Get the fuck out of thishouse, you drunk piece of shit, or I swear to God I will destroyyour reputation and your fucking career if it's the last thing Ido.
I then proceeded to dial 9- 1… and he left before I had to make good on mypromise.
It's one of those memoriesthat becomes ingrained into your identity.The kind that you don'tintermittently recall, but that is constantly with you, even whenyou aren't actually thinking about it.My mother's smashed nose andthe river of blood pouring out from beneath the tear-soakeddishtowel, a terrified ten-year-old Bits crumpled beneath thekitchen table, huddled in a pitiful ball of fear.
Everything changed thatday.All the years my mother threw herself into the line of fire toprotect me had fueled me, and I knew my role had evolved intosomething else.I was only thirteen, but I was finally bigger thanher.Stronger.And it was no longerherjob to protectme.Or that's how I sawit anyway.
But now… now.Though itkills me to admit it, I need him.Rory needs him.And for her I canswallow my pride.I can compartmentalize my personal opinion of theman, store it away on the same shelf I've stored my love for Rory,as a means to an end.
I take a long shower aftermy workout.I know I'm stalling, but I also know I won'tprocrastinate forever.Today is the deadline I gave myself, andtoday is the day I will do what I swore I would.Seeing Rory lastnight—her haunted eyes, no doubt reflecting the exhaustion of weeksof terror-filled, sleepless nights—has only further solidified myresolve.I will not let what happened in Miami destroy all theprogress she's made.I will not allow her demons to consume her.And in order to make sure of it, the first thing I need to do, ismake sure the worst demon—thatmotherfucking bastard—does not get away with attacking her again.
I wait another hour, untilmy mom and Bits have gone out for their weekly girl's afternoon ofwhatever-icures at the spa.They've both been happy lately.Aftereverything they've both been through, I don't want to cause themany stress, and I don't know how this is going to go—if it will becivil and to the point, or get heated and loud.After all, it hasbeen five years.
My mom is all excitedabout some theater tickets she has for tonight, and I suspect she'sgoing on a date, though I haven't questioned her about it.She'sbeen spending weekend nights in the city more frequently, and Iwonder if she's seeing someone.While I don't especially want tothink about my mother dating, she's been alone for so long, and shedeserves to find happiness wherever she can.So I won't mess up hergood mood by allowing her to overhear whatever occurs on thiscall.
I dial his number, mystomach a pathetic ball of unsettled knots, and I silently chastisemyself for it.He doesn't deserve my nerves, but here they are allthe same.
The second ring.I wonderif this is even still his cell phone number.His office number isprominently listed, but no one will be answering on aSaturday.
He picks up on the fourthring, and I force myself to ignore the instinct to end the call andsmash the phone against the wall.If I do have anger issues,there's no mystery as to from whom I inherited them.
"Hello?"His voice is justas I remember it.Professional, a hint of the arrogance he may haveearned in his professional career as a high-powered defenseattorney, but certainly not in his home life.My mouth opens, but Idon't respond.
"Hello?"He asks again.His tone is detached, almost bored.He has no idea who's calling,and he's already written it off as not worth his time.Or maybe hethinks the call dropped and that's why I haven't replied.But Ihave to, or he will hang up, and I won't achieve what I've set outto achieve.
"Mitch."I've never calledhim by his name.Not once.But I can't bring myself to say "Dad".It's been years since I've accepted that he doesn't deserve thetitle.That he may be the man who fathered me, but I don't have a"Dad" at all.
There are a few moments ofcharged silence.I can hear him breathing, and I know that althoughmy voice has surely changed since I was thirteen, that althoughI've only said one word, and a name I've never called him before atthat, that he knows exactly who's calling.I don't say anythingelse.It's his turn to talk, and I can wait.
"Sammy?"He calls me by mychildhood nickname.As if we've just come home from a Pee WeeFootball game or something.As if no time, no life altering events,have passed at all.
It bothers me.I don'tknow how I expected him to greet me, how he could possiblyacknowledge all that warrants acknowledgment in a greeting, but itpisses me off all the same.
"It's me," I confirm.Isuppose my tone doesn't reflect anything significant either.It iscalm, practiced.I want to keep this conversation as simple andprofessional as possible.
I hear my father's deepexhale through the phone.I can practically hear him trying to comeup with what to say next when there are so many years worth ofunsaid things lingering through the line.But I don't need to sayany of those things, and I don't need to hear them.Everything Ihad to say I said the night I forced him from his own home.Thisisn't about us; this isn't about me.
"Samm—"
"Look, Mitch…" I cut himoff.I don't want to give him the chance to say something thatmight set me off.And truthfully, anything he might say could setme off."I'm calling for a specific reason," I explain.I know he'sboth relieved to escape a dramatic exchange—he's always been betterat business than family—and disappointed that I'm not callingbecause I've forgiven him.But I doubt he actually believed evenfor a moment that that's why I was calling.
My father waits.I rack mybrain to find a way to ask for a favor without humbling myself to aman who has earned no humility from me.I won't kiss his ass, Ican't even be respectful, but I have to achieve the outcome I need.So I just come out with it.
"All right, the way I seeit is this.I need you to do something for me.I didn't want tocall you.For obvious reasons.But you're in a unique position tohelp with something important enough for me to have called.Andafter everything you've—"
But he cuts off my rant."After everything I've put you and your mother through, you think Iowe you," he finishes for me.Yes.That'sexactly what I fucking think.
"And Bits," I remind him.He never laid a hand on Bits, but that doesn't mean his abusedidn't traumatize her, too.
My father sighs."Okay,Sammy, let's hear it."
****
Iwake up early again on Sunday.I'm still tired enough to fallback asleep, but I don't.Last night was the first time I dreamt ofmy father in a long time.But that isn't what's unsettledme.
I used to dream about himwhen I was younger, and even for a couple of years after he left.It was always a pleasant scene that he interrupted by gettingdrunk, and flying off the handle.Sometimes he would just yell andthrow things, other times he'd hit my mother or me.But lastnight…
Last night I dreamt of afamily day at the beach.We were in East Hampton, where we used tospend summers before the divorce.But he didn't drink.He didn'tblow up over some innocuous occurrence, some harmless words.Theswitch didn't flip, and he was the dad I remembered from the goodtimes.Because thereweregood times.In fact, there were more good timesthan bad.But it's not the frequency of good times versus bad timesthat matters.It's the magnitude of the bad times, the damage done.And they were fucking colossal.
