Page 68 of Badd Daddy
“So it ain’t about that woman? Olivia?”
“Rem, I couldn’t have gotten sober for anyone if it didn’t start inside me, not even the three of you boys, let alone a woman I barely know. Yeah, she may have been part of the inspiration to start workin’ out and getting healthier, but I was a year sober when I met her.”
“You could still relapse, though.”
“I wish I could be bitter about that statement, but I don’t have that luxury,” I said, sighing. “You got every right to feel that way.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Let me ask you this, though: how many times did I ever try to get clean?”
He paused, wiping ink away, and then glanced at the ceiling. “Ummm…none, that I know of.”
“Exactly. I never tried. I never cared. I was…too fucked up in the head to even think about sobriety.”
“What’s your point, Dad?” Rem asked, going back to inking.
“My point is, this isn’t anattemptto get clean, this isme, now. I don’t ever want to go back to how I was. Living alone in that shitty fuckin’ trailer in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere, drinkin’ my fuckin’ life away. Killing myself. You boys hating me, me hating myself.” I growled. “I feel good now for the first time in my life.”
“Good, huh?”
I nodded. “Damn good. I’m losing weight, getting strong again, I got ideas for what I want to do in the future, and shit, Ihavea future, now. Something to look forward to besides an endless retirement of bein’ wasted and alone.”
“What future?” Rem asked.
“Ehh, that ain’t important now. What matters right now is that I got ideas. I’m healthy, I’m sober, I’m…well, you’re the only one I’ve told this to, but I’m actually seeing a therapist.”
Rem jerked the needle away from my skin, glancing at me in shock. “No shit?”
I nodded. “Yep. Talking’ through all the bullshit I put myself and you boys through, my childhood, the story I told ya’ll. All of it. Getting down into the nitty-gritty and workin’ on being a better person, not just the same fucked-up bastard I’ve been.”
“Admirable goal,” Rem said, his voice still neutral.
He spent a while in silence, then, working on my tattoo, and I let the silence stand, digging deeper for the apology, to gird myself for the harsh and unwelcoming reaction I was anticipating. I watched him finish the lettering inside the triangle, and then when he paused to wipe ink away, I caught his eye.
“Remington.”
He set the gun down, sitting upright and stretching his arms and back. “What.” His voice was flat.
Third time, last time…the hardest one of all. “This is a me thing, not just an AA thing, or a therapy thing. Okay? Keep that in mind. I owe you an apology, Rem. I was a terrible person and a worse father to you boys. I…” I swallowed. “Shit, this is hard. Sayin’ I’m sorry isn’t enough. Asking you to forgive me…that ain’t enough.”
He stared at me, eyes hard, unforgiving. “No. It’s not.”
“I can’t change the past, can’t undo what I’ve done.” I blinked back emotion, swallowed it, remembered Ramsey’s advice about letting emotions exist instead of choking them down all the time. “All I can do is fix what I can fix—meanin’ me—and move on with my life, try to be a better person, and…and hope you can forgive me. Someday.”
Remington rubbed his forehead with the back of his wrist, eying me with a carefully blank expression. Then, without a word, he went back to inking me. I sighed, closed my eyes, leaned my head back against the headrest, and let the silence ride.
Another fifteen minutes of silence as he finished the tattoo—agonizing, excruciating silence. When he was done, he set his gun aside, wiped the ink away, rolled his stool backward, and gestured at the mirror.
“Take a look,” he said.
I examined the tattoo—he’d embellished it beyond what he’d sketched out for me, making the calligraphy work on the R’s more elaborate and stylized, turning the triangle into braided knots, and doing for the lettering inside the triangle the same as what he’d done for the R’s.
“It’s amazing, Remington. I love it. Thank you.”
He indicated it. “It ain’t done—needs some finishing touches, shading, shit like that, but that’ll be a separate session. I got a client waiting. Come back next week, Wednesday, say, maybe…three o’clock. I’ll finish it then.”
“Rem—”