I barely register what my dad’s saying as he talks about his first day of janitorial duty at the elementary school. This is the old Dad I’m used to—the encouraging, positive Dad who comes home from work, puts dinner on the table, and makes an effort to be involved with my life. I wouldn’t be here if Margaret thought he was unfit to take care of me, but that doesn’t mean I automatically trust him again.
We were both in denial for a long time after Grams died. One night when he was on the back patio finishing off a handle of whiskey, I googledalcohol addiction.There were bullet points that neatly described when someone should get help.Neglecting responsibilities. Escaping reality. Repeated disorderly conduct. Frequent, extreme mood swings.
I’d closed my laptop, telling myself I was overreacting. My dad was just upset because Grams was gone. He’d come out of it, but until then I would make our dinners and clean up his beer cans and place a glass of water by his bedside. If that’s what I had to do to make sure our days went smoother, then that’s what I did.
I don’t remember much of what Margaret told me at the station, but I do recall one thing she said to me.
“It’s okay, honey. Don’t blame yourself. You didn’t know.”
But that was the thing. I did know.
I haven’t been following anything they’ve been talking about through dinner, but Peach feels the need to bring the conversation back to me.
“So, wow, eleventh grade? That’s a big year.”
I take a huge bite of garlic bread. I’m not feeling up to small talk.
My dad speaks on my behalf. “Yup, I can hardly believe it.” He turns to me. “Do you need to sign up for the SATs soon?”
“Everyone takes them first semester of senior year.” I’m annoyed he doesn’t know this.
“What about pre-SATs? You do the practice test, don’t you?”
I give an indifferent shrug. “I guess.”
“Well, good. Okay then.” He lifts a forkful of spaghetti to his mouth, then stops. “Should I get you an SAT study book?”
“I—”
“I’ll get you a book,” he decides.
“Veronica might have one,” Peach jumps in.
The table goes quiet with the exception of scraping forks. I don’t know who Veronica is, but I don’t want her books. I don’t want anything from anyone at this table.
“You don’t have to reach out if you’re not comfortable,” my dad says.
Nonnie leans over to me, her turquoise frames slipping down the bridge of her nose. “Veronica’s her daughter. Went off to college last year.”
I give the slightest nod, but I really don’t care.
“No, I should.” Peach sits up a little straighter. “It could be a good ice breaker.”
Saylor grins at her. “Maybe it’ll be tomorrow’s SS.”
Peach gives a hopeful smile. “It could.”
“Again,” my dad says. “No pressure.”
I let my fork clatter on my plate. I’m entirely over talking about embracing positivity through acronyms like it will solve all our problems. “Can I be excused?”
Peach looks at the mass of leftovers on the table. “I think we made too much.”
My dad pats his stomach. “I couldpastablyeat more for lunch tomorrow.”
He looks to me for a laugh, but I don’t give him the satisfaction. Instead I clear my plate and leave it in the sink. Before I can head upstairs to my room, my dad joins me in the hallway.
“Listen, Goose,” he says, lowering his voice a bit. “I know I wasn’t a father to you those months after Grams died. And I’m working on that just like you’re working on trusting me. But while you’re under this roof I expect you to respect my rules and authority. Okay?”
