The Serious Kiss

by Mary Hogan

  “Why, Lot?” Mom asked him in the hospital. “Why?”

  It was a question we all wanted answered. He’d been doing so well! But Dad didn’t say anything. He hung his head and sat there, like a zombie, his glasses falling off his bandaged nose. I couldn’t look at him anymore. I felt so disappointed I wanted to bury my head in a pillow and sob.

  So much for gratitude.

  So much for beginning to feel normal.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Dad’s accident made the local news that night and the front page of the paper the next morning. The newspaper photograph was too mortifying for words. My father was handcuffed and dazed, his nose bloody. Two uniformed police officers stood on either side of him. The caption read:

  FRIES WITH THAT?

  Drunk Barstow Man Slams into

  Landmark McDonald’s Restaurant

  My dad: Drunk Barstow Man. It was too humiliating for words. I felt like someone had let all the air out of my life. I felt flat, deflated. And the worst part of all? I didn’t hear a word from Warrenville. Not one word over the entire Thanksgiving break.

  If you ask me, we all got busted. Mom made us stand behind Dad, as a family, in front of the Barstow judge. His gavel hit the wood with a loud clack.

  “Your driver’s licence is suspended for six months,” he said. “You’ll pay restitution to McDonald’s, perform one hundred and eighty hours of community service, and go straight into the rehab centre.”

  Mom raised her hand.

  “Yes?” the judge asked, looking annoyed.

  “I was wondering, your honour, if you could order the whole family into counselling?”

  Rif gasped. I stamped my foot and Dirk started to cry. Nana, standing erect and proud next to us added, “I’ll second that motion.”

  The judge rolled his eyes. “I can’t force your whole family into anything, Mrs Madrigal. But I will strongly suggest it to your husband’s rehab counsellor.”

  Rif exploded. “Mistrial!”

  The judge narrowed his eyes at Rif and asked, “Are you Richard Madrigal?”

  Rif swallowed. Dad said, “Yes, your honour, he’s my son.”

  Peering through half-frame glasses, the judge flipped through a folder on his desk. “Have you completed your community service?” he asked Rif.

  Rif stared straight ahead, speechless.

  The judge said, “The computer spat out your name. Just because you move doesn’t mean you’re free from paying your debt to society.”

  “I didn’t mean it about a mistrial. Really, sir.” Rif blinked and tried to look innocent.

  “Richard, your community service starts this weekend. You’ll remove the graffiti from the boulders in the Mojave River bed. That is an order.”

  Big and Little Moe? I wondered. The judge added, “You’ll be given the supplies. Be sure to wear sunscreen.”

  “But—” Rif started.

  “Next case.” The judge’s gavel came down hard.

  On the way home, Mom came down hard, too. “This family is going to pull itself together if it kills us.” Then she asked, “Who’s hungry for a low-cal snackywacky? ”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  There we were. All of us. In therapy. Ugh. Dad’s rehab was in Victorville, so the rest of us drove down there for family sessions with him.

  “Why are you here?” the therapist asked us in the first session. His name was Josh, and since he didn’t ask us to call him Dr Josh, I assumed he never quite made it to med school.

  Josh went around the circle. “Rif? Why are you here?”

  “It’s a family outing,” he said sarcastically.

  “Lot?”

  “The court made me.”

  “Libby?”

  “My mother made me.”

  “Dirk?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Elizabeth?”

  “I’m here for my son.”

  “Dot?”

  “I don’t know what else to do.”

  Josh – Just Josh – nodded his head. “Is anyone here because they need help?”

  We sat stiff and silent, like five trees in the Madrigal petrified forest.

  “Okay,” Josh said, adjusting his frameless glasses with his slender, girly fingers. “Over the next few weeks, you may feel differently about why you’re here. In this group, we’ll cry, yell, laugh, feel awful, feel great, feel awful again. You name it, we’re going there. The point is to fully explore what it means to grow up in an alcoholic family, what it means to be an alcoholic, what happens to the spouse of an alcoholic, and how some kids act out and act up under the stress of it all.”

  “I’m not an alcoholic,” Dad mumbled.

  Rif and I side-glanced at one another.

  “That’s the perfect place to begin,” Josh said. “Definitions. Everybody ready to dive in?”

  Nobody said a word. So our skinny therapist, with his bushy brown hair and wrinkly white shirt, who looked like he was still in high school, dived in by himself.

  “Alcoholism is a chronic disease that often gets worse over time and can kill you if not treated.”

  Dad sighed. Nana nodded. Mom fished around in her purse for a Kleenex. The only window in the therapy room was covered in vertical blinds. Not that there was anything to look at. But staring at a dreary parking lot was better than sitting in a circle and “sharing my feelings” with Just Josh and my family.

  “Basically, if using alcohol is causing any continuous disruption in an individual’s personal, social, spiritual, or economic life – and the individual doesn’t stop using alcohol – that would be harmful dependence. Often, denial and rationalisation become a way of life. Does any of this sound familiar?”

  Mom looked at her hands. Dad said, “I’m not in denial. I’m just not an alcoholic.”

  Rif laughed out loud. Dad shot him a look.

  Josh asked, “Rif, do you have something to say?”

  “Yeah,” said Rif. “Three words: Barstow trailer park.”

  The rest of us stopped breathing. No one had ever stood up to my father like that. In public, too. I looked at the window again. If it was open, I would have leaped out.

  “What do you mean by that?” Josh asked.

  Boldly, Rif looked directly at Dad. “If you’re not an alcoholic, Dad, why did you lose your job and our house? Why did we have to move into a trailer bought by your mother?”

  “Yes, Lot,” Mom piped up. “Why?”

  Now I considered jumping through the glass. Anything to get out of that room. Dad apparently had the same idea. He got red in the face. His nostrils flared when he stood up and said, “I don’t have to put up with this crap.” Kicking his chair, Dad headed for the door.

  “Actually, Mr Madrigal,” Josh said, “you do. This is part of your court-mandated rehab.”

  Dad stopped. But he didn’t sit down.

  Josh added softly, “Would you rather go to jail?”

  His question hung in the air. The tension in the room felt like a saddle on my back. Suddenly I wanted to scream and pound the walls with my fists. I wanted to rip the scarlet letter off my chest, stop being the daughter of the “Drunk Barstow Man.” I wanted answers ! Why did Dad start drinking after he stopped? How could Nadine move on so fast? Why won’t Warren call me or even look at me at school? When I saw him on campus, I swear he saw me, but he looked away fast and stayed in the tight circle of his friends. Why did everything always go wrong at the precise moment it seemed like it might – for once – go right?

  Barbara had said, “Boys are jerks.” But I knew that wasn’t true. Not Warren. It was me. Something was wrong with me.

  “Please take a seat, Mr Madrigal,” Josh said.

  Dad sat. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and slouched so low in the chair he nearly disappeared.

  For a few long moments, Josh didn’t say anything. Nobody said anything. It was the loudest silence I’ve ever heard. Finally, Josh cleared his throat and looked each of us in the eye.

  “I’d like t
o try something a little unconventional. Is everyone up for it?”

  Still, nobody said a word.

  “Here’s what I’d like you to do,” he said. “For our next session, I’d like each of you to write a letter to Lot about how his drinking has affected you personally. The letters should be specific and completely honest. Spill your guts. Tell him how you really feel. We’ll read them at the next session. Are you all willing?”

  Mom nodded her head energetically. The rest of us shrugged.

  Dad asked, “What am I supposed to do?”

  Josh answered, “Listen.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Writing my dad that letter was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I held a pen in my hand for almost an hour before the words began to flow. After not saying stuff for so many years, it felt like I was stabbing him in the back. I mean my dad. How could I tell him the honest-to-God truth?

  But I did. I spilled my guts in a letter. Next, I needed to find the guts to read it out loud to him.

  Nana drove us to Victorville the following week. On the way, my family talked about school, sand, Thai food, carbs – anything but the letters we all carried. I was a basket case. Would my father hate me after I read him my letter? Would he refuse to come home? Was this the beginning of the end of my family?

  Josh greeted us all with handshakes. Dad was already in the therapy room. He kissed Mom, hugged his mother and us. He seemed relaxed. Which made me feel even worse. How could I hurt him when he’d been living next door in the rehab centre working hard on getting better?

  “Let’s get started,” Josh said. We all sat down and he said, “First, I want to acknowledge how hard it was for everyone to write their letters. I also want to recognise how difficult it will be for Lot to hear what his family has to say. But you have to feel the hurt before you can heal. And healing is what we’re all about here. Who wants to read his or her letter first?”

  Dirk raised his hand.

  “Go ahead, Dirk,” Josh said.

  Dirk opened his letter and burst into tears.

  “It’s okay to cry,” Josh said, softly. “It’s okay to feel whatever you feel.”

  Is it okay to feel like leaping through the window? I wondered, my pulse racing.

  Sniffing, Dirk read his letter.

  “Dear Daddy,

  “When you get drunk, you make me scared. You yell at Mom and Juan, and sometimes me. It makes me want to cry. And once, I saw Mom crying in the laundry room, when she didn’t know I saw her. But I knew she was crying because of you. Please stop drinking.

  “Love, Dirk”

  Dirk sniffed again, and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

  “Very good, Dirk, thank you,” said Josh. Dad started to speak, but Josh held up his hand and said, “I’d like you to wait until all the letters are read before you comment. Would you be willing to do that?”

  Dad nodded.

  “Good. Rif? Would you like to go next?”

  “Our dog ate my letter,” Rif said, smirking.

  Josh didn’t react. Instead, he turned to me and said, “Libby? Ready?”

  Instantly, my heart pumped blood into my ears. My palms got sweaty and I felt light-headed.

  Josh said, “It’s okay. Take a deep breath.”

  I took a deep breath, shakily opened my letter, stared at it, and read.

  “Dear Dad,

  “My heart is pounding as I write this letter. Now that it’s finally time to tell you how I feel, I’m nervous. I don’t want you to hate me. But I do want you to know how it feels to be the daughter of a dad who disappears little by little every day, right before my eyes. It’s scary. One day, will you be gone forever? I miss the funny, smart dad I used to have. Drunk Dad is mean. He’s embarrassing. He makes me mad. It’s like you’d rather ruin our lives than stop drinking, which seems really selfish. And you’ve made me feel ashamed of you, when I used to think I had the coolest dad in the world. How could you do that?

  “Remember that camping trip we took to Big Bear Lake? You and Mom rented a camper van. Rif and I played crazy eights in the back. Dirk was just a baby, so he slept the whole way. I keep thinking about that first night, around the fire pit, eating toasted marshmallows and making up ghost stories. It was all of us. Together. It wasn’t anything special, but I think, maybe, it was the happiest night of my life. Because our family was just like every other family. We were normal.

  “I don’t know if I can explain this right, but your drinking makes me feel empty. In the same way that night at Big Bear Lake made me feel full. Your drinking makes me feel lost, like I don’t belong anywhere.

  “Mostly, Dad, I feel like something is wrong with me. Something is missing. I don’t know what it is, or if I can blame you for me feeling so . unnormal. Maybe this is what kids feel like when their parent dies. Because, it’s kind of like you did die. The real you. The dad who’s only in my memory now.

  “Love, Libby”

  Too scared to look up, I didn’t. I waited for Josh to say something, but he didn’t, either. Instead, Dad’s voice was the first sound I heard.

  “I’m so sorry, baby,” he said, almost whispering. Josh didn’t cut him off. “You’re right. I have been selfish. I’m so, so sorry.”

  “Thank you, Libby,” Josh said. “And you, Lot. We have a long way to go, but we’ve taken a huge first step.”

  Mom and Nana went after me. They both cried all the way through their letters, both said how hard it was to see Dad destroy himself. But I could barely hear them through the loud thumping of my heart.

  THIRTY

  Barbara’s stepmother decorated their whole house with stuffed animals. I swear, there were fake furry things in every room. Except Barbara’s.

  “She knows better than to set foot in here,” Barbara said. A sign on her purple-painted bedroom door read, BEWARE: HAZARDOUS MATERIALS INSIDE. I think it was actually true. I found an Oreo under her bed with green hair growing on it.

  Since I’d begun family counselling, Barbara was full of questions.

  “Have you cried yet?”

  “Has your dad cried?”

  “Is Just Josh anything like Dr Phil?”

  Me, I just had one question: “Why is Warren avoiding me?”

  Barbara groaned. “Who knows?”

  “Why do you think?”

  “Why don’t you ask him?”

  “Yeah, like I’m going to ask him why he dumped me when we weren’t even together!”

  Barbara sighed. “Want a Fudgsicle?”

  “No.”

  At that moment, I made a decision. Josh had explained that an alcoholic’s family members often “walk on eggshells” around the user, trying not to rock the boat. They stuff their own feelings and feel isolated because they don’t want to face what’s really going on. I’d done that hundreds of times before. But no more.

  Standing up, I marched to Barbara’s bedroom door.

  “I want answers. Are you with me?”

  “Where are we going?” Barbara asked, excited.

  “You’ll see. Follow me.”

  We marched across the old iron bridge, over broken beer bottles, past Aqui, almost to the base of the Calico Mountains. We walked and walked and walked. Since it was December, it was warm instead of hot. But the wind whipped sand into our faces and up our noses. By the time we got where we were going my green canvas shoes were white with dust and my lungs were full of dirt.

  “The old drive-in?” Barbara asked.

  “Rif told me this is where all the guys hang out.”

  Barstow’s Skyview Drive-In was a huge, empty dirt lot, surrounded by a chain-link fence. The large movie screen was still there, as was the old Snack Shack, but all the speakers were gone. Clearly, no one had seen a movie there in years. Barbara and I snuck through a hole in the fence. The noise was deafening. I could hear engines revving and guys yelling, “I’m next!” A thick dust cloud swallowed up the action in the middle of the lot. As soon as it cleared, I saw Rif.

  “
His time is up!” he shouted. “I’m next!”

  Barbara and I hung back and watched my brother hand some guy five dollars, and hop on a dune buggy. He gunned the engine, then hurtled forward yelping, “Wahoo!”

  It looked incredibly dangerous and incredibly fun. Rif rode the dune buggy in a circle, like it was a bucking bronco. The wheels kicked up so much dust it was hard to see anything. Was this even legal? Probably not, since the only adult there was the guy taking all the kids’ cash.

  “A buck a minute,” the cash guy yelled. “Two-minute minimum.”

  After five minutes, a bull-horn blared and Rif slowed down. As the dust fell back to the earth, I scanned the crowd. It didn’t take long to see him. His black hair was grey with dirt, and his brown skin was ashen. Still, my heart lurched. I tried to will his dark eyes to turn and look at me, but Warrenville was in line to ride the dune buggy next. He handed over five bucks and hopped on as soon as Rif hopped off.

  Instead of riding in a circle, Warren revved the engine and drove straight for the far fence. I panicked. It looked as though he’d ram right into it. But he swerved just in time and careered over a huge dirt pile, flying through the air and landing on all four wheels. The crowd went wild.

  “Did you see that?” I asked Barbara, excited.

  She scoffed. “Macho man.”

  As soon as the dust settled, Warrenville and I locked gazes. In the middle of shaking the dirt out of his hair, he caught sight of me, and my heart kicked up its disco beat. Barbara and I were the only girls at the drive-in. In fact, I heard someone ask, “Who let them in?”

  But I didn’t care. I was there for one reason and one reason alone.