Henry
Dad looks like shit.
His hair’s matted and greasy, and there are half-moon shadows beneath his eyes. There’s a tube in his left arm connected to a bag of clear fluid. He’s wearing the hospital’s obligatory gown, and a starchy-looking blanket covers his lower half.
He gives me a hangdog smile, raising his arm, hand curled into a fist. I bump his knuckles with my good hand before dragging a chair toward the bed.
The TV’s on a baseball game, which is set to mute. The Marlins are winning.
“I’m okay,” Dad says, his voice raw. “I don’t want you to freak out.”
“Too late for that.”
His red-rimmed eyes dart around the room. He’s uncomfortable—good. He scared the piss out of me last night. He ought to be very uncomfortable.
“Dad,” I say. And then: “Davis.”
Now he looks at me, contrite. “Let’s go with Dad.”
“You sure?”
He nods, then winces, gingerly touching the back of his head. “Henry, I’m not real sure what to say. All I know is that I’ve made a mess of things. I’m humiliated, if you want to know the truth.”
“Does that mean it’ll never happen again?”
His brows draw together. His typical good humor is nowhere to be found. “I don’t want it to. But I haven’t figured out how to make certain it doesn’t.”
Don’t drink, I want to say.
But I know it’s not as easy as that.
“I used to go to meetings,” he tells me.
This is a surprise. You don’t walk into an AA meeting unless you’ve acknowledged, at least on some level, that you’ve got a problem. “Why’d you stop?”
He lets out a dry chuckle. “Well, they weren’t much fun.”
“And getting so wasted that you bust your head open is fun?”
“I didn’t say that. I don’t drink because it’s fun, usually. Having a few loosens me up. Gets me out of my head.”
“I’m in my head all the time, Dad. There are other ways to deal.”
“Yeah. Maybe I should take up running.”
“Maybe.”
“Or read those mermaid books.”
I crack a smile. “Why not? Those stories are the shit.”
He grows serious again. “I can’t think of anything I want to talk about less than the last twenty-four hours, but I owe you an explanation.
This thing with Tati’s been rough. I’m furious with myself for driving her away, so I keep doing the thing that drove her away.
It doesn’t make sense, but a lot of times, I just can’t make myself care until it’s too late. ”
“I called her last night,” I tell him. “She helped me—helped you.”
“Oh, hell,” he says, sinking into the pillows behind him. “I’m sure she was thrilled.”
“Not exactly. I’m glad she was around, though. She’s pretty great.”
He gazes up at the ceiling, wistful. “Yeah, she is.”
We let quiet fill the room, both of us focusing on the game. When it breaks for a commercial, Dad says, “I’ve never told your mom about the meetings.”
“How come?”
“She already thinks I’m a screw-up. If she knew about AA, she’d be all over my ass.”
“I don’t know about that. Look at the trouble I found myself in last spring. If she was pissed, I never knew it. She was just there for me. She gives people a lot of grace, Dad.”
“When it comes to failed attempts at sobriety, though? I don’t know, buddy.”
“I do—I talked to her earlier. She wants you to do what it takes to get healthy, and if a meeting is the first step, she’s gonna support you. So will I.”
“But isn’t it weak, having to sit with a bunch of strangers and admit that you don’t know your limits?”
“I think it’s the opposite of weak. It takes balls to ask for help.
” I run a hand through my hair. Difficult as this conversation is, I’ve got to put it all out there.
I’ve got to tell him how badly he scared me.
“I don’t want to see you unconscious and bleeding ever again.
If talking things out with strangers a couple of times a week keeps you on your feet, then I think you should do it.
And if you’re not willing to try, I won’t stick around. ”
“Henry—”
“No. It’s that simple.”
He sighs. “You sound like your mom.”
“Is that supposed to be a dig?”
“Not even close.” He rubs his eyes like someone kicked dust in them.
When he looks at me again, his expression is less distressed than it was when I walked into the room.
“If getting sober is what it takes to keep you in Florida, I’ll do it.
Meetings, sponsor, booze down the toilet—the whole thing.
But don’t go getting a big head. I’m gonna do it for myself more than anyone.
I’m tired of not remembering what happened the night before.
Of feeling like shit every morning. Of disappointing the people who care about me. I want to take back control.”
“What about your job?”
“What about it?”
“You own a sports bar.”
“I don’t have to drink while I’m there—I haven’t always. I’ll do the work. You’ve got my word.”
I let out a breath, rolling the kinks from my neck.
I’m freaking drained, but I feel liberated too.
Finally, the stress that’s been weighing on me has lessened.
Finally, resolution is in sight. Dad wants to recover.
He wants to be around for me, and I want to be around for him.
His conviction has seeped into me; if he can do hard things, I can too.
I need to clear the air with Whitney. Hurt feelings or not, I need to be honest with her. Piper too—I don’t know where she and I stand after last night, but I want to try and fix what’s broken between us. No more secrets. No more guilt. No more half-truths.
“I’m gonna stay in Sugar Bay through senior year,” I tell my dad.
He grins. “Florida looks good on you. She’s giving you a kick-ass tan.”
I laugh. “Yeah, that weighed heavily in my choice to stick around.”
Later, I go to the cafeteria in search of something to drink while my parents have it out on the phone. When I get back to Dad’s room with a Gatorade for him and a soda for me, he’s hung up with Mom.
“She’s tough,” he says, but he doesn’t seem beaten down.
The opposite, actually.
“Only when she cares,” I tell him.
***
I leave for the Towers. I’ll head back to the hospital when Dad’s discharged, but for now, I’m craving a hot shower, a nap, and a couple of Advil.
The hospital’s a few miles from home—it’s weird to call Dad’s apartment home—so I summon a rideshare.
The app says I’ve got a few minutes to wait. I use the time to dial Whitney.
“Hey,” she answers. “I was hoping you’d call. I thought—”
“Hang on.” I sink onto a bench outside the hospital’s entrance. “I’ve got to say something, and you’re not gonna like it.”
I put it all out there. I tell her that even though I was sad about ending the pregnancy, I was relieved too.
I tell her how awful I feel about our fights leading up to the breakup, and after.
I tell her how much I hate it that she got so sick.
I tell her she was the first girl I ever fell in love with, and then I tell her I’m not coming back to Spokane next month. I tell her I’m sorry.
She listens.
And then she cries.
I feel like the world’s biggest asshole, hurting her again.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, like echoed apologies are the Band-Aid she needs.
“God, Henry. Stop saying that.”
“Okay.” And then, because it’s almost reflexive: “I’m sorry.”
She laughs. It’s a pitiful sniveling sound that makes her laugh harder, more believably. “You’re the worst.”
“Maybe. But, Whit, I don’t want to be another reason you’re sad.”
Quietly, she says, “You met someone else, didn’t you?”
I sigh. “Yeah. But she’s not the reason you and I can’t be together. We don’t make sense, Whitney. We don’t make each other happy—not like we used to.”
“But you let me believe you were open to trying again. I’ve clung to that.”
“Why, though?”
“Because I just…I want to go back to the way things were. Before. I want to feel happy and not wonder if I’m allowed. I want to start looking toward the future instead of asking what if? about the past. I want to feel lovable again.”
A lot like what Piper said.
I’ve been stuck in a similar state of shame since March. It sucks, feeling empty and unworthy. But hearing those sentiments come out of Whitney’s mouth gives me clarity I haven’t had in months.
“Whit, you are lovable.”
“But you don’t love me anymore,” she whispers. “And my parents won’t look me in the eye. My friends…they’re trying to help, but they treat me like I’m broken. I feel broken.”
I sigh, wishing we’d had this conversation in person before I left for Florida.
I want to meet her gaze as I say, “Not to undercut your emotions, because you feel what you feel, and I get what you’re saying—I swear I do—but Whitney, you are not broken.
It’s okay to get excited about the future; you deserve that.
And I’m personally giving you permission to feel happy again. Whenever you’re ready.”
My ride pulls up to the curb. I signal that I need a second, and the driver nods.
“Whit, tell me what you’re thinking.”
She exhales. “I’m thinking that you wouldn’t bullshit me.”
“I wouldn’t. Especially not about this.”
A few beats pass before she says, “When you come visit your mom, do you think we could get coffee or something?”
“Yeah. That’d be cool.”
A few minutes later, when we say goodbye, I know in my gut that it’s for real.
I get to my feet, and despite all that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours, I feel lighter. Like I’ve cut an anchor free.