Page 26

Erin

Present

There are two more calls from my father during the week, which means he’s getting worse.

I know this pattern: he will continue his downward slide until something big happens—a DUI, a fight in a bar, a lost job—and then he will straighten up, sort of, briefly. Of course no one ever refers to the event as a “wake-up call.” In our family lore it’s just another piece of bad luck handed to him.

I love my dad in spite of his flaws. Sober, he is a wonderful human being—funny and wise and kind and caring. He just can’t stay sober long enough for me to get much time with that side of him. My ability to take the good with the bad is something Rob would never understand. His disgust whenever my brother relapses has made that clear—one of many reasons I’ve made most of my visits home without him.

I drive to Denver on Saturday to have breakfast with my parents. My dad is hung over, but he rallies because I’m there, with help from that disgusting instant coffee he prefers and a Bloody Mary that is way too pale an orange to contain the correct ratio of tomato juice to vodka.

He asks how work is going and how things are with Rob, and I tell him everything’s great. My dad gets a glossy, soft-focus version of my life, always, because I’m never sure which of my life’s bumps and bruises will require a tequila chaser for him.

“So when are you two setting a date?” he asks.

“Soon,” I reply, as always. “When he gets back from Europe.”

“There’s a nice Catholic church down the street,” my mother suggests.

“I don’t know if we’re planning to have a church wedding,” I tell her. By which I mean there’s no way Rob’s agreeing to a church wedding, much less a one-hour nuptial mass.

“If you’re not married in the church, you’re not married in the eyes of God,” my dad thunders. “It won’t count otherwise.”

If any other person alive were to say this to me, I would roll my eyes. But I don’t rock the boat in my parents’ house. “Rob’s not Catholic,” I remind him, and it’s not until I see the shock on my parents’ faces that I realize this is new information.

“Well, you’re both supposed to be Catholic to get married in the church,” my mother says, her voice growing high and thin, the way it does when she’s worried. “But we’ll talk to Father Duncan this afternoon. He’ll make an exception. He might even let us do the reception in the parish hall.”

I groan internally. God, I wish this topic had never come up. I wish I’d just lied, right from the start. Or maybe my lies are the issue. How is it that I haven’t mentioned Rob’s lack of religion in four years? How is it that they’re still under the impression we’d drive to Denver to hold our wedding? I don’t want to, but this needs to be corrected right now before it goes any further.

“Mom, we live near Colorado Springs. That’s where our friends are. We’ll probably just do the whole thing someplace like the Broadmoor.”

“The Broadmoor?” my mother asks. “That’d cost a fortune!”

“Rob and I will pay for it,” I assure her. “He does really well. You guys don’t need to worry about a thing.”

There’s a shadow over my father’s face, and then my mother’s. Stupid, stupid, stupid. My father just lost his job. He’s going to take this personally, as some kind of slight against his ability to provide. I look at him, and then my mother, and I feel lost. I feel the way I always felt as a child, as if we stand on a sinking ship in the middle of an empty sea. We’re always doomed, no matter what I do. It’s just a matter of time.

* * *

It’s well after 2 AM when my phone rings, as I expected it would. Except it’s not my dad on the phone but my mom, which means I have a decision to make.

Brendan told me to call him. Well, actually he threatened me, blackmailed me. But I do not want to involve him again. Not because he wasn’t a godsend the last time—he was, in a thousand ways. But this is my family’s problem, my family’s secret, and I resent that he’s forcing me to share it. I peer out to the street and don’t see his car. After a moment of internal debate, I dress quickly and then text him:

Going to Denver. I’ll be fine. Don’t need help but thanks.

I’m not even down the stairs when he texts back to say he’s on his way.

* * *

“Keep me awake, blondie.”

These are the first words either of us has spoken since he pulled up in front of the house. I’m not sure why he’s been quiet, but I know I’m so mired in resentment and shame that I have no idea what to say. How do you approach someone who’s being kind to you and making you miserable simultaneously?

“You really didn’t need to do this. I’ve done it on my own for a long time.”

He exhales unhappily. His untucked shirt makes me suspect my text interrupted something, so I understand his irritation, but I’m not the one blackmailing people.

“Look, it’s bad enough that I had to tell you about this without you acting annoyed that you’re here,” I say.