Page 8 of Good Graces

So, I grab my bag, lock the door behind me, and head inside.

The place smells like sanitized air and stale coffee. It’s quiet, save for the low hum of a daytime talk show playing from the common room. The receptionist recognizes me, offers a small nod, but doesn’t stop me as I pass.

She knows why I’m here.

I make my way down the hall, shoes scuffing against linoleum, and push open the door to Room 114.

He’s sitting in his recliner, half-asleep, the TV blaring some old western at a volume far too loud. His hair is thinner than I remember, the deep-set lines in his face more pronounced.

For a second, he doesn’t notice me.

Then his head turns, bleary gray eyes locking on mine. The same gray eyes I used to see every day when I was a kid. The same ones I looked up to before I realized they were always looking past me, searching for something else. A fix. A way out. Another excuse.

And for a moment—a brief, fleeting second—I see something almost like relief in his expression before it hardens into something cooler, more familiar.

“Well, look who decided to show,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his jaw, eyes dropping to the cheap plastic watch on his wrist. “What’s it been this time? Three weeks?”

Four, actually. But I don’t say that. I drop my bag by the door, cross my arms over my chest, and say, “You need anything?”

It’s the same question I always ask. The safest one. The one that keeps us both from saying anything we don’t want to.

He shrugs, scratching at his wrist. “More smokes.”

I exhale sharply. “You know you can’t have those in here.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t want ’em.”

I don’t respond to that. Instead, I reach into my bag, pull out a pack of electrolyte drinks, a few high-protein snacks, the small things I know he’ll take, even if he pretends not to care. I set them on the table beside him.

He glances at them, then back at me. “Still swimming?”

“Yeah.”

He nods, slow, thoughtful. “You gonna make Nationals this year?”

I roll my shoulders. “Yeah, maybe.”

I’m a good swimmer. A great one, even. But I peaked early—back when I was fifteen, winning Junior Nationals and collecting medals like candy. Now? I’d be lucky to hit an A-cut during the regular season. The Olympics were never in the cards for me, not really. Those dreams belonged to a younger version of me who didn’t know better yet.

“That’s good, kid.”

The words land awkwardly, uncertainly, like he’s not sure if he should be saying them at all. Like he’s still trying to figure out what being a father is supposed to mean when you haven’t really been one in years.

His road here was a slow descent. It started with drinking—heavy, often, and always justified. Then came the pills. And when those weren’t strong enough, he found something stronger. Meth, eventually. The kind of drug that doesn’t just ruin your life—it rewires it.

He had a few strokes not long after that. Drug-induced, the doctors said. One of them left him with hemiplegia. Partial paralysis on his left side.

After enough ER visits and too many botched attempts at rehab, Oakview became the only option left. A long-term care facility where they could monitor him full-time. Where he could be watched. Where he’ll probably spend the rest of his life.

“You leading the Sunday service today?” I ask dryly, nodding toward the Bible sitting untouched on his bedside table.

He lets out a raspy chuckle. “Wouldn’t that be a sight.”

I smirk, just a little. “I’d pay money to see it.”

His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a grin. “That the only way I’m getting you to church?”

“Maybe.”

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