Chapter Seven #2
“Oh, honey.” Chrissy jumps up to hug our bride, and Renee’s blond hair whips back and forth as she searches for more tissues.
I feel my pockets, including the pocket of my sweatshirt, and an idea smiles up at me in the form of a cartoon beaver.
I peel off my sweatshirt, down to sleep shorts and a ribbed gray tank, but what’s the damage at this point?
I wad up the sweatshirt and pass it to Gin.
“Go nuts,” I say. “Seriously. My clothes are your Kleenex.”
Gin nods through sputtering breaths, then blows her nose into the sleeve, and I almost feel proud.
Almost. Mostly, I’m glad that Gin’s sobbing dies down, and Chrissy touches up her makeup so she’s a photo-ready bride.
There’s a list of requisite pictures to capture: one of Gin in the dress and another back in her street clothes while holding the I found the gown at Kilpatrick’s!
sign. Rose insists upon a group photo, and my attempt to cover my bralessness with some clever arm positioning leaves me looking like a broken puppet.
It’s an awful photo of me, and Chrissy immediately sets it as her lock screen. “I love this picture. It reminds me of the ones from Galena.” She zooms in on me and my mess of bed head. “I mean, c’mon. Classic Alice, right?”
The words sear into my chest. Classic Alice. I could’ve sworn I left her in the past.
We celebrate the single most expensive purchase of Gin’s adult life over brunch at a bar and grill down the street.
It doesn’t seem like the sort of venue to order a bottle of champagne, but Chrissy gets one anyway, and I put in two orders of mozzarella sticks, just for myself.
“Sorry,” I say to no one in particular. “I didn’t have time to eat breakfast.”
“You didn’t have time for a lot of things this morning,” Renee quips, and Gin shoots her a look she absolutely deserves. I probably deserve it more, though. What kind of adult woman can’t properly set an alarm?
Once the champagne arrives and the waitress collects our orders, Gin proposes a toast.
“To the best family a girl could ask for.” She lifts her glass high. “I couldn’t do any of this without you.” She proves that point when, after a sip of champagne, Gin begins conducting check-ins on each of our bridesmaid assignments.
Chrissy is first, promising “a bridal shower to end all bridal showers.” A bold claim, but she’s a bold gal.
“Same restaurant as the engagement dinner, right?” Gin confirms.
“Yes, but…remember that patio you loved so much?”
Gin frowns. “They told me they didn’t rent it out for private parties.”
“They don’t.” Chrissy lifts her champagne once more. “Unless the event manager is your boss’s brother.”
They clink glasses, laughs swirling together, and I file away the knowledge that Chrissy does, in fact, have a boss.
“What about the bachelorette party?” Gin turns to Renee, who straightens in her seat.
“Everything is just about booked,” Renee promises. “I’ll send out the itinerary by the end of next week.”
Gin looks pleased. Bridal shower? Check. Bachelorette? Check. I tense when her mossy eyes land on me, but before I can decide whether or not to lie, she winks. “I’m not worried about your speech. You have plenty of time.”
She’s right, of course. So why do I still feel like I’m falling behind?
“Let’s talk about the main event, though.” Chrissy props her elbows on the table and rests her chin on both fists. “How is wedding planning going?”
“Great.” Gin shrugs. “There’s really not that much to do.”
Renee’s laugh is a two-toned ambulance siren. “That can’t possibly be true.”
“It is,” Gin insists. She tilts to the side, feeling around for her purse.
“Most of the work is going to be getting the Bhats’ backyard ready.
It overlooks this beautiful marsh with cattails and tall grass…
I’ll show you a picture, but Rishi and I are planting a ton of flowers so we don’t have to decorate. Like, at all.”
“Obsessed with that,” Chrissy says.
“Well, if we can help with anything, let us know,” I chime in, and Gin smiles.
“You guys were a huge help today. I really didn’t want to try on any more dresses and then, boom. The very last dress.” She holds both hands to her chest like she’s pressing the moment there, stamping it onto her heart. “I wanna look at the picture again. Whose phone is it on?”
“Mine,” Renee chirps, already scrolling. “One sec. I’ll find it.” But I can see her screen from here. If I squint, I can read the words in the search bar: “easy backyard wedding decor.” I can’t say that I’m surprised.
We split the check and say our goodbyes, each of us headed in separate directions for tomorrow’s holiday.
Renee has a train to catch to Iowa, Chrissy disappears in a cab to the western suburbs, and Gin is headed just down the road to celebrate Father’s Day with her soon-to-be in-laws.
When she hugs me goodbye, she holds on a few extra seconds.
“Call me tomorrow if you need me,” she says.
It feels like my heart is developing a blister.
Even after my shameful performance today, Gin is still as kind and supportive as if I had sewn her a wedding dress myself.
I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve her.
And yet here I am anyway, trying my best. Only I’m worried my best isn’t quite good enough.
“And hey.” Gin squeezes my shoulder. “Happy early birthday, Alice.”
Of course she would never forget.
That night, I stay up till midnight, as is my ritual for every big holiday since Dad’s been gone—Christmas, his birthday, any day that makes his absence hurt a little extra, I stay up to face it, priming myself for the morning.
When the clock on the stove rolls over to 12:00, it’s officially Father’s Day, and I’m officially twenty-nine.
I sleep like shit, but I wake up to a happy-birthday text from Gin and a phone call from Mom before I’m even out of bed.
“Morning, birthday girl! How’s your day so far?” Every syllable is bouncy and exaggerated, like Mom is performing joy without knowing what joy feels like. I wonder which one of us she’s trying to fool?
I yawn and throw back the covers. “Thanks, Mom. I just woke up, so…happy Father’s Day, I guess.”
It’s quiet for a long time, Mom’s uneven breathing the only evidence that she hasn’t hung up. I’m halfway to the kitchen by the time she sheds the act. “I wasn’t sure if I should even mention it,” Mom says, sounding like my mother again. Tender and trampled.
“Yeah, well.” I swallow. What else is there to say? I’m already workshopping excuses to hang up when Mom sighs—not a sad sigh, thankfully. More like a reset.
“Well. Since you mentioned it, I’ve been going through some old scrapbooks looking for Father’s Day photos.”
I tip my head, pinning Mom’s voice between my cheek and my shoulder while I dig a clean mug out of the dishwasher.
“I didn’t realize how long we had that porch swing out front at the Outpost,” Mom goes on. There’s a rustling behind her that crescendos to a staticky crackle, and I wince.
“What are you doing, Mom?”
“I’m trying to find these pictures…just…hold on.”
I switch to speakerphone and dress up my coffee while listening to her dig through what sounds like a pile of dead leaves.
“Aha! Found it.” Mom sounds victorious, then sighs again, wistful. “God, it’s a cute one. You used to sleep anywhere as a kid—did I ever tell you that?”
“Mmm, I don’t think so.”
“Anywhere but your bed. I swear there are at least…” More rustling. “Three different pictures of you napping in a pizza box.”
A smile sneaks up on me. I’m not always up for reminiscing, especially about Dad, but it’s reassuring to know I was sleeping in odd places long before alcohol was part of the equation.
“But hey. Anyway. Birthday girl. Any plans for the day? I’ve got your present wrapped and ready, if you wanna swing by. I could get a cake or something.”
This sinking, guilty feeling is getting a little too familiar.
I never did reschedule that dinner with Mom.
“Maybe sometime this week? Today’s no good, but…
” I check the calendar on my fridge, lifting up June to peek at July.
“I’ve got a lot going on with Gin’s wedding, but I should be able to find a good time. ”
The words stick to my tongue. A good time. I have time, but the thought of visiting Mom at that house just never feels good.
“Well, you’re welcome anytime,” Mom says. “Anytime at all. I’ll rearrange plans if I have to. Just let me know.”
“I will,” I say, and I hope it’s true.
Mom and I trade I love yous, then hang up without saying goodbye.
Another ritual—this one I’ve insisted upon since I was a kid, back when Dad would leave for tour and I’d run out the side door in my pj’s for one last hug.
I didn’t always know when I’d see Dad next, or if I did, it would be weeks or months away, miniature eternities to a kid like me.
Just in case something happened, I made sure I love you was always the very last thing that we said.
It was, in the end, the last thing Dad and I said to one another.
We didn’t think we’d get two more weeks with him after his esophagus ruptured; instead, we got two more years of I love yous.
Which might have felt okay if not for how many more Dad turned down.
After the rupture, the doctor gave it to him straight: You could live another twenty years if you just stop drinking.
But Dad gave it straight back. He told the doctor, I won’t.
Not I can’t. Not I don’t think it’s possible.
I won’t. As in I refuse to try. Not the twelve-step programs. Not psychiatry.
Not rehab. We showed him brochures from facilities with cliffside cabins or breathtaking beachfront views, places made for people like Dad who could only be sold sobriety if it came in the shape of a ninety-day resort stay.
We could afford it. We could send him. We were willing—and so was the band—to rearrange the pieces of our lives to make space for Dad to quit drinking.
But he wouldn’t. So I did. I needed to, or I’d end up just like him.
Some part of me thought if I quit, Dad would follow suit, but he didn’t, and now Dad’s gone and I’m left to feel it all, sober, the way he never could.
Lonely, even though I don’t have to be. Mom gave it to me straight.
My present is waiting. So is she. All I have to do is go home, but I can’t.
I won’t because it hurts too much. I rub my palms against my eyes and push the tears back inside. I really am just like my dad.
Hey Dad. Happy Father’s Day! Or rather…SAD Father’s Day! Sorry, I’m not feeling very funny. It doesn’t feel like my birthday. It just feels like a bad, stupid day.
I used to love when you told the story of how I was born the Saturday before Father’s Day, how I showed up and made you a dad just in time to celebrate.
It made me feel extra connected to you, but now it just feels unfair.
My birthday really had to fall right on Father’s Day the first year you’re gone, huh? It’s a sick joke, and I’m mad about it.
I have to be honest—I’m mad at you, too, Dad.
Because you should still be here. Getting sober has been harder than I ever imagined, and I know it would’ve been even harder for you.
But I still can’t believe that you weren’t even willing to try.
You talked about seizing the moment and taking advantage of the opportunities I was afforded just by being Ricky Pierce’s kid, but what about you?
You turned down the opportunity to live, and I might not ever forgive you for that.
You’re not even here for me to yell at about it.
But I still love you, Dad. I always will. I wish you could come back.
Love,
Your Dallas Alice