by Carrie Mac
“Get out,” Claire growled.
“I can handle it. It was just one line. Strictly recreational.”
“That’s what you’re saying to your teenage daughter?” Claire scoffed. “Seriously? And the drinking? You’re going to tell her that getting fall-down drunk is perfectly fine too? Really, Billy? This is where you’re at? Why don’t you offer her some? Hey, it’s no different than a glass of wine at Thanksgiving, right? Here, give it to me.” She held out her hand. “We’ll all do some together. It’ll be fun.”
Dad opened his mouth and then shut it. He ran his hands over his stubble. “There’s nothing I can say right now, is there?”
“You can say that you’re sorry. You can say that you’re going to stop. You can say that you’re going to get help. That’s what the hell you can say.” Claire’s voice rose into a shout. “And if you can’t think of that on your own, then you can get the hell out!” She barged past him and flung open the door. “Get out! Go! And don’t come back until you’re ready to be the father and husband we need around here. Go play with the drunks and cokeheads. Go!” She kicked his shoes out onto the step and then stood back and waited, arms folded.
“Claire, please.” He sounded defeated. “I can explain.”
“Get out.” Her voice was barely a whisper now. “I swear to God, Billy. Get out.”
He stepped outside and picked up his shoes. He looked so pathetic at that moment, clutching his shoes to his chest, his socks slumped at his ankles.
“Please—”
Mr. Heidelman’s door opened. He stepped out in his pajamas and pushed his glasses up his nose.
“Is everything okay?”
“It’s fine,” Dad said. “Everything is fine, Mr. Heidelman. Thank you.”
“Really?” Claire shook her head. “Really, Billy? Enjoy the fucking gutter.” She slammed the door.
—
Call me, Salix had said. We’ll do all those silly things. But I did not want to do silly things. I wanted to be pissed off and scared and awash in panic and anxiety. The situation called for it. A midnight bus ride or spending ten dollars in quarters on the Pac-Man machine at the gas station was not going to work. Not at all.
I got the broom and hit the painting of Dad and me in the meadow over and over until it clattered to the floor, and then I wrestled it onto the balcony and tossed it over the edge. It landed on top of the garbage bins in the alley, which was exactly where it belonged.
I dreamt of Carol Epperly jumping in front of the train. The train speeding along, the blue sky and green forest a rushing blur, and then Carol stepping onto the tracks, and the screeching wheels.
Was Dad supposed to be Carol? Or was he the train?
The entrails on the track. The train screeching, sparks like fireworks. The passengers with their hands pressed to their mouths, horrified. What happened? Someone jumped in front of the train. But did she jump? Maybe she just stepped onto the tracks. As if she was supposed to be there all along. At that moment. Exactly right.
Then it was Dad jumping in front of the train.
And then I was trying to stuff him into my suitcase. But he bulged out the sides and it wouldn’t close. I dragged it to the bus anyway. To the train. I was going home. I was already home. The fox on the porch. The muddy forest. Carol Epperly. Mrs. Patel, slumped on the floor.
—
When I woke up and went upstairs, the first thing I saw was Dad’s shoes, neatly placed beside the jumble of the rest. He was home, which made no sense after what had happened the night before.
The boys came down together, deep in discussion. The Percival king was missing.
“Where did he go?”
To the bar. To some street corner. To some slut somewhere. To some dark alley. To the coffee table and a rolled-up dollar bill.
“Can you help us find him?” Corbin asked.
“Did the Wrens capture the Percival’s king, Corbin?”
“Owen says I put him down my cast, but he wouldn’t even fit. I didn’t take him.”
“He’s really missing?” I asked. “He’s actually lost?”
The boys nodded.
“The king is lost?” I almost laughed.
Perfect. The king was missing. Spilling out the edges of the suitcase. Stepping in front of the train. Just a little wooden gnome that could fit in the palm of my hand, but as big as Dad.
“We’ll find him.” But I wasn’t sure.
—
We looked for King Percival. On the deck, over the railing—the painting was already gone, and I didn’t care one little bit—behind the couch, under the cupboards in the kitchen, even in the washing machine. No king. After about an hour, Owen flopped onto his back in the middle of the living-room floor and wailed.
“He’s gone!”
“He’s somewhere.” Corbin sat beside his brother. “We’ll find him.”
“He’s dead,” Owen said with a sigh. “The king is dead.”
“He’s not.” I bristled. The boys had no idea that they were talking about one thing and also talking about another. “We’ll find him,” I insisted. “I promise.”
Billy Glover died shoeless and suddenly on Tuesday from a cocaine overdose, following a fight with his wife and daughter, who were just trying to get him to do the right thing—
“Let’s go ask Mom if she’ll take us to Alice Lake.” Corbin patted Owen’s arm. “Would that make you feel better?”
“King Percival is not at the lake.” Owen sniffled. “He was just here yesterday.”
“We’ll go swimming,” Corbin said. “I’ll even let you push me off the dock.”
“I don’t want to go until we find King Percival.”
“We looked everywhere,” I said. “Maybe if you go to the lake, you’ll remember where you left him.”
“Come on.” Corbin bounced up. “Let’s go ask Mom.”
Corbin pulled Owen to his feet.
“Ugh,” Owen said.
“I don’t know if you should.” I glanced up the stairs. “She might still be sleeping. Dad must’ve come in really late, and he—”
He was still up there, when he should be at work.
Was he sleeping on the floor? Had Claire let him sleep in the bed with her?
The boys were already halfway up the stairs, and then they were disappearing into their parents’ room, and I heard their happy squeals.
“Daddy!” The boys’ laughter cut into the quiet. “You’re home, you’re home!”
Low, rumbled murmurs from Dad.
Not so low murmurs from Claire.
More laughing.
I reached for my phone and texted Salix:
I sincerely hope that you are doing absolutely nothing today.
Now I was ready for distraction.
More laughing, and then the boys leapt down the stairs, hollering.
“The beach! The beach! We’re going to the beach!”
They streaked across the living room and down the other stairs to get their swimsuits. They were back up in less than a minute, digging through the closet for the beach toys.
“Maybe King Percival is in the lake,” Corbin said.
“He’s not in the lake,” I said. But then I realized that he was pretending. “Or he could be, I suppose.”
“He might be,” Owen said. “The Wrens might’ve sent assassins in the middle of the night. He could be in grave danger. It might even be too late.”
—
Claire came down first, her robe loosely tied across her belly. She padded barefoot into the kitchen and put the kettle on the stove.
“Boys? You two go hang out on the deck for a little bit, okay? I’ll let you know when we’re ready to go.” They marched outside in their flippers and masks and snorkels. She put a hand on my shoulder. “Billy is coming down in a moment to join us, so we can talk.”
I didn’t want to talk. I wanted to listen. I wanted to hear what the plan was, and how things were going to get better. I wanted Claire and Dad to recite a l
ist of all the reasons why everything was going to be all right.
Claire made coffee and offered me some. I shook my head. Everything already tasted sour. Coffee would make it worse. She poured a cup for herself and one for Dad. She brought them to the living room and placed them on the table, right where Dad had snorted cocaine the night before. I stared at the spot until it was blurry and my eyes stung.
—
The shower turned off upstairs, and a few moments later Dad came down dressed in cargo shorts and an old Railway Kings T-shirt. He sat beside Claire on the couch and put an arm around her.
“Sit, Maeve.” Claire patted the couch on her other side. Instead I sat in the big orange easy chair across from them.
“Go ahead, Billy.”
“First of all, I am so sorry, Maeve.” His voice cracked. “It was cocaine, and it was shitty of me to pretend that it wasn’t.”
Shitty of him? Like being late to pick me up at the bus? Like not being there when Mrs. Patel died? Was that the kind of shitty we were talking about?
“Thank you, I guess.”
“I’ve been a total asshole ever since you got here, and I’m sorry.”
“Okay.”
“It was bad before, too.” Claire leaned forward over her big belly and reached out. I let her take my hand. “We should’ve told you. But I hoped it would get better. Your dad said it would. And we wanted you here. We didn’t want you to be all alone in Port Townsend.”
Dad parked his elbows on his knees and rubbed his forehead with the palms of his hands.
“Billy,” Claire said.
“I’m not sure what happened.” He pulled his hands down his face and groaned. “But I’m going to make it better.”
“Look at her,” Claire said. “Look at your daughter when you’re talking to her.”
He lifted his eyes.
“I fucked up, Maeve. I really did.”
He stared at me until I looked away. No one said anything for what felt like ten minutes, but it was probably only seconds.
“So now what?” I finally said.
“It’s over.” My dad rubbed his face, harder. I could hear his stubble scratch.
My skin became ice. “You mean you’re breaking up?”
“No!” Dad looked up.
“Not for now.” Claire and Dad shared a look. “Remember before?” Claire said. “We got through it, right?”
The months I hadn’t heard from him. Or Claire. The months where Vancouver hadn’t even existed, and Dad and Claire hadn’t either, as if just by drifting away from each other, they’d made everything disappear around them, including me. As if remembering that was any reassurance.
“We’re better together.”
“Believe it or not,” Dad said with a laugh.
“I don’t know if I do,” I said with a catch in my throat. “Cocaine? Are you doing heroin, too?”
“Of course not.”
“But it’s not far-fetched, right? Go back a few years, there it is.”
“Decades, now.”
“Your drummer dying wasn’t enough to keep you away from this shit?”
“It’s not heroin.”
“Fine. It’s not heroin. Why do you do this, Dad?” I was angry, my fists balled. I wanted to hit him. Pummel his chest and slap his face and kick him and kick him until he was covered in bruises and got it. Until he understood what he was throwing away. “Why do you always fuck it up?”
“I wish I knew.” He was kneeling in front of me now and pulling me to him. I let him hug me. He held tight. He smelled of mint toothpaste, citrus shampoo, and lavender soap. Clean and fresh and scrubbed and fragrant. As if being clean would make it easier for me to believe him.
He was no king. He had no crown. No castle. No knights. He had no robes, no carriages, no queen, no princes or princesses. He’d never been a king, and so I was the stupid one, for ever having thought that he was.
“Maeve,” he said quietly. “Where’s the painting?”
“What painting?” I raised my eyes and stared at him. “The one that didn’t ever exist in the first place?”
“Maeve.” Claire reached for me, but I twisted away. “Where is it?”
I said nothing.
“Where is it?” Claire’s voice grew stern. “Tell us where it is. It’s not yours. It belongs to us. You had no right to take it down.”
“It’s okay, Claire.” Dad looked sad then, and I was glad for it. For a moment, and then I was sad too, and I started to cry.
—
NA or AA every day at first, and then twice a week.
Dinner at home on his days off.
Check in with his sponsor every day.
No going out with his friends until after the baby was born, at least.
Claire would be in charge of the money. She would give him an allowance.
He would answer his phone. He would answer his texts.
No assholery would be permitted.
—
He wasn’t going in to work that day, which was so rare that the boys didn’t quite know what that meant. They sat on his knee, perplexed as he and Claire fumbled through an age-appropriate explanation about what was going on. Thank goodness they didn’t go for their share-absolutely-everything approach to parenting on this one. The boys didn’t have much to say at first. They looked at each other and grinned.
“Does that mean—” Owen said.
“That you can take us to the lake?”
We were all so tired, Claire, Dad, and me. Going to the lake was the last thing I wanted to do. Especially with him.
“Sure,” Dad said. “If it’s okay with your mom.”
“Okay.” Claire sighed. “The fresh air will do us all good.”
“I’m not going,” I said.
“Maeve, please.” Dad reached for me, but I turned away and went back downstairs.
—
When they were ready to go, Dad asked me to help him pack up the van in the alley, which I knew was his way to get me alone and try to convince me to go with them.
“Please come?” he said, handing me a beach chair.
“No thanks.”
“Like Claire said, the fresh air will do us all good.”
“I’m not getting into that van and playing the Happy Family Game.”
“We are a happy family.”
I threw another beach chair into the back of the van and said nothing.
“I’ve hardly seen you since you arrived.”
I stared at him.
“Okay, okay.” He lifted the wagon into the back. “Please come?”
“No.”
“You’re mad about everything. I get that. This isn’t your mess.”
“It is my mess. You’re going to ruin my family. Claire and the boys and the baby are my family too. If you don’t fix things, you’re going to ruin everything.”
“I hope not.”
“That’s it?” A delivery truck rumbled down the alley. “You hope not?”
“Yes.” He rested his hand on the door of the trunk. He stared at the wagon and the towels and the bag full of plastic buckets and shovels. It was all so colorful, and dirty. The towels were clean but stained. The cooler was full of fresh food, but it was scratched and the lid was held on with duct tape. The plastic wagon was sun-bleached and cracked in more places than I could count. Everything was okay, and everything was not okay. “Yeah. I hope not. And that’s all I’ve got to offer right now, Maeve. Take it or leave it, kid.” He slammed the door closed. “I’m sorry, and I’m sorry, and I’m sorry. Take it or leave it.”
After they left and while I was still standing in the alley, my phone buzzed.
Absolutely nothing.
For a moment it made no sense. But then, as the crows shrieked overhead and someone hollered up the street, I remembered.
Come over?
—
We sat on my bed and I told her.
“I saw my dad do a line of coke last night, right in front of me.”
<
br /> “In front of you?”
“He didn’t know that I was watching.”
“That’s awful, Maeve.” She put an arm around me. “Did you tell him that you saw? Did you tell Claire?”
I told her the rest, and when I was done, I felt numb, but just for a moment, and then there was a terrible pounding in my head and I started to bawl.
“It’s okay.” Salix pulled me to her and I soaked her shirt.
“He’s such a liar! And a total failure as a dad. We need him and he’s messing up so badly and all he can say is that he’ll try.”
“What can I do?” Salix pulled away. “Can I make you a cup of tea? Want to go for a walk?”
“I just want to stop worrying so much! I can’t even do anything, so what’s the point?”
“You told me that you can’t really help it, right?” She wiped my tears with her shirt.
I nodded.
“So worry. Just go ahead and worry. Worry as hard as you can, and then keep worrying.”
“That sounds awful.”
“But if you can’t stop worrying, you have to figure out how to worry and keep living, right? We need to find you a really, really big box.”
“What for?”
“Not a box. A backpack.”
“What?”
“For you to put your worries in, so that you can take them with you, and when you figure out how to not worry so much, you can get rid of them one at a time. And then the backpack will get lighter and lighter until you’ll be so light you’ll float right off the ground.”
I kissed her then, because there were no words for how much I liked her in that moment. Loved her, maybe.
“What can we do right now that will help?”
“Let me draw you.” I grabbed my things and sat at one end of the bed.
She sat at the other end of the bed, legs crossed. “Will you let me see it?”
I glanced up.
“When you’re finished? Just that page?”
I rubbed out a line that didn’t belong. “I don’t know.”
“Okay.”
“What if he can’t do it?” Another wave of sickening worry came over me. “What if he can’t keep it together, and so it literally falls apart? What if the baby never even knows him?”
