Page 66 of Badd Daddy
“You shouldn’t have to hear this. But, to answer your question, thirty-some years, I imagine.”
He nodded. “I used to sit outside the trailer at night, waiting for you to pass out, trying to imagine what it would be like to have a dad who wasn’t a drunk.”
My eyes blurred with hot salty tears. “Fuck, Rome.”
He whirled on me. “What? You think I’d make it easy on you, old man? One apology and all’s forgiven?”
“I guess I was hoping for…” I shrugged, holding my arms out wide, palms up. “I dunno.”
“We learned to fight, defending you—defending ourselves because of you. I was cleaning up your vomit and keeping you from choking on it by the time I was six years old. Keeping you from burning the fuckin’ house down.” He closed his eyes, shaking his head. “I dreamed of running away, but I never did because you’d’ve fuckin’ died if we had. Truth is, I used to have these awful fuckin’…nightmares, fantasies maybe, I don’t know what the hell to call ’em —that we would come home one day and you would be dead, and we would only have ourselves to worry about. You know, we’d steal money from your wallet just to go buy groceries because all there was in the house was booze.”
I choked. “I know.”
“So…you getting sober, getting healthy, apologizing…all that is great. It’s progress. But I can’t just snap my fingers and get over all of it.”
“I’m not expecting you to just get over it. Or even for you to forgive me. I just…I needed to say it.”
He nodded. “I appreciate that. I really do.” He swallowed hard. “And I forgive you. It’ll take time to stop being bitter and angry about some of it, but I can see you trying.”
“Thank you, Rome. That’s all I need to hear.”
We got back in the truck, finished our trip to look at the used truck—it was an ’11 F-150 with a hundred thousand miles on it, but it had recently replaced belts, spark plugs, alternator, brakes, and shocks. It was ten grand, so I bought it and drove it home. And on the way I tried to figure out how to have the last hard talk…with Remington.
*
A bell was attachedto the doorframe over the door of the tattoo parlor Remington and Juneau ran together in the touristy area near the cruise ship docks in Ketchikan. Rock music was blaring from speakers in the corners of the ceiling, the walls were decorated with native Alaskan tribal art, abstract tattoo designs—totems, stylized wolf heads and bears and beavers and crows—along with a series of floor-to-ceiling mirrors that ran the length of one wall, in front of which were a row of tattoo chairs—six of them. Three of them were occupied, Remington at one, Juneau at another, and a thin, lean young man was at the third, his hair cut long on top and shaved on both sides, tattoos covered his arms, and he had three rows of earrings in each earlobe. He was wearing black jeans and a black Opeth T-shirt. There was an island counter in front of the door, with an iPad on a mount in the center and several books of tattoo designs stacked haphazardly—on the front of the counter. Facing the door was the business logo:Badd Ink, in lettering designed to resemble abstract native Alaskan tattoos.
Remington didn’t glance up immediately when the bell dinged—he remained focused on his client’s arm. “Be right with you.”
“I can wait,” I said.
Remington pulled the tattoo gun away from his client’s skin and glanced up at me, then, upon hearing my voice. “Dad—you’re…here.”
I chuckled. “Yep.”
“What’s up?”
I was standing at the counter, and I tapped a tattoo design book. “I want you to ink me.”
He laughed, rubbing his forehead with the back of his black rubber-gloved wrist. “I’m booked for a month, Pop. Make an appointment now, and I could get you in…three weeks at best.”
I frowned at him. “I’m your father.”
He went back to work. “If you don’t need anything big or elaborate, I have about forty-five minutes after this client and before my next one. I was gonna take my lunch then, but I can skip it, if this tat is important to you.”
“Sounds good,” I said. “This is something that is important to me, or I wouldn’t have showed up here like this. I know you’re busy.”
It was a week after my talk with Roman, and I’d gotten another postcard from Liv, saying she was heading back here the following week, with Cassie. I was looking forward to seeing her—I’d missed her more than I was quite ready to admit, but I was glad to have had this time to get my shit in order.
One thing I hadn’t told any of my boys, or her, was that I’d been seeing a therapist twice a week since my conversation with Ramsey, and I finally understood why Liv had pushed me to do it. My therapist had gotten me to talk about things from my childhood that I had honestly forgotten, things that had clearly left more of a mark on me than I could have ever imagined. He’d delved into my relationship with my father, with Gramps, with Liam, with Lena…I had gone balls to the wall, telling him everything, all the dirty, ugly, sordid details of my life, and in turn he’d recommended various ways of moving past the roadblocks to emotional health—number one was apologizing to Roman, Remington, and Ramsey. I’d started that on my own, as part of my AA process, but I recognized the need for it beyond just sobriety.
I was down at least ten percent body fat since my first session with Baxter, and my endurance was way up, my overall energy levels were through the roof, and for the first time since leaving Alaska all those years ago, I could see some muscle definition. Baxter had told me the gut would start vanishing pretty quickly, but I’d see the most immediate results in my face, shoulders, arms, and chest, but that the visceral fat around my belly would take a while to get rid of entirely.
I was excited for Liv to come back, to see my progress. I wanted to talk about all that had happened in my life since she’d left. I wanted to simply breathe in her presence, in a way I hadn’t known was possible.
Lost in my ruminations, I jumped when Rem clapped me on the shoulder. “So. You want a tattoo, huh?”
I stood up and rubbed the back of my neck. “Yeah. Something to commemorate this new phase of my life.”