Page 95 of Duke

SQUEEZING MY EYES SHUT, I try to stop seeing him. It’s impossible. His image is always turned on in my head.

I think I’ve only been able to survive without completely falling apart because so much of us was long-distance anyway.

He’s gone back to haunting my dreams. Holding me close. I wake up with my own arms wrapped around me.

I graduated last Saturday.

It was a beautiful early summer day. I felt his eyes on me when my name was called and I walked across the stage. As I stepped off, the roar of his bike was heard above the applause from the crowd. It was easy to hide my tears with a pair of sunglasses on.

I know I hurt him badly. But there wasn’t any other choice. Pops needs me; I won’t abandon him. He kept me safe, and although he wasn’t the most clean-cut parent, I always felt loved. He made every birthday and Christmas special for me when I was a child. He never laid one hand on me in anger or rage. You can’t choose your parents, but you can choose the kind of daughter you want to be.

Pops still struggles to speak, so he communicates by writing on a dry erase board I bought him. He’s been binging on Netflix and junk food. When I was cleaning up yesterday, I found his stash of Whiskey. I’m afraid to confront him about it. Truthfully, every time I come home I hesitate to open the door—terrified I’m gonna find him slumped over with a gunshot wound to the head. I’ve looked everywhere for his handgun, but haven’t found it yet.

This is no way for a man like him to live.

Pulling into the drive, my hands clench the wheel seeing the downstairs lights all on.

Maybe he did it.

Usually, when I come home this late after closing the bar, he’s asleep.

Slowly unlocking the door, my head peeks inside. He’s asleep on the couch with the TV on.

Pulling an old afghan over him, I shut everything off and go upstairs.

I can barely sleep in the room where Duke’s scent still lingers. He left a few shirts behind. I couldn’t bring myself to wash them. I sleep in one while holding the other to my nose.

What did I do?

But every time I go over it in my head. I come to the same conclusion. Letting him go was the only answer.

On heavy feet, I walk to the bathroom and turn the shower on wishing it was as easy to wipe off the heartache as it is to wash off beer and sweat.

Barely drying off, my hands lovingly touch his shirt before pulling it over my naked body. Alone in my room, I allow myself to cry for the dreams that I had for so long that’ll never be and for the man whose children I saw myself having.

Padding back to my room, my eyes fall to the postcard of LA I’ve had in a frame for years. It was a reminder when the days were hard, that I had a plan, an escape to endless sunny days. Picking up the picture I open my drawer placing it inside. I take the screwdriver out though and pop open the floorboard. Taking my money out I toss it on the dresser. It’s going in my checking account first thing in the morning. Pops has shit insurance. His bill for the ambulance alone was almost a grand. The three-week hospital stay and physical therapy was a fortune. When they handed me his bill when he got discharged, I quickly shoved it in my purse telling Pops it was coming in the mail. I hid in the bathroom, biting my fist to stifle my scream when I saw the numbers. But he’s alive. And that’s all that matters.

Falling back on the bed, my eyes watch the whirring fan above my head. I fall asleep to the dream Duke’s still here, wrapping his arms around me.

“Sh-sh-an-na.”

“Shh. Pops. Don’t try to talk. Use your board.”

He thumps the arm of the chair in frustration but takes the board from me.

I took the night off from work. Tuesdays are slow anyway, Tina can handle it, and if for some reason she gets slammed, she knows I’m a phone call away.

I wheeled him out to the porch, and we ate dinner watching the setting sun. I’ve been able to care for him pretty well, but I did hire a part-time nurse to bathe him. But Pops—had a fit. Got so red in the face at the thought of a man washing him in the sit-in-shower Duke built—I thought he’d have another stroke. So, I let him have his way. He’s slow as shit but manages himself. The deal we made is that he only showers when I’m home.

He’s writing a goddamn novel. I lean back against the pillar, licking the gelato I made off the spoon. I needed something to keep me busy during the day, so I started watching the damn cooking channel thinking Pops could eat better.

He finally hands me the board.

This is no life for you either baby girl.

Go. Go to LA. My best years are behind me. Don’ t waste away here with me.

I love you so goddamn much. Too much to want this for you.

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