His hair’s matted and greasy, and there are half-moon shadowsbeneath his eyes. There’s a tube in his left arm connected to a bag of clear fluid. He’s wearing the hospital’s obligatory gown, and a starchy-looking blanket covers his lower half.
He gives me a hangdog smile, raising his arm, hand curled into a fist. I bump his knuckles with my good hand before dragging a chair toward the bed.
The TV’s on a baseball game, which is set to mute. The Marlins are winning.
“I’m okay,” Dad says, his voice raw. “I don’t want you to freak out.”
“Too late for that.”
His red-rimmed eyes dart around the room. He’s uncomfortable—good. He scared the piss out of me last night. He ought to be very uncomfortable.
“Dad,” I say. And then:“Davis.”
Now he looks at me, contrite. “Let’s go with Dad.”
“You sure?”
He nods, then winces, gingerly touching the back of his head. “Henry, I’m not real sure what to say. All I know is that I’ve made a mess of things. I’m humiliated, if you want to know the truth.”
“Does that mean it’ll never happen again?”
His brows draw together. His typical good humor is nowhere to be found. “I don’t want it to. But I haven’t figured out how to make certain it doesn’t.”
Don’t drink, I want to say.
But I know it’s not as easy as that.
“I used to go to meetings,” he tells me.
This is a surprise. You don’t walk into an AA meeting unless you’ve acknowledged, at least on some level, that you’ve got a problem. “Why’d you stop?”
He lets out a dry chuckle. “Well, they weren’t much fun.”
“And getting so wasted that you bust your head openisfun?”
“I didn’t say that. I don’t drink because it’s fun, usually. Having a few loosens me up. Gets me out of my head.”
“I’m in my head all the time, Dad. There are other ways to deal.”
“Yeah. Maybe I should take up running.”
“Maybe.”
“Or read those mermaid books.”
I crack a smile. “Why not? Those stories are the shit.”
He grows serious again. “I can’t think of anything I want totalk about less than the last twenty-four hours, but I owe you an explanation. This thing with Tati’s been rough. I’m furious with myself for driving her away, so I keep doing the thing that drove her away. It doesn’t make sense, but a lot of times, I just can’t make myself care until it’s too late.”
“I called her last night,” I tell him. “She helped me—helpedyou.”
“Oh, hell,” he says, sinking into the pillows behind him. “I’m sure she was thrilled.”
“Not exactly. I’m glad she was around, though. She’s pretty great.”
He gazes up at the ceiling, wistful. “Yeah, she is.”
We let quiet fill the room, both of us focusing on the game. When it breaks for a commercial, Dad says, “I’ve never told your mom about the meetings.”
