“I will,” I say, and I hope it’s true.
Mom and I tradeI love yous, then hang up without saying goodbye. Another ritual—this one I’ve insisted upon since I was a kid, back when Dad would leave for tour and I’d run out the side door in my pj’s for one last hug. I didn’t always know when I’d see Dad next, or if I did, it would be weeks or months away, miniature eternities to a kid like me. Just in case something happened, I made sureI love youwas always the very last thing that we said.
It was, in the end, the last thing Dad and I said to one another. We didn’t think we’d get two more weeks with him after his esophagus ruptured; instead, we got two more years ofI love yous. Which might have felt okay if not for how many more Dad turned down. After the rupture, the doctor gave it to him straight:You could live another twenty years if you just stop drinking. But Dad gave it straight back. He told the doctor,I won’t.
NotI can’t. NotI don’t think it’s possible.I won’t.As inI refuse to try. Not the twelve-step programs. Not psychiatry. Not rehab. We showed him brochures from facilities with cliffside cabins or breathtaking beachfront views, places made for people like Dad who could only be sold sobriety if it came in the shape of a ninety-day resort stay. We could afford it. We could send him. We were willing—and so was the band—to rearrange the pieces of our lives to make space for Dad to quit drinking. But he wouldn’t. So I did. I needed to, or I’d end up just like him.
Some part of me thought if I quit, Dad would follow suit, but he didn’t, and now Dad’s gone and I’m left to feel it all, sober, the way he never could. Lonely, even though I don’t have to be. Mom gave it to me straight. My present is waiting. So is she. All I have to do is go home, but I can’t. I won’t because it hurts too much. I rub my palms against my eyes and push the tears back inside. I really am just like my dad.
Hey Dad. Happy Father’s Day! Or rather…SAD Father’s Day! Sorry, I’m not feeling very funny. It doesn’t feel like my birthday. It just feels like a bad, stupid day.
I used to love when you told the story of how I was born the Saturday before Father’s Day, how I showed up and made you a dad just in time to celebrate. It made me feel extra connected to you, but now it just feels unfair. My birthday really had to fall right on Father’s Day the first year you’re gone, huh? It’s a sick joke, and I’m mad about it.
I have to be honest—I’m mad at you, too, Dad. Because you should still be here. Getting sober has been harder than I ever imagined, and I know it would’ve been even harder for you. But I still can’t believe that you weren’t even willingto try. You talked about seizing the moment and taking advantage of the opportunities I was afforded just by being Ricky Pierce’s kid, but what about you? You turned down the opportunity to live, and I might not ever forgive you for that. You’re not even here for me to yell at about it.
But I still love you, Dad. I always will. I wish you could come back.
Love,
Your Dallas Alice
Eight
The itinerary for Gin’s bachelorette trip hits our inboxes first thing Friday morning, exactly one week before our flight to Palm Springs.
FROM:Renee Roberts
TO:Christina Amato, Alice Pierce, Virginia Bennett
SUBJECT:Palm Springs before the rings!
Hey ladies,
T minus 7 days until the big weekend! Well, not THE big weekend, but the biggest weekend before the couple of the century ties the knot! I’ve attached an agenda and packing list for your convenience, but let me know if any additional questions come to mind!Please note that our flight leaves at 9:05AM on Friday, so please set your alarms accordingly.
Can’t wait to celebrate our bride!
XO,
Renee
The message alone makes me grit my teeth, but when I click open the itinerary, it feels like my brain is on fire. Renee has provided a colorful twelve-page display of complete disregard for every group decision we made. The bridesmaids agreed on no workout classes or major physical exertion, but Renee has scheduled a six-mile hike. We voted no on themes, but Renee has assignedthree. Neon pool party. Disco cowgirl. Dress like your favorite martini night.
I shove up from my desk, stomp out of my home studio, and yank my phone off its charger to text Renee,wtf I thought we said no themes???
Immediately, Renee switches on Do Not Disturb, and I seethe until I remember the time—Renee is likely at the office. Probably Chrissy, too, if she even has an office outside the playroom in her apartment. I text Chrissy,Have you read the itinerary yet?
Immediately, she calls.
“Sorry to buzz, but I figured it was faster!!” Chrissy’s voice is even closer to a shout than usual. A gritty, mechanical growl rumbles and revs in the background. “SORRY IF IT’S LOUD!”
I wince away from the phone and thumb down the volume. “It’s, uh. No problem. Where are you?”
“AT THE RACETRACK!”
“Like…for cars?”
“NO, SILLY!” Chrissy laughs. “FOR WORK!”
