The position at Pat’s place was the solution.
Three months into it, she took over the house payments completely.
She was happier, remarkably happier. She’d also stopped “sneaking out” for secret dates. Or, if she did, she’d gotten much better at it.
One day I told her, “Mom, y’know, if you wanna go out on dates, I’m cool with it. I know you were seeing someone when dad first moved out.”
She went red—uncomfortably red. “I’m sorry you found out.”
“Mom, please, I’m a grown-up!”
“Still, that was foolish of me.”
“OK, fine, you’re sorry. Now, forget the past. But right now—if you wanna date someone, go ahead. Just, well, I don’t wanna know who he is. But...I want you to be happy, is all.”
“I am happy.” She reached over the kitchen table and grabbed my hand.
“Mom, you’re so soppy.”
She smiled.
I hadn’t seen dad since he got out of rehab. He called me and we chit-chatted and he told me what he was up to. He said that we should probably get some counseling to move past things, to try and bring us together again as a family. I wasn’t so keen on that. I felt that the way to move on was simply to move on. Did I need to go to therapy with him because of his own problems?
After the call, I realized that what I needed was to somehow come to trust him again. I needed to feel safe around him. I wanted to do that, but I didn’t want to sit on someone’s couch and have her tell me what’s going on in my head when she hasn’t spent the last seventeen years in my home. There’s just something fundamentally wrong about that process.
I slept on it.
Dad called more often, and the more he called, the more that trust grew in me again.
He asked me about Johnny, and at first I was hesitant, but soon I started telling him little things about him. I avoided subjects that I thought might set him off. I knew dad had a button on Johnny not planning on going to college, instead planning to go straight into his father’s business and be apprenticed to take over it someday. So I stayed away from that. Sex never came up, and thankfully dad had the brains not to ask me about it! (Which probably meant he knew we were doing it.)
He never asked me if I would see him (dad), or if I wanted to go watch a movie with him or go ice skating or something. In some way I understood that it was my step to take, that he was waiting for me bring it up first.
I wasn’t ready for it.
I missed him. I missed having a father around.
But I also saw how well mom was doing. And the two facts conflicted in my mind.
I wasn’t ready. And I didn’t know when I would be ready.
A crappy situation, yes. But it was what it was.
And then in late May, he hit me with it: He called and said, “How would you like to go to Portugal for the summer?”
“I’m sorry—what?”
“Your mother would go with you. I’m still not keen on you going alone. But she and I have discussed it and...well...if you’re interested—”
“Of course I’m interested!”
“Good, then it’s settled. We’ve gone over it with the Abreus. They’re cool. Your mom will go with you. You will not share a room with Johnny!”
“Dad, I’m not stupid!”
“I know you’re not, kiddo.”
“Wow. I’m... Wow, just...wow!”
Dad said nothing.
“Dad?”
“Yeah, honey.”
“Should we meet up at Bryant Park for a coffee or something?”
He hesitated a second before answering. “That would be nice, baby.” I think I heard him choke up.
I felt bad that it had taken me so long to ask him.
I felt good that I was going to see him again.
Some things just take time.
-2-
The world disappeared during that summer.
The city of Cascais in South Portugal is heaven, simply heaven.
Johnny’s parents owned a vacation apartment there, ocean-facing, and I’d go to sleep with the whispers of the sea crashing against the rocks a hundred yards away. They rented a second apartment for themselves on the same block. At night, mom and I would eat olives on the balcony and talk about nothing but girl stuff! It was the first time my mom became a girlfriend of mine.
On other nights, I’d take a walk with Johnny to some of the local tiki bars or just sit on the beach and talk. Of course, we did more than that. Johnny knew all the spots we could hide and kiss with the rumble of water echoing in our ears. I didn’t ask him how he knew these things, but he did.
After two weeks of sunbathing and forgetting all my problems, I casually said to mom, “I wish dad were here.”
“You do?”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“No, just answer me. Do you?”
It took me a second to answer, because she seemed serious. “I—yeah, I mean, sure.”
She pulled out her phone, and she called him.
Dad had dinner with us that evening.
He’d been staying in the center of Lisbon, ready to join us if I brought it up. He didn’t want to impose, didn’t want to “ruin my vacation.”
I sat next to him that night. He looked good, real good.
At one point, dad and I went outside to talk. Red light spilled out from a tiki bar across the street. The air was hot and muggy, even at ten PM.
“You’re my dad,” I told him, the warm ocean wind singing in my ears. “How could you ruin my vacation?”
“I wasn’t your dad. Not for a while. What I did—the right to be a father does not come only because you provided the seed to someone’s birth. I didn’t realize that. It’s a title that’s earned. And I lost that title the day I struck you. I lost the title of husband the day I struck your mother. It wasn’t my place to impose on your vacation. I have to make good for what I did. And when I’ve made good, I hope to have earned that title of ‘dad’ again for you. I needed to fix things with you, princess. I’m still fixing them. I’ll be fixing them for the rest of my life. ”
“You are my dad. You’ll never stop being that.”
He swallowed hard. “OK,” he said. He turned me so we were facing the ocean, put his arm around me and squeezed. “OK.”
-3-
Dad continued to stay in the center of Lisbon, which is about an hour away from Cascais. He was serious about taking it a step at a time and “earning back his title” and so refused to stay in Cascais when I suggested it.
But we spent plenty of time together, and sometimes he and I would take a walk on the beach promenade, leaning out over the railings that face the ocean.
He told me that he didn’t want me to get the wrong idea. Chances were that he and mom wouldn’t get back together. They’d delayed the divorce for so long to see if there was any hope. But they simply hadn’t worked out. And they hadn’t worked out because of their own errors, but the one thing they both agreed on, was that it was important I know that they both loved me, and that they were there for me.
I must confess, the deep conversations I was having with both my parents made me feel much closer to them than when they’d been together. So maybe they were onto something here. Because I felt closer to them than ever before.
We toured Lisbon, actual Lisbon! We ate pasteis de nata at Belém and walked the cobblestoned hills of the center of town.
For my birthday in August, the very first birthday Johnny and I would spend together, we went to a tasca, which is pretty much a hole in the wall in some dingy part of town where all they offer to eat are petiscos (snacks), a limited selection of red wine, and about three different types of beer.
And then, at eleven PM, when the place is crowded with both young and old, no seating space left, and men are lighting up cigarettes in the back—the singing begins.
Fado, the music of melancholy, of love, of sadness, of fate and what it does to you; the music of the poor, the lost loves, the lonely, the passiona
te, the romantic, the hungry, the tired. The music of Portugal, sung by opera-esque voices that tumble and roll down the dirty streets, bringing hope. And tears.
Dad held mom.
Johnny held me.
Pat wiped a tear from his eye.
And people sang, open-mic style—girls, men, women, round and small, large and gangly, teens and adults, rocking the rafters and walls with voices so powerful that they seemed to transport you to another heaven.
A man played guitarradas on the traditional twelve-string guitar, his fingers smoking while a cigarette dangled from his lips and his flat cap peaked over the crags of his aged skin. People cheered. A poet got up and recited a poem and the house roared with praise at the end. (I didn’t understand the poem, but I felt it.)
Out of respect for my dad, none of us drank, until dad put up a fuss and said it was fine. He’d changed, he said. So then we did drink: red wine, always red wine, but not enough to get drunk. No one in the entire tasca was drunk, it seemed.
There were pictures of famous singers on the walls, people who’d started their careers at this little restaurant.
It was four AM before we left for home.
We caught the train, and we sang in there as well.
-4-
Dad stayed in touch when we got back home to the states. He’d come by sometimes to fix something in the house but wouldn’t stay long. He and Pat started watching sports together again.
Dad was sober. Completely sober.
His skin looked good, his eyes looked bright.
A week before Christmas, he told me he was seeing someone, and he wanted to know how I felt about that. I was a little taken aback. It felt, for a second, like something would end, like what we had now—whatever it was—would end if he started dating. But dad spotted my concern and assured me nothing would change, we’d still be a family. He just wanted me to know because, well, “You’re an adult now, Catherine.”
We had the happiest Christmas I can remember. It was at the Abreus’ house. While I was there, I couldn’t help recalling the nightmare of the year before. A lot had changed. A lot.
A tree sparkled with Christmas lights inside, Daniela shouted wildly when she unwrapped a new smartphone, and then spent the rest of the night playing with it, giving live commentary to everyone about what apps she was downloading. Mom got me a beautiful silver chain. I got Johnny a scrapbook of photos I’d been putting together of me and him since we were kids. It took me months to make it!
“And me?” I asked him. “What did you get me?”
He said nothing, played it cool.
At the end of the night, no gifts left to unwrap, I was still without Johnny’s gift. Or my dad’s, I realized. But I let it slide. Dad had been through a lot, and having him here, sober and happy, was cool enough for me.
“So, folks, I think I better head on home,” dad said, getting up.
He looked at me in a way that made me know something was up. Johnny got up as well, and he was grinning.
I played along.
“Come on, Cathy.” My dad held his hand out. “Help your old man out.”
Johnny stood back, hiding a smirk.
“What are you guys up to?” I said. My heart raced with excitement. Johnny took a sip of wine.
When I opened the door and saw the car standing outside in the snow with a huge red ribbon on it, I went absolutely...ballistic.
-5-
I screamed, actually screamed. I jumped up and down on the snow, howled, covered my mouth and just...gawped.
Some lights went on in the street, and a little girl came out with a teddy, running toward my car. “Look, look, daddy! Santa already came!” she yelled.
I think a lot of parents were gonna be pretty pissed off at how early they’d have to unwrap gifts this year!
The whole family was outside the door, looking at me. Daniela, almost twelve now, was outside the passenger window, looking in. “Wow. Wicked!” she said. “Can I also have one?” She looked at her dad with eyes so innocent they could melt lead.
I ran to my dad and almost knocked him over when I jumped on him to hug him. “Cat—Cathy! You’re not...six anymore!”
I got off him and slapped his chest. “Hey, are you saying I’m fat!”
I turned to Johnny. “You knew about this, didn’t you?”
Dad, from behind me: “He helped me build it.”
Build it?
Johnny, on cue, pulled out a set of keys with a heart keyring on it.
The keys dangled in the air, waiting for me to grab them.
“You guys...built...this?”
“It took us a while.” Dad looked at Pat.
Pat nodded. “Hey, your dad’s a cheapskate, what can I say? We got it for nothing, and then put it together ourselves, all three of us.”
I hugged Johnny on impulse, and also kissed him passionately on impulse. I mean—passionately!
“OK, OK, honey! I’m still your father, don’t forget that!” dad said.
I was instantly embarrassed.
I went to the car, a red, glistening, monster-looking first generation Camaro with two white stripes down the middle. It was a real boy’s car to be honest.
But it was also my car.
Wicked! as Johnny’s sister had said.
“We wanted to airbrush a cat on the side of the door,” Johnny said. “My idea. But your dad figured you wouldn’t like that.”
“My dad was right!”
I started it up, and went nuts inside when I heard the roar of the engine.
I completely lost my mind when I put on the radio.
It was a real boy’s car!
The entire chassis rocked with the beat.
“OK, babe,” my dad said, “they’re gonna call the cops if you don’t put that down.”
I didn’t care.
I put it louder.
-6-
In the end, it wasn’t the booze or the drugs or some unpaid addiction debt that would finally kill my father.
It was that car.
The semi-truck came out of nowhere.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
~ Change ~
-1-
I was back on track in my senior year.
Nicole was still a bitch, so nothing much had changed there. Mark Ryleigh had disappeared. I think the fact that he’d hit a girl so badly had played roughly on his parents’ popularity at the country club. They’d even moved out of the ’burbs. Nicole was quiet about it all. Her bitchiness, however, had lowered to a kind of silent resentment for me and everything I did. But she didn’t dare come out and take punches at me. Mark’s lack of popularity had rubbed off on her as well.
She was dating some other guy now—big, buff, but smart enough to not cause shit with Johnny.
It was only when stuff at home had started cooling off that I really noticed how it had been affecting my schoolwork before. I’d hated to use it as an excuse, preferring to say that I was simply not interested in math or physics. But when things chilled out at home, my grades improved.
I was also more effusive, hanging out with Viv and Lee and even other girls. I even spent time with them on weekends and, God forbid, actually hung out at the mall!
In my final year of school, when my parents had officially recognized me as an adult, I was finally becoming a normal teenager. Go figure.
And then it all changed.
It all changed out of nowhere.
It all came crashing down.
And dad died.
-2-
It was midwinter recess. Dad and I had decided to spend some alone-time out of state. My mom had initially been worried, what with his history and all, but I told her that if people can’t be forgiven, how can they ever hope to change?
I understood her concern, but dad was different now. He really was. I could feel it. It’s bullshit that people can’t change. They can, and when they do, you need to give them a second chance.
The plan was to do the New England Road Trip Route, Bost
on up to Freeport, to check out some of the quaint towns, look at the Eastern Seaboard, talk, be father and daughter, like the old days.
We made it as far as Connecticut.
-3-
Life can change. So quickly, so suddenly. One day you’re driving down the freeway, your face lit up by yellow sodium lamps, music blaring through the radio, and you’re singing, and the guy next to you is singing, and he turns to look at you, just for a second, a moment, that final smile lasting forever in your mind afterwards—
And then you’re upside down, and there are screams and moans, a shattered windshield, spinning wheels, the glug-glug-glug of falling gas, and the man you love is next you.
And he’s not moving.
-4-
I looked up (down?) at dad, my seatbelt holding me in mid-air, legs dangling.
And I knew.
I knew.
Rivers of red streamed down his face. His left eye was closed, the other one... Oh, God!
His mouth hung open¸ his arms limp by his side.
Screams filled the cab. My screams.
I was stuck, fighting with the seatbelt which wouldn’t come loose. Struggling. Pulling. Howling!
“DADDY, NO, DADDY! NO, DADDY. SAY SOMETHING, SAY SOMETHING!”
A hand grabbed mine. “Miss, calm down, calm down!”
“My father, you have to help my father! Help my father!”
“Ma’am, I’m gonna try get you out.”
“HELP HIM! HELP HIM!”
“Ma’am, we have to get you out, gas is pouring from the—”
“GET MY GODDAMN FATHER OUT THIS CAR!”
I kicked. I threw a tantrum. I hit the ceiling with my fists.
But I knew.
-5-
Dad had died instantly; a shard of torn metal deep in his right eye and into his brain.
I escaped with a limp, hard bruises, whiplash, a concussion.
The driver of the semi had been drunk.
He survived.
Not a scratch.
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