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“You don’t mean that.”
“The fuck if I don’t. He did it to himself, never too far from the bottom of a bottle. I don’t know what he expected.”
“Did your sister say what the prognosis is?” I push, knowing he’s not as unaffected by this news as he’s trying to appear.
“Apparently it’s pretty bad. He’s let himself go for far too long, ignored the signs that something was wrong. At this point, his only hope is a transplant and even then the odds aren’t good. She said they don’t think he’ll last more than a month without one, and because he’s a known alcoholic it’s not likely he’ll qualify.”
“So what then, they’ll just let him die?”
“I guess so.” He shrugs. “What else can they do?”
“You have to go home,” I say, leaning forward to take his hands in mine.
“No, I don’t.”
The look he gives me is the most emotionless I think I have ever seen Ant. I can see the wall going up, and I know he’s shutting down. I know because I recognize the same behavior in myself when faced with something I’m not yet ready to deal with.
“But he’s your father.”
“He’s never been my father,” he snips, pulling his hands from mine as he quickly pushes to a stand.
I turn in my spot to watch him pace the living room for several seconds before he finally speaks again, not once looking in my direction as he does.
“I won’t let him win. I won’t go home and pretend that I care if he’s dying. He’s been dead to me for years. He’s not my father; he’s just my piece of shit sperm donor who thought it was fun to knock me around for sport.” He stops pacing, finally meeting my gaze across the room.
“Do you know how many times that man came home drunk when I was a kid?” He continues before I can respond. “Do you know how many times he’d stumble in at all hours of the night, and I would wake up to the sound of him and my mom fighting? I tried to ignore it when I was young. I’d hide my head under a pillow and pretend not to hear them. But then it became impossible to ignore because eventually, his attention shifted from my mom to me. I remember one night he came into my room, I couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven, and he was yelling at me about the trash cans sitting out on the curb. I tried to tell him that it was trash night and that we had to set them out, but he kept ranting and raving about how ungrateful and lazy I was. I remember watching his fist pull back. He’d hit me before but never in the face, so when his fist connected with my jaw I was completely caught off guard. That night was one of the worst. I didn’t go to school for two days after that and when I finally did, I had to explain the bruising on the left side of my face as a result of a bike accident. No one even batted an eye at my excuse. Either I was a really good liar or it was easier for people to ignore the signs than to actually do something about it.”
At this point it’s taking everything for me to hold back the tears welling behind my eyes. I’ve never seen Ant like this, never seen him so broken and defeated; never seen him so raw and vulnerable. It tears at my heart in a way I never knew possible. Because I don’t just feel sorry for him, I physically ache for him.
“He beat you?” I finally manage to push the words past my lips.
“Beat me?” He lets out a laugh that sounds so far from a laugh I don’t even think it would qualify as one. “Yeah, you could say that.”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” I push to a stand but maintain the distance between us.
“Why, so people could feel sorry for me?” he bites.
“So that someone could have helped you.”
“No one could have helped me,” he grinds out bitterly. “There was no way anyone would believe me over my parents anyway.”
“Your mom?”
“She let it happen and turned a blind eye. In my opinion, she’s just as guilty as he is.”
“I had no idea.” I take a small step toward him. “You always seemed so happy and carefree. You were popular, played football, were always surrounded by the prettiest girls in school. Looking in, it seemed as though you had everything—the perfect life.”
“Funny how easy it is to keep the mask in place so that people see what you want them to see.”
I ignore his statement, feeling like he’s somehow referring to me.
“Your sisters?” I ask, not sure if I even want to know.
“Never touched them.” He shakes his head. “I would have fucking killed him if he’d tried.”
“So instead you took all of it,” I state, taking another step, stopping just a couple feet from where he’s standing.
“What choice did I have?”
