Chasing Butterflies by Amir Abrams Page B

happening to him?
    He does not look like himself.
    I swallow hard and will my feet toward the bed. I feel weak. Feel helpless seeing Daddy like this.
    “Hey, Butterfly,” he says, his voice sounding strained. Small.
    When I finally reach his bed, I throw my arms around his neck and hug him close to me.
    “Oh, Daddy. Please tell me you’re going to be okay. Please.”
    He lets out a slight chuckle. “Well, let’s hope you don’t smother me to death.”
    “Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, loosening my arms from around his neck. I kiss him on the cheek.
    “How long will you have to be in here?” I ask.
    Daddy coughs. Then he says, “Hopefully not long. They’re still running some tests.”
    “I know. The doctor told me. But you’re going to be all right?”
    Daddy doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks into my eyes and tells me how much he loves me. That no matter whatever happens, he will always love me. He tells me this as if he knows something’s wrong. As if he knows there’ll be no happy ending.
    I blink, once, twice, then again, clinging onto hope. That everything will be fine with him.
    It just has to be.
    I can’t bear the thought of... of something—
    A single tear falls from my eye, and Daddy reaches up with his hand and wipes it with the pad of his thumb.
    “Everything’s going to be fine, sweetheart,” he tries to reassure me. But anxiety rushes through me. My pulse quickens. I have to be perfectly honest. I’m frightened. I’m scared for him, for me. I want to be strong. Want to trust that Daddy will be home in no time. But I am experiencing déjà vu.
    Mom.
    Nana.
    They both were here.
    Neither came home.
    This is where they died.
    And, now, five years later, I am right back at this same hospital.
    And this time . . .
    God, please don’t let anything happen to Daddy.
    I have to bite the inside of my lip to keep from crying out. No. This is different. Daddy wasn’t in a car accident like my mom was. And he doesn’t have cancer like Nana did.
    No. This isn’t anything like the other times.
    I don’t know what I’ll do if . . . if . . .
    “Promise me you’re going to be okay, Daddy,” I croak out. “Promise me you won’t ever leave me.”
    I lean my body forward, covering my face with my hands, pushing the heels of my palms into my eyes.
    Daddy pulls me into him. “Don’t worry yourself, sweetheart,” I hear him say as I’m trying to hold back an avalanche of emotions. But, despite Daddy’s arms around me, the tears come anyway, gushing past my hands and sliding down my face. I don’t even try to fight it any longer. My body starts to jerk, and I am sobbing.
    He tries to console me. Rocks me as best he can. Rubbing my back. “Ssssh. It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m going to be fine.”
    Then why am I so scared?
    I look up at him, eyes pleading, flooded with tears. “P-p-promise?”
    Daddy gazes back at me; a painful silence fills the room before he closes his eyes and blinks back what looks like tears. When he fixes his gaze on me again, it’s as if he’s weighing his words, racking his brain, trying to decide what to say to me. Then he smiles slightly and says, while taking me in his arms again, “Don’t ever forget how much I love you.”
    I hug him tighter. “I love you, too, Daddy.”
    His lips slowly curve into a smile. “I know you do, Butterfly.”

19
    T he following morning, I’m in school. Not because I want to be. But because I know it’s what Daddy would want.
    So here I sit.
    In my AP literature class. Distracted. My mind is back at the hospital with Daddy. Not here. Not listening to Mrs. Stump prattle on about the conflict in an African-American family over an heirloom piano.
    I thought the play The Piano Lesson , by August Wilson, was an interesting read since I play the piano. And under different circumstances I’d be heavily engaged in the discussion on the conflict around an African-American family’s heirloom piano, decorated with carvings that date