’t looking at him, not like that.”

“Nia, I love you, girl. But you are some kind of strange. You do know that, right?”

I shrug. “I don’t see the big deal. Just because I don’t fall head over heels for a boy, doesn’t make me strange.”

She sucks her teeth. “No, that doesn’t. But the fact that you can’t even see sexiness when it’s staring you right in the face does.”

“He’s no different from any other poet to me.”

“Ohmygod,” Crystal says in disbelief. “You need help. He’s more than a poet. He’s perfection. Let me dial nine-one-one. This is an emergency.

I laugh. “Oh, stop. I’d rather be fascinated by a boy’s intellect, instead by his looks.”

She grunts. “Well, you can have the intellect. Give me something good to look at. Eye candy makes the heart grow fonder.”

“Since when?” I say, glancing over at the clock. It’s almost eight p.m. I wonder why Daddy hasn’t come upstairs to check on me yet.

Mmm. That’s not like him.

He must be down in his office working.

Or maybe on a conference call.

I walk into my bathroom.

“Since seeing that chocolate Adonis,” Crystal says. “He looked like he was chiseled out of the world’s richest chocolate. He was so dreamy. So decadent. So—”

“Wait,” I say, cutting her off. “Should I just wait for the infomercial?”

I pull my hair up, then put Crystal on speakerphone while I wash my face.

“Ohmygod, Nia, why do you always do that?”

I laugh knowingly. “Do what?”

“Put me on speakerphone. You know I hate that.”

I run the water. “You’ll survive. You always do. Anyway . . .”

“Yes. Anyway. Back to Mister Sweet Chocolate. Mister Six Nine . . .”

“Six-Eight,” I correct, applying Noxzema to my face.

She laughs. “Oh, but you weren’t paying attention, huh?”

I share a laugh with her. “Well, maybe just a little.”

“Oooh, you’re such a liar.”

“I am not.” I feign hurt feelings. I splash warm water on my face, then turn off the water. “I’m not blind. I just wasn’t
seeing
him the way you were.”

“Unh-huh. Save it.”

I reach for a towel and pat my face dry. “Well, if you ask me, the amount of time you’ve spent pining over him is wasted energy. And time lost.”

She huffs. “Well, thanks for that news flash. I’m hanging up now so I can I watch the clock until it’s time to fall asleep so I can hurry up and dream sweet dreams of Six-Eight the Poet.”

“Ugh. Sounds like a nightmare to me.”

“Hahaha. Don’t hate.”

“Wishful thinking, silly. Good night.”

“Smooches.”

I smile, shaking my head as we disconnect.

I slip into a pair of Spelman sweats and a pink T-shirt, then hurry down the stairs to talk to Daddy.

I can’t wait to tell him all about tonight.

“D
addy, wait until I tell you all about my night at the Poetry Café,” I say, walking into his office.

He isn’t there.

“Daddy,” I call out again.

Still no answer.

I frown.

I head downstairs into the basement, thinking he might be down there.

“Daddy?”

I move through the finished basement, looking through the weight room, the game room, and even poking my head into the bathroom, even though the door is wide open.

That’s strange.

For the heck of it, I pull back the shower curtain and peek behind it, fully knowing I’m being ridiculous.

Still, I do it anyway.

Of course, he isn’t hiding in the shower.

I take the stairs back up to the main level of the house. Then I take the spiral staircase, two steps at a time. I knock on his bedroom door. “Daddy?” No answer.

I open the door. Look inside. Call his name. Still no Daddy.

But his car’s outside.

Maybe he went out with one of his frat brothers, I think, heading back down the stairs. Still, I look through the living room, then the dining room, before heading for the kitchen.

He probably left me a note on the fridge, I think, or on the counter.

I imagine seeing a little yellow Post-It with a happy-face on it.

But, for some reason, I call out to him anyway.

“Daddy?”

I walk over to the refrigerator.

No note.

I look over on the aisle counter.

Still, no note.

That’s not like him. He always leaves a note or calls me if he isn’t going to be home.

I pull my phone from my pocket and check for messages, even though I know there aren’t any.

I call him.

Seconds later, I hear a ringing phone.

I blink.

Wait.

That’s Daddy’s ringtone.

Here.

He must have left it by accident.

I walk toward the ringing sound.

It’s coming from the walk-in pantry.

What in the world is his phone doing in—

I stop in my tracks.

Noooooooo!!!

My heart drops from my chest. “Ohmygod! No, no, noooo!”

It’s Daddy!

Facedown on the floor.

My phone hits the floor as I am running into the pantry.

“Daddy!” I scream out, dropping to the floor beside him. “Daddy!” I shake him. My heart is violently banging in my chest. “Wake up!” I shake him again. “Daddy! Daddy!”

I pull him, grabbing at his body.

Tears spill from my eyes.

“No, no, no, no, no, no . . . p-p-pleeeease!”

Everything I’ve learned in health class kicks in, and before I know it, I am pressing my index and middle finger to the side of his neck, searching for a pulse.

There is none.

I quickly turn him over, careful not to hurt him.

Then I’m placing my head against his chest, listening.

I can’t hear anything.

Panic-stricken, I scramble across the floor for my phone, everything inside of me shaking with anguish.

My hands shake as I dial 911.

“Nine-one-one . . . what’s your emergency?”

“I-I-I . . . it’s m-my d-daddy. I t-t-think he’s d-dead!”

I am frightened.

And crying uncontrollably.

“What’s your name, sweetie?”

“It’s Nia,” I say impatiently.

“Okay, Nia. What’s your location?”

I give her the address. “Please, you have to hurry! Daddy! Wake up!” I shake him again.

She asks me to calm down.

Calm down?

Is she serious?

How can I?

I just found Daddy facedown on the floor.

And I’m here alone.

How am I supposed to stay calm?

“Nia, help is on the way. But I need you to stay calm, okay, sweetie. Can you do that?”

Noooooo!

“Y-y-yes.”

“Okay, Nia. I need you to tell me if your father has a pulse. If he doesn’t I’ll help you start CPR until the paramedics arrive.”

I tell her I didn’t feel one when I checked his neck.

She tells me to try again.

This time I grab Daddy’s arm. Try to find his pulse. “Nooooo, nooo. I don’t feel one.” I keep searching, feeling. Still nothing.

I try his other arm.

Keep pressing into his skin, my fingertips to his wrist.

And then . . . I feel it.

A pulse.

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.

W
hy 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.

Watching the clock.

Watching the doors.

Watching the phone.

Then I am up, pacing the floors.

Back and forth.

Up and down.

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.

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.

BOOK: Chasing Butterflies

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