I dramatically fall onto his lap. “How else does one deal with life’s greatest tragedies?”
Play Orange Juice by Noah Kahan
When Dad first steps out of the car, I hardly recognize him. He looks like he has lost quite a bit of weight, and the trimmed beard is a stark contrast to the rugged man I had seen last. I raise one arm up to cover my eyes from the sun. The other stays holding the sign Mom and I had made last night. “Welcome Home” in bright neon letters cover the majority of the white poster board.
His grey hair catches the sunlight, exposing all the new white strands that have found a home on his head. A light green t-shirt covers his torso, and they almost perfectly match the sweats he has on. Those however look older, as though they have been sun bleached.
My stomach twists with uncertainty as he takes mom and I in, for a moment I expect the monster to return, as if nothing happened. All the excitement I had held for his homecoming has slowly dwindled down, leaving me with nothing but fear that nothing has changed.
“Hey you two,” he finally speaks up as he grabs the last of hisbags from the uber.
“Hi Daddy.” I croak out, my dry throat giving my nerves away. He walks up the steps, setting the bags gently down at our feet. Dad’s arms open wide as he pulls Mom and I in for a hug. His touch is soft, as if he’s also scared that the monster still lingers somewhere inside of him.
“I will never be able to tell you how sorry I am,” he murmurs as he finally lets us go. Mom’s eyes fill with tears and she nods knowingly at him.
Forgiveness lodges its way in my throat, yet no matter how hard I try the words can’t escape. It’s as though my body is unwilling to look past the past. It’s impossible to focus on the future and how bright it could be. Not when his hands on my skin burn with the memories of the last time I saw him.
My lip trembles as I fight past the pain, wanting nothing more than just to be a little girl for once. A little girl who wants the safety of her Daddy.
When our eyes catch, the look in his irises mirror mine. So much uncertainty lies between us now, and we’re lost to the confusion.
Mom snags the bags off the ground, dragging them inside and beckoning for us to join her. I step past Dad and head straight for the kitchen, desperate for a glass of water.
“It looks incredible in here,” he praises Mom as he pulls her in to kiss her forehead. Her cheeks blush with pleasure and her nose scrunches up. While I’m grateful for her happiness, I can’t help but be envious that I wasn’t able to find my own. His apology had left me feelingclaustrophobic.Turns out a new coat of paint wasn’t enough to bury the memories.
They make their way over to the couch, sitting down side by side. “How was it?” Mom asks with a soft tone.
Dad leans forward, clasping his hands together in his lap. “Hell at first, honestly. I thought the withdrawals were going totake me out.” With his head still down, he gazes up to me. His brown eyes glimmer through his lashes. “It wasn’t until I could finally stand up on my own I realized how much I really had to lose. The alcohol had been a band-aid to wounds I didn’t know I never healed.”
Mom’s hand glides gently up and down his back. “You put in the work and you’re here now. That’s all that matters.”
Dad slowly shakes his head. “It’s not that simple my love. I need to pay the toll of all the bridges I had burned. My amends must be made.”
She nods knowingly. “How can we help?”
“All I ask for is patience.” He starts off, keeping his gaze directed at me. “Patience with me while I try to make things right.”
The dam can’t hold it any longer, and the tears begin to flow freely down my cheeks. I nod at him, unable to form any words. I might not be able to forgive him right now, and knowing he understands that brings so much relief to me. I can give him patience. Nothing more, nothing less.
“Are you hungry?” I finally speak up, though I have to turn towards the fridge in order to gain confidence.
“Starving!” He lets out with a chuckle. “I swear they served us nothing but prison food.”
“Mom snagged a bunch of deserts from the festival yesterday, pumpkin bread or an apple pie themed scone?”
“I’ll take a scone.”
I grab the brown paper bag from its cold home and set it out on the counter. The scones have hardened due to the chill, leaving them close to solid and crumbling around the edges. It’s funny how quickly things can change, almost like nothing was destined to ever be permanent. I make quick work of warming them up in the microwave, listening to the whirring come from the machine.
“Do you need any help?” Mom calls out from her place in the living room. I glimpse over my shoulder to see my parents both looking at me. Dad has his arm wrapped around Mom’s shoulder in a loving embrace. Images of them before his addiction flicker in my eyesight. The endless laughter, the dancing in the kitchen, the kisses goodnight; they all seem just out of reach.
I shake my head as the images blur and reality comes back into full view. “I got it.”
“Well I can grab us drinks then!” Dad offers.
His words shake me. More images take over. Bottles and bottles and bottles. The brown liquid sloshing around. More bottles. Blood and fists. More bottles.
The plate of warm scones drops from my hands, the plate shattering against the linoleum flooring. I stare down at the mess with a completely blank expression. “I’m sorry.”
