Chapter 14 Marina #2
“What?” he asks, frowning.
“I just like looking at your face,” I say, feeling a rush of love for him flow through me. “It’s a good face. The best face. But I can’t tell your tell, you have to lie about something.”
“Okay,” he says slowly, thinking it over. “I absolutely do not want to fuck you right here in this car in this parking lot.’
I laugh. “Fine. I guess that works. I’d say then that your tell is that you don’t blink when you lie. Your gaze intensifies.”
He mulls that over, tapping his fingers on his chin as he eyes himself in the rearview mirror. “Hmmm.”
“By the way, I’m totally down for some car fucking right now,” I tell him, putting my hand behind his neck and pulling him toward me, marveling that holy shit, I can do this. I can touch him and kiss him and fuck him in his car because he’s mine. “Or anytime really.”
He raises a brow. “Is that so?”
“Mmm hmmm,” I say as he leans in and kisses me.
My heart trips, picks itself up, soars. Like the mere act of his lips pressing against mine can jolt my heart, bring me back to life.
“Isn’t that your dad?” he asks against my mouth.
Not the words I want to hear right now.
I open my eyes to see his eyes focused in the distance then turn in my seat and see my father and my Aunt Margaret walking into the restaurant.
“Guess we better go,” I say, though my throat feels like it’s closing up.
It’s been just over two weeks since I last saw my father. After Laz and I went to Lancaster and had to deal with him, I ended up putting on the brakes. I ignored my aunt’s phone calls, I ignored his too. I didn’t know what I was going to hear when I finally picked up.
But guilt finds me easily and it wasn’t long before I started feeling horrible for shunning him when he needs the most help. He’s not my problem, I know this but…I can’t seem to separate that from my life. It just is what it is and I’m always going to feel like I need to do something.
So, my father called last night when I got home and I answered and now we’re meeting him and my aunt at a P.F. Changs in Irvine. He’s been staying with her for the last week and when I talked to him on the phone, he sounded completely sober.
But who knows. Going to restaurants where alcohol is offered is always a dicey move and though none of us will have anything stronger than coffee, it’s a temptation that’s staring him in the face.
“It’s going to be fine,” Laz says. “Come on.”
We get out of the car and head into the restaurant, the tangy smell of the food wafting over us.
My father and Aunt Margaret are at the hostess desk waiting for a table. There’s a split second before they’ll see us so I use it to scope out their posture, their faces, their mannerisms.
My dad’s back is straight, carrying himself stiffly.
In a way, that’s good. He’s probably sober, probably nervous too.
I told him last night that I might bring Laz and he must have some idea that Laz took care of him that night.
Or maybe he doesn’t know at all. Maybe he’s nervous for the same reason I’m nervous.
My aunt is a skinny, frail-looking woman with a mess of frizzy, brown curls and thick glasses, but her tongue is sharp and she’s stronger than she looks. She’s smiling at my father though, as if they were talking about something amusing and she seems relaxed.
That’s good. Maybe this will be okay.
Then my father sees us. His face breaks into a toothy grin, the exact same smile I inherited from him.
It’s not forced at all, I know he’s happy to see me, and it immediately dissolves the hardness around my heart.
This is the problem, this has always been the problem.
When he’s sober, he’s my father. He even looks like a different person than the one we saw the other night.
“Marina!” he exclaims with open arms.
He envelopes me in a hug and without hesitation I hug him back. If anything I hug him harder, as if I’m trying to hold onto the person I know he can be.
“Hi Dad,” I tell him, smiling against him, and for a quick but weighted moment I’m ten years old, running through the house to him after he comes home from work, my mother cooking dinner in the kitchen. It’s bittersweet.
“Dad,” I tell him as I pull away. “You remember Laz?”
I watch him carefully as he looks to Laz. There’s a faint hesitation in his smile and when it comes, it’s slightly forced. Not in an unfriendly way, but in an embarrassed one. I think he remembers that night, maybe not in detail and that’s for the best, but he remembers Laz was there.
But Laz, bless his heart, he just sticks out his hand, shakes my father’s and gives him a big smile and hearty slap on the back. “Good to see you Mr. Owens,” Laz says.
“Nick,” he says. “Please call me Nick.”
“And this is my Aunt Margaret,” I say, flashing her a smile.
Margaret shakes Laz’s hand firmly. “Nice to meet you.”
She’s a tough nut to crack, but this is good enough for now.
The hostess seats us at the table and small talk ensues.
A lot of it is focused on Laz. They’re interested in his poetry, in his music, in England. Aunt Margaret spent a lot of time in England and Scotland when she was younger, so she likes to talk about Manchester and the Mancunian accent, how it differs from so many of the other ones.
Laz talks to them with ease. He’s not always the most sociable guy, I suppose the stereotype of the quiet, broody, and introverted writer is quite suited to him. But when he does talk to people, he has this way of giving them his utmost attention and keeps the conversation going when it lulls.
Eventually though, the reason for the meeting comes up.
“Marina,” my father says after we’ve polished off Kung Pao’s chicken. “I’ve decided to sell the house.”
The term house is a bit of an exaggeration but still I’m surprised. “What? Why?”
He and my aunt exchange a look. “It’s, uh…I need help, little girl. More help than you or Margaret can give me. It isn’t fair to both of you that I can’t take care of myself, especially you. After everything I’ve put you through—I can’t stand to put you through anymore.”
“So what does this mean?”
“It means that I’m going to sell the house, I’m going to go to a detox and rehab center for as long as I can. There’s one in the hills, by our old place in Ramona. Then after that, maybe a group home.”
“And then we’ll see what happens,” Margaret says. “The treatment center is very expensive, so unfortunately selling the house is a must. What’s left over, we were thinking about getting him a condo near me.”
“What about Pickles?” I ask.
My dad chuckles. “Pickles doesn’t need to go to rehab. His catnip problem isn’t that bad.”
“I can take him in,” Margaret says. “Unless you want to. Do you think he’d be okay with your bees?”
I nod. “He’d be fine. I’d have to ask Barbara but I don’t think it would be a problem. I’d love to have that fat cat.”
After that, it’s back to small talk again and I’m trying not to let the hope shine out of my chest. The fact that my father is taking this step means he’s actually serious for once.
It’s one thing to go because a court orders you or because you had a moment of clarity.
It’s another thing to sell your house so you can afford to stay in a treatment center.
This is a huge step. This is huge for everyone.
And like usual, I want to get my hopes up because that’s what I do. I open myself up to believing everything will be okay, which is why my heart is always getting stomped on when I’m eventually let down.