“If your father needs help, he should make this call himself.”
“He’s not…” A tear runs down my cheek and I angrily wipe it away. “He’s not in any fit s-state to do that right now. He needs to get back into treatment.”
There’s a low sigh. “I can’t help you, George. I’m only his sponsor if he’s in the program and you wouldn’t be calling if he was.”
“No, but…” I frown and pick at the edge of the table, my short thumbnail scoring the varnish we’d painstakingly applied to the wood. “There must be some way to get him back in there. An intervention, maybe?”
“If that’s what you want to do, the website has resources for families on how to organise them safely.”
I already know that. I’ve already read every resource provided a dozen times over. But I’m the only family Dad hasdown here. I can’t do it by myself and apart from Spencer, any friends my father has made are probably the wrong ones.
An intervention of one carries no impact. If it did, his troubles would have been sorted long ago.
I’m not above begging. “Please, Spencer. I c-can’t do this alone. H-he’s…” I have to suck in a deep breath, fighting to continue speaking. “What’s the point of being his sponsor if you won’t help him when he’s at his lowest?”
“Your father has to want to change before I can help him make those changes. I’m sorry, hun, but there’s nothing I can do.” He exhales, his tone becoming lower and softer. “I’m not able to be around him when he’s gambling. It threatens my abstinence. I know it’s not what you want to hear, but it’s true.”
“But what am I meant to d-do?” My voice is so desperate, it’s turned shrill, and I wince at the sound of it. “You don’t know what sort of p-people he’s b-borrowing—”
“Believe me,” he interrupts. “I know what sort of people.” He audibly swallows. “Are you safe? Do you need me to find emergency housing for—”
“I need you to help my father stop. That’s what I need!”
There’s silence, then a long slow sigh that sounds like a deflating balloon. Losing air the same way I’m losing my hope.
“I’m sorry. I can’t.”
The line disconnects and I choke on a sob, putting the phone upside down on the table because what I really want to do is throw it and I can’t afford a replacement. Even working every hour I can, there’s not enough money. Not at minimum wage and I don’t have any skills to earn higher.
The gulf of years between now and when I’ve graduated university, degree in hand, has never seemed as long. Even then, it’ll take time to work my way up the salary ladder.
And if you let him, Dad will still spend every cent you earn.
My hands turn to fists as I struggle to breathe, to keep the panic at bay.
I’m at home. I’m safe. There’s food in my stomach, electricity to keep the lights on, a roof over my head. So many things to be grateful for. Why dwell on the things I can’t change?
At school the next morning,even keeping my head down doesn’t stop the worst of the bullies from catcalling me in the hallways, sniggering in the classrooms, loudly telling their friends that a new cut of my now infamous video is available online.
I shrink in my seat, wishing invisibility was a thing. My shoulders draw so far up around my ears my neck ceases to exist.
So much for spending the first three months of the school year wishing my fellow students would notice me, say something to me, acknowledge my existence. Returning to that state of unseen and unremarked would be a godsend.
The moment the bell goes for lunch, I scurry away from the hoards of would-be teasers and retreat to the safety of my bench of undesirables. It’s empty and I try to ignore the disappointment that wells inside me.
“Hey,” Keanen calls in greeting long after I’ve given up on him. He slides onto the bench seat next to me, grinning. “If it isn’t Miss Popular.”
“Miss Notorious is the word I think you’re searching for.”
“Mm. Well, if Bradley ever gets around to selling posters like he’s claiming, will you autograph mine?”
The thought of someone printing out large reproductions of my most embarrassing moment isn’t a thrill. A sigh escapes mylips, and I struggle to find a light response to match his friendly tone.
Apparently reading my discomfort, Keanen offers a shoulder pat. “Sorry. I’m not really sure what to say to you, so I’m making a mess of it. I can just stop talking if you prefer.”
I shake my head. “Can you help me think up some other nasty gossip to circulate so everyone forgets about me?”
“Sure. I heard Khai gives a handy to the referee before every match and that’s why he gets awarded so many penalty kicks in a season.”
