a glass in front of him. It wasn’t unusual for my father to drink. Chianti was his drink of choice with dinner. From the time I was twelve my father allowed me a glass of wine with Sunday dinner. It really consisted of a wine glass with the bottom barely filled, two sips at the most if I stretched it. This was different. It was a bottle of Nocino. Finally noticing me, my father slid the glass to the spot next to him and filled the bottom.
His voice was low as he offered, “Have a drink.”
Never having seen my father like this, I asked, “Where’s mom?” starting to feel nervous.
Motioning to her room before sliding the glass closer to me he ordered, “Sit.”
Watching him take a long swig directly from the bottle, I quietly sat next to him. Since I had no idea what was going on, I assumed keeping my mouth shut was the best route.
Narrowing his eyes at me, he questioned, “Too good to drink with your own father?” in the same low tone.
I wrapped my hand around the glass. He wasn’t slurring but his motion and speech were so calm and slow, I knew he was drunk.
As I took a sip, he shared, “Charles and I used to drink this.”
The liquor wasn’t good, but it wasn’t bad either. I quickly downed what was left in my glass thinking, if I had to listen to this man glorify Hert’s father then I definitely needed to drink.
After refilling the bottom of my glass, my father took another sip from the bottle before saying, “Not me.”
“Sir?” I asked, taking another sip.
With a heavy sigh, he explained, “Margaret, she’s sad,” then with an eerie smile he said, “Not me.”
Downing the rest of my glass, I questioned, “Why is mom sad?”
Shaking his head, my father mumbled, “Maybe me too.”
I slid my glass away before he could refill it as I questioned, “You’re sad?”
Nodding his head, he shrugged saying, “She didn’t die.”
“Who?” I blurted.
Without answering me, my father started to laugh.
Jumping up from the table, I ran to my mother’s room. She was sitting on a chair next to her bed. I could tell she had been crying. I didn’t have to ask her anything.
Looking over at me, she said, “Abigail.” As I slowly shook my head she informed, “She tried to kill herself,” with tears rolling down her cheeks.
Surprisingly I wasn’t sad, I was angry. Running out of her room and back into the kitchen, I stopped at the table.
Staring at my father, I shouted, “You’re sad because she didn’t die?!”
He started to get up then quickly slumped back down in the chair and smiled at me. Shaking my head at him, I felt sick. All sorts of things flashed through my mind before I dashed to my room, locked the door and climbed out my window. Only thinking of Hert now, I couldn’t imagine what he was going through. First, his father and now his mother. How could she do this to him? How could either of them have done this to him? Stopping at Hert’s window, his room was empty. As I made my way around to the front, I saw him walking into the house.
Knocking on his front door, I waited for him to answer. A minute passed and I knocked again. Still, there was no answer. I opened the door and walked in. All the lights in the house were off but I could see Hert sitting on the couch in the dark.
“Get out,” he snapped almost immediately.
Ignoring him, I walked over to him asking, “Is she okay?”
As Hert gave me a stupid look, I rephrased the question, asking, “Is she going to be okay?”
Shaking his head without looking directly at me, he yelled, “Why are you here?”
“You shouldn’t be by yourself,” I insisted stepping a little closer.
Jumping to his feet, Hert stood right in front of me and shouted, “You don’t know anything! I don’t want you here, now leave!”
Keeping my tone soft, I said, “I’m not leaving.”
Taking a step back, he nodded before griping, “Ok, stay as long as you want.”
Before I could say anything else, he turned and walked out the
His voice was low as he offered, “Have a drink.”
Never having seen my father like this, I asked, “Where’s mom?” starting to feel nervous.
Motioning to her room before sliding the glass closer to me he ordered, “Sit.”
Watching him take a long swig directly from the bottle, I quietly sat next to him. Since I had no idea what was going on, I assumed keeping my mouth shut was the best route.
Narrowing his eyes at me, he questioned, “Too good to drink with your own father?” in the same low tone.
I wrapped my hand around the glass. He wasn’t slurring but his motion and speech were so calm and slow, I knew he was drunk.
As I took a sip, he shared, “Charles and I used to drink this.”
The liquor wasn’t good, but it wasn’t bad either. I quickly downed what was left in my glass thinking, if I had to listen to this man glorify Hert’s father then I definitely needed to drink.
After refilling the bottom of my glass, my father took another sip from the bottle before saying, “Not me.”
“Sir?” I asked, taking another sip.
With a heavy sigh, he explained, “Margaret, she’s sad,” then with an eerie smile he said, “Not me.”
Downing the rest of my glass, I questioned, “Why is mom sad?”
Shaking his head, my father mumbled, “Maybe me too.”
I slid my glass away before he could refill it as I questioned, “You’re sad?”
Nodding his head, he shrugged saying, “She didn’t die.”
“Who?” I blurted.
Without answering me, my father started to laugh.
Jumping up from the table, I ran to my mother’s room. She was sitting on a chair next to her bed. I could tell she had been crying. I didn’t have to ask her anything.
Looking over at me, she said, “Abigail.” As I slowly shook my head she informed, “She tried to kill herself,” with tears rolling down her cheeks.
Surprisingly I wasn’t sad, I was angry. Running out of her room and back into the kitchen, I stopped at the table.
Staring at my father, I shouted, “You’re sad because she didn’t die?!”
He started to get up then quickly slumped back down in the chair and smiled at me. Shaking my head at him, I felt sick. All sorts of things flashed through my mind before I dashed to my room, locked the door and climbed out my window. Only thinking of Hert now, I couldn’t imagine what he was going through. First, his father and now his mother. How could she do this to him? How could either of them have done this to him? Stopping at Hert’s window, his room was empty. As I made my way around to the front, I saw him walking into the house.
Knocking on his front door, I waited for him to answer. A minute passed and I knocked again. Still, there was no answer. I opened the door and walked in. All the lights in the house were off but I could see Hert sitting on the couch in the dark.
“Get out,” he snapped almost immediately.
Ignoring him, I walked over to him asking, “Is she okay?”
As Hert gave me a stupid look, I rephrased the question, asking, “Is she going to be okay?”
Shaking his head without looking directly at me, he yelled, “Why are you here?”
“You shouldn’t be by yourself,” I insisted stepping a little closer.
Jumping to his feet, Hert stood right in front of me and shouted, “You don’t know anything! I don’t want you here, now leave!”
Keeping my tone soft, I said, “I’m not leaving.”
Taking a step back, he nodded before griping, “Ok, stay as long as you want.”
Before I could say anything else, he turned and walked out the
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