COMIN’ HOME TO YOU
BY DUSTIN MCWILLIAMS
Contents
COMIN’ HOME TO YOU
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
To my grandparents, who gave me my future and the motivation to write every day…
To my wife, whose unconditional love and support kept me focused…
To my children, whom I love and want to make proud…
To James Sugarbroad, who gave me tons of feedback during the early part of my story…
To Samir Dave, who gave me an awesome photo for a cover when I felt like I would never find a worthy cover…
And thanks to whoever reads this. I can’t possibly thank you enough for reading my first novel.
Chapter 1
He was in a plain white room, sitting motionless on a colorless exam table. The doctor, wearing scrubs that strongly resembled the color of shit, stared at his patient, clearly trying to read his vacant expressions. A clipboard holding medical files rested in the doctor's hands. Other unremarkable medical objects were in the room, though the patient couldn't identify what tool did what. Other than that, nothing stood out any longer, for the news he just received made the world a drab and dreary place. One bright spot remained, but now that was in danger if he didn’t do something.
I’ve gotta save him…
“Mr. Tomkins?”
Knocked out of his daze by the earthly summoning, the patient's lazy and glazed eyes slowly rose to meet the doctor's face, which was emotionless and weathered. He tried to answer, but his vocal cords didn't seem to work. The most he could do was look upon his doctor with eyes that tried to hide his newfound worries.
Deciding to take a seat in a stool in front of his patient, the doctor tapped rhythmically on his clipboard before speaking. “Mr. Tomkins, would you like to know your options?”
Realizing that he had heard, but not completely understood what his doctor had stated, he cleared his throat to make a proper attempt to reply. It came out squeaky, but it was audible. “Could you repeat what you just said?”
“I asked if you would like to know your-”
“Before that. Repeat what you said before that,” lightly spoke the impatient man, who found himself nervously picking the dirt from under his fingernails.
“Yes, of course. The biopsy results confirmed my initial suspicions of cirrhosis of the liver. Your liver itself is just...terrible. There's no other way to put it. No telling how long you have been living with alcoholic liver disease. The liver itself is quite inflamed and is mostly held together by scar tissue. Most of the cells within the actual liver are dead, which is what is called necrosis. To put it in layman's terms, your liver is a husk of its former self.”
Feeling further defeated, the patient rubbed his eyes slowly. “So...does that mean I am going to die?”
“You probably will. Your chances of survival would be much higher if you had came in when you first started seeing symptoms.”
“How was I supposed to know that I had liver problems?”
The doctor continued his tapping on the clipboard. “Don't kid yourself, Owen. You could have taken a shotgun to the belly, and if you could pick out the buckshot yourself, you'd do it, just to avoid having to see a doctor. I'll be straight with you. You would more likely be looking at dying an older man if you had regular checkups with any doctor. But, we all can't live in a world with ifs, ands, or buts, now can we?”
Owen felt further drained from the harsh comments. “Well...fuck me. So what now?”
“A new liver is your best option.”
“Can you at least tell me how much time I have?”
The doctor was taken aback, not ready for such an upfront question. “I don't like to give out time frames, Owen, you-”
“For fuck's sake Dr. Myers. Do me a goddamn solid and just tell me how long I fucking have!”
“No need to curse. Okay, Owen, I'll be blunt,” replied Dr. Myers, hiding his rattled self with a veil of calmness. “If you do not immediately, and I mean immediately cease consuming alcohol, you could die quite soon. Your liver cannot handle any more damage. If it does, it is a miracle, and God is keeping you on this planet for some unknown reason. And for Christ's sake, I can smell alcohol on your breath right now. If you don't stop drinking, I can barely promise that you won't drop dead here in this room. That's how close to death you are.”
It's actually mouthwash, thought Owen. Despite the grave warning, Owen longed for the taste of alcohol on his lips. “And if I decide to go with a new liver?”
“Well, you'll live a little longer. Even if you didn't take another drink with your liver the way it is right now, I don't think you have a snowball's chance in hell of making it through the fall. You might have a better shot at the Powerball at the Valero down the street. There's only one option, and all I can say is I hope you make it in time to see that option.
“However, there is a pretty long list of people vying for new livers. If I were a betting man, I would bet that you would pass before you even found yourself halfway up the list. And even by some blessing of our Lord in heaven that you do make it up the list and receive a new liver, your survival chances, be it immediately or over time, don't exactly work in your favor. A living donor is a possibility, but more than doubtful. Especially when it is revealed you are an alcoholic needing a new liver to survive. Unless you have family willing to give up their liver for you, then that is another story. But most people aren't that willing to give up a liver for someone who is just going to abuse a new one. Anyway, those are your options. Knowing you, though, you'll face this problem head on, right?”
“What?”
“That's your family's classic words, right?”
That struck a reminiscent nerve within Owen. “How do you know that?”
“I went to school with your daddy. He would say those words constantly when faced with some sort of problem. There was one time back in 5th grade, I swear. You remember Clancy Phillips, right? I think he was a grade below you.”
Owen didn't remember and didn't really give a shit, but nodded his head anyway.
“Well his daddy, Jim, had a twin brother, Joe. They were both really big boys for 5th graders. Both bullies, too. Lord knows I took a beating or two from them for no damn reason. Well, one time, they started picking on your dad. They called him names and provoked him, you know how it is. Anyway, they challenged him to a fight out behind the junior high building one day. I told ol' Andy that he was walking right into an ass-whipping if he tried to take on the Phillips twins single-handed. You know your father probably more than I do. Get this, he turns around, gives me this cocky smile, and says that he is a Tomkins, and that all Tomkins face their problems head-on. And those problems get their ass beat.”
Owen just breathed silently. Those were words he had not heard in a very long time. He didn't have the fondest memories of his father. Even as a Tomkins, his father would beat him around. But he would never whip him without a reason. Even as drunk as he got at times, he wouldn't lay a hand on either of his sons unless they did something wrong, or what he perceived in his drunken mind as wrong. For some odd reason, he could feel a faint amount of love and respect from his father with each lash from his leather belt.
Yet, Owen wasn't exactly thrilled with how the subject drifted away from him. He wasn't normally a selfish per
son, but he had good reason to be at this moment.
“Of course, Andy went out there and got beat up pretty bad,” continued Dr. Myers. “He got a hard knee into one of the twins' balls, and I think a jab into the other's face, but that's the most damage he dished out. God, his face was a swollen mess of black and blue and crusty blood. It was a sight to see.”
Agitated, Owen scratched his chest. “And how the hell does this story help me?”
Dr. Myers finally realized he had gotten off-track. “Oh, well, you know what I was trying to get at. If you do decide to go the route of a transplant and do your best to stay healthy...well, to quote your father, at least you'll be tackling this problem of yours head on. Or you can keep drinking which is the same as giving up, dig yourself a six-foot grave, and just lay down in it, because you will soon be a dead man. And I hate saying this because I am hoping you make the right decision Owen, but I have to be realistic. So, you should make all the necessary arrangements you need in case you do pass away from this. It may come sooner than you think.”
Even though he was well aware of what the doctor said, the idea of finality just didn't process in his head. How could he? Of all the things that could kill him, the bottle was low on his list. He had always considered his liver ironclad.
“Necessary arrangements, eh? Getting my grandson away from my idiot daughter and that fuckface of a boyfriend sounds pretty necessary,” sarcastically replied Owen.
“Yeah? I've heard some rumblings about that,” Dr. Myers hesitantly replied. “How long has she been with that Grayson boy?”
Owen’s mouth paused in a half open state, quickly realizing he had been too open and revealing with his sarcastic quip. In defense, he decided to keep future responses vague. “Too goddamn long.”
“Them Graysons, I swear. If it ain't the drug cookin' and sellin', it's something else. Is it Scar or Clint that is with your daughter?”
Sighing, Owen knew the answer, but didn't care to respond. “Doc...is there anything else? Because I really want to get the hell out of here.”
“Sure, sure. In the meantime, I will forward your information to Dr. Sen in Dallas. She is one of the leading liver transplant surgeons in the area. But you need to decide yourself if you have the mental guts to refrain from alcohol and make all the right life choices to ensure that you would do good with a new liver. Otherwise, you'll either die on that waiting list, or abuse your new liver. No one wants to see either of those happening.”
Dr. Myers handed him a couple of pamphlets as Owen rose from the table. “Here, read over these when you get the chance.”
“What are these for?”
“Eh, most of it is stuff to read on the toilet. But, they will give you some ideas on what to expect in the coming days. There are some websites on there you can look at too. It's just information about your affliction, really.”
Quickly glancing over one of the pamphlets, he noticed an excerpt about overly itchy skin. Wearing a blue and white plaid pearl snap shirt that was unbuttoned at the top made it easy for Owen to scratch his chest when needed. He noticed another sentence about bloody stool, which, combined with his sudden and rapid weight loss, was the reason that ultimately caused him to seek a doctor's council. Not having any particular preference, Dr. Myers was the first name he thought of, as he had known the name through the grapevine. He was glad he sought his expertise, for he would rather have someone he was scarcely familiar with break the bad news than a complete stranger. Yet, the news, despite who it came from, still put Owen in a dubious mood.
“I'll think about it hard,” solemnly spoke Owen, not even glancing at the pamphlets.
Dr. Myers patted Owen on the back and handed him a card as he walked out of the room. “Well, remember that I am not the one you need to consult with. If you are serious about a transplant, give Dr. Sen a call. As I said earlier, she's one of the best surgeons in the Dallas area, and she can give you way more information than I ever could. And make your decision sooner than later. Time is of the essence. And stay strong. Owen. You can beat this and stay alive, but you will have to make a lifestyle change. Think about it.”
Owen nodded, quietly walking out of the doctor's office and into the late May heat of East Texas. Although the news of cirrhosis dampened his mood, the rays of the toasty sun on his skin reminded him that he was still alive on this day. Most of all, he desired the comfort of his truck like an infant needed the embrace of its mother's arms. His vehicle was a fairly new cobalt blue Ford F-150. He was still making monthly payments on it, but since the truck was his “baby,” every dime that was spent on the truck was worth it. He even overpaid for glistening twenty-inch chrome rims, just to add an extra bit of spice and flair to his ride. He regularly vacuumed the interior and washed the outside body every week. While originally planning on washing the truck after the doctor's visit, his recent diagnosis muddled such cares. Owen needed to go anywhere but here; to reflect, to recollect, to plan, and most of all, to get drunk. It was Friday. Fuck what the doctor said.
After comfortably sitting in the custom leather driver's seat and starting the engine, Owen closed his eyes and finally let everything sink in. The radio was already blaring, just the way he liked it. He laughed and realized there was little use of preserving his ears if he were to croak soon. A sad smile crept on his face once he heard Garth Brooks' “The Thunder Rolls” playing. He pounded his fist on the steering wheel to the appropriate drum parts to the song. It was the fair therapy he needed. The desire to drink, fuck, and live the remaining section of his life became stronger as he pulled out of the parking lot; tires squealing against the pavement. The knowledge of death creeping at his doorstep created a devil-may-care mindset within him. What did he have to lose? He knew that the grim reaper was close with his scythe, regardless if he tried to save himself with a liver transplant. Death was always by his side, no matter what he did, as it had been for years and years. Besides, he wasn't the type to rest his neck on the frame of the guillotine just to wait for the blade to drop and behead him. There was still life to live, however small of a time frame that may be, and he planned on making every second of what remained his own.
Feeling the need for female accompaniment, he grabbed his cell phone from his jeans pocket. He searched through his contacts for an attractive lady worthy to call. A piece of ass would calm his nerves, and it would purposefully prevent him from telling his younger brother and his daughter the bad news.
Not like she would give a flying fuck anyway, thought Owen.
He shook his head sadly. Eventually, he would have to tell the two members of his family that may or may not give a fuck. But if and when he would tell his daughter, he would also be telling his sweet and innocent grandson. But not right now, not tonight. After searching through his contacts, he decided to call on a random female partner from his past, Shonda. As soon as he hit the call button, he realized how incredibly haphazard this call was. He hadn't talked to this girl in over a year, and he couldn't understand why he would call on her even now. Hell, he was practically in a relationship. But there was something about her that he remembered, mainly her birthmark on her left nipple on her gigantic breasts. He allowed the phone to ring anyway, not expecting an answer. It went to voice mail, and he felt no need to leave a message.
Waiting until he reached a red light on a fairly quiet county road, Owen called the lady he truly wanted to see. The recent apple of his eye, Grace Toler. She was a few years younger than him, though her exact age was unbeknownst to him. While early to mid 30's was his guess, he was unsure why he had never asked her. He imagined she had told him before, but he had forgotten it, thus the fear of asking her. Despite her unknown age, her body resembled that of a fit college freshman, while her hair maintained a freshly dyed blonde. She worked as a waitress at one of his favorite dives, Louie's Catfish and Bar, in his hometown of Adrienne, Texas, a small town northwest of Tyler. The catfish itself was mediocre, though sometimes decent, depending on who was cooking that day. However, the
selection of beer was more than adequate compared to most dumps and two-bit bars in the area. It hosted a great deal of local craft beers from around the Dallas-Fort Worth area. He loved a dark stout the most, but if the situation arose, he could drink the cheap swill the other rednecks in the area called real beer. Owen also loved whiskey, as nothing beat the blues like a good bourbon on the rocks. He planned on having both beverages tonight.
He knew Grace would answer her phone if he persisted. But how would she answer was the question. He and Grace had quite the virulent history. Their relationship was off and on, mainly because she wanted more in terms of a relationship, while he was content with how the way things were. This had went on for about two years, until a few weeks ago, when she decidedly had enough and broke it off. In that time frame, she was seen out and about with a couple of different men. A week ago however, she came over to his home unexpectedly, fucked him in such a splendid way that he could recall each second from the first kiss to climax. Then, she promptly left when he decided to go grab a beer instead of holding her. After that encounter, her anger toward him increased almost exponentially.
As he was thinking about her, Grace answered the phone in her typical southern belle accent. “What the fuck you want, Owen?”
“Just seeing what you were doing.”
I'm in the middle of my shift.”
“Sounds like you aren't that busy if you are talking to me, babe.”
“I am not your babe, Owen. Not anymore.”
“Baby, come on-”
A peculiar silence caused Owen to look at the screen of his phone. He chuckled dismally after seeing that she hung up on him. It was just how she was, but he loved that temperamental side of her. He'd see her when he got to Louie's, whether she wanted to see him or not. He was sure that if he talked to her in person, she'd be wooed by his charm and would have no choice but to go home with him.
Pulling into Louie's, a place just outside the main town area, he parked his truck in the gravel lot that constituted parking space. From the outside, the bar and grill was nothing special to look at. It was just a fairly large building made of metal siding, with a large neon sign above the door that stated the name of the establishment. Fortunately, the inside had a lot more allure to the modern patron. Entering the building and taking his usual seat at the bar, his eyes scoured the area for Grace. The bar itself had two large flat screen televisions for the sports crowd. He had watched many games there in the past, mainly Dallas Cowboys games. The restaurant as a whole was dimly lit, with lacquered wooden tables strategically placed on the painted concrete floor. Owen raised a hand at the bartender, signifying that he wanted a drink. Bubba, a bald, burly man with a plethora of tattoos placed the usual dark stout in front of Owen.
Comin' Home to You Page 1
