Friday, March 4th
Ronan
“Hey Rony?” I hear Miranda’s voice behind me.
I look over my shoulder at her as I lead Reaper back into his pen. “Hey Randi.”
“Do you think you can get away for a little bit?”
“Probably,” I say. “Why?”
She hesitates. “I want to check in on my dad, but I don’t want to go alone.”
Miranda can only be described as tiny but mighty. She oozes confidence and very much comes across as having a thick skin. But I’ve known her long enough to know that a lot of it is a fa?ade, and much of Miranda’s demeanor is a shield against her father’s verbal attacks. She pretends to let everything roll off her back, even though she’s deeply affected and has been significantly shaped by the words that have been hurled at her since her mother died eight years ago.
“Are you wanting to go right now?” I ask.
“Well, as soon as possible.”
“Okay,” I say simply, then walk out of the barn and back to the house with her by my side.
Ever since we found Miranda’s dad unconscious a week ago, Miranda has been more subdued, regularly seeking my presence. She’s snuck into my bed to sleep next to me every night since then. She doesn’t wake me when she does so and doesn’t talk to me; I simply feel her crawl underneath my blanket, her sock-covered feet touching my legs, before she falls asleep next to me. I’m up and dressed long before my grandfather has a chance to walk into my room and catch Miranda in bed with me.
Not that there’s anything inappropriate going on—I’d never let that happen. My heart does and always will belong to Cat. I’d never risk that. But I know how it looks, and I can only imagine my grandmother’s reaction if she heard that Randi spends every night in bed with me.
My grandmother has warmed to Miranda somewhat over the past month, but I nonetheless try not to give my grandma occasion to question Miranda’s motives or my intentions. I just don’t need that shit right now. But I also don’t have it in me to tell Miranda to stop sneaking into my bed at night. She obviously needs this right now, and who am I to deny her the one thing that provides her some semblance of peace? I mean, I’d love nothing more than to sleep next to Cat every night. I miss her touch so badly. There’s nothing like it. It’s the most comforting thing, and I yearn for it more with each day that passes. Even our Sunday phone calls no longer hold me over longer than maybe forty-eight hours. I miss her constantly and without pause.
“Hello you two!” my grandma chirps from the living room as we enter the house. She’s folding mounds of laundry.
“Hey Morai,” I say quickly. “Would it be alright if I drive Randi to check in on her dad?”
My grandmother looks up from her laundry, her face soft as she gives Miranda a sympathetic smile, then turns her attention to me. I can tell her wheels are turning. “Baby boy, I think Athair could use your help this afternoon. Perhaps Miranda can make the trip alone?”
I feel Miranda deflate a little next to me.
“I think she’d prefer not to go alone,” I say.
I know that finding her father like that was a traumatizing experience for Miranda, and I understand the anxiety and the fear that comes with potentially exposing yourself to more trauma. She’s worried about what she might find.
My grandmother stays silent for a long moment, analyzing us, studying my face.
As far as I’m concerned, this is happening, whether my grandmother wants it to or not. “Morai, I’m going to take Randi,” I say.
“Alright,” my grandmother says. “Just, please drive safely.”
***
We pull up to Miranda’s house a little over an hour later. The front yard is covered by a pristine blanket of snow, not a single footprint leading to the door. Obviously, no one has come or gone since Wednesday’s snowfall. I follow Miranda out of the truck and up the narrow walkway to the front porch.
She pauses, her hand on the doorknob, before she finally lets herself into the house. She wipes her boots on the doormat so as not to track any snow into the house, though I’m not sure it matters.
“Hi Dad,” she calls out, but he doesn’t return her greeting or in any manner relay that he’s happy to see his daughter.
“What the hell is he doing here?” Miranda’s dad asks as I step into the living room behind Miranda.
One look around the interior of the home and I can immediately tell that Father Jackson has done absolutely nothing to clean up his act.
It looks even worse than it did the day we found him.
The trash can is overflowing, dirty dishes are piled into the sink and on the countertop next to old takeout containers, empty bottles of alcohol litter the small dining and living room tables, and the air has the distinct sweet smell of rotting food and sweat. It makes my eyes water and I scrunch my nose involuntarily.
“Ran gave me a ride,” Miranda says and moves into the kitchen.
Her dad laughs derisively. “Is that what you call it now? Giving you a ride?”
She doesn’t pick up on her dad’s sexual innuendo. “What?” Miranda asks as she tries to compact the trash in the can.
“Stop touching my stuff!” Father Jackson gets up from the couch and staggers into the kitchen.
Miranda pulls the bag out of the garbage can. “Dad, this place is a pigsty.”
“Leave it alone!”
Miranda stops to look at her dad, the overstuffed bag by her side. “I’m only trying to help, Dad!”
It’s pissing me off how nice, how accommodating Miranda is. She doesn’t take any shit at all, except when it comes to her dad. And, fuck, I recognize that from myself. The effect my mother’s mere presence had on me was something else. It completely extinguished any self-worth, any self-confidence in me.
“I don’t want your help. I don’t want you in my house.” He shuffles over to Miranda, his gait unsteady—he’s obviously less than sober—then yanks the garbage bag roughly out of her hand.
Instinctively, I move into the kitchen and to Miranda’s side. As far as I know, Father Jackson has never laid a hand on Miranda, but I’m not taking any chances.
“What do you want, fuck boy?” he snarls. I look at him, surprised. I don’t think I’ve ever been called fuck boy, and I certainly didn’t expect it to come from a former pastor. “Are you fucking my daughter?”
“No,” I say.
He laughs. “Yeah, right. Don’t think I don’t know what you two were up to. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to now.” He moves around us to one of the kitchen cabinets and opens it to retrieve an unopened bottle of clear liquor.
Miranda walks over to her dad, who’s unscrewing the bottle, ready to fill a grimy glass. “Dad, do you really have to do this right now?”
“Yes.”
“You were just in the hospital. Do you not value your life at all?”
“Leave me alone, Miranda!” He spills some of the liquid when he overfills the glass.
“No. Dad, please,” she begs and does the one thing that would piss off any addict: she grabs the bottle in her dad’s hand, knocking the glass over in the process and spilling the alcohol inside it.
Father Jackson’s face contorts, his bloated features turning a bright shade of red. “Stop it, you little bitch.” He yanks the bottle out of Miranda’s hand. “I don’t want you here. I never wanted you here. You’re worthless, do you hear me? A disappointment. The reason I am the way I am is because of you. You’ve put me to shame. You’re an embarrassment.”
I walk to Miranda and pull her out of his path before I situate myself between them. “Stop talking to her like that,” I growl, my voice clipped. I’m pissed but trying to contain my anger.
He lifts his bloodshot, glassy eyes to mine. “I know who you are, fuck boy. I know you’re about as worthless as that disgrace of a daughter standing like a whiny little bitch right next to you.” His speech is slow, garbled. He laughs. “I guess the old saying, for every pot a lid, holds true for you two. Shit is attracted to more shit.”
“Dad,” Miranda says, her voice cracking. I can tell his words are getting to her.
Father Jackson abandons the dirty glass, directing his full attention at his daughter. “Shut up, you bitch. Don’t you get it? You mean absolutely nothing to me. I don’t want your help. You’re no daughter of mine. You’re worthless, and you always will be worthless.”
Miranda becomes still, a look in her eyes as if he punched her right in the face.
“God, you really are about as dumb as you look,” I growl, unable to hold it in any longer.
He tries to make himself look big, puffing his chest out. “What did you say to me?” He’s a lot shorter than me, his beer belly protruding from his unwashed shirt, and instead of intimidating, he just comes across as a drunk, pathetic idiot. Nothing I haven’t dealt with at Murphy’s before. It’s fucking laughable.
“You heard me,” I say. “You really should reconsider how you talk to your daughter. Because if you haven’t noticed, she’s the only person in this world who still gives a shit about you. She saved your life. You know you almost choked to death on your own fucking vomit? If it hadn’t been for her, you’d be dead, rotting away in this disgusting mess of a house, probably figuring out that the heaven you kept preaching about doesn’t exist, and even if it did, that’s certainly not where you’d have gone after treating your own daughter like shit for so long.”
Father Jackson looks at me, taken aback.
“Did you ever stop to think that life was hard for Miranda after her mother died? Did you ever consider that maybe you weren’t the only one suffering? Probably not, judging by the selfish fucking asshole you’re showing yourself to be. Talk about worthless,” I scoff. “Fuck, I remember you preaching about doing unto thy neighbor how you want done unto you, about forgiveness and grace and mercy and all that bullshit. But here you are,” I say. “You’ve done nothing but tear her down, shame her, dismiss her, and still she’s here trying to take care of you. After everything you’ve done to her, she still cares and, man, if there’s anyone less deserving of Miranda’s love and care, it’s you. She’s too damn good for you. She’s too smart and kind to waste her energy on a trashed, washed-out drunk like you.”
I can’t remember ever talking to anyone the way I’m talking to Father Jackson right now, and I’m not totally sure my hateful words only reflect my feelings toward him.
“As far as I’m concerned, you can drink yourself to death. Go ahead, be my fucking guest. I don’t give a shit whether your corpse decomposes right here in this damn house. But it’s apparently not what Miranda wants. I don’t know why, but she obviously still cares about you. So I suggest you shut the fuck up, go sit your drunk ass down on that filthy sofa of yours, and let her help you, because God knows you fucking need it or you’re going to die alone and full of regret.”
I fall silent, though I don’t move an inch from Miranda’s side.
The three of us stand there for a moment, Father Jackson’s eyes bouncing between Miranda and me. Finally he snags the tipped-over glass from the counter and totters back into the living room, where he takes a seat on the sofa, pouring himself a drink without another word.
I may not be able to stop him from drinking himself to death, but I’ll be damned if I let him rip into Miranda in front of me.
I turn to look at her. “Are you okay?”
She nods. “I’m fine,” she says, just like I always do, then picks up the trash bag and takes it outside.
I watch her leave, exhale deeply, then do what I did a week ago and start cleaning the kitchen. There’s something about a messy house that gives me anxiety. It’s probably because growing up, a messy house was one of the fastest ways to ensure punishment, so I very much associate clutter with pain. But this house is more than just cluttered; it’s outright filthy, and it’s obvious that Miranda’s dad doesn’t bother cleaning. Ever. He probably spends every waking minute drinking away his pain. I wonder if he even realizes the dilapidated conditions he lives in.
Miranda and I spend some time cleaning in quiet, her dad firmly planted on the couch—TV blaring—only occasionally staggering back into the kitchen, seemingly surprised that we’re still there, then walking back into the living room. I do the dishes, wipe down the counters, and collect the trash piling up around the house. There are so many empty liquor bottles that I lose count. Miranda starts some laundry and puts fresh sheets on her dad’s bed, then does what she can scrubbing the bathroom.
I open up every window in the house—despite Father Jackson’s protests—to let it air out. “It smells like a dumpster in here,” I say. He only mutters incoherently before taking another swig of whatever booze he’s slowly destroying his body with.
“Randi?” I say as I stand in the door to the small bathroom about an hour later. She’s on her knees, scrubbing the absolute shit out of the bathtub. She looks up, and I realize she must have been crying this entire time we were cleaning because her eyes are puffy and red, her cheeks tear-stained. “God, Randi.” I sigh, take the few steps toward her, and pull her into a standing position, then hold her tightly against me. I rest my chin on her head while she sobs quietly against my chest. “I’m so sorry,” I say as her small frame heaves with her sobs. “You know you’re an incredible daughter. None of this is about you. None of this is your fault. He’s so fucking lucky to have you.”
Miranda composes herself after a few minutes but doesn’t let go of me. “Can you do me a favor?” Her voice is hoarse from crying.
“Yeah. What do you need?”
“Can you just go and grab some takeout from Sterling’s and bring it back while I finish the bathroom? I want to make sure he has something to eat before I leave him.”
I study her, amazed that, even after the toxic words Miranda’s dad spewed at her, she’s still only concerned for his well-being. Seriously, the power abusers hold over their victims is unfathomable.
“Sure.” I release her from my arms, though hers remain wrapped around my waist a few seconds longer.
“Thanks, Rony,” she says, wiping the tears from her face.
It takes me roughly thirty minutes to drive to Sterling’s and return to Miranda’s house with food for her dad. I got the greasiest food on the menu, hoping it will absorb some of the alcohol sloshing through Father Jackson’s veins. I don’t speak to him when I unceremoniously drop the food on the coffee table in front of him, then push the table toward him. He eyes me, watching my every move like he’s afraid I might pounce.
“Ready to head out?” I ask Miranda when she walks into the living room, looking worse for wear.
She nods heavily. “I’ll stop by in a few days, Dad.”
He digs through the bag with the food, pulling out the Styrofoam container that contains a Philly cheesesteak and a large order of fries. “Don’t bother.”
My hackles go up again. Funny how I could never defend myself against my mother, but I have no qualms about wanting to beat the living shit out of anyone who verbally or physically attacks the people I care about. I remember the moment at Murphy’s last year when Adam stalked Cat to New York and I so readily became physical with that asshole, pounding my fist into his face and stomach repeatedly until Shane and Steve managed to pull me off him.
I have the urge to do exactly that right now, but I know it wouldn’t be a fair fight. Miranda’s dad can’t even stand up straight. Plus, it would only cause Miranda more pain.
“We’ll stop by in a few days,” I repeat Miranda’s words sternly, then take her hand and lead her out of this fucking house and to my truck.
We drive in silence for a while, music playing quietly in the background, while Miranda looks out the passenger window, watching the snowy landscape. I think I may need to break the rules again tonight, sneak out of bed, and call Cat. I hate waking her in the middle of the night, but I’m desperate for her, my heart aching in my chest. It’s always like that, but even more pronounced when I encounter triggers, when I’m having a rough day or a difficult therapy session. She’s such an anchor for me.
I finally break the silence in the truck. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you cry.”
Miranda faces me. “Really?”
“Yeah. I didn’t even know you could do that,” I say with a smirk.
A smile breaks through her sadness. “Oh, I can. I just save it all up for special occasions,” she says. “It’s honestly been a while.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know, like a couple of years?” she says. “How about you, Rony? When was the last time you cried?”
I huff. “Who the fuck knows. Years.”
“Years?”
"Yeah."
“Well, it’s kind of cathartic.” She sounds utterly exhausted.
“Is it?”
She nods. “Uh-huh. You should try it some time. It’s nice to just… get it out occasionally. God…” She sighs. “I’m sorry you had to hear that. I’m sorry for the way he talked to you.”
I glance at her before returning my gaze to the road. “Hey, you have nothing to be sorry for. First of all, the shit he said to me today isn’t anything I haven’t heard before. Well, minus the fuck boy part. And second, you know that none of the bullshit he said to you today, or ever, is true, right?”
She looks at me doubtfully.
“Randi, you’re an incredible person. You’re a badass and you deserve so much better. You’re smart and kind, and, man, even after all the shit your dad has put you through you care so damn much about him. You’re a good person, Randi.”
Her eyes well up with tears again. “Doesn’t feel that way, honestly. I feel like I abandoned him.”
“You didn’t abandon him. He kicked you out, remember?”
“Yeah, but when I first left—when you moved back to New York, and I just left Montana—I abandoned him.”
“But did you really abandon him, or did you just try to protect yourself?” I ask. “He’s made it pretty clear that he doesn’t want you around. And that honestly says nothing about you and everything about him.” I move my arm across the center console to take her left hand, squeezing it.
“You forgot to say how damn beautiful I am,” she suddenly says, a sly grin on her face.
“What?”
“When you said I was smart and kind and stuff, you forgot to say ‘beautiful,’” she says, a full-fledged smirk on her face now.
“I did, huh?”
She shrugs. “Obviously.”
I chuckle and roll my eyes. “Right, well, you’re smart, kind, and beautiful.”
“There you go,” she says with an appreciative nod. “Thank you, Rony. I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you.” She sighs and leans her head against my right shoulder while we continue our drive.