by Ellie Danes
Even now, as I looked over the city’s lights and down at all the ant-sized people, I was thinking only of her. I usually loved the view from up here, whether or not it gave me any sort of insight into the mind and tenacity of my late-father. That much was irrelevant. I liked the view. But today, I couldn’t enjoy it.
I shouldn’t have left her like that, standing alone in the middle of Starbucks.
I knew in order to move past it that I shouldn’t care. I knew that I shouldn’t even think about it. I was trying to unwind atop my dad’s “godly” throne. I didn’t want to think about the whole reason I was trying to unwind.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d been cruel to her. I’d basically reached a whole new level of jerk status by leaving her like I had.
It wasn’t her fault who her father was — just like it wasn’t my fault who mine was.
“Fuck, Ian, stop being stupid. Stop thinking about it,” I growled. “There’s no way a relationship could work with her.”
I slumped down further in the chair and looked out over the city once more. My old man was probably be rolling over in his grave at the thought of me and Kate.
But, then again, he wasn’t always the most rational man either, especially near the end. The time that stood out the most was one of our last meetings together.
We’d been in the middle of a big, late-night meeting at the office. I remembered looking down at my leather-bound binder. I was avoiding eye contact with Mr. Bartlett, a senior board member, because I’d just had a fling with his daughter the night before.
He was speaking, about what, I wasn’t even sure. I never really used to listen in board meetings. The only thing I remembered was Jerome piping up and yelling, “Where the hell is he going?” which immediately made me snap to attention.
By the time I — or anyone else other than Jerome — had realized that my dad had stormed out, he was gone. I tried to excuse myself to follow him, but Jerome said, “We lost him, we’re not losing you, too—you can fill him in.”
One Cross had to be in the meeting. We owned the majority of the company. If I left, too, nothing would have been agreed on that night — and the whole stupid meeting would have been in vain.
I tried texting Dad while everyone else talked, as we all sat around the large wooden conference table. I felt annoyed that he’d left me there, surrounded by men twice my age, with egos and tempers tenfold my own. I even tried calling during my one bathroom break of the evening. But he didn’t want to talk—or at least, he hadn’t wanted to talk to me.
After the meeting, I’d gone to his penthouse—the one I was sitting in right now—and drank a cup of coffee, waiting for him to come home. I was drained and completely exhausted. Sitting at the table in his breakfast nook, just off of his overly luxurious kitchen, I’d felt a hundred years old.
I’d waited up on him, my anger giving me the energy I needed to stay awake. I sat quietly, my hands balled up in knots so tight that I could see the whites of my knuckles. Just past my anger, I was getting nervous. I hated feeling worried. It was a useless emotion—Dad had drummed that idea into me from a young age: What was the point with worry? You couldn’t change any sort of outcome — good or bad. There was no use worrying about it.
But it didn’t stop me as I sat there and wracked my brain, thinking about him that night, wondering where the hell he could be.
With a sigh, I’d glanced at the presents unopened beneath the tree. There were two of them. One was from me to him. The other was from him to me. Depressing, really. It was crazy how unlike a regular family we were. We didn’t give a damn about Christmas, or anything else for that matter. Well — at least not like normal people did. It was a miracle there was anything under the tree — and that there even was a tree — at all. Christmas was still almost a month away, but his housekeeping service brought the tree, like they did every year. As for the gifts, Dad had probably asked his secretary to pick up the gift for me, and I’d gotten him an expensive tie like I did every other year.
I’d looked out through the dark windows. It was cold as fuck outside already, and the darkness made it seem colder. Shivering cold. Face frozen, lips chaffing, pneumonia type cold. I couldn’t help but wonder if he was out in it, walking around in the streets like an idiot…
Despite my resolve to not worry, I kept thinking about all the shit he could have been into — the trouble or harm he could have found himself in. I’d been working myself up into an anxious wreck, and I was starting to get pissed that I was here playing concerned parent to my freaking father of all people.
“Fuck it,” I’d growled to myself. He was a grown man. He could take care of himself. I didn’t need to run after him, and he likely didn’t need or want me running after him.
All of a sudden there was a noise at the door—the jingling of keys, and the sound of a heavy body falling against the door. I knew before I even saw the door swing open that he was drunk.
“Goddammit!” I heard his voice sound out from the other side in a growling slur.
I knew I could have helped him, but I wasn’t going to. Instead, I sat and watched from my dim place in the kitchen, waiting for him to finally manage to come inside. When he did finally manage to open the door, though, something happened that I didn’t quite expect.
I immediately felt bad for him. His jacket was gone. I had no idea where he’d left it. I knew he didn’t leave it in his car. He hadn’t even taken his car to work that day. I knew he didn’t leave it at work. When he’d run out of the boardroom, his jacket had been very much on his body, perfectly draped over his shoulders.
His tie was completely undone, and his shirt was untucked on one side. The one exposed tail of the once crisp shirt dangled freely, and seemed to be frayed at the bottom. It looked like he’d completely gone through the wringer that night.
I’d watched him as he stumbled completely through the door and felt for the lights. I only knew what he was after because he kept grumbling, “Fucking lights, where are you, you fucking lights,” over and over and over again.
He’d moved closer to me. Incredibly close, and he was nowhere near the lights. Hell, he wasn’t even anywhere near the walls.
He was directly in the center of the kitchen, his hands outstretched in front of him. He shuffled forward and the toe of his foot caught the kitchen island. Although I reached for him, I wasn’t fast enough. He stumbled forward until he fell all the way to the floor.
It was like seeing a god fall from his throne, all the way to the feet of his subjects.
His feet wobbled beneath him as he pulled himself up by grabbing ahold of cabinet doors and counter tops.
“Fuck!” he growled, over and over again, until he finally reached his feet and stabilized himself.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” he said. His last “fuck” had been solemn, almost spiritual. He looked sad. I wasn’t sure what it was, but there was a look of great pain and emotion in his eyes. They were red and puffy, from what I could see, and it looked like he’d been crying.
A glass toppled off the counter, and the glass shattered on the floor.
"Dad, you’re drunk,” I said, finally breaking my silence. “You should go to bed."
He looked at me, un-blinking, focusing — as if his life depended on it — before flashing a lopsided grin. “No, I’m not drunk,” he said with a high-pitched chuckle.
“That’s convincing,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Seriously, Dad.”
“Well, maybe just a little bit.” He held his finger and thumb only an inch apart.
“How many drinks did you have?” I asked, challenging his “just a little bit” bullshit, while I continued to watch in horror at how completely sloshed he actually was
“A few thousand,” he said. He lost his balance again, and gripped the counter so he wouldn’t fall. “Obviously, Ian!”
Despite my rising anger, I moved forward and grabbed his shoulders to steer him toward the bedroom. He struggled to straighten himself
upright and flashed me a crooked grin.
"Come on," I said quietly. “All I need is for you to fall and break a hip.” I was partially joking, partially not.
It was obvious that I wasn’t going to get anything out of him that night — such as why he bailed on the late-night meeting in the first place. I knew it was pointless to question him, so I didn’t bother.
He’d needed his bed — even more than I needed one. But as soon as I pulled his sweaty body toward the hall leading to his room, I could tell he had other plans.
With a fueled, jolt, he shook himself free my grasp and moved towards the bedroom himself. "It's okay, all right?” he snapped. “I’m fine!”
I let him go.
“I’m fucking fine!” he yelled again, even though I wasn’t touching him anymore. With an unsteady hand, he leaned against one of the walls in the hallway to stay upright. “I can fucking manage.”
"Go to bed, we'll talk in the morning." I said.
“I’ll go to bed when I’m damn well ready!” he shouted, and took his supporting hand off the wall to point at me.
“Dammit!” I yelled, grabbing him by his shoulders again before he toppled over.
He brushed my hands away and stared at me.
"Okay," he slurred. “Bed.”
“Jesus Christ,” I whispered, watching as his head tilted and he fumbled all over the place. He looked like he’d just been knocked out in a video game with the circular motion he was making, and his eyes looked deserted, like he wasn’t even there.
“Well, we’ll go in a second…let me just stand here for a second.” He smiled strangely.
This night had been bad enough with the meeting. Now my old man was freaking me out.
“Son,” he slurred. His drowsy eyes seemed to sharpen a fraction. “It’s about time you remember this, and make a lesson of it.”
“Make a lesson of what?” I asked, not really sure why. I didn’t want to get into any sort of conversation with a drunken John Cross, but I had been in the habit of questioning people when they didn’t make any fucking sense. The only thing I could learn from this was that I needed to handle alcohol more appropriately than he had.
"I learned that no matter how hard I try, people will still be pissed off. All the time.”
I still had no idea what he was talking about, but I figured I’d let him continue.
“So eventually I had to learn — and you will too — that you may as well piss them off by trying to rather than trying not to. Because it’s worse when you’re trying not to and still wind up doing it.”
He was almost losing me. “Dad, I’m not really sure what you mean.”
“At least then, you’ll be happy,” he said, ignoring me completely.
“Are you happy?” I asked, still not sure why I was still humoring him.
“As happy as I can be,” he smiled. “But no matter how much I lie to myself, I will never do what I wanted to. My own employees are scared of me, and the people in the community hate me. I’m the tyrannical asshole that is ruining BioResearch. Fuck BioResearch. Fuck the Murphy’s!”
Now alone in the penthouse that used to be his, I thought about how he’d said it like that — “Fuck the Murphy’s!” — and it made me feel even guiltier for entertaining thoughts of Kate, even though I knew the truth.
At the time, I’d felt like someone had slapped me across the face. I wasn’t in complete shock. I’d known he wasn’t thrilled about how everything was going with the lawsuit, but I was still speechless. He never talked about his feelings, drunk or not drunk. Hell, I hadn’t even known he cared that much.
"I should have known, really. It should have been obvious,” Dad continued. No matter what I do, I'll always be known as a dickhead and a snake.” He was talking nonsense. I didn’t understand where it was all coming from or what he meant with all of his rambling.
"Dad," I started as I took a small step closer to him.
"No, no, it's all right. It's the truth isn't it?” His words were badly slurred, but they were just clear enough that I could understand. “Murphy is right. He's right, he's right. I'm evil and cruel and a fucking snake. He's right. I shouldn't be trusted.”
He laughed, almost maniacally for a second before speaking again, with a slow, deliberate nod. “But he’s a fucking snake too.”
It was the first time in my entire life I saw emotional pain visible on my Dad’s face. It was there, and once I was confronted with it, there was no ignoring it. Seeing him like that made me want to rush over to his side, even though neither of us was touchy-feely. I closed in on him and held him by the shoulders, supporting his staggering, unsteady body.
“What brought this on?” I demanded. This had all started in the board meeting. No one had said anything to prompt such ridiculous behavior. So what was it?
He didn’t answer. He probably didn’t even know I was talking to him — or remember how he’d abruptly left the boardroom. He looked out the big window by his chair to where the stars would have been if we could see any.
“I need to have a seat,” he said, as he tore his eyes away from the sky. He pulled away from me, stumbling about until he flopped into his chair. He reached beside him and grabbed the crystal bottle of whiskey that sat on the little side table.
“Fuck,” I groaned, as I moved to confiscate the bottle. But it was too late. He took a long swig, and then another one before gripping it tightly in his hand.
“I had a love once, you know?” he slurred.
“Yeah, I know, Dad, I know.” I was trying my best to stay out of the emotional territory and urge him back toward the bed.
He and my mom had a rough marriage. I never thought he cared about her as much as he seemed to in that maudlin, drunken moment — but that was just the way he was. He was a rock. He didn’t show any sort of emotion. Not unless he was belligerently drunk, it seemed — but even then, this was the first time I’d really ever seen full emotion.
“No, you don’t understand — not your mom.”
I pulled back just enough to look at him fully. “What do you mean?”
But that was all he said. He fished his hand into his coat pocket and grabbed out a shimmering metal flask.
“Dad, no!” I grabbed his hand and pulled the flask away from him sharply. “You’re drunk enough!”
“Fuck off, Ian!” he snapped, fumbling for the flask — trying his best to get it out of my hands. His tongue was sticking out, concentration set. I didn’t even care at that point.
“Fine,” I said, as I tossed it over to him. If he wanted to drink himself into oblivion, could I really stop him? “Not like there’s much left in it anyway.”
There were just a few drops from what I could tell, but he really didn’t need any more at all. Even a few drops. As I watched him take hold of it, swigging, it seemed as if he was desperately trying to bury whatever memory had just been swirling around in his mind.
I understood. I knew that sometimes alcohol brought on things that weren’t necessarily wanted.
“I wonder if she’d be ashamed of me,” he said as he tucked the flask underneath his armpit and lay back.
He started crying. Now, sitting in the same chair, I couldn’t recall everything he said, but tears were trailing down his face. He hadn’t even made any sort of movements to hide them or wipe them away.
I’d stiffened at all of his emotion and all of his words. Everything he was saying was too much to handle. I hated seeing tears. I stood awkwardly, almost in the hallway, feeling like I was witness a nervous breakdown. His shoulders start rose and fell, and his body shook with a sadness that I’d never seen before.
Next to the overwhelming feeling of confusion and a reluctance to get involved with his emotions, I felt angry. He’d put us all behind and made me miss out on a good chunk of sleep. Sleep that I cherished after all the hours he already worked me. It was hard to stay angry at a crying man, but a part of me couldn’t help feeling like he’d brought this on himself. If he hadn’t had so much
to drink, he wouldn’t have become so maudlin.
I was trying to collect myself the best that I could as I turned to face him again.
“Listen to me, Dad. You’re successful, and you’re well liked. And our business is on top!” I was trying to cheer him up at first, but I wanted to push my point even further. “So just focus on work and stop abandoning your responsibilities.”
I realized my words were useless.
He wasn’t coherent enough to hear anything I had to say — or understand it, even if he had.
He was staring between the large window in front of him, and the floor, muttering to himself.
I pushed down every single emotion I felt, grabbed ahold of him again, and yanked him up from his chair. He barely protested as I pulled him toward the direction of his bedroom. “Come on, Dad. Let’s get your ass in bed.”
There was a large lump in my throat all the way to the bedroom. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d been this close in proximity. We never hugged — and that’s what this felt like. A sweaty, smelly hug. It lasted all the way to the bedroom, and to the bed, which was strangely unmade, still.
I helped him lie, carefully, down into the plump luxury of his expensive sheets.
He smelled like a bourbon filled ashtray.
“You smell like shit,” I muttered. I glanced down at him, and then over to his closet before shrugging. He could wake up in his stinky clothes. Served him right.
I tucked him in, and pulled away before looking down at him one final second before leaving the room. I remembered running through the penthouse, until I found a cleaning bucket just underneath his kitchen sink, and placed it beside his bed. I knew he’d need it, and for some reason, I wanted to give it to him.
After that, as well as placing a glass of water, and a couple of tablets of Advil beside his bed, I left again. I remembered fumbling about in the darkness of the entire penthouse, before finally collapsing onto the sofa.
