And then there's thelargest of the frames, housing my senior portrait, and tucked inthe bottom right corner is a wallet size of my football portrait,also from this year.My father follows my gaze and picks up theframe, taking a moment to look wistfully at my image.It confusesme even more.
I don't know what Iexpected.Maybe for him to completely wipe away any evidence of ourexistence—any reminders of his one failure.To tell everyone heinitiated the divorce, and good riddance.Not to keep ahappy-family photo and updated portraits of Bits and me on hisdesk.
"I asked your mother forthem," he explains.
I glare at him inconfusion.I don't know if I'm more perplexed by his saying heloves me, or the fact that he has my photos on his desk, or thathe's in amicable enough contact with my mother to have obtainedthem from her.I feel as if I've been flung into some alternateuniverse, and I wish I had some sense that I was being manipulated,because that would make a hell of a lot more sense than hisapparent sincerity.
"I kicked you out of yourown fucking house," I remind him."I almost reported you, got youarrested.I could have ruined your life.I was ready to do it,too."I need him to remember what I remember.To see things howI've seen them for as long as Icanremember.That he chose alcohol over us,traumatized us for life in the process, and that I betrayed him inreturn, threatening what he valued most—his career.
My father only nods,taking me from confused to completely lost.
"I remember, Sammy.I wasdrunk, but I remember it very clearly, I assure you."But his toneisn't accusatory, it's… almost admiring.
My brow furrows and mymouth gapes open.
"It was my rock bottom,that night," he whispers."I'd gone pretty low before, which youknow.But that night… Lainey's face…" His voice cracks and he stopsto regain his composure.
"That night, Sammy, youbecame more of a man that I'd ever been—couldever be.You protected yourfamily.You stood up and did what you had to do.And… and I admit Ididn't see it immediately—and I realize the irony here—but that wasmy proudest moment as a father.
"I left because you gaveme no other choice.You took away my excuses and any other options.And as a result, I did the only thing I could—I got sober.I stayedaway because I didn't deserve my family, I knew that.Iknowit.But I tookcomfort in knowing my girls had a real man to look after them.Sono, son, I'm not angry with you for standing up to me, I couldn'tbe more grateful.I owe you everything."
I exhale my disbelief andblink away from him.It's just too much to fucking absorb.But thenmy gaze lands on the coin dangling from a thin ball chain, hungproudly over the top right corner of his prided framed diploma fromColumbia Law School.The Roman numeral V in the center confirms hisstory.Five years sober.And I'm knocked even further offbalance.
"You stopped drinking?"Ibarely recognize my own voice, timid and unsure, like the child Inever really got to be.
But before he can evengive the confirmation I already know to be true, I shake my head,remembering myself.Because what the fuck does it matter that he'ssobernow?Itdoesn't fix anything.It doesn't undo the injuries or the trauma,both emotional and physical, nor does it make him the dad Ideserved, when I actually needed one.But that kid is gone, andthis man in front of me, drunk or sober, recovering alcoholic oralcoholic abusive bastard, is nothing more to me than a stranger atbest.
He sighs, as if he sensesme returning to my senses, breaking out of his spell of remorse,sobriety, and supposed pride for me, and back intoreality.
"Listen, Sam, I wasn'texpecting your forgiveness—"
"Good, because you're notgetting it."
My father nods to himselfin acceptance."I suppose I've always known that.Which is why Ihaven't contacted you.In case you thought it was because I didn'tcare, or that I didn't love you.It's—"
Christ."It doesn't matter, either way."My tone contains a subtlewarning.I'm reaching my limits of listening to him profess hislove and concern.True or not, it's total bullshit.Far too little,far too late.
He nods again."I justwanted you to understand where I'm coming from.I know I've hurtyou beyond the scope of the forgivable.But you came to me, Sam.And I was just looking out for your interests.When I asked you howwell you knew the Pine girl, I was just trying to makesure—"
"Her interestsaremy interests," I saysharply, my voice rising more than I'd meant it to, and I take amoment to calm myself before I continue.
I sit forward in my chair,resting my elbows on my thighs, needing him to know just howserious I am."Look, Mitch, you can help me, like you said youwould, or I can figure something else out.But I'm going to protectRory, no matterwhatI have to do.So you can either help make surethat motherfucking bastardgets real jail time, or you can get ready to prepare mymurder defense,Dad."
He watches me carefully,and his grim expression tells me he knows I mean every singlefucking word.
We stare at each other forlong, sober moments, until my father's eyes crinkle at the corners.He holds his lips straight, but his eyes fail to veil theiramusement.
"Too wise for love in highschool, eh?"
My gaze drops to my lap."We're just friends," I mutter pathetically.
"Bullshit."
I don't bother denying it.Because we may just be friends, but my father is right, it isfucking bullshit.
I rub my face with mypalms, and then rake them through my hair, one after the other.Allmy confidence and anger drains out of me, replaced with frustrationand desperation, and I drop my head into my hands.
"Tell me how to help her,"I plead.
