Page 6

Sam

Gripping the grocery bags, I reach into my pocket for the key to my father’s house. My fingers tremble as I flip through the ring, fumbling with each. Nerves rock through my body while I stare at the row house where I grew up in the Mayfair section of Philadelphia.

I hate this house.

And I hate what awaits me inside.

Every Saturday, I have to confront my father. He’s an embarrassment, a poor excuse of a man, and can barely take care of himself. I pay the bills on time. There’s only ever food in the refrigerator because of me. And he’s the reason I have to work three jobs.

My father makes enough money working for the gas company that I don’t qualify for grants. But he spends it on beer and cards—the two loves of his life. I received a partial scholarship for my grades, and it helps, but not enough to make my tuition more affordable.

As I push the front door open, my stomach lurches at the smell of cigarettes. The smoky scent fills my nostrils the further I make my way inside. I want to run away screaming. But I force myself to do my daughterly duty.

This is my obligation.

He’s my responsibility.

The once-white walls are now a yellowish brown, the carpets frayed and scorched in various places. My nostrils burn from the thick cloud of smoke in the air. I hate this fucking house.

“Wake up, Jim,” I yell at my father, who’s passed out drunk on the living room couch with a lit cigarette between his fingers. It’s burning at the ends, the ash so long it’s fallen onto the carpet. “Get. The. Fuck. Up.”

My anger surges through me, coursing through my veins like poison. He turns me into a person I don’t like. I turn into a raging monster every time he’s near. Seeing him unshaven, dirty, and in clothes with stains repulses me.

How is this man related to me?

How did I come from him?

When I was ten, the doctor diagnosed my mom with cancer.

My dad fell apart after she died and abandoned me when I needed him most. His lack of parenting forced me to grow up faster.

I lost both of my parents the day my mother died.

Except this bastard is still alive, still breathing by some miracle.

I drop the groceries on the coffee table, the cans at the bottom of the bags waking my asshole father from a sound sleep.

He blinks, his eyes closing for a few seconds before opening them again.

I have the same denim blue eyes, but his are bloodshot and glassy.

He rubs the sleep from them, rolling onto his side to prop himself up on the arm of the couch.

“Savannah?”

He slurs his words, my mother’s name slipping from his chapped lips.

“No, it’s me. Your daughter… Samantha.”

He blinks again, attempting to sit up straight. Slumping against the arm of the couch, he presses his palm to the side of his face to keep his head up. “Oh, Sam. I wasn’t expecting you.” He tries once more to get up from the couch and fails.

It’s pathetic.

He’s pathetic.

I shake my head in disgust. “It’s Saturday, Jim. You forgot. Again. Clean yourself up. You look homeless and smell like you are, too.”

I haven’t called him Dad in so many years it doesn’t feel natural to me.

Every week, I hope he’ll be different, wake up from his mental prison, and get his act together.

But the day has yet to come. After spending over ten years in constant mourning, he’s never shown a sign of change.

He doesn’t want to be better. Jim drowns his sorrows in a bottle and surrounds himself with other degenerates.

My father stares at his stained white t-shirt, gripping the cotton in his hand.

He gives it a once-over, realization scrolling across his withered face.

He’s fifty and looks almost as old as my grandfather.

Honestly, they could pass for twins. It’s depressing to see him like this.

A mixture of sadness and anger bubbles up inside my chest. I want to cry, scream, and curse him out.

But what good will it do?

Nothing gets through to him.

Staring down at him, I throw my hands on my hips, seething mad, black dots filling my vision. “Did you go to work this week?”

He scratches the dark stubble on his chin, confused and disoriented. I doubt he has a clue what day it is, which means he can’t remember the last day he worked. I’m sure he’s already out of vacation and sick days.

Sick to my stomach, I turn away, unable to look at him. “There better be enough money in the checking account for me to pay the bills.” My words are like venom stinging my lips. “I can’t work any more hours than I already have this month to support you and your addictions.”

He doesn’t process a single word I’ve said, a blank stare on his face as he reaches for the pack of Marlboro Reds on the coffee table in front of him.

After lighting a cigarette, he sinks back against the dirty couch we’ve had since I was a child.

It’s the same color as the walls, stained from age and smoke.

With the cigarette pressed between his lips, Jim glances up at the ceiling, his eyes rolling into the back of his head.

I can’t take it anymore. Desperate to escape this ridiculous excuse for a father, I lift the bags from the table and dart through the living room, dining room, and kitchen.

My heart races, my ears ringing from the panic attack coming on, rocking me to the core.

Gripping the edge of the countertop, I look down, sucking in a deep breath.

I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths to center myself. My pulse quickens to a dangerous pace, my internal struggle all too real. This is what he does to me and will continue to do as long as I come here to put up with this shit.

I deserve better, needing a father capable of loving his only child. He doesn’t even love himself. So why would he love me? I can’t even recall how he used to be, what he was like when my mother was still alive.

I often remind myself of the little things like the scent of her perfume or the color of her lipstick. But not a single good thing about Jim registers in my brain. I wish she were still here. We need her. My mom was the invisible glue I didn’t know was holding us together back then.

After composing myself, I put the groceries away and head back into the living room. He’s still in the same place he was when I left. No surprise there. He’s still staring at the ceiling, with ash on his cheek, the cigarette burnt to the filter.

Wow, this is my father.

What a role model!

Hovering over him, I rip the cigarette from his mouth and drop it into the ashtray on the coffee table. I have so many things to say and no idea where to start.

“You’re killing yourself, and by making me watch, you’re killing me, too. I can’t take much more of this, Jim. I’ll stop coming here on Saturdays.”

“Then don’t,” he grunts, with one eye open. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

I tilt my head back and laugh. And it’s a crazy laugh, an evil cackle coming from my stomach. “You need more than a babysitter. Someone needs to strap you to a hospital bed for a few weeks to dry you out.”

He frowns, his eyes shifting to the table where an empty beer rests on its side, with a few drops of liquid spilling onto the scratched wood. “I can stop.”

“Then do it! You’ve been saying this for years. Words mean nothing without actions. If that were true, you would have done it by now. You would have gotten yourself some help.”

He digs his elbows into his thighs, using them to support his weight. “I’m sorry, Sam.”

“Sorry is just a word,” I growl. “It means nothing to me. I’ve heard it more times than I can count.

Make a change. Show me you care. Do something, anything.

Stay out of the bar and casino. Pay your bills on time.

Go to work. Act like a normal human being.

And when you can do all those things, we’ll have something to discuss.

Then your sorry will mean something to me. ”

Only Eden knows about my father. She’s come here occasionally to keep me from having a nervous breakdown.

When we met at freshman orientation, I couldn’t wait to room with Eden.

Even though I can commute to Strick U, I couldn’t live here and stay sane.

Plus, living on campus has its perks. Like rolling out of bed in the morning for early classes.

It’s also more convenient to get to work.

Pinching the bridge of my nose between my fingers, I sigh. “I have to go. There’s food in the fridge. It should last you another week.”

He tugs at the ends of his dark hair, fisting it between his fingers. His greasy hair stands at attention, even more of a hot mess than before.

“Get a shower. At least pretend like you care about your appearance.”

Every week, I find him in the same condition. My life is like the movie Groundhog Day without all the humor. No, this is just sad. He’s the reason I remain guarded. It’s hard enough being a scholarship kid at a school like Strickland University, let alone the one with a loser father.

Kids were brutal enough when I was younger.

They teased me because he sent me to school in unwashed clothes, knotted hair, and dirty skin.

He could have cared less about me. Even when the teachers told him about the harassment, he didn’t bother to change because he didn’t love anyone or anything more than the bottle that kept him warm at night.

My cell phone buzzes in my pocket, vibrating my right thigh. I remove the phone from my pocket and roll my thumb over the screen to read the messages. The Stick Net app opens, and I’m confronted with another man I don’t want to deal with. Tucker Kane.

PuckMe_69

I bet you thought you had me fooled, Samantha. You owe me an explanation.

My blood runs cold from his words. Does he remember me? He’s never acted like it when we saw each other on campus.