Angel
The stars came out overhead, one by one, twinkling distant diamonds stuck between clouds that blotted out the moon. Pulling my hoodie closer around my face, I shivered and flexed my cold hands. The thin black gloves I wore were cheap, the kind I always bought that came three in a pack, and they never really kept the cold air out. Snow fluttered and danced from the sky, dotting my cheeks with frigid drops that, when I was a boy, my mother had always told me were kisses from Sugarplum fairies. She was always so sweet and imaginative, and sadness clawed at me when I thought about her too long. I wished more than anything I knew where she’d gone.
Sighing, I stood a few minutes longer, just looking, while my heart sped faster. I couldn’t see into the single-story house my grandparents had helped Dad buy before they passed away, but then I never could because the plastic blinds were always closed. The interior was a dismal, smokey cave and stayed that way, constantly, even on the brightest day in summer. The neighbors on both sides still had their holiday lights up, even though New Year’s was two weeks ago, and as I stood there the lights on one and then the other house flipped on, making the place I’d grown up in seem extra dark and sad in comparison.
With care, I searched for clues to what I might be walking into. I’d learned a long time ago not to simply barge in without assessing the situation. The outside of Dad’s house appeared mostly normal, white siding that could use a wash, but would never get one—except for one front window that had plywood in the bottom frame instead of glass.
That was new.
The damage made me pause. What kind of drunken mess would Dad be when I finally worked up the nerve to go inside? If the window was patched and not a gaping hole, he must have sobered up at some point to do that much. Maybe tonight’s visit wouldn’t be completely terrible.
Ha, fucking ha. No.I couldn’t relax because I knew better than to hope for anything good when it came to him.
Shoving my hands into my pockets, I stared at my damp Vans and tried again to calm my stomach enough to walk up the front path and go inside. Letting out a shaky breath, I put one foot in front of the other. Someone had shoveled the light dusting of snow off the walk already, probably one of Dad’s neighbors. He was always rude to people, but the motorized chair he cruised around in on the rare occasions he went out by himself made them feel compelled to help during bad weather, and I was glad for it.
My feet didn’t want to listen to me and dragged on the ground, but I kept walking. I refused to be here all the time, and Dad was too broke to hire anyone to come in and help out. The closer I got to the front door, a bad smell—like burned rubber—hit my nose, and I rushed the last few steps up the rickety ramp Dad had, instead of steps, that teetered more than it should. I mentally added the rocking ramp to the list of repairs I would have to somehow find money to make happen. The front door was locked for once.
“Damn it!” I twisted the knob harder, but no, it didn’t open. I dug my keys out of my pocket and fumbled with the lock. Forever and a half dragged by and then with a “yes!” I flung the door open.
Blue smoke was in the air, and I coughed as I shot to my left across the carpet. There wasn’t a lot of furniture to get in the way in here, only a couch and a coffee table on the right side of the open-plan room near the TV that hung on the wall. My feet squeaked as I hit the spot where the carpet switched to kitchen tile. Then I was in front of the tiny two-burner half stove. On the front coil was a pot of… something that was close to charcoal at this point. I lifted the pot off and put it onto the back burner. Waving my hand in front of my nose, I flipped the knob on the stove to off and hit the button for the exhaust fan. It growled to life but didn’t seem to be doing anything to clear the smoke.
“Dad!” I yelled loudly as I went around opening the windows that lined the front of the house to try to air the place out. I left the front door open because the smell was just so terrible.
“Dad?” There were only so many places he could be. There was the bathroom across from the front door, his bedroom to the right of that, and my old room on the left that he now used mainly as a place to sit and be angry while he drank. There weren’t even any decorations up in there because I’d taken them all with me, but sometimes when I stopped by, I found him sitting in the sad, empty space anyway. “Dad, what the hell? Where are you?”
There was a loud clatter from the bathroom, so that question was answered. “Son of a bitch! That you, Ang? Get your ass in here.”
My body tensed like a lightning bolt hit me and even my nose twitched. My mom’s name was Angela, so when he called me that, half the time he was really shouting for her. That always meant he was fucked up.
Mom had been gone for almost five years.
Holding in a sigh and an eye roll, I went toward the bathroom at a jog and yanked the door open. Steam blasted my face and had me sweating. Dad was sprawled naked on his front across the scuffed vinyl white floor with his forehead on his fist. I had to edge around his wheelchair, which took up most of the doorway, to reach him. I was in such a panic all I thought about was getting to him, and halfway through I realized what I was doing and growled, one leg already at an uncomfortable angle as I finished going around the hard way, my leg awkwardly raised over the back of the chair. When I was over to the floor on the other side and done with my stupid balancing act, I simply pushed the chair back into the living room, which was what I should have done in the first place. My brain never worked well near Dad.
“Are you hurt? Why didn’t you at least have the cane or walker for when you got out of the shower? You have both!” I wanted to rant and scream at him to be careful, though it never did any good.
“Shut the fuck up,” he snarled at me without lifting his head from where he had it pillowed on his fist. “You don’t fucking tell me anything, Ang. You never learn, you stupid whore.” He swatted my direction, and my heart leaped. I hated that I always reacted that way to him, even when he couldn’t reach me to do anything awful. I was always ready for pain, always ready for something terrible.
“It’s Angel, Dad. Angel.”
Mad as hell, I reached over to the rack on the wall to my right and dragged a towel off. I quickly draped the terry cloth over his ass and surgery scarred lower back. He never fucking listened about using the shower chair, either. The white plastic chair wasn’t even in the bathtub, but sitting along the wall next to it. The cheap clear plastic shower curtain had been ripped down and hung on a single ring above the tub while water poured down and splashed out everywhere. I wasn’t sure what he’d been trying to do because there was no soap scent in the air, only damp cigarette stink.
There was a beer can balanced on the edge of the tub that had survived Dad’s tumble, and maybe he’d ended up on the floor because his chair had somehow been shoved out of his reach. He could stand for a short while, but he always tried to push himself too long and then shit like this happened.
Stepping over him, I checked to see if there was blood anywhere while I reached in to turn off the water. I hated how numbness hollowed out my center. I wanted to care about him; there had simply been too many accidents he’d caused himself over the years for me to react the way I should.
“Dad, do you need an ambulance? Did you hit your head? Are you—”
“Shut up, you fucking shitty excuse for a goddamned son.”
My stomach sank. “I’m here to help you,” I murmured and reached toward him. At the last second, I pulled up short because I didn’t want him to hit me. I stood there hanging between action and inaction, twitching in place.
He said nothing else but rolled onto his back and glared at the ceiling. We looked a lot alike, and that had always upset me and messed with me. I supposed it was part of why I dyed my hair and got piercings—anythingnot to see him when I stared at myself in the mirror. His eyes were more of a honey color than mine, though a stranger probably wouldn’t notice, and if they weren’t always squinted at me like he thought I was shit on the ground, they’d be nice. His skin was still good even though he drank himself stupid all the time and barely went outside. His teeth were stained yellow from chain smoking, but he never smiled, so it was hard to tell. I held out a hand to him when he finally seemed to spot me and wake up a little in his mind—his expression rippled to something like recognition—and he shook his head.
“Give me a minute. Fucking hurts,” he rasped. “Get me my cigarettes.” He didn’t make eye contact, and I found myself racing to do as he asked, but I didn’t know where they were. I searched rather than asking for directions because I didn’t want to deal with him snapping at me again, but that was a poor choice, too, because after two minutes of me desperately looking high and low for his beloved cigarette tin, he bellowed, “They’re beside my bed, you fucking dipshit.”
Sighing, I ran from where I’d been ducked down to check under the couch and on into his bedroom, then grabbed the pack and his lighter from the low dresser that doubled as his nightstand. The lamp that usually sat there was missing. Things so frequently were smashed or destroyed that I didn’t even get too mad as I added a lamp to my mental list of items that would need to be replaced soon.
Lamp, shower curtain, ramp, pot. I should make a list on my phone.
