Chapter 30
Thirty
AUGUST 5 YEARS AGO
I frown at the fully stocked pantry.
I’ve stopped by to check on my dad every day since mom died but I haven’t seen any signs that he’s eaten—only new, empty bottles of bourbon that join the ones already by the sink. I don’t know where he keeps getting them from because he didn’t drink much before, and I didn’t buy them. I took his car keys when I noticed how much he was drinking too. So how the hell do they keep showing up?
Mom went so quick—she was seemingly healthy one minute, and the next she was being taken away in an ambulance after collapsing while we were all out at lunch. The next time I saw her she was being kept alive with machines.
It was so fast I didn’t have time to process what happened. She was there, and then suddenly she was gone. I still feel like she’ll walk through the front door at any moment.
It’s been hard since she died, but I thought I’d at least have my dad. Someone who could support me, who could understand what I was going through. But instead, I’m watching him drink himself into a grave—I’m watching him kill himself slowly. And I can’t stand to watch it anymore. My attempts to talk to him this week, to get him to stop drinking, ended with him yelling at me and me in tears. I’ve never heard my dad raise his voice like that before.
I want to talk to someone. I need to talk. I’ve tried talking to Ali, but I don’t just need someone to listen—I need someone to help.
I want to talk to Warren.
I’ve missed him more this past week than the whole year and a half since he’s been gone—and that’s saying a lot because I miss him every damn day. He would know what to say, what to do, to help.
I pull out the loaf of bread from the pantry and make a ham and cheese sandwich, then bring that and a glass of water over to where my dad is sitting on the couch, watching the TV with a blank expression.
“You should eat something,” I say as I set down the plate.
He doesn’t move or give any indication that he heard me. He’s lifeless, no spark left in his eyes, and I have to look away. That person is not the dad I knew.
I move to grab the half-full glass of liquor so I can dump it, and I almost spill it when an angry grunt sounds from behind me. I can’t stand to look at him as a tear drops down my face.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” I say, leaving the glass and grabbing my jacket and purse.
As I’m heading toward the door, I think I hear a low grumble say, “Don’t bother,” and I feel like my heart is giving out too. I get in the car and start driving. I don’t have a destination in mind, I’m just aimlessly driving—wanting to be anywhere but here. It’s not until I turn onto I-84 E that I realize I do have a destination in mind.
I can’t talk to Warren, but this is the next best thing. I just hope it’s okay that I’m showing up unannounced.
* * *
My hands shake as I walk up to the charming, brick house. I pause in front of the door. What if she’s not home? What if she doesn’t want to see me? I shouldn’t have come here.
But my fist still knocks on the door, because if I don’t, I’d have driven almost two hours for nothing. And this is my last resort.
My breathing gets heavier the longer I wait. Just as I think she’s not going to answer at all, there’s a soft click and the door opens. Her bright, cheery smile falls into confusion when she realizes it’s me.
“Analise?”
My lower lip starts shaking and her confusion fades into concern.
“I’m sorry,” I squeak, and all the tears that have been building up over the past week finally make their way to the surface. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
“Oh, honey.” Her voice is calming like ocean waves. Her hands are on my shoulders leading me through the door and to the living room couch. As soon as we sit, she pulls me into her arms and holds me as I cry and cry and cry.
When I finally start to calm down, she pulls back to look at me. “Would you like some tea?”
I nod. While she’s gone, I take deep breaths and try to stop my body from shaking. When she comes back with the tea, I take a sip and close my eyes as the warmth seeps through me from the inside out. My shaking slows and I take a normal breath.
“Thanks,” I say, opening my eyes to find soft, kind eyes staring back at me.
“Is everything okay?”
I shake my head. “My mom died last week.”
Her face drops and she reaches over to grab my hand that began shaking again. “I’m so sorry.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek and look down. “And my dad has done nothing but drink since. I have no one to talk to about this—at least, no one that has any idea how to help. I just needed to go somewhere else, talk to someone, and this was the first place I thought of.”
Her face softens. “You’re welcome here anytime. Just because you’re not with my son anymore doesn’t mean you can’t still be family to me.”
My chest tightens at the reminder that he’s gone too. My eyes close and I think of the first time he brought me here. When we sat on this couch, side-by-side, so in love we couldn’t stop smiling. They told me story after story about his childhood as we went through all the photobooks—like I was the last person who’d ever hear them. Like I was his forever. I was so excited that she could be my mother-in-law; I was excited to be part of her family.
She squeezes my hand. “Well, I can promise to listen and do my best to help if I can—if you want to talk.”
So, I tell her everything that’s happened, and as I talk, I feel some of the weight lift off my chest. I also realize that there’s nothing anyone can do to help me here. The only way to help the situation is to get my dad help, and right now, he doesn’t want to help himself. But talking to an adult who has gone through their share of hardships does help.
“Are you okay?” she finally asks.
I shrug. “It’s harder to watch him do this to himself than it was to be there when she passed. At least with her, it was quick, and I knew she didn’t feel any pain at the end. But with him, he’s hurting himself and I can’t do anything to stop it. My attempts to talk to him haven’t gone well. It’s like he’s a whole different person.”
“It sounds like you’re doing everything you can, you’re trying. That’s all we can do for the people we love—keep trying.” She reaches out to take my hands in hers. “Maybe one day he’ll realize you were trying to help him all along and finally be ready to help himself, or maybe he never will, but you’ll know that you didn’t give up. But always remember that this is not your fault. There’s nothing you could’ve done to stop it, and it was never your issue to solve. Don’t put that burden on yourself.”
“This is not your fault.”
Those five words are enough to bring tears back to my eyes. Deep inside I’ve been holding onto the fear that something I did or said caused this. That if I had done one thing differently, we could’ve avoided this outcome. That my mom would be angry with me for letting him get this bad.
I was mad at myself for it.
“Thank you,” I whisper. I needed to hear that.
I check my phone and can’t believe how much time has passed. I’ve already taken up too much of her time; I should be heading out. I glance at the door.
Just before I can speak, she says, “Analise?”
“Yeah?” I turn back, and my eyebrows pull together at her suddenly somber expression.
“Do you know why Todd and I got divorced?”
I blink blankly, where did that come from?
“No,” I say. “Just that you were.”
“Back in the day, I was an artist—a muralist more specifically,” she starts with a smile. “People would hire me to paint murals for business, and even in homes. It didn’t make us a lot of money, but I loved my work.”
Now that she says it, I can see her as an artist clear as day. She’s beautiful but in that carefree, haphazard way of someone who doesn’t care about making a mess. I’ve always admired that about her.
“That was back when we used to live in Boston together,” she continues. “But then Todd had the opportunity to take a job in New York. It was a decent promotion, and he was excited about it, so he accepted it. But he accepted it before talking to me. He came to me one day and just said “we’re moving” and I had no say in it. He didn’t care that my clients were all local and moving would mean I had to stop doing what I loved. I tried to find similar work there, but it was a lot harder, especially being unknown. But I went along with it because Warren was in middle school, and I wanted him to be around both parents.”
My eyes grow wide as she speaks, my mouth slowly dropping open. I have a feeling I know where this story is going . . . and why she’s telling me it.
“But the longer we stayed there, the more he started acting like his work was all that mattered, and that what I did was a silly hobby. I grew to resent him, for making me give up my work, and for acting like it didn’t matter. Things got so bad that we eventually made an agreement that we would stay together until he moved out for college, and only then would we separate. Looking back, it wasn’t the best decision, but we didn’t want to uproot his whole life—we thought it’d be easier that way. But I don’t think we ever stopped to consider how it felt from the other side. We acted like everything was fine for his sake, but I was counting the days until I could leave Todd.
“It must’ve been jarring to a kid, to have parents who seemed like they were in love for so long to seemingly overnight decide to split.” She pauses, a sad smile on her face. “It affected him, and the way he viewed love for a long time. I could see it even if he didn’t admit it. Maybe it still affects him.”
It’s a nice thought. That Warren didn’t leave because he didn’t love me, but because he didn’t want to make the same mistake his parents did. But did he ever stop to think that maybe I could grow to resent him for not asking me to come with him too?
It’s too much—the sliver of hope the story lodges in my heart. Hope only makes this hurt exponentially more. If that was the only reason he left, then why would he continue to stay away? If he felt how I felt, how could he continue to stay away?
I smile and stand. “I should get going.”
“Of course.” Her smile is sorrowful, and it pulls at the makeshift stitches holding my heart together. “Don’t ever hesitate to come again.”
I hug her, but make no promises, and spend the entire drive back boarding up the sliver of hope in me—covering the light it cast until only darkness is left. Darkness where he once lived within me. Darkness in the space my mom once occupied. And a dark shadow over who my dad used to be.
When I enter my parents’ house the next day, there’s only darkness there too. I open the curtains and flick on some lights, freezing in front of a photo of my parents on their wedding day. They looked so happy, so in love.
Is my dad like this because his other half is gone? Is this all that’s left of him? Looking at this photo I’m reminded of that polaroid of Warren and I, so in love. And now, in many ways, I feel as empty as my dad is.
When I look at it that way, how can I blame him for acting this way?
I clean up as much as I can, frowning when I find the sandwich and water untouched, but a full glass of liquor that wasn’t there yesterday. There’s another empty bourbon bottle with the others. I let them pile up—hoping he’ll realize one day how excessive this is.
“Did you bring more bourbon?” A voice groans from the couch where he’d been asleep—not even bothering to make it back to his room. It’s the first time he’s spoken to me in days.
“No.”
“Then why the fuck are you here?” He spits the words at me angrily.
I stumble back like I’ve been slapped or punched in the chest. Tears spring to my eyes. Who is this person?
I don’t stick around long after that, but I pray that my dad will come back to me soon.