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Dropping my head in defeat, a tear slides down my cheek.“I don’t know what to do, Dad. I can’t stop her from drinking. I’ve tried, but she won’t listen to me. She needs help, and I can’t help her.”
More tears fall as frustration and despair take hold. My father’s eyes soften as he watches me. He exhales a long breath and places his hands on his hips, glancing up as if searching for answers in the blank ceiling above him.
“I know,” he says solemnly, dropping his head in defeat also. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I just don’t know what to do anymore.”
His weariness matches my own as we stare back at each other. “She needs to go to rehab. She’s an alcoholic,” I point out.
“I know,” he agrees. “I’ve tried for years to get her into a program, but she refuses to go.”
My mother groans from behind me, and I turn to see her trying to pull herself up. “What…” she slurs. “Why… are you both yelling?” Letting out a grunt, she falls back down on the couch. “Just shut the fuck up, both of you.”
Wiping my tears and pulling myself together, I face my dad. “She needs a shower, and I need to clean up her mess.”
Nodding his head, he marches over and picks her up off the couch like she weighs close to nothing.
She grunts in protest as he secures her in his hold and opens her eyes, giving him a seething look. “What the fuck are you doing?” she snarls, trying to wiggle out of his hold. “Leave me alone.”
Ignoring her protests, he marches off toward the stairs as she continues to hiss out a string of curse words, and he storms up the stairs, out of view.
After I collect all the cleaning products I need from the kitchen, I start cleaning up the urine stain on the sofa. It’s soaked right into the leather, and my stomach churns with revulsion as the scent invades my nostrils.
Cleaning it up to the best of my ability, I eventually give up, making a mental note to call a professional cleaner in the morning to finish the job.
Placing the cleaning products down, I pick up the photo album and sit on the opposite end of the couch, opening it up to a picture of Blake when he was a baby.
Emotions well up in my chest as I make my way through the album that tells the story of Blake’s short life, the visual memories reminding me of those days when the sun shone brightly even when the sky was gray. It was a time when we were actually a family. A time when we were all happy.
It feels like a lifetime ago.
I stop when I turn to a picture of Blake and me at the beach when we went toOcean Shoresfor the weekend. We are standing side by side laughing, the vast blue coastline stretching out behind us.
My mother had desperately been trying to get us to pose for a nice photo, but Blake kept pulling silly faces. Just as she was about to take this photo, we had poked our tongues out at each other at the same time, our actions causing both of us to erupt with laughter. My mother snapped the photo at that exact moment, capturing and suspending us in a precious moment of time. A time when an innocent act of childhood mischief could bring so much happiness in the purest and simplest form.
She didn’t try for another photo after that, and part of me wondered if she gave up or decided that she liked this photo better than the staged pose she was initially aiming for.
“I really miss you, buddy,” I whisper, then close the album and head upstairs.
* * *
Waking up the following day,I have an extra bounce in my step as I head downstairs to the kitchen. Mason will be here soon, and my stomach does a little flip in anticipation of his arrival.
Walking into the kitchen, I see my father leaning against the counter, dressed in a crisp black suit and drinking a cup of coffee.
“Good morning,” I greet him, grabbing a box of cereal from the pantry.
“Good morning,” he replies, not meeting my gaze as he takes a sip of his coffee.
“Where’s Mom?” I ask, getting the milk out of the fridge and preparing my breakfast.
“She’s gone to the beauty salon.”
My whole body breathes a sigh of relief that she won’t be here when Mason arrives. Even though she is always sober in the mornings, she has always been fond of Logan and is convinced that we will reconcile after I have got over this littletiffwe are having. For this reason, I doubt very much that she will welcome Mason with open arms and that nasty streak of hers is something I definitely don’t want to subject him to.
“Why are you dressed in a suit?” I ask, sitting at the bench and digging my spoon into my cereal.
“I’m heading into the office today,” he states but doesn’t elaborate any further, and a spell of silence stretches between us for a moment.
“On a Saturday?” I ask, trying to push for any kind of simple conversation with him that breaks the uncomfortable silence.
