25. Now
Chapter 25
Now
F our knuckles rap against the door. “Hey girlfriend, you ready for dinner?”
I don’t answer.
Amy knocks again. “Kate?”
I want to reply, but a mix of tears and snot erupt from my face, and I reach for a tissue.
She opens the door and rushes over to me. “Hey … what happened?”
I grab another tissue and sob.
Amy kneels beside my bed and grabs my hands. “Did Jase do something?”
I shake my head. “N … no.”
“Is it your dad?” She rubs comforting circles on the back of my hand.
I close my eyes.
“Okay, I’m coming in. Scoot over.”
I wiggle my legs and butt a few inches to the right, and Amy climbs in next to me. “Want to talk about it?”
“He’s awake.”
“Did you see him?”
“Mhmm.”
She purses her lips. “Did you say anything?”
I move my head from side to side.
“Did you want to?”
“Yes … and no. I don’t know.”
Amy wraps her right arm around me. “Have I ever told you my mom left my dad for my brother’s best friend?”
“What?” My mouth drops open as I stare at my best friend.
She winces. “Oh yeah. They hooked up at my brother’s wedding … talk about awkward. All that to say, I get how complicated family can be.”
I squeeze her hand.
“And, with the help of some good old-fashioned therapy, your girl made it through.”
“I’m glad you did.” I pause. “Think you could recommend someone?”
Amy bumps my shoulder. “Of course. Everyone could use a Martha.”
“Everyone could use an Amy, too.”
I yawn, and Amy moves the covers back to step out of bed. “Love you, girlfriend. Try and get some rest.”
She’s barely out the door before my cried-out frame falls into an empty, dreamless sleep.
After a few days of steady recovery, the hospital schedules Dad’s discharge to a home healthcare program. While I can’t predict the weather, I would’ve bet anything there would be thunder and lightning the second he steps foot in the house. Some things you feel deep in your gut. The sky lets loose as soon as the front door swings open.
“Kate! Amy! Can you give me a hand?” Mama calls up the stairs.
“I can help, Liz.” Nana rushes in front of us to run down the staircase.
Mama and Pop struggle to get Dad in the house with his wheelchair. Our little deck and awning do little to shield the rain once it pelts sideways.
I freeze in place. For a few weeks, it felt less like hell and more like Mama’s. Now that he’s back …
Amy and Nana lift the chair, and Mama helps Dad get comfortable. “How’s that feel?”
“Oh, you know, miserable as usual,” he quips.
I snap, “Don’t.”
“Kate,” my mother chides.
“I’m sorry, Mama. I just … need some time.” I backpedal up the stairs as memories creep into my brain like Halloween nightmares: Dad whacking a glass out of my hand to have it shatter on the cold, hard ground; my jaw stiffening in defiance as he slams the front door time and time again; his Cheshire cat smile haunting my nights; his sneer; how he said only loves my mama.
My whole life, he’s been an emotionally abusive alcoholic. It doesn’t change overnight. No matter how many people he’s fooled into believing him, he hasn’t fooled me.
There’s a light tap on my door, and I say, “Go away,” expecting it to be Mama or Amy.
To my surprise, I hear a whispered, “Katie girl, it’s me.” I suck in my breath. I’ve never been able to say no to Nana, which is how Amy and I ended up in Sloane in the first place.
She knocks again, then sticks her head in. “Can I come in?”
“Sure.”
Nana smiles and sits on the floor, patting the carpet next to her. “You want to talk about it?”
I shake my head. No.
“Okay. Mind listening to me then?”
I lean my head against her shoulder. “How are you doing with all of this, Nana?”
“If I say I’m ‘miserable as usual,’ would you smack me, too?”
“I didn’t smack him,” I argue.
“I know, sweet girl, but I wouldn’t blame you if you did …” Point made, she’s mad, too. “You know, I didn’t think I was going to survive when I went through this with your pop.”
I scrunch my eyebrows together and pull my head off her shoulder. “Dad’s drinking?”
Her voice droops. “Your grandfather’s.”
“Pop doesn’t have a drinking problem,” I object.
“Not now, but he did for quite a while,” Nana says. “It nearly broke me. It did break your father.”
“What?” I try reconciling what she’s saying with the calm, gentile man I know. The man who has been here for every event in my life, big and small. The man who has held me, lied for me, protected me … loved me. The man who has been every bit the father my dad refused to be.
“Katie girl, your pop wasn’t always the person he is now. For a long time, he had an extensive problem. He refused rehab, therapy, and me . He saw whiskey as a solution, not a problem.”
“Oh, Nan. I’m sorry.” I put my hands on hers, and she squeezes mine.
“I know, baby. I know. He eventually got help, but it took him getting arrested on your dad’s birthday for him to realize he even had a problem.”
“Pop got arrested?” How many secrets does this family have?
She nods. “He got a DUI, and he swore that was it, the end of it. It was, but the damage was already done, physically, mentally, and emotionally. It took me a lot of years to forgive him. I don’t think your dad ever did.” She sniffles and uses her sleeve to dry the falling tears.
I study Nana’s face. “How could you … forgive him, I mean?”
She blinks through the tears. “Because I loved him—still do, you know, and the things he said and did were the disease. It took a long time. Len spent a lot of time in rehab before he transitioned to AA. Hell, he’s still in AA. I drive by sometimes to make sure.”
“But what—why didn’t you tell me? How come everyone in this family has kept secrets from me? Did you think I couldn’t handle it … any of it?”
Nana brings her knees up and rests her head against them in a posture I’ve done a thousand times before when I don’t feel safe or when I feel like the world around me is crashing down. “That’s not it. You needed to leave, Kate. You needed to get away from your daddy like you need air to breathe. Nothing was going to stop you, and we sure as hell weren’t going to try and guilt you into staying.”
I look down, ashamed of how selfish I’ve been. I didn’t know Pop was a recovering alcoholic. How could my family think I wouldn’t put my interests aside to be here for them through it all.
“I’m sorry, Nana.”
“Sweetie, listen. We were living on autopilot for way too long. You leaving was the swift kick in the butt we all needed to get our shit in gear, so don’t you ever be sorry. You hear me?”
I nod.
We stay in this moment for a while before I whisper something I swore to myself I would never admit to anyone. “I almost came back … when he got sick.”
“I know.” She smiles knowingly.
“How, Nana?”
She pats my knee, stands, and moves toward the door. “Oh, sweetie, Lily’s old engine damn near knocked through the phone.”
She knew, and she didn’t call me on it.
“Hey Nan … I love you.”
“I love you, sweet girl.” She pauses. “You should tell him. Anger and resentment is a burden you shouldn’t have to carry after all these years. Let it out. Lighten the load.”
With Nana’s encouragement and Mama’s pleading, I find myself at St. John’s church four towns over with Dad, impatiently waiting for an AA meeting to start. When the leader welcomes the group, I bolt, flinging open pearly white doors in my wake.
“Kate! Wait, please.” The last part comes out as a desperate plea. I can’t stop. It’s like my feet are programmed to walk right to the car. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it sure as hell wasn’t him at the front of the parishioner room out of his wheelchair, standing with a wooden cane, running the meeting like he has his shit together. Like he isn’t trying to fool his family with his ‘recovery.’ Whipping around, I let the rain hit my face in all its fury. Drops quickly fall to the ground and ricochet back up.
“Kate,” Dad says again.
I can’t tell if it’s tears or a side effect of the downpour we are stuck in.
“What?” I’m exasperated.
“I thought you’d be proud of me.” His voice wobbles as he speaks, but all it does is harden my glare.
Spitting, I reply, “You thought I’d be proud of you? I’m happy you think you’ve gotten your life together. If you’re not fooling anyone, and you’ve really overcome your addiction, then I’m happy for you.”
He nods as I unload a lifetime of baggage .
“But I don’t forgive you. The things you said and the damage you caused are reprehensible.”
“Kate—” he pleads.
I put my hand up. “Don’t.”
I drop into the driver’s seat and slam my steering wheel three times in a row. When I pause, he’s still there, studying me through the windshield, eyes guarded, almost like he’s seeing me for the first time.
I hesitate, then unlock and push open the passenger side door.
Dad slides in wordlessly, the rain sticking his clothes to his frail frame. It takes all his body weight to get the door to shut. He closes his eyes and sniffles. “Kate, I fucked up.” He inhales, and his whole chest moves with his breath. “I fucked up everything for a long time for everyone I love, and I’m sorry. You deserve better. Your mama deserves better. Your nana and pop deserve better. Hell, I deserve better than that version of me.”
I don’t say anything, just listen and process.
“I was angry at my pop forever. I didn’t understand how he could let alcohol come before our family. I didn’t understand until I did it, too … but at the time, I didn’t think I had a problem. I need you to understand that. I blacked out a lot—I don’t think I can remember a full day of your entire childhood, only pieces here and there.” He cries and brings his hand to his eyes. “I honestly thought we had a good life until it hit me one day, and I stopped. Your mama, bless her heart, helped me get help, and I—” Another sniffle. “I’m ashamed.”
I close my eyes and exhale. “You … called me a whore. You kicked … me out of the house. You told me … you told me you didn’t love me.”
Dad weeps. “I don’t remember that. Oh my God, I’m so sorry. It isn’t true.”
I sit in silence.
“Kate, please tell me you don’t believe any of it. I never, ever, would have said it sober. It’s not true.”
He puts his hand on mine, and I flinch and look away.
“Oh, I feel like a monster.”
“You are,” I reply coldly.
He runs his hands through his hair. “No. I’m not that person anymore.”
“I wish I could believe that.” I wipe away the tears as they fall.
“Let me prove it to you. It’s not going to happen overnight, but please let me try. What do you say?”
I gulp. “I don’t know.”
“Okay.” He pats my hand before opening the door. “‘I don’t know’ isn’t no. I’ll take it and prove it to you.”
As he heads back into his meeting, I can’t control the cackle from escaping.
Turning back around, Dad asks cautiously, “What’s … what’s funny?”
I run my hands through my hair. “It’s not funny, but it’s … you know, this is probably the only time we’ve had a sober conversation.”
His face falls. “I hope it’s not the last.”
He turns around and waves, and I pull out. While there’s a long way to go, and I sure as hell don’t forgive him or forget what he said or did my whole life, ‘ I don’t know’ isn’t no.
Though, it isn’t yes, either.