Page 72 of Good Graces

I’m not the best at de-escalation, but I’m the only one he’ll listen to. The only one he still recognizes on his worst days. And the drive to Oakview feels longer than usual. Long enough for the old memories to start clawing their way back in.

The yelling. The slammed doors. The nights I sat on the curb outside our house, staring down the street, waiting for him to come back. The way he’d stumble in reeking of whiskey, slurring apologies that never meant anything.

I shake it off and grip the wheel tighter.

He’s sober now—or close enough. The booze isn’t what’s messing with him anymore. It’s the strokes. The damage they left behind. This half-formed version of him, foggy and fractured, like a puzzle with the edges blurred.

But that doesn’t make him harmless. Not even close.

By the time I pull into the parking lot, my chest is tight, every breath scraping like gravel in my throat. I park, kill the engine, and sit for a second, fingers flexing against the steering wheel.

I should’ve stayed in bed. Should’ve let him handle it himself. But I know better. If I don’t deal with it now, it’ll just spiral. He’ll call again and again until I either give in or he does something worse.

The front desk nurse barely glances up when I walk in. The low buzz of daytime TV filters from the common room, mixing with the faint scent of antiseptic and stale coffee.

“He’s in the lounge,” she says flatly. “Good luck.”

I find him in the corner, arms crossed like a kid caught misbehaving. His face is flushed, jaw clenched. The air around him feels off—charged and brittle. One wrong word could snap it.

A nurse stands nearby, stiff and uneasy, like she’s waiting for backup.

“What happened?” I ask.

“They’re trying to take my goddamn watch.”

I blink. “Your watch?”

He shoves his wrist toward me, showing off the cheap plastic band I bought him last year. The one he insisted he needed after missing too many appointments.

“They said I can’t wear it,” he growls. “Said it’s against some policy. Bullshit. It’s a damn watch, Warren.”

I glance at the nurse, who meets my eyes with something like quiet pleading.

“It’s the alarm,” she says gently. “He keeps setting it during quiet hours. We’ve asked him to turn it off, but he refuses.”

“I need it,” my dad cuts in, louder now, pulling attention from across the room. “I need the reminders. My meds, meals—how else am I supposed to keep track?”

His frustration sharpens, turning brittle. I know that tone. It’s the one he used to get before a door slammed, before things got broken.

“Dad,” I say carefully. “You can’t keep waking people up in the middle of the night.”

“I didn’t mean to!” His voice spikes. “It’s not my fault! They’re just looking for a reason to ride my ass—”

“That’s not true,” the nurse says, calm but firm. “We’ve tried to compromise—”

“You call this a compromise?” He surges halfway out of his chair, palm slamming down on the table. “I can’t even—”

“Stop,” I snap.

The word cuts the room in half. He freezes, breath ragged. For a second, I think he’s going to explode again. But then his face crumples. All the fire in his eyes burns out, and what’s left is hollow. Scared. Like he’s already forgotten what he was fighting for.

“I’m trying,” he mutters, like I’m the one pushing him. “I’m trying so goddamn hard.”

It’s frustrating because I know he thinks that’s true. That he’s really doing his best, even now, when his hands are shaking and his words keep slipping sideways. Even now, when everything feels like one step forward, two steps back.

“I’ll fix it,” I say finally, voice flat. “I’ll talk to the staff. Just calm down.”

I don’t wait for him to answer. Just turn on my heel and find the nearest nurse.

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