Chasing Butterflies Page 11

  I am writing this letter to you on your twelfth birthday for no other reason than preparation in case something unexpected was to ever happen to me. I want you to know, writing this letter is one of the most painful things I’ve had to do. If you are reading this, it means two things:

  1). That you now know the truth about being adopted; and, 2): That I have left this earth long before I had the chance to tell you the truth myself. For that, I am truly sorry. I wanted to tell you so many times. But then I’d look into your beautiful, smiling face and see all the unconditional love you have for me dancing back at me in the reflection of your bright eyes, and my heart would melt. I couldn’t find the words or the courage to bring myself to tell you.

  But I knew one day the moment of truth would have to come, especially knowing how much your biological father, Omar Davis, wanted to one day be in your life. He wanted to parent you, but he knew he couldn’t. So he selflessly gave up his parental rights to allow me to be the father you needed. It was a difficult decision, but he wanted what was best for you. I’m sure he still does. So please don’t be too hard on him when you finally meet him. He did what he had to do. Out of love for you.

  My attorney will have most likely already been in contact with him. You deserve to meet him—and have some type of relationship with him, IF you choose to. I know this is all shocking news to you, and you are probably hurting more now than ever. It’s a lot for you to take in. But be open to the possibility, Butterfly.

  Your mother and I had hoped to tell you together when you were old enough to understand. But then she was suddenly taken away from us. Suddenly, in that moment, your knowing the truth about who your real father was no longer felt important to me, because I am your father. I will always be your father, maybe not in the genetic sense, but on a physical and emotional level we are connected spirits. You are every bit a part of me as you are of your mother. You are my daughter. You will always be my daughter. No matter what you learn about the man who helped conceive you, I will always be your dad. No one, nothing, can ever take that away from you. I have loved you as if I played a part in your creation. You were less than a month old when I came into your life. And I have loved you from the moment I laid eyes on you. You stole my heart the moment I held you in my arms and breathed you in.

  I want you to know you have been my greatest blessing, Nia Symone Daniels. The day I signed those adoption papers and you were given my last name was the happiest moment of my life. You have brought so much joy into my heart—and life, Nia.

  Even though I am gone, in Heaven, you will always be my beautiful, flitting butterfly. Don’t ever be afraid to spread your wings and soar.

  I will always love you, from now to eternity.

  Love forever,

  Dad

  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.

  He’s here?

  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?”

  Now?

  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.

  Omar.

  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.

  Who is this man?

  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.

  Then what happened?

  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.

  28

  “Ya moms was my heart; my everything.”

  “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.<
br />
  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.

  “I’ve waited sixteen years to do this.”

  “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!

  He will never be.

  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 anywhere 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.”

  29

  Two torturous weeks later...

  The pilot makes an announcement over the speaker. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. This is your captain speaking. I’d like to welcome you aboard Virgin America flight one-sixty-two’s nonstop service from Los Angeles to Newark Liberty International Airport. Once we get airborne today, our flight time will be five hours and thirty minutes . . .”

  Omar Davis is the father.

  My biological father.

  I’m still shocked by the news. And the test results. It’s just so much to take in.

  Honestly, I prayed that it wasn’t true. That someone was playing some sick, twisted joke. But it’s as real as it can be, ninety-nine-point-nine-nine percent real.

  It took a week of crying after the DNA test results confirmed paternity, then another week of me crying as Daddy’s attorney met with me and discussed the news. Legally, he has no rights to me, but I am still a minor so someone needs to care for me until I am legally able to take care of myself, which is where Daddy’s attorney comes in.

  Aunt Terri said I’d be able to live with her once she settles whatever it is she needs to settle. And the attorney is in agreement with that. So the plan is this: I go to New Jersey with, uh, um . . . Omar for three weeks while Aunt Terri takes care of whatever it is she has to do with the court and Daddy’s will and whatever else. Then I’ll be flying out to Georgia to live with her.

  “Just for a few weeks,” Aunt Terri had said as she helped me pack. But there was something in the way she shifted her eyes from mine that had me question her true intentions. I have to trust that she’ll keep her word. That this is only temporary.

  Boarding this plane was one of the most difficult things I’ve done. Daddy dying was hard. But leaving him, his grave, behind is—

  Omar grunts.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see him shifting in his seat, clutching the armrest.

  He seems anxious.

  No.

  He is anxious.

  He’s scared to death of flying. Although he said he’d never been on a plane before, just the idea of being up so high in sky makes him nervous. He thought I was going to be okay with traveling thousands of miles across country by Greyhound.

  No, no, no. Not!

  And I wasn’t riding on Amtrak, either.

  So here we are.

  I glance over at him. “It won’t be that bad,” I offer sympathetically. It’s the least I can do.

  He forces out a chuckle. “Yeah, a’ight. If you say so.”

  “I guess you’re not used to flying.” It’s a statement.

  He shakes his head. “Nah. Not my thing. I ain’t even gonna front, yo. I’m mad nervous.”

  I look at him.

  Surprised to hear that this thick-muscled man with the multiple tattoos is afraid of flying. “Well, why are you flying now if you’re afraid of planes?”

  “It’s all for you.”

  Oh.

  I turn my head toward the window
and stare out.

  I touch the butterfly around my neck, then press it up to my lips.

  Thoughts of Daddy resurface.

  Oh, how I wish I could be one of those big, white, puffy clouds.

  Floating.

  It doesn’t take long before my emotions get the best of me.

  A tear slips from the corner of my eye, and I quickly swipe it with a finger before it can run down my face. All I can think about is Daddy. And how I can’t let him go. How I have to hold on, to keep his memory alive. Not just inside of me, but all around me.

  I sniffle and wipe away more tears.

  I can’t believe this is really happening to me.

  I can feel Omar’s eyes on me.

  “You good?” he wants to know, touching my arm.

  I cringe inwardly. “Yeah.”

  “You sure e’erything a’ight?”

  I just said yeah, dang. Let it go.

  But he doesn’t.

  “You can tell me whatever’s on ya mind, a’ight?”

  I give him a confused look.

  What does he want me to say?

  That I’m happy being uprooted from my life?

  That I’m looking forward to whatever might lie ahead in New Jersey, surrounded by a bunch of strangers?

  That I’m excited about being around a man that I don’t know?

  That I’m eager to build a relationship with him, the ex-con?

  No, everything isn’t fricking all right!

  It’s horrible!

  I don’t know what to expect.

  All I know is my life in Long Beach.

  Not on a plane with him.

  I nod. Then I turn to look at him, not really wanting to, but needing to. Needing him to see the contradiction in my words. “I’m fine.”

  He looks deep into my eyes, and for a split second I think he sees it.

  That I am really not okay.

  That I’m horrified.

  That I am hurting.

  And lost.

  But he simply grins, all crooked, and says, “Cool, cool.” Then he widens his grin and shakes his head. “Damn. I swear, yo. You look so much like ya moms, for real for real. It’s crazy. I know I keep sayin’ it, but... damn. It’s got me buggin’.”

  And now I’m dying to know—no. I need to know—how the two of them met. I need to know what it was about him that made her gravitate to him. I need to know what kind of girl she was to get wrapped up in a guy like him, to have his baby.