nasty drunk, and much as she loved my father—and she did, she did love my father—she’d told him from the start that she’d spent too long rebuilding her life to see another man tear it down all over again. I can’t blame her for jetting it to Puerto Vallarta. If I were a different person, I would too.
“So now what?” I ask, reaching over to clasp his free hand, because I’m not that different person, even if for a glimmer of a moment, I wish I were.
“Now I stop,” he says.
“Come on, Dad, it’s not that easy.”
“You’ll help me,” he says, locking our fingers together.
“Dad …”
“Please, Tilly, please. You always help me.” His voice cracks. “You’re the one who helps me the best.”
I start to protest, because I’ve done this with my father before, because the guidance counselor in me knows better, knows that aone-person army in the face of this particular enemy isn’t enough. But he looks at me with his runny eyes and his worn skin and yes, I see it there, his shame, and my heart cracks open for my father, the victim, whether or not he shares some, if not the bulk, of the blame for his burdens.
Of course I’ll help him. This is what I do best.
five
M y father, Ty, and I work out a plan. Or, at least, I work one out and explain it over coffee on Sunday morning, before Tyler leaves for his annual fishing trip with his old crew from the UW. Because Sheriff Hernandez has revoked his license for a month and because I don’t trust my father enough to leave him un-watched, on his own, until he’s proven to me that he’s capable of going straight, my dad will remain in our guest room until his thirty days of probation are up. From there, we will reevaluate, examine his sobriety, explore what we all feel up to tackling next. I mention a treatment center, tentatively, with gentle feelers, but my dad balks, his ears red with angry contrition.
“I’m not going back to that place,” he snaps, referring to the rehab facility that I finally shipped him off to the summer between my freshman and sophomore years in college. When everything came to a head and it became too obvious to ignore; when Darcy called me in a terrified, whispering frenzy, locked in her closet as the house was pillaged by a meth head in search of something worth selling, and my father was dead drunk on the downstairs couch, dead to the world around him, oblivious to his daughter, cowering and alone.
It is not the sturdiest of plans, I realize on Monday night, as I navigate the SUV to Susanna’s to retrieve her and the twins for the Fourth of July fireworks show, but it is the compromise we can all live with for now. I still haven’t spoken to Darcy. Even though I know that she won’t wave her white flag and that eventually I’ll need to wave mine, I still can’t stomach it.
I’ll call her tomorrow
, I think, just like I told myself yesterday.
I’ll call her and pretend that this didn’t happen, and we’ll all move on, and eventually, I’ll find a way to tell her about Dad
. This is how it’s always worked, yet I’m annoyed at myself for the concession. Or maybe just at the concession itself. Who knows?
I beep the horn and the twins jet from the house. Susie lumbers after them, like she might rather be in bed, though I’m happy to see that her hair is washed, brushed shiny, a dollop of lipstick and blush spread across her face.
“We have to make a decision, you know,” I say to her, once the kids are safely buckled in and we’re speeding down Route 72 toward the lake.
“Shhh,” she says, casting a quick glance behind her. “I don’t want to talk about Austin in front of them.”
“No, not a decision about
him
, a decision about the musical. Which one. Anderson needs to know by Friday.”
“Oh,” she answers, like she’s contemplating a million reasons why she should back out. “Well, I don’t really care.” She pauses. “Whatever you think will be the most fun.”
I glance over at her
“So now what?” I ask, reaching over to clasp his free hand, because I’m not that different person, even if for a glimmer of a moment, I wish I were.
“Now I stop,” he says.
“Come on, Dad, it’s not that easy.”
“You’ll help me,” he says, locking our fingers together.
“Dad …”
“Please, Tilly, please. You always help me.” His voice cracks. “You’re the one who helps me the best.”
I start to protest, because I’ve done this with my father before, because the guidance counselor in me knows better, knows that aone-person army in the face of this particular enemy isn’t enough. But he looks at me with his runny eyes and his worn skin and yes, I see it there, his shame, and my heart cracks open for my father, the victim, whether or not he shares some, if not the bulk, of the blame for his burdens.
Of course I’ll help him. This is what I do best.
five
M y father, Ty, and I work out a plan. Or, at least, I work one out and explain it over coffee on Sunday morning, before Tyler leaves for his annual fishing trip with his old crew from the UW. Because Sheriff Hernandez has revoked his license for a month and because I don’t trust my father enough to leave him un-watched, on his own, until he’s proven to me that he’s capable of going straight, my dad will remain in our guest room until his thirty days of probation are up. From there, we will reevaluate, examine his sobriety, explore what we all feel up to tackling next. I mention a treatment center, tentatively, with gentle feelers, but my dad balks, his ears red with angry contrition.
“I’m not going back to that place,” he snaps, referring to the rehab facility that I finally shipped him off to the summer between my freshman and sophomore years in college. When everything came to a head and it became too obvious to ignore; when Darcy called me in a terrified, whispering frenzy, locked in her closet as the house was pillaged by a meth head in search of something worth selling, and my father was dead drunk on the downstairs couch, dead to the world around him, oblivious to his daughter, cowering and alone.
It is not the sturdiest of plans, I realize on Monday night, as I navigate the SUV to Susanna’s to retrieve her and the twins for the Fourth of July fireworks show, but it is the compromise we can all live with for now. I still haven’t spoken to Darcy. Even though I know that she won’t wave her white flag and that eventually I’ll need to wave mine, I still can’t stomach it.
I’ll call her tomorrow
, I think, just like I told myself yesterday.
I’ll call her and pretend that this didn’t happen, and we’ll all move on, and eventually, I’ll find a way to tell her about Dad
. This is how it’s always worked, yet I’m annoyed at myself for the concession. Or maybe just at the concession itself. Who knows?
I beep the horn and the twins jet from the house. Susie lumbers after them, like she might rather be in bed, though I’m happy to see that her hair is washed, brushed shiny, a dollop of lipstick and blush spread across her face.
“We have to make a decision, you know,” I say to her, once the kids are safely buckled in and we’re speeding down Route 72 toward the lake.
“Shhh,” she says, casting a quick glance behind her. “I don’t want to talk about Austin in front of them.”
“No, not a decision about
him
, a decision about the musical. Which one. Anderson needs to know by Friday.”
“Oh,” she answers, like she’s contemplating a million reasons why she should back out. “Well, I don’t really care.” She pauses. “Whatever you think will be the most fun.”
I glance over at her
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