by Lauryn Dyan
“Dad?” I croak.
Chapter Eight
My body still hates me in the same way it would if I’d subjected it to riding a cheap carnival ride ninety times, and I’m rallying all my resolve not to vomit again. Rickly and I wanted some privacy, so we wandered over to a vacant, grassy patch under the sprawling canopy of an oak tree behind my bus. Lying on the thin, plaid blanket Rickly carried out helps with the nausea. I wish I’d grabbed a pillow but, if I get too comfortable, I’ll pass out. I’d love nothing more than to subdue this bitch of a hangover with sleep and put off this chat, but the determined clench of Rickly’s square jaw tells me to try to stop this would do more harm than good.
I roll on my side and prop my head in the crook of my folded arm, and stare at his rigid frame. He’s sitting awkwardly with his jean-clad knees tucked up to his chest, like a long folded accordion. I placed myself, strategically, on his left side so I wouldn’t have to stare at his black eye but it haunts me all the same. Since he’s the injured one, I wait for him to speak first. To yell or cry or break up with me, I can’t be certain.
We sit in tense silence for a few minutes before he takes an audible breath.
“Kennedy, last night was such a shit show. And I can’t pin it all on you–it was me, too.” He pulls the blanket back a few inches to anxiously tug at the grass. “But I’m genuinely concerned about you. I think you might have a problem.” He stops yanking at the blades and turns toward me, his one bad eye adding a bold period to the end of his statement.
His concerned features make him look so young and vulnerable. This isn’t the usual worry that flits across his face so quickly I think I’ve imagined it. This is new and I’m at a loss for what to say. I don’t need to ask what the problem is to understand he means my drinking and drug use. Maybe he’s right. The longer the tour progresses, the more and more I blackout. I’ve got a pharmacy stashed in my bunk. I can finish a bottle of tequila on my own without throwing up. To me, it’s never too early or late to get sloshed. My one saving grace is that when it counts, when I need to perform or do an interview, I don’t let myself get out of hand. This is my profession. I don’t want to wreck everything I’ve built.
Do I include Rickly on that list? Is he a part of what I’ve worked so hard for? I search for my answer in the blue sea of his eyes. He has become the most important man in my life, and that list includes my bandmates and absentee father. The feminist in me says I don’t need a man to be a success, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want a man there to enjoy it with.
When we were walking to the grass, and I feared a breakup was coming…may still be…my hollow stomach had been filled with dread. I sense my feelings crystallizing. He is a part of my life I’m not willing to sacrifice.
“I think you’re right,” I respond, finally.
He exhales with relief and relaxes his posture.
“I might need help, too,” he offers. “We can do this together. If we just take it down some, things will be so much better. I’m not naïve. This is a rock tour. We’ll never be able to completely cut-out the partying. I’m only suggesting we scale it back.”
“I hope it’s that easy. A part of me isn’t sure I can handle moderation. I’ve always been an all-or-nothing girl. That’s how this all started. I transitioned from good girl to rebel nearly instantly. I never played in the space between.”
He smiles and unfolds to stretch out on his back next to me.
“You the good girl? It’s so hard to picture.”
“Ditch the purple hair, killer clothes and tattoos and stick a book in my hands and you can see it.”
“Sure, I believe you.” He pauses before steering us back on topic. “We can do this though. I mean, we just need to draw a line. Maybe it’s sticking with one thing. Not mixing our alcohol and drugs. Taking reasonable amounts. Things like that. There was a time when I was skilled at toeing that line.”
I study his profile and wonder when that was. I’ve known him less than a year and he’s always seemed as insane as me. Or, I was too fucked up to notice he wasn’t.
“That’s not something I can picture,” I murmur. Each nerve in my body is relaxing, and it’s getting harder to ward off my exhaustion as my adrenaline dissolves knowing things aren’t over between us. I may have reservations about being more sober, but that’s a battle to fight when the time comes. I’m willing to try for the sake of us.
He lets out a brief laugh, but there’s an undertone of sadness.
“It’s possible you bring out the crazy in me that’s always been beneath the surface. I started drinking in my early teens and I was freaking wild but, sometimes, reality can sober you up. Life has its limits and I know mine. When I’m with you, I’m willing to push them.”
I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing. What made him bottle up his inner party animal? And did I make a mistake uncorking it?
“It’s been amazing though,” he goes on, his tone brightening. “I’ve had more fun than I thought possible and my favorite moments have been with you. You get me to loosen up and that’s a good thing, mostly.” His hand trails across the blanket until our fingers lightly touch, sending tingles through my arm.
“But it’s not always good, is it? Like last night.” I lead in jilting the moment.
His hand goes limp beside me as his eyes bore through the heavy branches above.
“Yeah, like last night. When I saw you with those d-bags, I was so furious. What were you thinking?”
For an instant, I get defensive and stiffen once more.
“Well, they were fans. I’ve spent time with male fans before, and if it’s going to get you pissed every time, we have other problems.”
“I realize that.” He sighs. “Last night it felt different. Like you were going out of your way to make me jealous.”
“I guess I was.” My brief irritation fades.
“You don’t believe me about the other night,” he says, quietly.
“I’m struggling, Rickly, I am. While I haven’t had a ton of relationships, I don’t consider what you did right, whether something happened or not.”
“I am so sorry. I wasn’t thinking. This is what I’m talking about though. We both get so annihilated we do stupid shit to hurt each other. I don’t want to be a destructive couple.”
“Then we won’t be,” I state, with conviction, my optimism springing to life from the surge of pleasure at hearing him call us a couple for the first time. “You told me the other night you know you love me, well, I think I love you, too.”
He breaks into a beautiful and brilliant smile.
“Then let’s do this. For us. I’ll help you and you’ll help me. We can walk that line. We’ll still have fun, we just won’t go so far there’s no coming back.”
I let my smile out, too.
“Deal.”
We sit content enjoying the lazy afternoon before I remember there’s still one dark item to resolve from last night.
“So, about that black eye.”
***
Craig and my mother are goddamn brilliant. Brilliant and ballsy with their bold and risky play attempting to rouse me from my shock by giving me another jolt. How did they know reuniting me with my father after nearly sixteen years wouldn’t further exacerbate my issues? I suppose they were desperate enough to take the gamble.
Following their entrance, Craig’s mousey assistant trailed them in to silently reconfigure the office chairs so I am sitting with the trio around me in a semicircle. It’s weird to see Craig not anchored behind a desk or table. He sits directly before me and his legs appear skinnier than usual crossed in his baggy, black slacks. I try to fixate on the lines created by his boney frame rather than gawk at my father, but my eyes unwillingly flit to him every few seconds.
He doesn’t look that different from the little I remember. His brown hair, the same shade as mine, is short and receding but he’s hardly bald. He has a goatee peppered with gray rather than the mustache he wears in my mental pictures. Th
ere are crow’s feet that probably weren’t there before. He wears khakis, and a navy polo, and keeps fidgeting with his clothes. Either he never dresses up or, oh yeah, he’s meeting his loony daughter, essentially, for the first time.
I want to turn to face my mother and take in her demeanor but, somehow, I can’t. It’s like my mom and dad are two different magnets and his polarity has the stronger pull. Craig is the neutral in between.
The psychiatrist clears his throat and it draws my eyes to his.
“Kennedy, your mother felt it was important to bring your father here today. After careful consideration, I agreed. She would like to explain why before he tells you what he’s come to say.”
I offer nothing and force my gaze on my mom after another fleeting glance at the man that is my father.
My mother wears a tight, but warm, smile above the high neckline of her paisley dress. Her tawny eyebrows rise with feeling.
“Sweetheart, I’ve been so worried about you. I guess I have been since you left to pursue the band, but it's different now. Then I was just a mother worried her daughter might be making the wrong choices, but they were your choices to make.” She pauses steeling her nerve. “I’d be lying if I said I haven’t taken some missteps in my life.” She briefly looks at my father before jumping back to me. “I learned from them, though. They helped me grow up and so I thought, like me, you would learn from yours, too.”
She waits for me to speak but I don’t. Craig nods for her to go on.
“But the first time I saw you perform on your big tour, I questioned if your decision to be a musician really was a mistake. You were so charismatic. Everyone loved you. I would never have had the guts to do what you did. To walk away from everything safe to expose myself like that.
“That’s when I discovered you were very different from me. That you are more like your father than I ever realized. You hid it so well for so long.” Another pause. “When you spiraled out of control, it became even more apparent. So I asked him here today. Honey, I want to help, but I worry I can’t. Your sister and I, we share more similarities. I’m not sure either of us can give you what you need.”
She exhales with relief to have gotten that out and I can almost see the invisible burden being lifted off her slim shoulders. It’s as though she’s passed the baton. Passed it to the same guy that dropped it and ran the last time she tried to hand it to him.
Craig reaches over and pats her hand. Something I would hate but know she finds comforting.
“Thank you, Shirley. That was well put. Kennedy, if you don’t have any comments, I’d like to turn it over to your father.”
I shake my head weakly and my eyes dart straight to dear ol’ daddy, happy to be back on the stronger magnet.
He squirms and looks around the sparse room before finally focusing on me.
“I...” He tweaks his belt and begins again. “I know I haven’t been there for you. After your sister was born, this uneasiness set in. I saw my whole life unfolding in a predictable pattern. Father of two. Wife and a mortgage. Mediocre job. I worried it wasn’t enough. I’m a selfish bastard Kennedy, you should know that.”
My eyes widen, but I say nothing anxious to hear the rest.
“I don’t know how much your mom has told you about why I left, but I’d like to say I didn’t realize trying to uproot our family for a new job in a different state was my way of severing ties but, perhaps subconsciously, I knew. I was supposed to move to Los Angeles first, to lay the foundation for us, but, after I left, I disappeared. Several years later, I came to my senses and contacted your mother. The damage was done though and, after a long talk, we decided it was better for you if I didn’t come back into your lives unless you sought me out when you were older. I’d broken all trust and you and Helena didn’t need the heartache if I failed again. Your mom, being who she is, agreed to stay in touch after that. Very minimal contact, but enough so I knew the big stuff happening in your lives. When she called last week, we realized it was time to end my absence, if only to help you.” He glances at my mom and she offers a small smile of support. “She’s right, you are more like me than I expected. I’ve spun out of control more times than I can count, some when I was young and dumb, and other times when I should have known better. Alcohol, drugs, I’ve done it all.”
He quickly backpedals in an effort to counterbalance his faults.
“Not that I’m a deadbeat though, to you, I probably always will be but I’m a functioning screw up. I’ve got a career, apartment, etc. I just lose myself every so often.”
“It’s okay Daryl, keep focused on Kennedy,” Craig interjects.
“Right, anyway, I wanted to come here today to offer you my support, for what it’s worth. I’ve gone to the edge and back. And I’d like to help bring you back too, if you’ll let me.”
***
“At least it wasn’t me,” I admit. Rickly just filled me in on how he got his shiner. Apparently, we had a screaming match in the bar parking lot last night after I yelled at one of his groupie skanks for spilling my drink. I took it very personally. Rickly then ushered me out back where we went at it until I fell on my ass. When he tried to help me up, I weakly attempted to beat the shit out of him. My adoring fans came outside when they couldn’t find me and stumbled onto the tail end of our scuffle. They didn’t care that I was being ridiculous. They saw Rickly manhandling me and decide to go all chivalrous and defend my honor. After some tug-o-war, Dallas pried Rickly off my arms, and then Jimmy sucker punched Rickly in the eye. After that, our friends came outside and quickly broke things up. The fans disappeared and the rest of us returned to our moving homes.
“It would be pretty embarrassing to have a black eye from a girl,” he snickers.
“If I wasn’t so hungover, I’d punch your other eye,” I joke.
“Don’t you dare,” he whispers, leaning over to kiss me gently on the lips. It’s the briefest display of affection but it makes my mouth tingle and leaves me wanting more. Perhaps later today, when we clear out his van for the next show…
“Oh shit, the next show. Don’t we leave soon?” I prop myself on my elbows but lose steam for getting up.
He laughs. “No babe, we’re playing two shows here in Austin, remember?”
“Thank god,” I mumble, as I lay back down in the shade. “Can we take something for our hangovers and sleep out here for a while?” The fresh air feels so good and the blanket is comfortable with the grass cushion below.
Thankfully, he doesn’t object.
“Sure, my head is killing me and it’s nicer out here than in that tiny bunk. Let me get pillows and I’ll grab some Vicodin.” He shifts his torso to stand but hesitates. “There’s just one thing left we need to determine.”
I glance at him wearily, not sure if he’s about to hit me with another terrible story I’ve forgotten or a warning about not mixing anything with our pills.
“Shoot.”
“If this is going to work, we need to be clear on what we are.”
I sit up and look him straight in the eyes, careful to stare at his blue irises and nothing more. I lean in, letting my lips brush his like he did to mine moments ago.
“You’re my fucking boyfriend, alright?” I breathe.
He nods gently as our smiles make contact.
Chapter Nine
Awkward silence. The minutes trickle by as slow as honey pouring from a bottle. I fixate on the window behind Craig while I work to organize my thoughts and emotions into a response to my parents’ speeches. I’m not sure yet what to say. Just thinking the word ‘parents’ sounds foreign.
Is that what I consider this man next to me? A parent? An admitted screw-up, addict. Someone who saw me born, toddle and speak, and then left? I don’t have kids, but I’m fiercely loyal to the people I care about. Being torn from my bandmates when I was thrown in here nearly killed me. I can’t imagine walking away from my own flesh and blood like that.
I guess how I decide to proceed comes down to a bat
tle over nature versus nurture. If what they say is true, that my nature is more like this man than the woman who nurtured and raised me, is he my best ally for fighting my demons? Whether Rickly is doing this to me or not, I’ve got my own issues that go hand-in-hand with being here. Perhaps dealing with those will unlock the iron curtain that holds my imprisoned memories. I’ve got to find a way to climb out of the darkness. Maybe it’s time to let someone give me a boost.
A gulp coats the irritated places in my throat allowing me to address my father who nervously scratches at the wooden arms of his chair.
“I don’t know you. I have no loyalty to you. Your face has always been safely tucked away in my past. I never thought or talked about you unless absolutely necessary.” His hands still as he anchors his body to the chair to hide his flinch. It’s a sting he probably deserves, but I dial back my tone anyway. “I don’t say this to hurt you. It’s just the way it’s always been for me. I want you to understand that so you realize I’m not going to accept you, blindly. I won’t pour out my soul simply because I’m the one in here when it sounds like the roles easily could have been reversed. If you are going to help me, you’ll have to show me the deeper parts of you that make us so alike. You have to earn my trust.” My face burns from trying to control my torrent of emotions, but I’m glad to have given him the blunt truth.
When people asked about my father when I was young, I said he was gone. I didn’t explain. I didn’t linger. He’s a stranger, why would I talk about him?
Every now and again, though, I’d wished I had a father. Not for him specifically, but for a male role model. Someone to teach me sports, to rough house with the way only dads do, to be overprotective of his little girl when boys took an interest. Maybe he could have protected me from Rickly….
