Page 65 of Bad at Love
“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 grown 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 holds open 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.
