Page 121 of We Drank the Dawn

“Sarah, please come. I’m scared, and Tonya isn’t answering her phone, and I⁠—”

“Alright.” I pushed away my dread, determined to be a good daughter. “I’m coming now.”

“Thank you.” She sniffled again.

I disconnected and mulled over what the next few hours might look like. At home, I quickly took a shower and threw comfy clothes on, grabbed some food, and headed right back out the door.

When it came to my family, Peter was my anchor. Any time I talked to them or saw them, it sent me back to those early days when I was constantly neglected because Mom was fully maxed out caring for Dad. Before I even exited my front door, my heart thumped with anxiety.

Following the white walls of the hospital, I gave myself a pep talk about how I’d handle his rage when he inevitably threw it my way. I was a grown, independent adult and the way he talked wouldn’t affect me. But, I had to admit, even just the anticipation affected me.

My fight or flight activated, making my insides jumpy and tense.

Standing in front of his door, I took a shaky breath and pushed it open. To my surprise and relief, he laid there, motionless on the hospital bed. His skin was a yellowy color, and monitors all around him beeped on repeat—signifying the steady, albeit slow, beat of his heart. An IV connected to the top of his left hand, and tubes traveled beneath his bed clothes.

I blinked, seeing Peter for a fraction of a second.

“Hey, Mom,” I whispered.

She looked up, her shoulders falling with relief when I stepped through the door. “Sarah.” She stood and crossed the room, arms outstretched toward me. Reluctantly, I stepped into them, gently patting her on the back.

“Thank you,” her voice rasped with emotion.

“You’re welcome.” I broke the hug, pushing away to look at Dad. “He looks rough.”

“Yeah, all the liver problems are kind of discoloring his face. He’s always been as healthy as a horse, so I’m not sure⁠—”

“Mom.” I shook my head in exasperation. “He’s an alcoholic.”

“Yeah, he drinks too much,” she said with a dismissive chuckle, as if his extreme alcoholism was just an antic—borderline endearing. “I’ve tried to get him to quit, but you know how stubborn he is.”

I shook my head, unable to respond.

My mother was wildly codependent. I’d watched her serve my father countless dinner trays in the living room, personally supplying his football marathons with unlimited cold beers—smiling as she popped tops for him. And she did it knowing the risks.

To hear her pretend she didn’t understand his current predicament or say she “tried to get him to quit” was utterly ridiculous.

Maybe it was easier for her to pretend she didn’t know any better than to admit that she needed his approval and validation more than she needed him to be a functional adult. I had told her time after time that rehab would change his life, but she wouldn’t even mention the idea to him. When I tried to ask her why she wouldn’t encourage Dad to go to rehab, she said she couldn’t handle him being gone that long.

I’d never considered my mom could be addicted to my dad, but Cooper hit the nail on the head when he’d said, "Addiction can take a thousand different shades, can’t it?”

I distanced myself a couple years ago because I couldn’t handle the way she doted over him and made excuses as he berated her in the background on our phone calls. It was so triggering that I had more than one meltdown in Peter’s arms. I had tried to help, but she didn’t want it.

We talked much less often now.

A lump rose in my throat at the sight of her frail body, purple circles, and crinkly skin. She looked so much older than her fifty-nine years. While Dad was practically bursting over the bed railing, Mom’s clothes hung off her shoulders like a ship’s sails on a perfectly calm sea. When was the last time she bought something that fit her? Considering that Dad stopped leaving the house, except to eat out, back when I was still working on my college degree, it had probably been close to a decade since Mom walked through the mall and bought something that made her feel pretty.

“Well,” she waved me toward his bed. “Say hello.”

Gritting my teeth, I stepped forward and pressed a kiss to his head. “Hey, Dad.”

His eyes fluttered as he grunted a breath.

Mom pushed forward and kissed his hand. “Bob, it’s Sarah. She came to see her daddy.”

The word daddy grated against my age. Stopping my grimace, I smiled as he slowly roused. “Sarah,” his voice scraped.

“Hey, Dad,” I said again, lamely. “You hanging in there?”