The Mistake

But he’s not well. Not by a longshot.

My chest clenches so hard I’m surprised I don’t crack a rib or two. Dad is sprawled on the carpet, face down and shirtless, his cheek resting in a pool of vomit. One arm is flung out to the side, the other is tucked close to him—cradling a fucking bottle of bourbon like it’s a newborn baby. Jesus, had he tried to protect his precious alcohol during his drunken tumble to the ground?

I feel nothing as I take in the pitiful scene in front of me. An acrid odor floats toward me. I wrinkle my nose, almost gag when I realize it’s urine. Urine and alcohol, the fragrance of my childhood.

A part of me wants to turn on my heel and walk away. Walk away and not look back.

Instead, I shrug out of my jacket, toss it on the armchair, and carefully approach my passed-out father. “Dad.”

He stirs, but doesn’t answer.

“Dad.”

An agonized moan ripples from his throat. Christ, his pants are soaked with piss. And bourbon leaks from the bottle, staining the beige carpet.

“Dad, I need to check if anything’s broken.” I run my hands over his body, starting from his feet and moving upward, making sure he didn’t break any bones when he fell.

My examination jolts him out of his haze. His eyelids pop open, revealing dilated pupils and a forlorn look that fractures a piece of my aching heart, the part of me that remembers idolizing him as a kid.

He groans in panic. “Where’s your mother? Don’t want ’er to see me like this.”

Crack. There goes another shard of my heart. At this rate, my chest will be a hollow cavern by the time I leave here.

“She’s not home,” I assure him. Then I snake my hands under his armpits so I can prop him into a sitting position.

He looks dazed. I honestly don’t think he knows where he is or who I am. “She went grocery shopping?” he slurs.

“Yeah,” I lie. “She won’t be home for hours. Plenty of time to get you cleaned up, okay?”

He’s swaying like crazy, and he’s not even on his feet. The combined stench of vomit, alcohol and piss makes my eyes water. Or maybe that’s not why they’re watering. Maybe I’m on the verge of tears because I’m about to haul my own father in a fireman hold and help him take a shower. And then I’m going to dress him as if he’s a goddamn toddler and tuck him into bed. Maybe that’s why my eyes are stinging.

“Don’t tell ’er about this, Jeffy. She’s gonna be so mad at me. Don’t want ’er to be mad at me. Don’t wanna wake up Johnny…” He starts mumbling incoherently.

It’s hard to breathe as I lift the stinking, blubbering mess that is my father into my arms and carry him to the bathroom at the end of the hall. Only one thought runs through my head.

My brother is a saint.

He’s a goddamn saint.

He’s been doing this, day in and day out, since I left for Briar. He’s been mopping up my dad’s vomit, and running the shop, and taking care of shit without a single complaint.

God, what is wrong with me? Fuck the NHL. Jeff deserves the chance to get out for a while. To travel with his girlfriend and live a normal life that doesn’t involve stripping his own father naked and lifting him into the shower.

My lungs are burning now, because cold reality has sunk in. Jesus Christ. This is my future. In less than a year, this will be my full-time job.

I’ve never had a panic attack before. I’m not sure what they involve. Out-of-control heartbeat—is that a symptom? Cold, clammy hands that won’t stop shaking? A windpipe that won’t let a single burst of air through? Because all those things are happening to me right now, and it’s scaring the shit out of me.

“Johnny?” Dad blinks as the hot water sprays his head, plastering his dark hair to his forehead. “When’d ya get here?” He staggers in the tiled stall, his gaze darting in all directions. “Lemme get you a beer. Have a beer with your old man.”

I almost throw up.

Okay, yeah. I think I might be having a panic attack.


I’m three hours late to pick up Grace.

My phone died when I was in Munsen, and I don’t have her number memorized because it’s stored in my phone, so I couldn’t even call her from the landline to let her know I’d be late.

My panic has subsided. Somewhat. Or maybe I’ve gone numb. All I know is that I need to see my girlfriend. I need to hold her and draw warmth from her body, because goddamn, I feel like a block of ice right now.

The porch light is on when I park in her father’s driveway, but the yellow glow just ignites a spark of guilt. It’s past ten o’clock. I’m so fucking late, and she’s had to wait around for hours.

Practice, a cynical voice taunts. For all the times she’ll have to do it next year.

My lungs seize. Jesus. It’s true. How many times will something like this happen once I’m in Munsen full-time? How many plans will I be late for or have to cancel altogether?