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Chapter 9
On Sunday, I managed to get out of the apartment for Family Day at Maple Acres, the rehab facility where Dad was undergoing his treatment. He was now one week into his four-week program, in one of the few centers in the country that even provided in-patient services for gambling addiction. Bubbe had apparently been coming to visiting hours so often that the therapists suggested that she take some distance, so I was the only one coming to Family Day this week.
The center felt more like a boutique hotel than a treatment facility. They only housed fifteen patients at a time, all in separate rooms, so they could spend the time detoxing from the relationships that had cost many of them their self-control. It included a meditation room and a sauna. When I entered the posh house after my personal bodyguard, Lucas, parked on the expansive grounds, I thought it really looked more like a spa than a rehab center.
Along with several other family members who had shown up for the group therapy session, I was guided into a large room where we all sat in chairs on the periphery, facing the circle of patients in the center. I quickly found Dad, his small form hunched over while he chewed on his nails. When he realized I was there, he gave a cautious wave, but resumed biting. I offered what I hoped to be an encouraging smile.
It started out with the lead doctor of the facility introducing himself along with his staff. We then listened a bit about the philosophy of the center, which included a fairly standard approach of requiring its patients to publically recite their mistakes to their loved ones.
"It's not about shaming," stated the doctor. "It's about owning what we've done so we can move forward productively." Then he looked around the circle of patients, all of whom happened to be men. "Gentlemen? Shall we get started?"
One by one, each man (there were about ten of them) stood up and addressed their families. Their stories were hurtful, some of them detailed, some not. Some of them clearly made confessions their families hadn't known before; nearly all of them provoked tears.
I gripped the edges of my seat when they came around to Dad. He stood up, massaging his bad hand, as had become his habit when he was nervous.
"Hi everyone. My name is Dan––Robert," he started out, the same as all of the other men.
He stumbled a bit over his middle name, clearly forgetting he was supposed to be here under a pseudonym. I smiled, offering encouragement.
Then he did something different when he picked up his chair and came to sit directly in front of me instead of speaking from the group. I gulped, sat back as Dad's nervous gaze flitted around the room before resting on me.
"Heya, Pips," he said softly, invoking my childhood nickname, taken from Pippi Longstocking.
"Hi Dad," I said, just as low.
He squeezed his hands together and looked around. "This is my daughter, everyone. Ain't she beautiful?"
Confused, the rest of the room murmured their agreement, and I blushed slightly. Dad picked up my hand and started to brush over the knuckles lightly.
"Yeah, she's beautiful," he repeated, almost to himself. "Most beautiful thing I ever made, and that's the truth."
I knew the people in the room didn't understand that statement like I did. But my father was a musician, someone capable of communicating poetry on the keys. Or at least, he used to be, before his addiction cost him his hands. But to be told I was the most beautiful thing he'd ever made...that was really something, coming from him.
"She also almost died," Dad continued. "Couple of weeks ago, my baby girl was kidnapped by the same asshole––er, sorry, kids, excuse my French. By the same jerk who did this to my hand." He held up his scarred paw so everyone could clearly see the damage. "He did it for one thing: because of my gambling addiction."
"Dad––" I started to argue that Messina had only targeted me because of Brandon, but Dad held up the same hand, stopping me.
"Please let him speak," said the doctor from the back of the room.
"No matter how you look at it, Skylar, none of this would have happened if I'd been able to stay away from the track. Then I wouldn't have had to borrow money from that low life. Brandon wouldn't have had to pay him off for us. Me and Ma wouldn't have lost our house––the house I wanted to give you one day, you know. You wouldn't have had to get rid of...well, you know."
I gaped, glancing quickly around at the people who were watching us, then back at Dad.
"You think I didn't know about that, Pips?" he asked with watery eyes. "I knew. And I did nothing, did I? I still got involved with a woman who was in Messina's pocket. And all she did was dig for information on you. How do you think that good-for-nothing low-life knew where you lived? It was my fault, baby."
His voice cracked at the end, and I watched as my father, so normally easy-going and implacable, swiped at a few tears that trickled down his cheeks. I gulped again and dabbed at my own eyes. For once, I was unable to speak. As much as I'd wanted to treat my dad purely as a victim, everything he said was true. And there was a part of me that was angry at him for all of it.
"I wasn't there for you, kid," he said. He ran a hand back through his hair, but the two sides just flopped forward again. Then he clasped one hand to his chest, like he was finding it hard to breathe.
"It's okay," said the doctor. "Tell her what you need her to hear."
I clenched my teeth, willing myself not to break down with him in a room full of people.
"I'm sorry," Dad said in a low, shallow whisper. "For everything. And if it's the last thing I do, Skylar, I will be a better man. I will be a better father to you, someone you'd want your own kids to know, if you ever have them."
It was the final statement that finally broke down the last wall I had. Tears started to stream down my face as I shook in my chair. Dad reached out to grab my hands, squeezing them both, albeit not quite as tightly with his bad left one.
"Daddy," I whispered, unable to say anything else but that.
