“What the hell?” I squeezed the red-and-white pack of smokes lightly as I rushed. He’d smoked rollies my whole life, said they were healthier because he made his smaller than regular cigs, so I was kind of surprised to see that he’d splurged on Marlboros.
Back in the bathroom, I handed off the pack to Dad, along with the lighter. I flipped on the switch for the vent fan to try to get rid of more of the foul stench still lingering on the air before I ran out to the kitchen to deal with the destroyed food. Faced with the disaster again, I coughed. Whatever was inside the pot had stopped smoking, but I had no idea how long it had been on the stove. The smoke detector should have gone off, so I could only assume at some point the battery had died, or Dad had fucked with it, which was scary. I took the pot to the sink and ran cold water in it—there was still enough heat for a sizzle—and then dumped it into the sink to soak. It would probably need to go to the curb.
Moving from one catastrophe to the next was typical when dealing with Dad. I had no sooner put the pan down than I noticed a large spill on the floor near the fridge. At some point a half gallon of milk had bitten the dust, and Dad had never cleaned it up. The closer I got to the new mess, the sour stench had me wrinkling my nose, though until I was right over it the gag-inducing odor had been soundly beat by the other horrible smells in the house. Off I went to the small catch-all closet near the front door and grabbed a bucket and cleaning cloths. By the time I had the milk spill taken care of and the plastic carton on top of the overflowing trash can next to the stove—“Fuck, is it trash night?”—Dad was bellowing again.
“Angel, get your lazy fucking ass in here and help me up!” There was a long slurp that followed, and I didn’t know if he’d somehow managed to get his beer from the side of the tub or if he had some stashed under the bathroom sink. He was an alcoholic, and he’d fallen more than once in there, so I wouldn’t put it past him. He probably wouldn’t care if he died as long as he was drunk enough when it happened. Hanging my head, I went back to the bathroom and pushed the chair close to him. He’d managed to sort of tie the towel around his waist.
“Do you want to take the towel off before I sit you, or leave it on?”
“Why, you want a peek?” he asked with a nasty smirk.
Fluttering my eyelashes and biting my tongue against saying something that would only lead to more yelling, I didn’t ask again, simply went to him and put both hands under his arms and then strained with all my might. He was heavy because he didn’t help, and I got him up until he could try to steady himself on his feet. He didn’t really recover his balance, and he groaned as I spun, nearly turned my ankle, and set him as gently as I was able into his chair when his knees gave out again. I wasn’t sure if he was in pain from the fall, his usual back pain that left him unable to walk most of the time, or if he was just fucking drunk. I bent to help him arrange his towel so that it wasn’t stuck in a wrinkle under his right leg, and the fumes on his breath nearly knocked me out.
“You left food on the stove and then came in here.”
He grunted, didn’t look like he cared, and my gut cramped with guilt. His drinking and general assholery were why Mom left when I was fifteen. She’d asked me to go, too, but guilt had kept me with him. About a year after she’d left his drinking got worse. He’d hit me more. He’d called me names.
Everything had gotten worse.
And I’d tried to find her, but couldn’t. I had no idea where Mom had gone, but she didn’t seem to be anywhere in New Gothenburg, and I’d just been stuck here in this hellhole. My grandparents were too old to help Dad, and no one knew how to change him anyway. Then, they’d died.
“Just be a good boy, Angel Blake.”That’s what Grandma had always said.“If you’re good, he won’t yell.”She hadn’t had any clue… or hadn’t wanted one.
I’d kept going to school.
My grades weren’t great, but they weren’t terrible.
No one had asked questions about the occasional bruise because my dad was in a wheelchair, after all. And I’d heard the stories from Mom when I was younger. Dad had survived an attack about seven months before I was born. He’d been a victim. I never heard why he’d gotten his beatdown, but if his personality now was the same as then, I could see how it happened. Apparently that one beating excused everything he ever did afterward. And I’d just kept myself together the best I could until I was able to get the fuck out of here. Some days had been better than others—both with Dad and my ability to cope.
Blowing out a long breath, I finally got Dad situated in the chair and pushed him backward out of the bathroom. My face was near his. I could tell what was going to happen before it did, and I should have known better than to get down that close to him. He socked me in the gut as I got him to the living room, and I grunted. The hit fucking hurt enough that I sucked air.
“What? Why?”
“You were supposed to be here this morning.” He jutted his jaw.
“No, Dad,” I said, wincing at the sharp pain and rubbing my stomach as I stood. “It’s a weekday.”
He didn’t look convinced, but then again, the way his head lolled down toward his chest, maybe he was too fucking sauced to know the difference.
“You’re not supposed to be drinking like this on your pain meds,” I said, the same way I always did.
He mumbled and scooted his chair toward his bedroom. When he got inside he slammed the door loud enough that the crack hurt my ears. My heart hammered until he’d been in there a minute, but my anxiety was a seething wiggly knot in my gut, the same way it always was in this house. If he hurt himself getting dressed, he’d decide it was my fault for not helping, but I also knew he wouldn’t let me help him before there was a problem. There was no use going in at all.
Shaking my head, I went into the kitchen and searched around until I found chicken in the bottom of the fridge behind a case of beer, and in the cupboard was a box of instant mashed potatoes. I mentally added going to the store to my list of chores for the week because he was getting low on things like cheese and lunch meat, which was most of what he ate when I wasn’t around. I wasn’t sure why he’d tried to cook tonight when normally he didn’t. It was a mystery that I probably wouldn’t be able to get an answer to if I asked directly. He’d already started to drown his sorrows for the day; there would be no answers, only shouting. Or, maybe he’d started this bender last night and was still going strong.
Sometimes he didn’t sleep, and if he didn’t sleep, no one did. I shuddered, remembering the many times I’d been woken up in the dead of night being dragged out of bed by an ankle. To stop my thoughts, I quickly started his dinner and then took the garbage out. I was relieved to note that the neighbors had their cans out, too, so I wasn’t nuts. It was garbage night. I got confused sometimes. Dad’s neighbor on the left, Mr. Xenakis, who was probably about eighty, nodded at me from under the bundle of his thick winter coat, two scarves, and a thick wool cap. He adjusted his recycling bin.
“You know, the earth needs us,” he said, scowling at the lone can I placed out—only trash, no recycling in sight.
“Mr. Xenakis, I hope you’re having a good night.” I tried out a bright smile on him and twiddled my fingers in his direction, hoping to scare him off with some extra sass.
He harrumphed, but how to explain that I could barely keep Dad alive, let alone get him to recycle? I didn’t have it in me to sit and sort through everything and spend even more time here. I just couldn’t. Turning with a tight smile and one last wave, I went to go back in to the warmth of the house.
“He was outside yelling last night. Almost thought about calling the cops.” Mr. Xenakis’s voice was gruff.
Shivering, I turned back and rubbed my hands on my arms. “Yelling?”
“You need to take care of your family.” He thumped the lid of his garbage can for emphasis. After Dad, the small thud had my shoulders hitching up toward my ears. I could feel myself tensing and there was no way to stop. My throat worked as I swallowed and almost couldn’t get the spit past the lump smack in the middle of it.
