“What’s that man doing out there?” my father asks as we both stagger down the corridor to his room. “He shouldn’t have come with you.”
“You never mentioned anything about me coming alone. You also were very vague over the phone, so I wanted to be safe.”
“Safe?”
“We haven’t been in contact for nine years,” I remind him, just in case he’s lost track of how many it’s been. It’s a high probability. “You gave me a week’s notice that you were leaving for good, remember?”
A grunt is all I get from him in response. We arrive at his room, which I feel the need to hold my breath for. He inserts the key, and my stomach curdles with nerves as I step in after him.
The room is even more dreadful than the corridor. It’s just plasterboard in here. The wallpaper has all been ripped off, or killed by the mold—it’s hard to tell. The room features two single beds and a lamp that probably doesn’t switch on. Behind the door, when my father shuts it in a jiffy, is a sink that’s accumulating scale. A single toothbrush is balanced on the edge of it. There’s no toothpaste. No soap.
He must really be knee-deep in shit.
I almost don’t wanna hear about it.
Ignorance is bliss. This is definitely one of those times.
“So,” I begin. “What is it you want to tell me?” I take one look at the poorly made bed, the single sheet on top of it, and decide to remain standing. There could be all sorts festering under there, depending on how long he’s been staying here for.
“I know.”
Ah. So hedoesknow how to read facial expressions.
“The motel was apparently shut down a year ago due to a severe rat infestation.”
Delightful.
“It was the only thing I could afford to camp out in.”
Because it’s free…?
I fold my arms over my chest, hoping he drops the bomb soon. I don’t have all day. I don’t even have an hour. The damp smell of this place is already making me feel unwell.
“I owe money to a man in Boston. He was connected to Sally.”
“Who’s Sally?”
“The woman I met years ago.”
Translation: the woman he decided to leave his daughter for.
I wince and hope the number in my head isn’t as big as I’m thinking. But when it comes to my father and his unpredictability, it’s usually best to not estimate. “How much do you owe him?”
“Two hundred thousand dollars.”
“Two hundred thousand…” It’s almost incomprehensible. “Why the fuck do you owe two hundred thousand dollars to one man in Boston?”
“Sally.” He says her name with disgust. “She and I were in love, which is why we moved out to Boston nine years ago. But I got caught up in something that I’m not proud to admit.”
“Whatever it is, I hope it was worth it,” I say, taking note of the environment again.
“I was at the casino,” he begins, “and got dealt a bad hand. Terrible, in fact. I lost every cent and could barely make ends meet for Sally and me. She knew a guy on the street that gave out loans interest free—said her own father had used him a couple of times, and it saved him. So this guy loaned me the money—two hundred thousand to be exact, and seemed like a nice guy on the surface of things, wanting me to get clean. I was skeptical as to why he had this amount of money lying around in cash.”
And hestilltook the goddamn money?
My father rubs his temple. “I trusted Sally and she trusted him. Anyway, I headed into the casino knowing that I couldn’t stoopany lower than before. I tried to pay off the loan as soon as possible, but one thing led to another and before I knew it, he was at my door demanding back the money. Sally took off. Him and her were a couple this entire time, looking for an easy scam.”
I feel like grinding my teeth, but I’ll probably have none left by the time I’m done with this conversation.
