Page 134 of When Ben Loved Tim
“You really don’t remember?”
“Bits and pieces,” he admits.
“You were dragging Ronnie down the stairs. Allison was trying to stop you. That’s when you backhanded her.”
A moan escapes his lips, making him sound like a wounded animal. His pain is so tangible that I swallow against tears of my own. I don’t want to feel sorry for him. He hit my best friend!
“What do you have against Ronnie anyway?” I demand.
“Nothin’,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m trying to protect her.”
“From what?”
“Getting knocked up and ruining her life before she has a chance to get the hell out of here.” He massages his temples. “This is no home. I’ve tried to keep it together, but Alli needs to find her own way.”
“She needs her father,” I reply. “Just stop drinking so much.”
He laughs without humor. “What do you know? Huh? They don’t tell you what it’s like, when you lose the person you love most in the world. You diewiththem. If you ever experience that—and god forbid you do—then you can come back here and give me a damn lecture!”
“Is it really that bad?” I ask without judgment.
Allison’s father looks up at me. Then he swallows and nods. “Yeah. It’s a living hell.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, sitting down on the bed, making sure to leave space between us. “That sounds horrible. Does the drinking really help though? I mean, you’re obviously still in pain. Maybe it gives you a break or something but… You’re hurting her.”
“How bad is it?” he asks, his face strained in anticipation of my answer.
“It’ll heal,” I say. “I’m more worried about the emotional wounds.”
“She must hate me.”
“Nope. I wanted to go straight to the cops. Allison wouldn’t let me. Because she loves you. That’s exactly what she said.”
He covers his face, his shoulders shaking as he weeps. I let him get it out of his system, no longer thinking about my own indignation. I’d rather find a solution that actually helps.
“We both love her,” I tell him. “Right?”
“More than anything,” he assures me.
“Then prove it. I’m sorry that you lost your wife, but she lost her mom. If Allison can get through it without drinking, so can you.”
“That’s what her mother would want,” he says.
His hand is trembling when he brings it to his mouth, so he can press his lips to the wedding ring. Which must remind him of the damage it had done, because he lets out a sob. I reach over to pat him on the back, half-expecting him to rip my arm off. Instead he topples over, his head landing in my lap as he continues to weep. I start crying too. I can’t help it. My tears are mostly for her, but I’m not cold-hearted. Her father isn’t a monster. He didn’t want to hurt his daughter. But he did, and now he has to live with it.
Eventually he sits up again. We awkwardly wipe at our noses while avoiding eye contact. Then he stands.
“Come on downstairs. I want you to see this, so you can tell her.”
I follow him to the kitchen, where he opens a cabinet and removes a cluster of liquor bottles. Her father unscrews the top of each before pouring the contents down the drain. He’ll need to do more than that, from what I gather, like attending a support group. But for now, it’s a hopeful first step. With the final bottle drained, he turns to face me.
“Take care of her until she’s ready to come home,” he says. “Tell her that I love her, and that I’m sorry. I’ll say that and more when she gets back. It’s high time that we talk about it all.”
“Okay,” I say, swallowing against another wave of emotion. “I better go. She’s expecting me.”
He thrusts out his hand, which I readily accept.
“I’m glad she has a friend like you,” he says. “You’re all right.”
