But that day we talked. We talked about his work.
We talked about my grades. We talked about Mom.
“She’s really not coming back, is she?” Dad took off his glasses and rubbed his face with both hands. We were sitting on the couch. For once, the television was off. Ours were the only voices that filled the room. It was a
good kind of semi-silence, yet scary at the same time.
“No, Daddy,” I said, bravely reaching out to squeeze his hand. “She’s not.
This just isn’t the right place for her anymore.”
He nodded. “I know. I’ve known for a long time that she wasn’t happy… maybe even before she knew. I just hoped—”
“That she’d change her mind?” I offered. “I think she wanted to. That’s why she kept leaving and coming back, you know? She didn’t want to face the truth. She didn’t want to admit that she wanted a”—I paused at the next word—“divorce.”
Divorce was just so final. More than a fight. More than a separation or a long speaking tour. It meant their marriage—their life together—was really and truly finished.
“Well,” he sighed, squeezing my hand back. “I guess we were both running away in different ways.”
“What do you mean?”
Dad shook his head. “Your mother took a Mustang. I took a whiskey bottle.” He reached up and readjusted his glasses, an unconscious habit—he always did it when he was making a point. “I was so devastated by what your mother did to me that I forgot how horrible drinking is. I forgot to look on the bright side.”
“Dad,” I said, “I don’t think there is a bright side to divorce. It’s a pretty sucky thing all around.”
He nodded. “Maybe that’s true, but there are a lot of bright sides to my life. I have a job I like, a nice house in a good neighborhood, and a wonderful daughter.”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh God,” I muttered. “Don’t go all Lifetime movie on me. Seriously.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, smiling. “But I mean it. A lot of people would kill for my life, but I didn’t even consider that. I took it—and you—for granted. I’m so, so sorry for that, Bumblebee.”
I wanted to look away when I saw the tears glistening at the corners of his eyes, but I forced myself to focus only on him. I’d been turning away from the truth for too long.
He apologized multiple times for everything that had happened over the past few weeks. He promised me he’d start going to weekly Alcoholics Anonymous meetings again, to go back on the wagon, to call his sponsor again. And then we poured every single bottle of whiskey and beer down the drain together, both of us eager for a clean slate.
“Is your head all right?” he asked me about a million times that day. “It’s fine,” I kept telling him.
He always shook his head and murmured more apologies for slapping me.
For saying what he had. Then he’d hug me.
Seriously, a million times that day.
Around midnight, I joined him in his nightly ritual of turning out the lights. “Bumblebee,” he said as the kitchen went dark. “I want you to thank your friend next time you see him.”
“My friend?”
“Yeah. The boy who was with you last night. What’s his name?” “Wesley,” I muttered.
“Right,” Dad said. “Well, I deserved it. He was brave to do what he did. I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but I’m glad you have a friend who’s willing to stand up for you. So please tell him I said thanks.”
“Sure.” I turned and walked up the stairs to my bedroom, praying that wouldn’t be anytime soon.
“But Bianca?” He winced and rubbed his jaw. “Next time tell him he should feel free to write a strongly worded letter first. Hell of an arm on that kid.”
I smiled in spite of myself. “There won’t be a next time,” I told him, taking the last few steps and heading to my bedroom.
Both my parents were facing reality, giving up their distractions. Now it was my turn, and that meant quitting Wesley. Unfortunately, there were no weekly meetings, no sponsors, or twelve-step programs for what I was addicted to.
