Chapter 7 #2
“Sidney!” He spreads his arms wide. He’s bulked up since the last time I saw him, shaggy blond hair glowing in the bright morning sun, cheeks red, but not from the cold.
They’re always red like that; when I was younger, Mom told me it’s something that happens when you drink a lot, and eventually it doesn’t go away, even if you stop.
I smile as wide as I can and step into his arms. Even though I’ve been anxious all week, even though I’m waiting for this day to go south, something about the way he squeezes me makes my shoulders relax.
In these moments, he feels like my dad, the dad he can be when he’s sober and hasn’t said anything stupid yet.
He smells like Old Spice and cigarettes, like he always has.
“Hi, Kyle,” Mom says behind me.
“Nicole. What’s up.” His voice vibrates against my ear where my face is pressed to his chest, arms still around me.
“When should I expect you back?”
He glances down at me. “What do you think, kiddo? I know we talked about running away to Mexico.”
I half smile, and look at Mom. The line between her eyes deepens as she frowns. Silence reigns, broken only by a car passing by, and someone’s dog barking a few houses down.
“Aaaaall righty then,” Dad says when neither of us responds. “Three or four hours max; the trailhead isn’t too far of a drive. I’ll bring them back in one piece and I’ll text you if we’re running behind.”
“Great.” She looks at me. “See you soon, honey.”
I follow Dad out to his car, the same Corvette he’s been driving since I was a kid, just worse for the wear now.
He used to take really good care of it before the divorce, but now the paint is scratched, rust stains spreading on the roof.
Inside, it smells like cigarette smoke, and I do my best to breathe through my mouth.
As we settle in, Dad blows into something attached to the dashboard; after a minute, he turns the key, and the car starts.
“What’s that?” I ask, gesturing at the device.
“Breathalyzer,” he says, eyes on the road. “Gotta blow into it to start the car now. I know I didn’t mention it in my text, but I wanted to tell you in person.” He glances over at me. “I got a DUI. That’s why I was in treatment.”
I nod, and something about my expression must give it away, because he shakes his head. “Your mom already told you, huh?”
“Yeah.” I watch the side of his face as his jaw clenches. “She just told me it happened. She didn’t say anything bad.”
“Of course, of course,” he says. “It’s just not something you should have to hear about from someone else, why I’m in . . . rehab.” He falters on the last word, punching the brakes a little too hard for the red light ahead of us.
I bite back the responses that spring to mind: Because being in the dark and thinking you were dead is any better?
Because I’m so shocked you finally ended up in treatment?
What else was she supposed to do? Instead, I roll the window down and stick my arm out, letting the wind buffet my hand up and down.
“How about you?” Dad asks.
“I’m good,” I say automatically. “I’m president of the Queer Alliance. Co-president, I mean. I’m sharing it with this guy Forrest.”
“Good for you,” Dad says. “I always knew you would be good at the leadership thing.”
“Thanks.”
“Any crushes? Boyfriends, girlfriends . . . whoever-friends?”
I grimace a little, but he doesn’t see. “Not really. I’m trying to stay focused on school.”
“That’s my kiddo,” he says, turning at the bottom of the hill toward the freeway entrance. One hand dials up the volume on the stereo, and I recognize Kurt Cobain’s voice immediately; other than Eminem and ’90s hip-hop, grunge is Dad’s favorite.
“You recognize this, right?” he asks.
“‘Heart-Shaped Box,’ by Nirvana,” I say. It’s an old game we used to play when I was younger, where he’d choose a song and have me identify the title and artist.
“I taught you well, young Padawan,” he says. “Wish I would have been around to see them live. But I got to see Pearl Jam, so there’s that. Have I told you that story?”
I nod. I’ve heard it before, but that doesn’t stop Dad.
“I was eighteen. Just a couple years older than you,” he says, accelerating up the freeway ramp.
“Me and your mom had just started seeing each other, it was maybe our second or third date. High school sweethearts.” He flashes me a grin.
“I got tickets from a buddy of mine who was sick and couldn’t go to see them play the Showbox.
It was a benefit concert for voter registration. ”
The song changes, and I recognize it within a few notes: “Rooster,” by Alice in Chains.
Dad speeds up to merge in front of an oncoming car, muttering curse words as he tries to make it in time.
In my lap, I weave my fingers together, clenching them tightly until we’re safely in the flow of traffic heading east through the tunnel, toward the bridge.
“Where was I?” He settles back in his seat.
“Oh yeah, Pearl Jam. Anyway, your mom and I got pizza beforehand and then we hit the show. It was electric, the place was packed, and we somehow got right up against the barricades at the front. Your mom was wearing a cute little dress over some jeans, that was the style at the time. And a few years later I proposed.” He snorts.
“And now we’re divorced. Should have seen it coming. ”
I want to ask why he says that, why he thinks he should have known, but I also don’t. The conversation is veering sideways now, like a semitruck hitting the rumble strip of a highway, the loud grinding a reminder: Get back on track, before you crash. Get back on track, before you die.
Dad curses, and I jerk my head up in time to see him brake, but he does it wrong, too hard, or too slow, and the car drifts, screeching sideways toward the edge of the bridge as we leave the tunnel, and—
“Earth to Sidney.” A hand waves in front of my face, and I look over. We never hit the brakes, never hit the railing. It was an anxiety movie. It was all in my head.
“Sorry,” I say. “I spaced out.”
“It’s all good,” he says. Loud guitar rips through the car and he bops his head side to side, gaze staying on the road as he does the gentlest headbang I’ve ever seen. We’re halfway across Lake Washington now, and I look to the right out of habit, across the water.
“The mountain is out!” Dad whoops, and I can’t help but smile.
Mount Rainier is fully visible today, snow just starting to speckle her sides, the distance rendering her in hazy blues and white, massive ridges sloping down from the sky into the valley below.
“Maybe we can go pay her a visit next,” he adds.
I nod. “Yeah. That could be cool.” My stomach tightens. I knew somewhere in my mind that a text to Dad meant I was signing up for a whole lot more than one hike, but now it’s real. He’s back in my life, and I have no idea how it’s going to go.
We drive for almost an hour in silence, the suburbs slowly dwindling and trees taking their place, green ridges rising up around us as we climb toward Snoqualmie Pass.
The wind rushes past the open windows, the white noise a comforting curtain shielding me from having to make conversation.
There aren’t that many cars on the road, just some semis dragging loads over the mountains to who knows where.
Finally, Dad changes lanes and we exit, turning onto a road that crosses above the freeway.
It’s later in the morning now, the light golden on the trees. I lean my head closer to the window, breathing in the air; it’s fresher already, all pine and earth and a slight hint of smoke from somebody’s chimney somewhere.
“Do you remember where we are?” Dad asks. A sign ahead of us lists trailheads to our left and right. I scan it.
“Denny Creek?” I look at him. “Didn’t we go here all the time?”
“That’s right.” He grins. “I thought you might enjoy it. You loved it when you were younger.”
The images rush in: glittering water rushing down shallow grooves on a wide expanse of smooth-rock creek bed; an eagle soaring high up in a hot blue sky; Dad’s face, less red, more smiley, the sun behind him.
I don’t know why, but there’s a lump in my throat, tears stinging my eyes.
I stick my head out the window before he can see, letting the wind blast my face.
He slows down as we turn onto the Forest Service road, winding through the trees, taking another turn, until finally we pass a giant parking lot.
“That’s new,” he says. “Used to be a big rock field.”
“I played on it,” I say suddenly. The memory is so clear. I haven’t thought about it in ages. “There were all these big boulders, and we’d jump from one to another.”
“Your mom got so pissed at me,” he says, laughing.
He parks and gets a day pass for the dashboard from the pay station, and after a stop at the bathrooms we’re heading up the gated road across from the parking lot, toward the trailhead.
I feel different, lighter, like the air out here is going straight to my head, clearing out all the bad thoughts. I stride ahead of Dad.
“Hey, listen.” The tone of his voice makes me turn around and look at him, walking backward as he follows me. He swallows, then takes a deep breath and blows it out.
“I know I haven’t really been . . . present the past year.
Or at all, really.” He barks out a laugh.
“But this time . . . I don’t know. It feels different.
Rehab taught me a lot. I’m going to be around more, and I’m going to make it up to you.
All the times I was . . . yeah.” He clears his throat.
I slow down, falling into step beside him.
“I’m back at AA, I’ve got a sponsor, and I’m working the steps.
When it’s time, I want to make amends to you. How does that sound, kiddo?”
“Sounds good,” I reply softly, because I don’t know what else to say.
“All righty.” He grips the straps of his backpack in his hands, staring straight ahead. We pass the sign at the trail-head, and I drop behind him to walk single file on the narrow path. Above us, the trees spread their limbs, the sun filtering through.
I’ve never heard Dad apologize before. Not that this is an apology.
For that, I think someone has to actually say the words “I’m sorry.
” But it’s something. I scan my body, looking for what I should be feeling: happy, or grateful, or something good.
Because this is good. I love my dad, and he’s finally getting sober, for real.
He’s finally going to be here again, the way he was when I was little. At least for a while.
He looks over his shoulder, smiling at me, and I smile back automatically.
“I’m glad we could do this,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say, focusing on my feet as I navigate the rocky path. “Me too.”