But the thought of himnot heremakes me feel like I’m descending into darkness.
I drag myself outside for a walk.
I’m spiraling. I don’t have the bandwidth to argue with Tati, and my bedroom reminds me too much of Henry now to serve as a sanctuary. I miss the Marine Conservation Park; I wish I could take refuge there for a few hours.
Instead, I shuffle down the sidewalk, dazed and disassociated, like I’m hovering overhead, watching a raven-haired girl wander without purpose.
She looks sad and tired.
She looks like she needs a hug.
She looks so very lost.
Henry
My phone’s nearly dead, but now that Tati has left and I’ve got an update on Dad, I’ve got to call my mom.
She answers, sounding as worn out as I feel. She just got home from a shift, she tells me before I give her the condensed version of the last several hours. I wrap up with the doctor’s latest report, making sure my tone’s as confident as hers was.
“He’s sleeping now,” I finish. “He’s good.”
Through my account, Mom’s kept quiet. Now she erupts.
“He isnotgood, Henry. Nothing about what you just told me isgood. My god, will he ever grow up?” She’s obviously not expecting an answer and follows up immediately with another question. “Has this happened before?”
“No. Well…not really. I mean, he has a drink now and then.”
“Henry. Don’t you dare cover for him. How often?”
I tip my head back to rest against the wall. “Every day.”
“How many drinks?”
Jesus—why do I feel like I’m tattling? “I don’t know. It varies.Several, usually.”
“But nothing like last night?”
“There was one other time…it wasn’t as bad, but he passed out.”
She groans. “I could kill him for putting you through this. You can’t stay the year with him. You have to come home. Now.”
“Come on, Mom. It’s not that serious.” Even as the words leave my mouth, I know they’re bullshit. My dad drank himself into a stupor and let his kid find him unconscious and bleeding in a puddle of puke.
It’s pretty fucking serious.
“What kind of parent would I be if I let you continue living with him?”
“This isn’t about what kind of parent you are. This is about Dad. I’m his kid—hisonlykid. If I leave him alone, he’s gonna get worse. I won’t abandon him when he needs me.”
“Henry—”
“Mom. You were cool with me staying in Florida last time we talked. You said it was my decision. I want to stay. And anyway, my birthday’s in two months. If you make me come home now, I’ll just fly back when I turn eighteen.”
She goes quiet. I picture her at the kitchen table, still in her scrubs, with a mug of tea. It’s rare that she and I disagree, even rarer that I’m downright defiant. But she’s not heartless. I know I’m getting through to her.
She says, “Your dad’s got a problem.”
“I get it. But I want to give him a chance to work on it.”
