Page 29 of The Way I Am Now
“Dominic said you ran into the girl—this ex-girlfriend—at some concert, and next thing it’s this again, you’re falling-down drunk. So, what happened?”
As I look up at him, meeting his eyes, I have the strongest urge to laugh. Because of course he wants to talk about hernow. “Dad, you know her name. If you call her ‘the girl’ one more time, I swear to God—” But I stop myself; there’s no point in arguing. “And besides, I already said this has nothing to do with her. It was a party. There was drinking. End of story.”
“Eden,” he corrects himself. “Okay? I remember her name is Eden. What’s the deal exactly with this g—with Eden?” he asks. Then he steps closer, lowering his voice. “What is it? Just say it, Josh. You can tell me.”
“Tell you what? I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“Is she pregnant?”
“What?” I stand up again. “What are we even talking about?”
“Did you get her pregnant?” he repeats quieter, casting a quick glance over his shoulder. He’s looking at me so earnestly, so concerned and ready to step in and help that I do laugh now. “Hey, I’m serious here. Is that what’s been tormenting you? Because we can figure it out.”
“No, I didn’t get her pregnant, Dad. But that was a good guess. Do you wanna try again?”
“I am trying, I promise.”
“You really don’t remember anything I told you, do you?”
He closes his eyes, as if I’m the one hurting him rather than the other way around. My dad has blacked out huge portions of my life, and most of them I couldn’t care less about, but this was one of the big ones I needed him to remember. And it’s clear it’s just not there. He has no recollection of me pouring my heart out to him, telling him everything, begging for advice, reassurance. Of course, it wasn’t until he came over to my side of the kitchen table and put his arm around me that I smelled the alcohol on him. It wasn’t until I stopped crying that I recognized that vacant look in his eye.
“I wanted to talk to you about this back in December. I came to you then. Do you remember at all?” I ask him. “I’d understand if you don’t, since it turned out you were in the middle of a bender at the time.”
“I remember you were very upset. I do remember that. I’ve tried to talk to you about this since, and you’ve pushed me away every time. You didn’t even come home over the holidays, Josh—”
“Yeah, I really didn’t want to see you,” I tell him, not caring if I hurt his feelings.
“And you know what? I understand that,” he says, “but let’s deal with this thing now.”
“Does Mom even know, or does she think you’ve been sober this whole time?”
“She knows about my relapse, yes. But I’m back on track now and . . .” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a token I’ve seen so many times before. “Got my ninety-day chip just last week.”
“You know what, Dad? I don’t care. Get high. Drink yourself to death. I honestly don’t care. I can’t care anymore.” I start toward the door. “I need to find my phone. Do you mind?”
“Joshie, come on.” He holds his hands up like he’s not going to let me pass. “I’m listening now. You needed me and I wasn’t there for you. I’m sorry if my not being there is why things have been going off the rails for you lately, but you can’t mess up everything you have going for you because you’re mad at me.”
“Not everything is about you! Believe it or not, I have my own problems that have absolutely nothing to do with you.”
“You’re clearly numbing yourself. You’ve been reckless. You’re throwing basketball away—throwing your future away.”
“Basketball?” I scoff. “Basketball is not my future.”
“And if you’d been kicked off the team for showing up drunk to that game at the beginning of the year, what would’ve happened then, huh? Your scholarship would’ve been pulled. Do you know how many hours I spent on the phone with your coaches, with the dean, with your adviser, to make sure you only got benched for the rest of the semester?”
“I wasn’t drunk,” I lie. I’d been in that black hole, as D called it, all of winter break. I barely left the apartment. I was sick over Eden, over my dad, over me—not being able to do anything about any of it. And I was sick of feeling sick. So, I had some drinks before the game. It worked. I felt better. I didn’t think I wasdrunk, though. Didn’t think anyone would notice. But Coach did. He noticed right away and had one of the assistants drive me home before anyone else noticed too.
Dad stands there staring at me with his jaw clenched, holding back his words.
“I was sick,” I tell him. He thinks that’s a lie too but I can’t explain why it’s not, so I continue, “And I never asked you to do that—I would’ve dealt with the consequences myself.”
“You werehungover,” he says, thinking he’s correcting me. “Like you are right now.”
“You of all people?” I shout at him. “How can you stand there and lecture me?”
“Because I know better than anyone!” he yells back. “Don’t do this to yourself. God, you’re so much like me,” he mutters to himself. “Please don’t be like me.”
“I am nothing like you; stop saying that!” All the yelling is making my head throb, my heart pound, my stomach queasy. “Dad, move—I’m gonna throw up,” I manage to say, dodging past him.
