He made a big snuffling sound. I snuck a peek at him, hoping to God he wasn’t crying again. His bloodshot eyes popped out from his pale face. He looked lost.
Maybe it was time to stop punishing him.
I sent a message to my brain, asking it to signal my arms to move from their rag-doll position and wrap around the little boy in my father’s body. But either my brain ignored me or my arms ignored my brain; my arms weighed six million tons, and there was no way I was moving them.
I tilted my head and let it rest on his chest. Nothing happened. The world didn’t come crashing down around me. Maybe I could do this.
I listened to the rattle in his chest. Didn’t he know that smoking kills?
I suddenly thought about how stupid I must look. Standing in the middle of the church parking lot, my dad hugging me and me standing like a plank of wood.
“I’m glad you’re here, Kitty.”
His voice sounded like the boys at school—all croaky and weird.
“Don’t know how I would have gotten through that service without you.”
Don’t be a dumbass, Kit. Hug the man.
It was like bungee jumping. I held my breath. Five, four, three, two, one, JUMP.
I wrapped my arms around his waist.
And held it.
I opened my eyes.
I’d made it.
I’d hugged him.
I’d hugged my father.
And I didn’t feel queasy.
I actually felt okay.
I wanted to say something. Something nice. Not quite I love you or anything—I’d never say that—but something.
He spoke first.
“I could murder a whiskey right about now.”
My arms dropped.
I noticed Iggy’s car in the corner of the church parking lot and realized he’d been there the whole time, watching and waiting. He and Mom had arrived the day before, and I’d been thankful to not have to deal with my father alone. I stormed to Iggy’s car and got in the front seat, slamming the door hard.
“He just said he could murder a drop of whiskey,” I said, staring at my dad, who I’d left standing out in the cold. “I was trying to be all nice and supportive and then he goes and says that. It’s like it’s all he cares about.”
“Well, at least he had the decency to wait until after the funeral,” said Iggy.
“Big whoop,” I said. “Come on. Let’s go.”
“We can’t just leave him standing there, Kit,” said Iggy. “Go get him. Everyone is at the pub, and they’ll wonder what happened to us.”
“He has a car,” I grumbled. “He can drive himself.”
Iggy ignored me and rolled down his window. “Phonse,” he called. “Come with us. I’ll give you a ride.”
The whole town was in the pub. People said things like “She lived a good, long life,” as if that made it okay. But it didn’t. It was far from okay.
Dad got sloshed. I made a mental note to add The Grieving Drunk to the top of the Drunk-O-Meter, a step above The Mad Drunk.
Mom followed Dad around the pub, doing damage control. She interrupted him when he spoke to people, talked loudly over top of him and apologized for him if he said something off-color.
I sat in the corner with a glass of fruit punch, trying not to be noticed. I watched Iggy accept condolences and hugs from Nan’s elderly friends, but he kept looking around, all distracted. I knew he was looking for me, and I should probably have waved or something, but I didn’t feel like it. I figured he’d spot me eventually, and sure enough, he did. He sat down right next to me with his own glass of fruit punch.
“Here’s to your nan,” he said, and we clinked glasses.
“I wish Elliot was here,” I said.
“I know. He really did try to come. Your mother and I were going to pick him up and everything. But he called at the last minute and said his parents wouldn’t let him. He was really upset. I could hear it in his voice.”
“It’s because of the fight at Will Hanrahan’s. They probably think I’m bad news. I’ll never see Nan again, and now I’ll probably never see Elliot again either.”
Iggy put his arm around me. “Go introduce yourself when you come back to St. John’s with us tomorrow. The minute Elliot’s folks meet you, they’ll know what a wonderful girl you are.”
“But I’m not going back.”
“What? Why not?”
“Because I need to stay here and—”
“And what, Kit? I don’t get it. There’s nothing here for you now.”
“Iggy, just let me explain. What I meant was—”
“You can’t stay in Parsons Bay. St. John’s is your home now.”
“Yes, but—”
“But nothing! Your mom is in St. John’s, I’m in St. John’s, Elliot is in St. John’s—”
“Iggy!” I exclaimed. “Take a chill pill! Will you stop interrupting and let me explain? What I meant was I’m not coming back tomorrow. I’m going to stay here for a bit to help Dad sort Nan’s things and get her house ready for sale.”
“Oh,” said Iggy. “Okay. But can’t your Dad handle all that stuff? You’ve been through so much.”
I spun my glass around and around on my place mat. “The thing is, well, um, Dad can’t really be left on his own. Especially now.”
“He’s not your responsibility, Kit. He should be taking care of you, not the other way around. You need a break. I’ll talk to your Mom, see if she can stay instead.”
“She’s already been fired once because of Dad. She needs to get back to work.”
“Maybe she can take a week off or something.”
“I’ve already talked to her. She has one week of holidays left, and she was saving them for summer. She offered to take them now instead, but I said no. She works hard. I want her to have fun on her holidays. Not spend them here dealing with this crap.”
Iggy kissed the top of my head. “You’re my favorite niece, you know.”
I elbowed him in the side. “I’m your only niece.”
He laughed. “I could stay if you want. Instead of you.”
“Thanks, but I kinda want to go through Nan’s things. It might help, you know?”
He nodded. “I’m going to paint your room for when you come back. What color do you want it?”
“Yellow. Like the den. Like Nan’s kitchen.”
“Yellow it is.”
There was a loud shriek of feedback from the pub’s sound system. Dad had turned on the karaoke machine.
“This one’s for me mudder!”
Queen’s “Another One Bites The Dust” erupted from the speakers.
My mother looked horrified. But me and Iggy, we fell over laughing.
The top shelf in Nan’s closet was covered in shoe boxes.
“Might as well start here,” said Dad, lifting them down one by one and laying them on the bed.
I took off my shoes and sat cross-legged on Nan’s quilt. The room smelled of peppermints and Oil of Olay. Dad sat next to me and took the lid off a box. Sitting on the top was a photo of him as a baby, propped on his mother’s knee. He took one look at it and broke down. I reached over to the bedside table and grabbed some tissues.
“It’s okay, Dad.”
He wiped his eyes and tried to pull himself together. “I wasn’t a good son.”
“That doesn’t matter now.”
“Been a troublemaker my whole life.”
I reached into the box and took out another photo. An action shot of Dad in a snowsuit, jumping in midair above a crumpled snowman. A smaller kid next to him was bawling. “I see what you mean.”
I passed Dad the photo.
“Who is that kid anyway?” I asked.
He
looked at the picture, then laid it facedown on the bed. “Just some kid.”
I picked the photo back up. “He’s more than just some kid. I can tell. Who is he?”
Dad got up and went to the window. “This week’s been bad enough without…”
“Without what?”
He shook his head. “Without dredging all that stuff up.”
“What stuff?”
He turned around.
“There’s stuff you don’t know, Kitty.”
“There is?”
He nodded.
“Tell me. The stuff. I want to know.”
He sat back down on the bed and pointed to the photo in my hand. “That’s Tom.”
“Tom who?”
“My brother Tom.”
“What? You don’t have a brother.”
“I did.”
My heart sank. I looked at the chubby face poking out of the circle of fur on his snowsuit hood. He looked like a little lion.
“How old was he…when he…?”
“Seven. Seven bloody years old.”
“I’m sorry, Dad.”
I wanted to know how but couldn’t bring myself to ask.
“He was a pain in the arse, but I loved the hell out of him.”
I reached into the box and pulled out photo after photo, mostly of Tom.
“Nan has loads of old photos up around the house. How come she never put out any of Tom? Why are they hidden in this box? How come no one ever mentions him? I don’t get it.”
Dad didn’t say anything. I kept piling photos on his lap, photos of him and Tom tobogganing, camping, fishing—pictures that should’ve brought back happy memories. But Dad looked sad.
I picked up an old black-and-white of Dad and Tom down at the cove. Dad was sticking his tongue out and rolling his eyes to the back of his head. Tom was laughing.
“Look at your face, Dad,” I said in an attempt to cheer him up. “You must have been a real joker.”
He smiled weakly.
I picked up another of Tom as a baby. “Aw, that’s cute. Look how you’re holding him. You guys must have been really close.”
He nodded.
“Did your father take these pictures? He’s not in any of the photos.”
Dad gasped. He literally gasped. I actually heard a quick intake of air. It made my heart skip a beat because I was afraid it was his heart or something. I reached out and grabbed his arm.
“Dad? Are you okay?”
“I’m…I’m fine.” He stood up, and the photos that were on his lap scattered to the floor. He bent over to pick them up but couldn’t get a grasp on any because his hands were shaking too much. I hopped off the bed to help.
“Did I say something wrong, Dad? I’m sorry.”
Dad sat back down on the end of the bed and sighed. “No, Kitty. You didn’t say anything wrong. Leave those. Come sit next to me.”
I picked up a shot of Nan. A beautiful, young Nan.
“Leave them, Kitty.”
Splodges of wet fell onto the photo. I was ruining it.
“Kitty.”
I collapsed to the floor and cried.
“Kitty, it’s okay.”
“No. It’s not okay.” I sniffed. “You’re sad about Nan and now I’ve gone and made you sadder by bringing up the past, and I’m sad too, and I can’t take it anymore and I don’t know what to do.”
Dad reached for me. “Your old man’s here, Kitty.” He put his hands gently over mine. They were rough and cold, but they made me feel warm. How was that possible?
I got up and sat with him on the end of the bed. He put his arm around me, and I rested my head against his chest. As easy as that.
I wondered if Nan was watching.
After a bit, Dad spoke.
“Tom’s death was hard, real hard. And no one ever talks about it because of the way he died.”
“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, Dad. It’s okay.”
Dad took my hand. He looked me in the eye.
“My father was a bad man, Kitty.”
Then I knew. I knew the “stuff” he was talking about. My heart almost pounded out of my chest.
“Tom was a little bugger. He was always winding my father up. I knew to steer clear. But Tom always pushed his luck. All it took was one big smack. Tom went flying, hit his head on the radiator and that was that.”
Dad passed me a tissue. “I never told you before because, well, kids don’t need to know about stuff like that. Look at you now—you look frightened. And I don’t like it. I don’t want you to look frightened.”
I knew it’d hurt, but if I didn’t say it now, I never would.
“But Dad, you’ve frightened me. Lots of times. When you’d throw stuff. Or scream. Or swear.” I looked down. “Or like that time you hit Mom.”
He looked away. “Like father, like son.”
“Wouldn’t you make sure that didn’t happen, Dad? After what happened to Tom?”
“The last thing I wanted to be was like him. But then I started drinking, and it went downhill from there. Turned out like the old bastard anyway.” He looked me in the eye again. “But I’ve never laid a finger on you, Kitty. And I never will.”
I thought of the phrase “cold comfort.”
“Did your dad go to jail?”
“No. He took off. Never saw him again.”
“Did you love him?”
“What?”
“Your dad? Did you love him?”
My father thought for a moment. “He was my father. So yeah, I loved him. I loved him a lot. I just hated the things he did.”
“Remember when I said I hated you? After Caroline came for dinner that time?”
His eyes filled with tears, and when he spoke his voice was tight and choked. “I’ll never forget it.”
“I don’t, Dad. I don’t hate you. I just hate the things you do.”
He sniffed and nodded.
I reached out and touched his arm. “I actually…love you.”
He couldn’t talk for a bit, so I just left my hand on his arm. Eventually he spoke.
“I love you too.”
The next morning I woke up shivering. My feet were like ice. Wind and rain rattled the house. I looked out the window but couldn’t see a thing. It was like someone had a hose aimed right at the window.
I pulled on a hoodie and a warm pair of socks and went downstairs. I put a teabag in a cup, then changed my mind and put a couple in the pot instead, enough for me and Dad. I plugged the kettle in and waited. But the kettle didn’t boil. I flicked the light switch. On, off, on, off. Nothing.
I knocked on Dad’s door. “Dad? The power’s out. Should we start a fire in the fireplace?”
No response.
“Dad?”
I went to my room and took my watch off the bedside table. Nine thirty. It wasn’t too early. I decided to wake him.
I banged on his door. “Dad?” I peeked into the room. His bed was empty.
I got a funny feeling and went back downstairs. I checked the living room. His chair was empty. I picked up the phone, not knowing who I’d call. The line was dead anyway.
Where would he go in the middle of a storm?
I pulled on a coat and slipped into a pair of rubber boots. The wind almost took off the door. The hose was directed at me now. I ran to Ms. Bartlett’s.
Ms. Bartlett had to shout to be heard above the gale. “Kit? What is it?”
“Is Dad here?”
“No. Why?”
“He’s gone! He’s not in his bed!”
“He’ll turn up,” she said. “Now come in before you freeze to death.”
“I have to find him.”
Ms. Bartlett yelled again, but this time she was mad. “You are not going anywhere! Come in this house right now!”
“I can’t! I have to find him!”
I ran into the storm.
The pub wouldn’t be open. Or the liquor store. And he had no friends.
I felt sick.
I went directly to the cove. It was gone. The Breakin’ Wind was gone.
It was too dangerous for the search-and-rescue team. That’s what the RCMP guy said. He said that as soon as it was safe, the coast guard would send out some boats and a helicopter. He said he was sorry. He said he’d drive me home. We couldn’t see a thing through his windshield. I watched the wipers struggling to swish back and forth. Useless, like everything else.
He stopped the car in front of Nan’s. “Is there someone home?”
I shook my head.
“You shouldn’t be alone.”
I directed him to Ms. Bartlett’s.
He came in and told Ms. Bartlett what had happened. Fisty Hinks—Frank—was there, making things feel even more surreal.
The Mountie said he’d keep us posted and left us alone in the cold, dark house. Ms. Bartlett sat me down by the fire. The power was still out, and the windows rattled.
“He’s out there in this. By himself,” I said. “He’s probably drunk. He probably doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing.”
Frank put a towel around my shoulders. “It’s amazing what people can manage in an emergency.”
“What am I supposed to do now?”
He squeezed my shoulder. “Wait.”
Dozens of people braved the weather and packed themselves into Ms. Bartlett’s house. They made tea on camping stoves and they prayed. Someone started singing “The Petty Harbour Bait Skiff,” a folk song about a fishing boat that got caught in bad weather, leaving the whole crew drowned but one. Soon others joined in, and the room filled with song.
Good people all, both great and small, I hope you will attend,
And listen to these verses few that I have lately penned.
And I’ll relate the hardships great that fishermen must stand
While fighting for a livelihood on the coast of Newfoundland.
The singing sounded good. They had the harmonies down pat. But the song choice sucked. They should have picked something more suited to the situation. I mean, they were singing about the bravery of young fishermen who risked their lives to earn a living while my dad was lost at sea out of stupidity—he didn’t need to get on that boat. He was probably drunk and didn’t know what he was doing—or maybe he was drunk and knew exactly what he was doing. Either way, there was nothing brave or valiant about it all.
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