The Mistake
Page 20
Since my dad’s accident, the close proximity has actually become convenient, because it means he can get from home to work in less than a minute.
Not that he spends much time in the garage anymore. Jeff is the one who does all the work, while Dad drinks himself stupid on the living room recliner.
I walk up to the dented metal door, which is shut and locked. A lined piece of paper sticks to it with a jagged strip of duct tape, and I instantly recognize my brother’s handwriting.
YOU’RE LATE.
Two words, all caps. Shit, Jeff was pissed.
I use my set of keys to unlock the side door, then step inside and hit the button that sends the huge mechanical door soaring upward. It’s still cold out, but I always keep the door open, no matter how frigid the weather is. It’s my one requirement for working here. After a while, the overpowering odor of oil and car exhaust makes me want to kill myself.
Jeff has left me a list of tasks, but luckily, it’s not too long. The older model Buick parked on the concrete needs an oil change and a headlight replaced. Easy peasy. I throw on a blue jumpsuit with the L&S logo on the back, turn the radio dial to the first metal station I find, and get right to work.
An hour passes before I take my first break. I chug water from the sink in the office, then pop outside for a quick cigarette.
I’ve just snubbed the butt out beneath my steel-toed boot when the sound of an engine hums in the distance. My chest tightens when I glimpse the front bumper of my brother’s white van slicing through the trees that line the long driveway.
Like a coward, I duck back inside and race to the raised hood of the Buick. I bend over and pretend to give the engine a spot check, while also pretending I’m too focused on my work to notice the car doors slamming and my dad’s harsh voice as he snaps something at my brother. I hear two sets of footsteps, one slow and laborious, leading away from the dirt driveway, the other a fast angry thump as Jeff storms into the garage.
“You couldn’t come over and say hello to him?” my older brother demands irritably.
I straighten up and close the hood. “Sorry, I was finishing up. I’ll stop by the house before I go.”
“You better, because he just gave me shit for it, and I’m not even the one who didn’t say hello!” Jeff’s dark eyebrows draw together in a displeased frown. He looks like he wants to lecture me some more, so I speedily change the subject before he can.
“So what did the doctor say?”
Jeff responds in a flat voice. “He needs to stop drinking or he’s going to die.”
I can’t help but snort. “Fat chance of him stopping.”
“Of course he won’t stop. He’s drinking to die.” Jeff angrily shakes his head. “Before the accident, it was an addiction. Now I think it’s a purpose.”
Jesus. I’ve never heard a more depressing assessment in my life.
I can’t argue, though. The accident really was the game-changer—it had pushed my dad right off the wagon and pretty much erased all those years of sobriety. Good years, damn it. Three whole years of having a father again.
When I was fourteen, Dad’s latest stint in rehab had miraculously stuck. He’d been sober for an entire year before Mom left, which was the only reason she agreed to let us stay with him. During the divorce, we had a choice about which parent to live with, and since Jeff didn’t want to change schools and refused to leave his girlfriend, he chose to stay with our dad. And I chose to stay with my older brother. Not only because I idolized him, but because when we were little, the two of us made a promise to always watch each other’s backs.
Dad had stayed sober for two more years after that, but I guess the universe decided that the Logan family wasn’t allowed to be happy, because when I was sixteen, my father was involved in a massive car accident on his way back from dropping us off in Boston to see our mom.
Both his legs were crushed. And I mean crushed—he was lucky to escape without being paralyzed. He was in a shit ton of pain, but the doctors were hesitant to prescribe painkillers to a man with a destructive history of addiction. They said he needed to be monitored twenty-four/seven, so Jeff left college to come home and help me take care of him. Mom’s new husband offered to take out a loan in order to hire someone to care for Dad, but we assured David that we could handle it. Because at the time, we honestly believed we could. Dad’s legs would heal, and if he went to physical therapy like the doctors had instructed, then he might be able to walk normally one day.
But again, the universe had another fuck you for the Logans. Dad was in so much agony that he turned to drinking to numb the pain. He also didn’t finish his PT, which means his legs didn’t heal the way they were supposed to.
So now he has a bad limp, constant pain, and two sons who have resigned themselves to the fact that they’ll be taking care of him until the day he dies.
“What do we do?” I ask grimly.
“Same thing we’ve always done. We man up and take care of our family.”
Frustration twists my gut, tangling with the pretzel of guilt already lodged there. Why is it our job to sacrifice everything for him?
Because he’s your father and he’s sick.
Because your mother had to do it for fourteen years and now it’s your turn.
Another thought bubbles to the surface, one I’ve had before, and which makes me want to throw up every time it enters my mind.
Things would be so much easier if he died.
As bile burns my throat, I banish the selfish, disgusting notion. I don’t want him to die. He might be a mess, he might be a drunk and an asshole sometimes, but he’s still my father, damn it. He’s the man who drove me to hockey practice, rain or shine. Who helped me memorize my multiplication tables and taught me how to tie my shoes.
Not that he spends much time in the garage anymore. Jeff is the one who does all the work, while Dad drinks himself stupid on the living room recliner.
I walk up to the dented metal door, which is shut and locked. A lined piece of paper sticks to it with a jagged strip of duct tape, and I instantly recognize my brother’s handwriting.
YOU’RE LATE.
Two words, all caps. Shit, Jeff was pissed.
I use my set of keys to unlock the side door, then step inside and hit the button that sends the huge mechanical door soaring upward. It’s still cold out, but I always keep the door open, no matter how frigid the weather is. It’s my one requirement for working here. After a while, the overpowering odor of oil and car exhaust makes me want to kill myself.
Jeff has left me a list of tasks, but luckily, it’s not too long. The older model Buick parked on the concrete needs an oil change and a headlight replaced. Easy peasy. I throw on a blue jumpsuit with the L&S logo on the back, turn the radio dial to the first metal station I find, and get right to work.
An hour passes before I take my first break. I chug water from the sink in the office, then pop outside for a quick cigarette.
I’ve just snubbed the butt out beneath my steel-toed boot when the sound of an engine hums in the distance. My chest tightens when I glimpse the front bumper of my brother’s white van slicing through the trees that line the long driveway.
Like a coward, I duck back inside and race to the raised hood of the Buick. I bend over and pretend to give the engine a spot check, while also pretending I’m too focused on my work to notice the car doors slamming and my dad’s harsh voice as he snaps something at my brother. I hear two sets of footsteps, one slow and laborious, leading away from the dirt driveway, the other a fast angry thump as Jeff storms into the garage.
“You couldn’t come over and say hello to him?” my older brother demands irritably.
I straighten up and close the hood. “Sorry, I was finishing up. I’ll stop by the house before I go.”
“You better, because he just gave me shit for it, and I’m not even the one who didn’t say hello!” Jeff’s dark eyebrows draw together in a displeased frown. He looks like he wants to lecture me some more, so I speedily change the subject before he can.
“So what did the doctor say?”
Jeff responds in a flat voice. “He needs to stop drinking or he’s going to die.”
I can’t help but snort. “Fat chance of him stopping.”
“Of course he won’t stop. He’s drinking to die.” Jeff angrily shakes his head. “Before the accident, it was an addiction. Now I think it’s a purpose.”
Jesus. I’ve never heard a more depressing assessment in my life.
I can’t argue, though. The accident really was the game-changer—it had pushed my dad right off the wagon and pretty much erased all those years of sobriety. Good years, damn it. Three whole years of having a father again.
When I was fourteen, Dad’s latest stint in rehab had miraculously stuck. He’d been sober for an entire year before Mom left, which was the only reason she agreed to let us stay with him. During the divorce, we had a choice about which parent to live with, and since Jeff didn’t want to change schools and refused to leave his girlfriend, he chose to stay with our dad. And I chose to stay with my older brother. Not only because I idolized him, but because when we were little, the two of us made a promise to always watch each other’s backs.
Dad had stayed sober for two more years after that, but I guess the universe decided that the Logan family wasn’t allowed to be happy, because when I was sixteen, my father was involved in a massive car accident on his way back from dropping us off in Boston to see our mom.
Both his legs were crushed. And I mean crushed—he was lucky to escape without being paralyzed. He was in a shit ton of pain, but the doctors were hesitant to prescribe painkillers to a man with a destructive history of addiction. They said he needed to be monitored twenty-four/seven, so Jeff left college to come home and help me take care of him. Mom’s new husband offered to take out a loan in order to hire someone to care for Dad, but we assured David that we could handle it. Because at the time, we honestly believed we could. Dad’s legs would heal, and if he went to physical therapy like the doctors had instructed, then he might be able to walk normally one day.
But again, the universe had another fuck you for the Logans. Dad was in so much agony that he turned to drinking to numb the pain. He also didn’t finish his PT, which means his legs didn’t heal the way they were supposed to.
So now he has a bad limp, constant pain, and two sons who have resigned themselves to the fact that they’ll be taking care of him until the day he dies.
“What do we do?” I ask grimly.
“Same thing we’ve always done. We man up and take care of our family.”
Frustration twists my gut, tangling with the pretzel of guilt already lodged there. Why is it our job to sacrifice everything for him?
Because he’s your father and he’s sick.
Because your mother had to do it for fourteen years and now it’s your turn.
Another thought bubbles to the surface, one I’ve had before, and which makes me want to throw up every time it enters my mind.
Things would be so much easier if he died.
As bile burns my throat, I banish the selfish, disgusting notion. I don’t want him to die. He might be a mess, he might be a drunk and an asshole sometimes, but he’s still my father, damn it. He’s the man who drove me to hockey practice, rain or shine. Who helped me memorize my multiplication tables and taught me how to tie my shoes.
