Daniel McBride, my father, got his start in legislation but always had his sights set on holding office as the Governor of the state of Georgia. I was groomed from birth to make him look like the wholesome family man who would be a political asset to Georgians. My refusal to major in political science was the start of the rebellion that had our name splashed all over the news and firmly planted the ever-growing wedge between me and him. His rumored candidacy for the Republican Party at the time that I dropped out was just that, a rumor. He was elected into office only months before I got bad news about my heart.
Between ages twenty and twenty-four, I tore through the state like a tornado, kicking up dust and debris everywhere I went. The more I humiliated my father, the more I enjoyed acting like an asshole. As it turned out, a rebellious semi-pro, then pro, golfer brings a lot of new attention to the sport. I teed off still drunk from the night before more times than I can count, but it paid my bills and covered my partying quite generously. It’s the only thing I can thank my dad for and even that isn’t entirely true. It was my grandfather who taught me almost everything I knew about golf. My grandfather was the only one who didn’t give a shit about campaigns, or fundraisers, or any other political shit that was commonplace at the dinner table. He loved me and secretly, I think he hated that Dad turned out the way he did. He died when I was twenty-two, and that’s when shit got really out of hand. I was arrested twice. Both times were nothing serious, really, but crimes nonetheless. I’d sober up in jail for a night then get bailed out. Rinse and repeat until things got weird. I never saw heart disease coming my way. It showed up in a hurry and put a swift end to all my fucking and philandering.
It gave me my first glimpse of a father who seemed like he cared more for me than he cared for his fucking career and reputation. Drug therapy was what they tried first. Multiple rounds of it, actually. A lot of people with Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy respond well to medication. That wasn’t the case for me. My heart had begun to harden and there was little that the doctors could do to prevent my eventual death. I remember hearing them explain that HCM was the thickening and hardening of the heart muscle and I thought that was as ironic as things could get. My heart had been hardening for years and now it was physically hardening, making it impossible for blood to flow properly. I became weak and unable to keep from getting winded. I felt faint all the time. I was tired. My heart would sometimes feel like it was going to burst in my chest and other times I’d have sharp, stabbing pain streak right through me. Golfing was out of the question. It was just one more thing that I’d have to be fine going on without.
I was scared. I can’t bullshit and say that I was fearless. I wasn’t. I was only twenty—seven years old and was right on death’s door unless I received a heart transplant. We were told that it could take months to find a heart that would be the perfect match for me, that many people die while they wait for a transplant. You can imagine my surprise when the doctors were wheeling me into the OR after only a few weeks on the waiting list. I thought it to be both extremely odd and unbelievably good luck. I discovered a couple months after the transplant surgery that there was no luck to it. My heart had been purchased. That’s right. Governor Daniel McBride discretely threw around his weight and a wad of cash and voila! I rocketed to the top of a very long list and had a heart soon after. I would have been better off without it. He’s now more than halfway through his first four-year term as Governor of the great state of Georgia. He’s running again. I’m sure he’ll win.
His indirect backhandedness was the last straw for me. Living with an odd sense of guilt because you know that someone died and you get to live is bad enough. Finding out that said heart and position on the waiting list were purchased? That fucked me up ten ways from Sunday. It scared me, knowing that he was able to accomplish what he did. I wondered what else he was capable of. I wondered and still do wonder if Jacob Parker’s death was a tragic coincidence at all. The thought made a chill run up my spine and I couldn’t get away from Atlanta quick enough. Now that I’ve met Sadie, I know that if she knew the whole truth, she’d wonder the same thing and hate me for it. She can never know about what my father did. For the first time ever, I may want to keep the sins of the father concealed more than the father does. I think—no, I know—I have far more to lose than he ever could. I just met Sadie. I don’t want to lose her now.
All of this makes me hate him even more.
I had a lot of down time while I recovered from the transplant. I began shopping online for a home in Tybee and did the smart thing by investing every dime I had to spare. I hired smart people to do smart things with my money and it turned out to be the first wise decision I’d made in a long time. I started avoiding the press at every turn. I got a hold on my temper. I follow a strict lifestyle set by the cardiologist that I see on a frequent basis. I keep to myself. I’ve stayed out of the public eye and, much to my parents’ chagrin, I permanently ditched my on again/off again relationship with Allison Forsythe, the debutante from a prominent Atlanta family who had been handpicked just for me by dear old Dad.