Page 47

FORTY-SEVEN

ELI

The car ride home from the county detention center is silent. Pops is sober, his eyes bloodshot but clear, and I think it’s the first time I’ve seen a hint of the man he keeps buried underneath the booze. There’s an awareness in his gaze that’s been missing since I’ve been back.

His lawyer says he’ll need to pray to whatever God he believes in that the family he hit doesn’t press charges.

He’s lucky. And I think maybe Ma was watching over him—watching over that pregnant woman. That husband. That little girl.

Whatever the case, Pops is looking at some trouble.

The hands of fate have dealt too many blows for me to be convinced that it works in your favor, but maybe there’s a reason I haven’t talked with Pops yet. There’s a tinge of hope expanding in my chest that he’ll be more receptive to the idea of help today. Either way, my nerves are shot, too singed by the flame of Becca’s touch and the ire of Lee’s disappointment to give a damn about the heavy conversation that’s ahead.

We make it to the house, and I follow as Pops walks slowly toward the door. His back is hunched and his shoulders slumped, the bags under his eyes highlighting the soul-deep ache that he stifles with his drink.

He’s just past the entryway when I say his name. “Pops.”

He stops in his tracks, his head hanging low. “What is it, boy?”

I bite my cheek, pushing down the urge to say that it’s nothing. To forget it. “Come into the kitchen. I’ll brew us some coffee and we can talk.”

“I’ve been up all damn night. I’m tired. Just wanna get some rest,” he grunts.

“Pops.” My voice is firm, the rumble vibrating my chest. He twists, his eyes clashing with mine. My natural instinct—what’s been ingrained in me since I was a kid—is to lower my gaze, but I don’t. Even through the tension in my muscles and the bite of anxiety suddenly eating my insides, I hold his stare. Finally, his back heaves with his sigh and he nods, his eyes breaking away to the floor as he walks into the kitchen.

My foot shakes while I start the coffee, pouring us both a cup and sitting at the kitchen table. Pops goes straight for the cabinet to the left of the sink—the one he always goes for—opening it and staring inside.

My fingers tap against the hot ceramic as I watch him, every second ramping up the knots in my stomach. “It’s not there,” I say.

His back straightens and he spins to face me. “And why the hell not?”

“Dumped it down the drain.”

“You had no right,” he hisses.

“I had every right. You’re my father. And you’re sick.”

He scoffs. “I ain’t sick, boy. I’m fine.”

I sip my coffee, the heat scalding my tongue. I swallow the burn and nod. “You’re right. Crushing your daughter’s spirit day after day is fine . Killing yourself with every drop you pour down your throat is fine. ” I shrug. “Stupid me, for assuming otherwise. Make sure you tell the judge that same thing. I’m sure he’ll realize you’re just fine too, after almost killing that family.”

He flinches and I grab on to his vulnerability before it disappears.

“Pops, there’s no shame in admitting you have a problem. We’ve all got our shit. It’s okay to need help after Ma.”

He drops his coffee mug to the counter, his finger shaking as he points. “Don’t—” His voice breaks. “Don’t bring her up.”

“Why not? Because you don’t want to talk about her?”

“’Cause I don’t think I can. ”

Pops’s grief floods the room, cracking my chest wide-open, my own agony rushing to fill the chasm.

My throat swells. “I get that it’s hard, Pops…but you can’t keep living this way. It’s been years, and Ma wouldn’t want this for you.”

“Don’t you tell me what she would have wanted.”

A little bit of anger seeps out at his words, flowing through my veins and pushing through my fingers until my hand slams on the table. “You think you’re the only one who knew her? Who lost her? Guess what. You weren’t.” My fist beats against my solar plexus, the thunk screaming through the otherwise silent room. “I lost her, too. I miss her, too. And so does Lee.”

“You don’t think I know that?” he explodes. “Your mama was the best…” His chin quivers and he grips the counter behind him with both hands, clearing his throat. “Your mama…she was the best damn woman—person—I’ve ever known. I don’t see how anyone could live in her shine and not lose themselves in the darkness after she…” Wetness lines his lids, and my stomach clenches as he wipes away the tears.

“You can say it, Pops. Just because she’s dead, doesn’t mean she’s gone.”

His eyes squeeze tight at my words, his knuckles tightening.

“But you’ve gotta get help,” I continue. “Lie to me about it all you want, but at least stop lying to yourself.”

His chest rises and falls rapidly but he doesn’t respond. I trudge on, hanging on to my hope that something I’m saying will get through. That something will finally click. “There’s a place.”

His eyes snap open.

“It’s about an hour away. I think you should go stay there for a while.”

He stares at me, his chin lifting. “What kinda place?”

My heart beats so fast my fingers tremble. “A place that can help. They’ve got a spot for you, if you’re willing.”

He’s quiet, his jaw working back and forth, his hands loosening their grasp on the counter. He walks to the table, the chair legs scraping against the wood floor as he collapses in the seat.

“When?” he rasps.

My stomach flips. “Today. Right now.”

“Does your sister know?”

“Nope.” I shake my head. “Not yet. But she’s on her way and we can tell her. Together.”

He nods, his hand dragging across his mouth. “I got some things to say to her anyway.”

Relief flies through me, the tendrils of hope clinging on its wings. He said yes. I don’t know what the future holds for Pops, but I know this is the best chance he has. It’s a ninety-day program, and I want to stay close. Want to be able to support Lee—support them both in ways I’ve neglected until now.

Which is why, this morning, I called and resigned from my position at FCU.

I’m staying.