Dad brings up my mother as the three of us clear the table. “Your mom’s thinking of coming to Hastings for Thanksgiving.”
“Really?” I’m excited by the news. “Will she stay at the inn, or here at the house?”
“Here, of course. No sense spending money on a hotel room when she has her pick of bedrooms here.” Dad balances his plate and the salad bowl in one hand so he can open the sliding door. “I was thinking of taking a few days off and driving up to Boston with her. There are some mutual friends we were talking about visiting.”
Any other child of divorce might have gotten their hopes up hearing their parents might take a road trip together, but that ship sailed a long time ago for me. I know my folks are never getting back together—they’re much happier apart—but I love that they’re still so close. Best friends, even. It’s actually kind of inspiring.
To my surprise, after we’ve thanked Dad for dinner and climbed into Logan’s pickup, my parents’ relationship is the first thing Logan comments on.
“It’s really cool that your folks remained friends after the divorce.”
I nod. “I know, right? I thank my lucky stars for it every day. I’d hate it if they were fighting all the time and using me as a pawn or something.” Then I tense, realizing that maybe the aftermath of his parents’ divorce is exactly what I’ve just described. Logan doesn’t talk about it much, and I haven’t pushed for details because it’s obvious he prefers not to discuss his family.
Especially his father. But that’s one subject I definitely don’t bring up, not for his sake, but my own. Because I’m terrified of revealing my true feelings on the matter—that I think Logan is making a huge mistake quitting hockey after graduation.
He insists that running the business and taking care of his father is what’s best for the family, but I disagree. What’s best for Ward Logan is a long stint in rehab followed by extensive addiction therapy, but hey, what do I know? A year of psych classes does not a psychologist make.
“Your dad is awesome.” Logan’s gaze is glued to the windshield, but there’s no missing the sadness in his voice. “He seems like the kind of man who’d always be there for you. You know, like he wouldn’t desert you in the hospital if you broke your ankle or something.”
His example is so alarmingly specific it makes me frown. “Did…did that happen to you?”
“No.” He pauses. “To my mom, though.”
The frown deepens. “Your father deserted her in the hospital?”
“No, not really. He—you know what, don’t worry about it. Long story.”
His hand rests on the gearshift, and I reach over and cover it with mine. “I want to hear it.”
“What’s the point?” he mumbles. “It’s in the past.”
“I still want to hear it,” I say firmly.
He lets out a weary breath. “It happened when I was seven or eight. I was in school so I didn’t see how it went down, but I heard about it from my aunt afterward. Actually, the whole neighborhood heard about it, that’s how loud she was screaming when my dad finally dragged his ass home.”
“Still not telling me what happened…”
He keeps his eyes on the road. “It was winter, the weather was shit, and Mom slipped on a patch of ice while shoveling the driveway.” Bitterness lines his tone. “Dad was inside, not plastered, but he’d had a few. Couldn’t even be bothered to do the shoveling, or at least help her. Anyway, she fucked up her ankle real bad, pretty much shattered it, and he heard her yelling for help and ran outside. He didn’t want to move her because they weren’t sure how bad the damage was, but he did throw a blanket on her while they waited for the ambulance.”
Logan’s shoulders are set in a tight line, as inflexible as his jaw. I’m not sure I want to hear the rest of the story.
“So the ambulance showed up, but Dad didn’t ride with her. He told her he’d follow her in the car, that way he’d be able to pick me and Jeff up from school. And that was the last any of us saw of him for three days.”
Logan angrily shakes his head. “He got in the car and took off. I have no idea where he went. All I know is that he didn’t go to the hospital, where his wife had to have two surgeries to fix her ankle. And he didn’t go to the school, because Jeff and I waited for hours and he didn’t show. One of the teachers finally noticed we were still there, made some calls, and took us to the hospital, and my aunt drove down from Boston and stayed with us while Mom was recovering, because Dad had gone AWOL.”
I suck in a breath. “Why did he do it?”
“Who fucking knows? I guess he realized he’d have to step up and take care of the kids and the house and her, and the pressure freaked him out. He went on a three-day bender and didn’t visit her at the hospital once.”
Indignation on Logan’s behalf seizes my chest and makes my hands tremble. What the hell kind of husband does that? What the hell kind of father?
Logan has read my thoughts, because he turns his head with a gentle look. “I know you’re hating on him right now, but you need to understand something. He’s not a bad man—he’s got a disease. And trust me, he hates himself for it. More than you or I could ever hate him.” His breath comes out wobbly. “When he was sober, he was actually a really good dad. He taught me how to skate, taught me everything he knows about cars. We fixed up this sweet GTO one summer. Spent hours together in the garage.”
“So why did he start drinking again?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think he even knows. It’s the kind of thing where…like if you were stressed out, you might have a glass of wine, right? Or a beer, a whiskey, something to calm you down. But he can’t have just one. He has two, or three, or ten, and he just can’t stop. It’s an addiction.”
I bite my lip. “I know that. But how long does he get to keep using that addiction as an excuse for his actions? I think there comes a point where you have to stop enabling him.”
“We’ve dragged him to rehab before, Grace. It doesn’t stick unless he chooses to do it himself.”
“Then maybe you need to cut him off. Let him hit rock bottom so he’ll choose to get better.”
“And, what, make him homeless?” Logan says softly. “Have bill collectors pounding on his door and repo men showing up at the house? Let his business crash and burn? I know you don’t understand it, but we can’t write him off. Maybe if he beat the shit out of us or treated us like pieces of garbage, then it might be easier to do that, but he’s not abusive, he’s self-destructive. We can encourage him to get sober, we can help him keep things afloat, but we won’t desert him.”