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‘Is this the bathroom?’ I yell above the music.
‘Yeah, but someone has been in there forever.’
I knock on the door. ‘Cady?’ I rap harder. ‘Cady! Open the door, it’s me.’
When there’s still no answer, I kick the door. Once is enough to tear the feeble lock from the wall.
‘Jesus, Cady.’
She’s alone in the bathroom, propped between the shower cubicle and the toilet, black streaks running down her face, her eyes barely able to open. Her phone is next to her on the floor but there’s no sign of Meghan.
‘Dad?’
I hunker down in front of her and take hold of her cheeks. ‘Look at me. Cady, look at me. Is this just alcohol?’
She nods weakly.
‘Promise?’
‘Yes,’ she murmurs.
I open her eyelids with my thumbs. I’ve seen people on drugs, and her white irises and normal-sized pupils let me know she’s telling the truth. I stuff her phone into my back pocket.
‘All right, baby, let’s go. Arms around my neck. Good girl.’
I hoist her up in my arms. She clings tighter to me and rests her head on my shoulder as I carry her out of the party to the safety of my truck. I buckle her into the passenger seat and rummage in the back for a bag of sorts. I find an old gym towel that will have to do.
Bringing the towel to the front with me, I start the engine. Before I even pull away, she retches. I manage to get the towel under her and catch most of the vomit.
‘It’s just a little sick, baby. You’re fine.’
‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ she cries.
Despite feeling irate with her, my heart aches at the sound of her tears.
‘We’ve all been here, kiddo. Let’s get you home.’
I toss the towel in a dumpster and drive us home, trying not to weave or turn too much. We make it back to the basement garage without any more vomiting.
I don’t waste my energy asking if she can stand; instead, I unbuckle her and pick her up. A guy I recognize from the building is making his way out of the garage. He helps me by closing and locking the truck. then opens the garage door and helps me to the elevator.
Cady seems to come to inside.
‘I have vomit on me,’ she says, crying again.
I don’t tell her I’m fully aware of the stench of it. As I carry her along the hall toward my apartment, she starts to unbutton the shirt she’s wearing.
‘Cady, you can’t take your clothes off here. We’re almost there.’
‘I want them off. Take them off me.’
I struggle to hold her and open the door. Inside, I carry her to her bedroom and lay her down on the bed. As I start to untie her boots, she begins heaving again.
‘I’m going to be sick, Dad.’
I catch the first round in her wastebasket, then carry her to the bathroom and sit her next to the toilet, where I finish taking off her boots. She throws her guts up again, almost 90 per cent hitting the target. I hold her hair back and rub her shoulders as round four comes.
She seems more with it when she sits back against the white tiled wall. I slip down to the floor, one knee bent, my back against the bathtub, and hand her a box of tissues.
