I turn.
He’s dressed—barely. Gray sweatpants with a hole in the knee. Ratty Minnesota Blue Ox T-shirt that should have been thrown out years ago. Arm still in the sling, hanging at an awkward angle. Hair uncombed. Face unshaven. Looking like he aged five years in the past week.
Looking like me, probably.
He lowers himself carefully into a chair at the small Formica kitchen table.
The same table where my mother sat before she got too sick to come downstairs, when she’d wrap herself in blankets and sip ginger tea and try to pretend she wasn’t dying.
The same table where my father and I have sat a thousand times, not talking, just existing in the same space because that’s what you do when you don’t know what else to do.
I set the plate in front of him.
“Thanks,” he says quietly.
“No problem.”
I make my own plate. Sit across from him.
We eat in silence.
Just the scrape of forks on plates and the hum of the ancient refrigerator and the ticking of the wall clock that’s been stuck at 3:47 for as long as I can remember but still makes ticking sounds.
This house is full of things that don’t quite work but refuse to quit.
Feels appropriate.
My dad sets down his fork. “I think it’s time for things to get back to normal.” His voice is rough. Tired. The voice of a man who’s been apologizing his whole life and is exhausted by it. “I’m glad you’ve been here. But I know you’ve got your own life. The team. Your girlfriend. You don’t need to be babysitting me.”
“I’m not babysitting you.”
“Feels like it.”
“You broke your collarbone. You need help. I’m helping.” But my back twinges. A reminder that the couch and I are not friends.
“I’m okay, Brody. Really.”
Except he’s not. And I’m done letting it go.
“I think you need help,” I say. The words come out harder than I intended. “Real help. Treatment. And not just for the drinking.”
He twists his glass. Won’t look at me.
“I’ve tried it.” His voice is flat. Defeated. “AA. Rehab. Therapy.” He waves his good hand vaguely. “Doesn’t take.”
“Dad—”
“No, Brody. I can’t—I…” He pauses, staring at his plate with a completely defeated look, refusing to meet my eye. “I can’t even get past Step Three.”
“Step Three…?”
“Accepting that there’s a higher power in my life and surrendering to it.” He lifts his gaze, his face etched with hurt. “I used to believe in something like that…your mother—” His voice cracks. “She believed. And look what happened.”
My chest tightens. That feeling like someone’s pressing on my sternum with both hands. Like the air in this kitchen is too thick to breathe properly.
“I would have lost everything if it weren’t for you.” He finally looks up. His eyes are bloodshot. Red-rimmed. The eyes of a man who hasn’t slept well in years. “You paid for this house. Got me out of debt—I don’t know how many times. Cleaned up every mess I made.” His voice breaks again. “You are the best thing I ever did.”
My throat is tight. Burning. I don’t want to hear this. Don’t want the weight of being the one good thing in his life.
