* * *
Aren drove like a New York cabbie, but he was driving like a New York cabbie who had just lost his sister and brother in the span of months. Like he had nothing to lose. He would have gone a hundred miles an hour if he could have, all the while swerving around traffic and being deathly quiet.
Neil elbowed me, and I turned toward him. He didn’t scare easily, and his hands were clenched, knuckles white. He nodded toward Aren but didn’t say anything.
“Where are we going, Aren?” I asked.
“To the hospital.”
“What for?”
“Your father isn’t doing well. Family first.”
I sighed, about to tell him to just drop me off at Vice City, but Neil made the pleading motion again and I kept my mouth shut. At least Lucila couldn’t say I didn’t do as she asked. Check on Sonny.
I scootched up a little closer to Aren’s seat. “I’m so sorry about Tigran,” I whispered. “He didn’t deserve that.”
Aren met my eyes through the mirror for a brief second and then nodded. A tear slipped down his cheek. Neil squeezed my hand and looked out the window.
We stopped at Vice City so I could drop Hoffa off, and then we went to the hospital. Neil stood in the waiting room with Aren, and even though he had a story to tell, I knew he wouldn’t step over any lines with Aren. He would be honest about his intentions and only ask respectful questions.
While they went to grab coffee, I went to Sonny’s room.
He looked small and fragile in the hospital bed.
There. Seen and checked.
I crossed my arms and went to walk back out when the nurse came in.
“His daughter, right?”
She didn’t give me a chance to respond. She moved around me to fiddle with his machines.
“He had a rough night.”
“Not too rough. He’s still going.”
She stopped what she was doing and glared at me. Then she smiled and I looked over my shoulder. A woman I didn’t recognize came in.
“Oh.” The woman stopped behind me. “I didn’t think anyone was coming, so…”
“Who are you?” I asked.
She introduced herself as Sonny’s new neighbor and told me my sister had asked her to check on him.
Luci was right to do it, but it still pissed me off. Why did she even care? This man didn’t deserve our time or energy.
Want to talk about emotionally dead? Sonny Girardi was the poster boy for the disease. His kind inspired songs like “Daughters” by John Mayer.
Sonny the slob never worked. He drank all the time. I was surprised I even recognized him from the front. Even when he was home, all we got from him was a view of the back of his head. He was a fucking recliner potato, his eyes glued to the ancient TV across from him.
He pushed our mom away. He pushed us away.
The only thing he ever did for us was provide a shitty place to live. And sometimes even that was in question when he’d gamble.
His absence, emotional or physical, turned me into a runaway and Luci into a domestic housewife from the 1950s because she had to take care of himandus.Usincluded the daughter, Minnie, he had with a hooker. Minnie saw Lucila as a mom instead of a big sister because both of her parents had bailed on her too.
Minnie’s a good kid, but she isn’t mine. I wasn’t the one who paid for sex and then got another responsibility out of it. Luci saw me as being selfish, but I only had one life, and I wasn’t going to spend it bailing Sonny out.
