I close my eyes, trying to gather strength, to fight back the tears that are coming to me so easily lately.
“Laz,” I whisper into the phone, returning to our call.
“What happened?”
“It’s my dad. I have to go.”
“Where are you right now?”
“I just got home,” I say, barely able to form words. I’m suddenly so weak, the dread of what I have to do and deal with is debilitating. “I have to go.”
“No,” he says firmly. “You’re not doing this alone. Stay where you are. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
“Laz…”
“I’m serious. You’re not fucking going anywhere.”
He hangs up. I’ve never heard him be so harsh with me before so I don’t risk pissing him off again. I quickly go into the studio, take off my dress and slip on jeans and a grey T-shirt, take off last night’s makeup with a wipe, and then head back out just in time to see the Camaro pull up.
“You don’t have to do this,” I tell him as I open the door and sit in the passenger seat. “It’s not your problem.”
“It is my problem,” Laz says. His eyes are both soft and hard at the same time as they peer at me intently, his jaw firm. “Because it’s a problem to you, then it’s a problem to me. I’m doing this with you, alright?”
I’m not convinced. This is a part of my life I’d rather keep from everyone. It’s one thing to talk about it. It’s another to see it. I don’t know what my father will do or what he’ll say. I don’t know if I’ll be weak or strong. I don’t think I’m ready to show any of that to Laz.
“Marina,” he says, reaching for my face, his fingertips holding my chin until I’m looking at him. “Let me in. Let me be here for everything, all the good, all the bad. All your light and all your dark.”
I blink, keeping the tears at bay so far. Damn this man. He’s getting in. He’s getting under my skin like no one ever has before.
“Okay,” I whisper to him. “Let’s go.”
The corner of his mouth quirks in a soft smile. He nods. “Okay.”
We drive off and I program my father’s address into his phone so that the Waze app can tell him where to drive. I’m too all over the place right now to be of any help.
My father lives in a mobile home in Lancaster. It’s not close by any means and the longer we’re on the freeway, the more afraid I get.
“So run it by me,” Laz says. “I want to know what to expect and I think it will do you good to say it out loud.”
God, I would kill for a fucking Ativan right now.
“I’m not sure. My aunt dropped off the groceries, said he was basically belligerent and that she wanted to call the cops.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. I mean, he gets bad but not that bad. She sounded scared but my father has never been violent. He’s gotten angry and lashed out but not physically.”
“Well I’m even more glad I made you take me now.”
“Me too.” I pause, guilt rushing through me. “Just, please don’t judge him. He’s been through so much and…”
“You think I would judge?”
“He’s not himself. When he’s sober, he’s wonderful. I mean I love him. But when he’s drunk, he’s someone else. Something else. A monster. It sounds…I don’t know, crazy, but when he’s really bad I don’t see him as him anymore. It’s like looking right into the devil’s eyes.” I don’t mention that sometimes I’m so filled with rage that I want to hurt him when he’s in that state. I want to hit him and shake him and beg for my father to come back. I’m just so fucking angry, it’s almost like whatever is infecting him is infecting me.
“I get it,” he says. “Believe me, you’re not alone.”
I thought he would make a bee pun with that but this isn’t funny anymore.
This is terrifying.
By the time we eventually reach Lancaster, dull desert stretching out as far as the eye can see, I’m a wreck. I can’t even speak. I’ve grow silent as we pull into his neighborhood.
"Is this it?" Laz asks, leaning over to get a better look at the house we’ve stopped outside of.
There isn't much to look at. My father’s place is on a corner lot and there's a small patch of brown grass out front. Behind him is a cement wall lined with barbed wire which separates his place from the junkyard on the other side. The mobile home hasn’t been mobile for a long time and it's one-level, the paint faded, the curtains always drawn. At least the curtains are new though, gauzy blue ones that I picked up from IKEA a couple of months ago. Slowly, very slowly, I've tried to bring some life to his place. I'd love to have the time to paint the house at some point, maybe a cheery yellow color. Something to make it seem alive.
But none of that seems important right now. I don't feel like I'm staring at my father's house but the dwelling of someone else. A monster I'm afraid of.
I know I should stop describing him as such because he really is a good man at heart. But at times like this, when I know everything good in him is dead and buried under years of horrible, unending guilt, he becomes everything I'm afraid of. In some ways he's like a zombie. You know why zombie movies are so absolutely terrifying? Because people's loved ones get turned. They get bitten, they get infected, they cease to be human. They turn and become something to fear. And what can you do but kill them? What choice do you have? Otherwise, you'll get killed yourself or become exactly like them.
"Take all the time in the world," Laz says softly.
I glance at him, wanting him to be my courage. I feel stronger with him here yet it's almost made it scarier, knowing he's going to see this world through my eyes.
"I'm ready. Let's go."
Maybe it won't be that bad.
We get out of the car and I notice the nearest neighbor across the street is standing on her front porch, broom in hand, staring at us suspiciously. I give her a wave, my way of letting her know everything is going to be okay, and she doesn't move, doesn't say anything.
I have to wonder how loud it's been or what he's been doing if she's noticing.
We head up the steps. The screen door is half off on its hinges. The main door is open a crack. If I didn't know any better I would say that this looked like the beginning of a crime scene.
It makes me pause, I'll give it that. Laz reaches down and holds my hand, squeezing it so tight it almost hurts. I'm not sure if it's more for me or for him.
Laz opens the screen door and I push the front door in gently. "Dad?" I call out. "It's me, Marina. Your daughter."
Silence.
I open the door wider. Dust motes float in a lone sunbeam that's made its way through one of the curtains. Other than that, the house is dim. Brown carpet, brown fake wood walls. It stinks. Like, horrible. Vomit, piss, who knows what else.
I cover my nose with my hand and take in a few breaths before I say, "Dad?" again.
Laz is behind me, stepping in flush against my back. His hand is now at my waist, his grip firm, letting me know he's here. My rock.
Then I hear a moan from the living room.
I walk in, my shoes squishing on the wet carpet, and look around the corner.
The cat, Pickles, sees us and immediately runs off to the kitchen, disappearing through the cat door.
My father is sprawled out on the floor, face down. Vomit beside him in a puddle, in his hair. The backs of his pants are stained with shit.
I gasp, instinctively turning toward Laz, trying to run.
But Laz doesn't move an inch, he’s a wall keeping me in.
"He needs help," he manages to say.
I know he does. God, I know he does.
I nod, trying to steel myself, and turn back around.
"Dad?" I walk over to him and get down to a crouch, placing my hand on his shoulder.
"Who is there?" he mumbles, his muscles stiffening under my touch.
"Dad, it's Marina. It's me."
"Fuck do you want?"
So he's angry. I was hoping
that maybe he was so inebriated that he would be easy to deal with. That we could prop him up and clean him off and he'd be as limp and sedate as a ragdoll. But that doesn't seem to be the case.
"I came by to check on you," I say, trying to keep my voice light and steady.
"Who the fuck do you think you are?" he growls and lifts his head to look at me.
But it's not my father anymore. A blackness resides in his gaze, coming from a pit inside him, a pit that fuels nothing but hate and misery. It's evil.
"Dad," I say softly, trying to smile. "I'm just here to help. Let's get you cleaned up."
I grab his arm to help him up but he shoves me away instead so I fall backward onto my butt.
"Marina," Laz says, coming to me.
"Who are you?" my father asks, glaring at him.
He's met Laz a few times, he knows who he is.
Laz pauses and then helps me to my feet. "I'm Marina's friend. We're just here to help you with whatever you need."
"Help me?" my father roars. He rolls over on his side and tries to get to his feet, his darkened eyes never leaving us, his arm waving wildly for the coffee table for support. "Who the fuck do you think you are, coming here and helping me. Both of you fucking high and mighty. Just get out. Leave!"
I take in a deep breath but I'm shaking. "We'll go once we know you're okay."
He gets to his feet, swaying. My father is a big guy. Just as tall as Laz and twice as wide. I can feel Laz stiffen beside me. No one wants to deal with a big drunk guy who is unpredictable. Even though I don't fear for my safety, I guess I can understand why my aunt would, why anyone would. God, I miss my father so much, not this stranger that's standing in front of me.
"You're a fucking witch, aren't you?" my father slurs at me, his voice coming out low, almost demonic. "You and your fucking too good for this world. You think you’re so fucking good huh, helping your poor old dad. You bitch."
"Hey," Laz says coming to my defense but I immediately elbow him to shut up. He can't provoke this beast, not now.
"Dad, I heard Margaret was here," I tell him, ignoring the insult, not letting it hurt. "She was going to call the cops."
"Call the cops then, I don't care. That's what you always wanted isn't it. Want me locked up for everything I've done. Huh, you fucking bitch."
"Mr. Owens," Laz's voice booms. "That's not how you talk to your daughter."
"She's not my daughter, she's nothing, she's no one," he says, his eyes still on me, looking harder and deeper than ever before. Then he blinks and looks at Laz in surprise, like he's just realized it was him talking. "Who the fuck? You get the fuck out."
He stumbles forward to take a swing at Laz but my father is slow and Laz is fast. Laz ducks backward and I immediately jump in front of my dad, giving him a hard shove in the chest.
"Fuck you!" I scream at my father. I shove him again. "Fuck you, you fucking MONSTER!"
I scream so loudly, it's painful. It's ripped out of me, pulled from somewhere deep and all the anger and all the rage is now flowing out of me, unchecked and wild and dangerous. I start pounding my fist into my father, into his chest, his arms, his shoulder. I want to hit his face so badly, I want to strike and kick and hurt him. I want to hurt him.
Hurt him.
Hurt him.
"Fuck you, I hate you!" I scream, tears now coming like a flood. "I hate you! I HATE YOU SO MUCH!"
The last words I scream so loud that I nearly pass out, I can feel my words shaking my skull, vibrating throughout the room. Everyone seems to freeze. My ears ring.
I stare at my father as I’m gasping for breath and he's taken a step backward, staring at me with an open mouth. I pray, I pray, I pray I see my father inside somewhere. Just a glimpse, just a flicker, just a hint of the man he was, the father I know he still is.
But there's nothing. His eyes are glazed and they don't belong to him. He stares at me in complete confusion.
I.
Break.
Down.
"Hey," Laz says gently, grabbing my arm and pulling me away. "Come on, let's go."
"No," I say to him as he leads me out the door and down the path to the car. I can hardly breathe, I'm sobbing so hard it feels like my lungs are being wrung out. "No. No, I need to help him." I try to move back toward the house but his hold on me is strong.
"I will help him," he says. "You sit in the car and you stay here."
"No, Laz, he'll fight you, you can't, you can't."
He opens the car door and gently pushes me down so I'm in the seat. "He will not fight me. I will not fight him. This isn't like that."
"You don't have experience with someone like that, he's not himself, he—”
"Marina." He gives me a long, steady look. He crouches down beside me and holds my hand. "I grew up with my father. They are no different. The only difference is that you still have one. I don’t. So let me go take care of him. It's the least I can do."
I swallow, snot, tears, everything falling down my face. I nod, squeezing his hand as hard as I can.
He shuts the door and walks back to the house. I grip the hem of my shirt with both hands, twisting it around and around, trying to dispel the sadness, the hate, the futility of it all.
I didn't know that Laz's father was the same. I knew he was a drunk but Laz never talks about it so I assumed it was never that bad. But god, even though my father is like this now, he wasn't when I was a child. I'm not sure how I would have fared growing up if he had been. My happy childhood is the only thing that keeps me from being a complete write-off sometimes.
I watch the house intently, trying to breathe, waiting to see any signs of distress. I keep thinking that I'll see a chair crash through the glass window or perhaps Laz being thrown out the front door. I know he meant what he said when he said he wouldn't fight back, which means that if my father gets nasty with him, Laz will take it. And that could lead to some serious damage.
So I sit there and I wait.
And I wait.
And I wait.
And I worry.
The sun fades and twilight comes and the house is still dark.
I must have fallen asleep for a while because suddenly I'm shaking awake and a roaring sound fills my ears.
I open my eyes to see orange streetlights coming in through the windows, the car moving.
Laz is driving, his eyes on the road.
"What happened?" I say, my voice groggy. I try to sit up. My head is pounding from all the crying and screaming earlier.
"You fell asleep," he says simply.
I squint at him, trying to see if he's been hurt, if he has a black eye, but he looks fine. "What happened with my father? Is everything okay?"
He nods. "Eventually. It was a rough start."
He doesn't go on.
I prod him. "Please. Tell me what happened."
I tense up, waiting to hear the worst.
"Nothing much," he says. "He had a few more insults up his sleeve. He called me a bitch too, if that makes you feel any better. He shoved me around a few times."
"Oh my god. I'm so sorry."
I am so ashamed.
"Nah, it was fine. I just didn't want him to hurt himself, he nearly fell on the coffee table at one point. But he tired himself out. Sat back down on the couch. I asked if he wanted a beer and he looked at me like I was the angel of mercy."
"Laz..."
"I went into the kitchen, found an empty can. Filled it with water. Brought it back to him."
"He knew it was water."
"I'm not sure. He drank it. I think he was just happy that I was on his side, you know? That's how my mother always got me to deal with my father. His drink of choice was gin, so she'd always have some juniper essence on hand and just add that to a highball glass along with ice and water. I'd bring it out to him and my father would immediately calm down. He never caught on that there wasn’t any gin. Not at that point. He saw me as someone he could trust, that I was on his side. I figured the same would work
with your father and it did."
"Like good cop, bad cop?"
"More or less. So I just sat with him and talked to him like he was completely sober. He didn't say much, just slurred and mumbled about who knows what but at least I made him feel like he was normal and I wasn't against him. Eventually he fell asleep so I cleaned him up as much as I could."
"You did what?" Now I'm horrified.
"I cleaned him up." He glances at me. "What's wrong?"
"I...I just...Laz. You didn't have to do that, he...you saw the state he was in."
"Oh yes, I saw it all. But like I said, I've had to do that before too."
"When you were just a child?"
He nods. "Yup. Another thing my mother had me do."
Jesus Christ.
"Laz..." I want to cry right now. I didn't think I had any tears left in me but I do. "You know you didn't have to do that."
"I know I don't have to do anything. But I wanted to, Marina. I wanted to help him, I wanted to help you. I did it for you."
My heart inflates, inflates, inflates.
I can't believe it.
That he would do that for me.
He can’t possibly know what this means. He can’t know what…
“Please don’t cry,” he says softly.
And I am crying. Tears spill down my cheeks.
“I’m just so…” I try to say, my chest filling, my heart exploding. I’ve never felt such love for him before.
Love.
Love.
I love you.
The feeling should startle me, shock me, but I’ve never felt more awake, more alive, more…anything, than right now.
The fact that he would do that for me, take care of my father when I couldn’t, it’s like he’s taken my pain for me. He held it, carried it so I wouldn’t have to, just for a moment. But it was a moment I’ll never forget.
I am so grateful.
So grateful.
And so in love with him.
I swallow the feeling down, knowing I have to keep it from him. Because this isn’t how a friend loves a friend. This is how a lover loves a lover. And we aren’t even that. Knowing me, we might never be that.
Still, when we pull up to my house, I don’t want to lose him. I don’t want him to go home.
“Stay with me?” I ask him quietly. “I don’t want to sleep alone tonight.”
Take Me To The Beach Page 39