by Lexi Scott
But that’s the stupidest thought I’ve had yet. Cohen is right for a life I don’t live, and even though I hate to admit it, I may never live that life, no matter how badly I want it.
The truth is I really care about him. Which means I want more for him. So I need to stop being an ass and pretending we have a chance together, because that’s just asking for an ocean of heartache.
“Good-bye, Cohen.”
It’s fine that it hurts to let go. That little jab of pain reminds me to keep my distance.
But will he keep his?
…
“Dad? You home?” I call.
I hear loud voices, laughter, the clink of bottles. Sounds like Dad has company.
I set the bag of groceries on the counter and turn to preheat the oven. I’ve learned to try to live a semi-normal life in the midst of my dad’s parties and jam sessions. When Mom and Ro first moved out, it was actually kind of exciting. We’d been so far removed from his life as a rock god when we were young. I loved meeting the erratic, brilliant musicians he’d known so long ago, tucking myself in some corner and listening while they made music and talked life, love, heartbreak, and redemption.
In those early days, it felt like maybe my father truly had a chance to reinvent himself as a wiser version of the impetuous artist he was in his youth.
Once upon a time, my dad was lead singer for a semi-successful punk band. They opened for early nineties acts like No Use for a Name and Blink 182. Girls threw themselves at him like he was a huge catch, and I guess he had his moment when he actually was.
Marriage and family changed all that, of course. And then divorce changed it again. I guess he figured if he didn’t have my mom, he deserved to have his career back. In his mind, fair was fair. As a young man he traded rising fame in the music world for love and family. As an older, broken man, he wanted to reverse it.
But that’s not how the world works. When you trade something for love, you’ve got to throw in your entire heart and soul. Love isn’t refundable, and learning that the hard way has made my father a really bitter man.
“Mare, is that you?” My dad’s voice booms down the narrow hall. A few other voices, slurred and gravelly, echo my name over and over, inviting me to join the never-ending party. It’s bizarre to think of how charmed I used to be by their grandiose philosophies and boasts about how they would change the world with their art.
I guess too many mornings spent mopping up their vomit and dealing with their ugly hangovers cured me of my innocence.
I close my eyes, suck in a quick breath, and hold it, trying to put myself in the right frame of mind before I see him and everyone else.
The frame of mind that isn’t full of bitter resentment. This life has made both Dad and me harder, uglier versions of our former selves.
“Dad, I’m in the kitchen,” I say, stacking the cans of vegetables neatly in the pantry. Dad probably won’t eat them, though he should. I stopped wasting money on the fresh ones since I caught him feeding his meals to the neighbor’s schnauzer or hiding them in the bottom of the garbage can, covered up with plenty of napkins—just like a guilty child would do.
Which is exactly what my father feels like to me.
I guess if I’d traded my stable, loving family man of a father for a more mercurial, brilliant musician, I’d have said that was a price worth paying. But that’s not how it went down.
“Can you put on a robe or something?” I ask when my father shuffles into the kitchen. Dad is shirtless, that six-pack in the old photos replaced by a bulging belly I’m scared to death is full of cirrhosis. “Aren’t there people over?”
“Just some friends jamming, Mare. Don’t be so uptight. You’re starting to sound like your mother.”
I bristle. I’m not remotely offended. I wish I’d inherited more of my mother’s direction and less of my father’s wishful thinking.
“Don’t talk about Mom like that,” I say evenly, ignoring the stale smell inside the fridge when I open it.
I’ve got a box of baking soda in there. Is the seal bad? I consider bringing it up to my father again, but he’s made it clear he has zero interest in “puttering around the house like Joe Family.”
“You know, your pop used to write best naked, kiddo.” Standing behind my father is his old friend, Teeth.
I have no clue what the man’s real name is, but his nickname is a sad joke considering he’s probably got all of five teeth in his head.
“Don’t give him any ideas, Teeth,” I warn.
“What’s on the menu tonight, kid?” my dad asks, stretching his arms over his head and grunting like he just woke up. I’m positive Teeth and the crew managed to pull him out of his bed late this afternoon with the promise of a few bottles of the cheapest liquor they could scrounge up.
“I can’t feed all your friends,” I announce, not caring at all when Teeth’s face falls and he shuffles back to Dad’s room.
Once upon a time I had manners. All my dad’s friends marveled at what a good hostess I was, whipping up snacks on the fly, dumping ashtrays, bringing fresh, cold bottles of brew when they got together. That was a few years back, before Dad quit the first of so many jobs, when this new life felt so deliciously free and wild compared to my old life. Then, day by day, shot by shot, things started to fall apart until falling apart became our reality.
Over the years we’ve moved in such a rush or hocked our crap for money so many times that there are hardly any physical reminders of the normal life we used to live. Every time I thought we’d hit rock bottom, Dad would throw a punch at a co-worker, drink until he was blitzed on his lunch break, or disappear to a twenty-four hour bar the night before an important meeting, leaving his business partners scrambling to explain his behavior.
They made a ton of excuses for him at first. My dad is a charming guy when he’s sober, and people can’t help but like him. But too many fuck-ups later, and he’d find himself fired. He burned so many bridges, abused so much goodwill, he’d probably be better off picking up for a new place and starting a brand new life.
“You don’t have to worry about feeding those bums, peanut,” Dad says, his laugh booming. “They’re better guys than I am. They feed off the music.”
As if on cue, a few twangy notes float down from his bedroom. I hear a guitar string snap, followed by a very creative combination of curse words.
“Sounds like they’re going to be pretty hungry then,” I say wryly.
“So, are you cooking?” Dad fishes.
I sigh. Like my father would ever in a million years manage to start a new life. Why would he bother when he’s got a daughter right here to cook, clean, pay the bills, worry, and keep him out of trouble? Only a total fool would pass on this sweet a deal.
The obvious question is why don’t I just leave?
“Remember when you and Ro wanted Jell-O for dinner?” he asks, nudging me with his elbow.
“Yup.” I try to tune the memory out, but Dad refuses to let it go.
And therein lies the answer to the question of why I don’t leave.
“We got out all your mother’s little pie tins and molds, and we made all those crazy Jell-O foods, like jiggly little rainbows. Your sister said it looked like a feast from a Dr. Seuss book.” His laugh coaxes mine out.
“Mom was so mad. We had state testing at school the next day. She said we’d go in and bomb everything because our brains would be maxed out on sugar,” I say softly.
“You didn’t, though,” he says, picking up the story, his eyes shining with pride. “Neither one of you. Ro’s scores got her noticed by that gifted teacher. You finally got over your test anxiety crap and didn’t have to go to those extra classes for reading and math anymore. Jesus, remember how much you hated them?”
My throat is tight. “Yeah. I really did hate those classes.”
The “dummy classes.” The ones that led my father to make a set of beautiful flashcards. He’d set me on the swing in our backyard and tell me to not worr
y, just swing and read the cards.
I can still remember the wind whipping my hair back and forth as I screamed my Phonics blends, and my dad cheered me on. He always cheered me on, and we beat back everything I was sure would destroy me.
How could I just up and leave him now that he needs help beating something so huge back?
“You and your sister swore it was the power of Dr. Seuss that made you ace those tests.”
His laugh roars out, and for a second I’m not in this kitchen with the battered linoleum floors and the stink of roach spray. I’m in the big, cozy kitchen of our childhood home, my father wearing his “Kiss the Chef” apron. He was so clean and lean and handsome back then. My childish heart would flutter with pride when he came to bring the jacket or lunchbox or homework paper I forgot to my classroom, and the other little girls would shoot daggers of jealousy at me with their eyes because their dads were old and fat and boring. I remember him making up songs as we bashed tins together and clanged pans, chanting, cooking, making magic.
Once in a while, I swear I can feel the remnants of that magic stirring to life again. Like the last firefly flickering before fall, like the first perfect white snowflake of winter. It’s rare, but it’s still alive, and it gives me hope that my father will be okay again. If I give up now, I’ll lose him forever.
“Meatloaf and green beans for dinner,” I announce around the lump in my throat. “And don’t you dare argue about the beans. You need to eat more green things, Dad. Doc Snyder says so. If you don’t aggravate me too much, I’ll consider making Jell-O for dessert.”
And then the magic that was just starting to spark to life disappears.
My father’s grin turns to a petulant scowl. “That doctor is a pompous moron.”
He runs his hand down his long gray beard, and for a second, I stand in my kitchen and try to picture this scene the way Cohen would see it.
Cohen’s father is a neat, no-nonsense man with a fierce, dark mustache and fiercer love for his family. My father looks less dapper, more Unabomber, and he obviously doesn’t give a shit that I detest his unkempt look—as do, I’m sure, every one of the bottom-of-the-barrel places that have bothered to interview him, given his shady employment history. I’ve begged him to shave it. Offered to pay for it, even at that stupid barbershop where the “barbers” wear short-ass skirts and serve you whiskey while you get a shave.
And I’ve stewed with silent hatred over the fact that my father has so little respect for himself, he forces me to use tactics that we should be embarrassed about.
I imagine Cohen, used to the smell of the ocean, breathing in the rank smell of cigarette smoke, mold, and stale liquor. I think about his spacious, gorgeous kitchen and imagine him opening our battered cupboards and trying to cook up a delicious meal with the dented, bargain-basement cans of off-brand veggies I can barely afford.
“What’d you do today?” I ask, though I know the answer will more than likely make this shitty day even worse.
Dad’s been doing less and less for the last two years, since his workers’ comp for that BS “pulled back” claim he made ran out. When I took over the bills, it was supposed to be temporary, just until he found work.
“Looked at some jobs online.”
He reaches into the near-empty pantry and pulls out a whiskey bottle. Slowly, almost defiantly, he fills a plastic cup and takes a long swallow.
I frown.
Not because I care one way or another if he drinks anymore. That’s a battle I’ve long since given up fighting. I’m sad that he doesn’t care anymore. I’m sad because, in my heart, I wonder if he can care anymore.
“Anything promising?” I grip the countertop, because I know there isn’t anything new to report. There never is.
“Nope. Bunch of idiots out there. They all want you to have a bachelor’s degree just to flip burgers! It’s ridiculous. And I ain’t busting my ass for some minimum wage job, either.”
“Dad, the economy is shit, what do you expect?” I lash out.
It’s harsh, but truthful. He hasn’t worked in years, and he isn’t exactly what HR would consider well qualified for most positions.
I take a steadying breath and try once more, calmer this time. “I can check with our warehouse department again and see if there’s anything open for you. Even just a night stocking position would be great, you know? They have really decent benefits. You’ve got to do something. We’re drowning here.”
Dad takes a long gulp from the cup, sets it down on the counter, and walks away. He just doesn’t do well with tough love.
Well, I’m fucking sick of the way he constantly ignores me.
I push off the counter and march down the hall after him, then come to a stop in the doorway of a room so disgusting it would make the dankest room in a frat house seem like it had come out of a Martha Stewart spread.
There’s a sketchy older woman in a too tight black dress with track marks on her arms and eyes ringed like a raccoon sitting on the bed, a notebook in her lap. Teeth is at her feet, cradling a guitar, and two other guys—a nervous-looking guy with an accordion, and a guy with a bongo drum whose face I can barely see under his dreads—are perched on my father’s old steamer trunk.
“Maren, baby?” the woman asks in a raspy voice.
“Jocelyn?” I cry, my anger melting away for a second. She leaps off the bed, dashes over, and holds me tight, the familiar smell of patchouli and cigarette smoke wafting off her clothes and hair.
I pull back and make an effort not to let the shock show on my face. It’s only been two years since I last saw her at one of my father’s impromptu jam sessions. How is it possible she looks two decades older?
I keep my eyes off the track marks and, for once, say a prayer of thanks that my father’s poison of choice is liquor.
“Look at you! You’re all grown up. And gorgeous. Mac, look at this gorgeous girl!” she says to my dad. He gives me a bleary smile and lifts his plastic cup in an ironic toast, still irritated with me for asking him about getting a job.
“So, tell me everything,” she demands. “What are you doing? Who’s the lucky guy who managed to snatch you up? Ah, never mind, no ring on your finger. Good girl. You’re young and wild and so damn beautiful. Play the field a little.”
She looks at me, her bloodshot eyes full of kindness, and I feel my throat tighten like I’m going into anaphylactic shock. I wish I had amazing answers for her questions, but the fact that my life is not going the way I hoped it would is suddenly brought into stark relief.
“Oh, you know,” I stumble. “Just working. Hanging out. Nothing much really.”
She waits, but when she realizes nothing else is coming, she slides a sad look at my father and nods like she understands. It hits me that her last studio album was titled Living My Father’s Whiskey Dreams.
Right now Jocelyn and I don’t have much in common except an intense love for our self-destructive fathers. But I see the pain in her eyes that mirrors mine. The loneliness. And it scares me. I love Jocelyn, but I don’t want to be her.
“Can I ask you for a favor, sweetheart?” She leads me to the bed and hands me the pad she was scribbling on. “Your daddy and I have been brainstorming some lyrics. You know what a way with words he has. Anyway, could you sing the harmony on this one?”
“Jocelyn, I haven’t sung in such a long time,” I say, my throat thick with emotion.
“What are you waiting for then, sweetie?” she asks, her eyes twinkling. “Humor me. I just wanna hear if a couple of old dogs like your dad and me have any new tricks up our sleeves.”
I nod. Teeth starts strumming, and the guy with the bongos starts to tap out a rhythm, looking me up and down with a knowing smile as he does. He’s young and handsome, but his icy blue eyes have the flat, cold feel of a predator’s. I fold my arms over my chest, about to bolt from the room and away from all this uncomfortable emotion.
Then the accordion comes in softly, and my dad puts down his cup. He leans against t
he wall, closes his eyes, and starts to sing in a voice that sounds like it was ripped out of the throat of an ancient shaman or a Celtic chief. My arms and neck are covered in goose bumps I can’t rub away, and I feel this intense rush of pride.
This man, this man singing from his soul, proud and talented and full of life— This man is my father.
The song is steeped in love and loss so bitter it drives the taste for life from a man’s tongue.
Jocelyn’s raspy alto comes in quietly and surges around my dad’s deep tenor. She sings about the woman with the sweet palm, the home with a heart, the life that beats slower, slower as the love falls apart.
When it’s time, I join in, my warbly soprano choked with tears at first, growing stronger and braver with every heartbreaking line. I close my eyes and lean close to Jocelyn, who understands, and the music takes over this dingy little room. It transports us somewhere new and beautiful. For a few minutes, we’re just a group of confused souls trying to make sense of a life that’s as beautiful as it is devastating with our humble music.
When the song ends, Jocelyn puts her arms around me and kisses my temple.
A cold voice cuts through the moment. “We should’ve recorded that. That track on YouTube would’ve gone viral. We’d be singing our next song in a private recording studio in our mansion,” the dreadlocked guy says in a voice that’s just on the edge of being a hiss. “You got pipes, hon.” He nods to me in a way that makes my skin crawl.
“None of us are in it for the money or the fame, Murdock,” my dad growls, suddenly the principled, passionate man he once was. “We do it for the music.”
Murdock pulls a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it before sucking the first lungful of smoke deep and then blowing it lazily back into the room. “Who are you kidding, Mac? You’d do it for a bottle a day of the cheapest whisky.”
Scream at him, I will my father, my fists balled at my sides, my entire body shaking with fury. Tell him he’s an asshole. Tell him you’re going to turn your life around and start making beautiful music again. Tell him you’re going to rid your life of all the bullshit and assholes. Tell him, Dad!
