The Mistake

I check my phone as I leave the arena. There’s a message from Grace, saying she got to her dad’s okay.

And a message from Jeff, asking me to call him ASAP.

Shit.

Jeff doesn’t usually throw around ASAPs unless it’s serious, so I don’t waste time calling him back. It takes five rings before he answers, and when he does, he sounds agitated.

“Where the hell have you been the last hour?” he demands.

“Practice. Coach doesn’t let us bring our phones on the ice. What’s up?”

“I need you to go home and check on Dad.”

“Why?” I say uneasily.

“Because I’m at the hospital with Kylie, and I can’t fucking do it myself.”

“The hospital? What happened? Is she okay?”

“She sliced her hand open making dinner.” Jeff sounds panicked. “The ER doctor said it’s not as bad as it looks—she’ll just need some stitches. But Jesus, I’ve never seen so much blood, Johnny. They took her in now, so I’m out in the waiting room pacing like a crazy person.”

“She’ll be okay,” I assure him. “Trust the doctors, all right?” But I know Jeff won’t relax until he and Kylie are walking out of that emergency room. The two of them have been madly in love since they were fifteen years old.

“What does this have to do with Dad?” I ask.

“I was over at Kylie’s, and he called when we were leaving for the ER. He was slurring and mumbling and, I don’t know, he might have fallen down? I couldn’t understand a fucking word he was saying, and I’m only one fucking person, John. I can’t deal with two emergencies at once, okay? So please, just go home and make sure he’s all right.”

Reluctance jams in my throat like a wad of gum. Christ. I don’t want to do that. At all. Except there’s no way I can pick a fight with Jeff right now, not when he’s freaking out about his girlfriend being in the hospital.

“I’ll take care of it,” I say roughly.

“Thanks.” Jeff hangs up without another word.

With a ragged breath, I text Grace to let her know I might be late for dinner, then head for the parking lot.

I tap my fingers on the steering wheel during the entire drive to Munsen. Dread gathers inside me, growing and tangling in my gut until it becomes a tight knot that brings a rush of nausea to my throat. I don’t remember the last time I had to clean up one of my dad’s messes. High school, I guess. Once I left for Briar, Jeff became the sole cleaner-upper.

I kill the engine outside the bungalow and approach the front porch the way those paranormal experts in that shitty movie approached the ghost house. Wary, slow with trepidation.

Please let him be alive and well.

Yup, for all my selfish prayers about wanting my father to die, I can’t stomach the thought of walking into the house and finding his body.

I use my key to unlock the door, then step into the darkened front hall. “Dad?” I call out.

No answer.

Please let him be alive and well.

I inch toward the living room, my heart racing a mile a minute.

Please let him be—

Oh, thank Christ. He’s alive.

But he’s not well. Not by a longshot.

My chest clenches so hard I’m surprised I don’t crack a rib or two. Dad is sprawled on the carpet, face down and shirtless, his cheek resting in a pool of vomit. One arm is flung out to the side, the other is tucked close to him—cradling a fucking bottle of bourbon like it’s a newborn baby. Jesus, had he tried to protect his precious alcohol during his drunken tumble to the ground?

I feel nothing as I take in the pitiful scene in front of me. An acrid odor floats toward me. I wrinkle my nose, almost gag when I realize it’s urine. Urine and alcohol, the fragrance of my childhood.

A part of me wants to turn on my heel and walk away. Walk away and not look back.

Instead, I shrug out of my jacket, toss it on the armchair, and carefully approach my passed-out father. “Dad.”

He stirs, but doesn’t answer.

“Dad.”

An agonized moan ripples from his throat. Christ, his pants are soaked with piss. And bourbon leaks from the bottle, staining the beige carpet.

“Dad, I need to check if anything’s broken.” I run my hands over his body, starting from his feet and moving upward, making sure he didn’t break any bones when he fell.

My examination jolts him out of his haze. His eyelids pop open, revealing dilated pupils and a forlorn look that fractures a piece of my aching heart, the part of me that remembers idolizing him as a kid.

He groans in panic. “Where’s your mother? Don’t want ’er to see me like this.”

Crack. There goes another shard of my heart. At this rate, my chest will be a hollow cavern by the time I leave here.

“She’s not home,” I assure him. Then I snake my hands under his armpits so I can prop him into a sitting position.

He looks dazed. I honestly don’t think he knows where he is or who I am. “She went grocery shopping?” he slurs.

“Yeah,” I lie. “She won’t be home for hours. Plenty of time to get you cleaned up, okay?”

He’s swaying like crazy, and he’s not even on his feet. The combined stench of vomit, alcohol and piss makes my eyes water. Or maybe that’s not why they’re watering. Maybe I’m on the verge of tears because I’m about to haul my own father in a fireman hold and help him take a shower. And then I’m going to dress him as if he’s a goddamn toddler and tuck him into bed. Maybe that’s why my eyes are stinging.