Maintaining an even tone and treating him like an adult is difficult as I hunch at his side and say, “Let’s go.”
When I was a child, he was a vibrant hulk of a man with thick, dark hair and smiling eyes. He would throw me on his shoulders and parade me around our hometown. He was a man who was proud of himself and the life he’d built. He worked for his girls—for Mom and me. Things changed. We moved to Rossview, and the factory underwent layoffs. They cut hours and brought in automation. Money became tight, and our home became loud.
The hulk disappeared. The pride fell. The daily grind of a life filled with backbreaking work chipped at him, but Mom’s betrayal left the husk of a man I see today.
He straightens in the chair and wraps one hand around his liquid savior while extending the other toward me. “I needed fresh air.” His words slur as he pats my head.
I manage a sympathetic pat of my own. Offering compassion is challenging after years of excuses. Impossible when his right hand lifts toward his lips for another drink.
“Stop, Dad. Come on.” I reach for his glass.
My attempt is in vain. He blocks my arm while angling himself toward the wall and tossing the last shot of whatever poison he’s drowning in today back in one gulp. The worst part of his drinking? He’s an alcohol whore. He throws down anything he gets his hands on. Whatever sends him to the place of incoherence the fastest is his new best friend. His empty glass hits the table with a thud. With nothing left to guzzle, he stands on wobbly legs and throws a hand out as if saying, ‘After you.’ It’s the second-worst part of his drinking. He’s a happy drunk for the most part. Hell, he doesn’t even fight when I cut him off nowadays.
Eddie offers his assistance as I stumble to the door under Dad’s weight, but I refuse. This is a familiar rodeo, pal. I’m adept at the job. I release my hold on his side and sling my arm around him, digging my keys from my waistband as we exit. He wanders with the change in my grip.
“Dad”—the keys fall to the gravel drive as Dad ricochets off a parked pickup truck like a pinball— “my car. The red one,” I say through gritted teeth, kicking the keys.
“Red?” he mutters. “Red. Red. Red.”
Settling him into my vehicle is a two-person job, and by the time he’s buckled in and I’ve closed the passenger door, my boobs swim in sweat. I inhale a deep breath and lean my hip against the car. He isn’t three-sheets-to-the-wind wasted today, which is a good thing. When Eddie called with the news of Dad’s arrival, he said he’d serve whatever Dad’s measly dollars could afford. Eddie could tell Dad drank before he arrived. This means he bought alcohol at the grocery store, consumed it, and returned, where they likely refused him for being impaired. It wouldn’t be the first time.
A dense thump against the car window prods me into action. I round the vehicle and climb in, giving Dad a cursory glance before I crank the engine. He’s leaning against the glass, eyes closed, body slack. Great, he passed out. Heading home should be uneventful.
The drive from Rossview’s bars to the ranch-style house we moved into the summer before my freshman year of high school is minimal. The proximity is what keeps Dad knee-deep in liquor. I suppose I’m grateful he doesn’t drive drunk, but his having easy access to alcohol derails my cause. Driving to the back of the house, I park nearest to the door as I can get. Our neighbors are at work, but it’s summer, and people talk. All I need is one kid getting an eyeful of me chaperoning Dad from my beat-up Acura to the front door, and the do-gooders will arrive in swarms. The Womick name is a permanent fixture in the rumor mill these days. I’ve been at work for three days, and the looks of pity from my new co-workers have already started.
I shift into park and cut the engine. “Dad? We’re home.”
His even breaths are soft, and I lean my head against the headrest with a sigh. The sun is on a mission to incinerate the earth, or I’d roll down the windows and let him sleep this off. His waking up in a pool of