Dad’s in the kitchen when I walk in. The kitchen trashcan is sitting near the front door, and in it are three empty whiskey bottles.
He turns when he hears the door close. “Who was that?”
He looks horrible; bloodshot eyes set in sallow skin with a gray tinge and three day stubble over hollow cheeks. But he’s sober.
I sidestep his question with one of my own. “You’re really doing this?” I ask, gesturing at the trashcan.
He comes to the arched opening between the kitchen and the family room and leans his shoulder onto the wall. “I’m sure as hell going to try, Addie.”
I go to him and wrap an arm around his shoulder. I can’t even remember the last time I hugged Dad. “Thank you, Daddy.”
Under my arm, I feel the tremor that’s not obvious enough to see yet and wonder how bad this is for him.
He gives me an awkward pat on the back, like he’s forgotten how to do this too. “The AA group leader gave me a number for a rehab program. It’s subsidized so it won’t cost anything.”
“You’re going?” I ask tentatively.
“I’m going to wait until Becky gets back from her trip. Then I’ll check in.”
I pull away and look at him. “If you’re ready now, I don’t think you should wait.”
He gives his head a shake. “I’m not going to leave you here alone, Addie.”
I want to tell him being alone will be easier than what I’ve been dealing with for the last year, since he fell into the bottle. But that wouldn’t be productive. So instead I say, “You know I can take care of myself, Dad. And the sooner you go, the sooner we can get our lives back.”
“It’s only another week and a half. I’ll be fine.”
“So you’re just going to go cold turkey until then?” I say with a glance at the dead soldiers in the trashcan.
He must register the panicked disbelief in my voice because his eyes find mine again and he stares into them for long time before saying, “I really want to do this for you, Addie. I want us to be a family again. They say that’s three quarters of the battle—wanting to change. I know I can do this.”
“Then don’t wait,” I beg.
His gaze brushes over the side of my head and he lifts his hand as if he’s going to touch my bandages before thinking better of it. “I haven’t been a parent to you for a while now.” He tugs at a curl at the side of my head and gives me a sad smile. “I’ll see if they can take me sooner.”
I hug him again. “Thank you, Daddy.”
He turns back to the kitchen. “Thought I’d rustle us up some grub.”
I feel a tug in my gut, like maybe I swallowed someone’s fishhook.
When I was little and Mom was on deadline, or just absorbed in her character’s world, which happened often, I would walk into the kitchen and find Dad at the stove with his sleeves rolled up. He wasn’t a cook, so dinner on those nights generally consisted of mac and cheese from a box, or grilled cheese sandwiches and soup from a can, but we’d bring plates into Mom’s office and coax her away from her laptop. Dad would sit on the armchair, and I’d push things aside to sit on her desk. Then we’d eat and she’d tell us all about where she’d spent her day: Moscow, Istanbul, Copenhagen. It all sounded so exotic. Those were some of the best dinners I ever had.
“You’re sure?” I ask.
“I think there’s a jar of Ragu and a box of spaghetti in there,” he answers with a wave of his hand and a shaky smile.
“Okay…but holler if you need help.”
I walk down the hall to my room and look back at the door. He’s shuffling into the kitchen and part of me wants to spy to see if he’s got another bottle stashed. But he seems sincere and I need to trust he wants this. So I slip into my room and close the door. I go to my bed and pull Mom’s laptop from underneath. Little by little we sold or pawned everything we had that we could get anything for, but I hid this so Dad wouldn’t sell it. I stare at it for a long time. I hated this thing when she was alive. As far as I was concerned, it was the bane of our family.
The irony? It turned out to be me that destroyed us. Not Mom’s characters or deadlines. Not her publishers or book tours.
Me.
I plug it in, because it’s been months since I opened it and I’m sure the battery is long dead, and pull up the file. The summer before Mom died, we went on this incredible two week trip to Europe. She said it was for book research, but to me, it felt like I found my parents again. Mom and Dad seemed truly happy for the first time I could remember, and she and I hardly fought the entire trip.
Last summer, I found the manuscript she was working on when she died, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to read past the first few pages. It’s set at a castle in Ireland that we stayed in on that trip.
I open the file and take a deep breath, but as soon as Mom’s words flash on the screen my throat closes.