I was standing on the porch before I realized I didn’t have my keys. Wesley had pulled me from the house so
quickly the night before that I hadn’t been able to grab my purse. So I found myself knocking on my own front door,
hoping Dad was awake to let me in.
Fearing, dreading, remembering.
I took a step back as the knob turned and the door swung open. There stood Dad, his eyes red and deeply circled
behind his glasses. He looked really pale, like he’d been sick, and I could see his hand shaking on the doorknob.
“Bianca.”
He didn’t smell like whiskey.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “Hi, Dad. I, um, left my keys inside last night, so”
He moved slowly forward, like he was afraid I might run away. Then he wrapped his arms around me, pulled me
into his chest, and buried his face in my hair. We stood there together for a long moment, and when he finally
spoke, I could tell the words came through sobs. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“I know,” I murmured into his shirt.
And I was crying, too.
Dad and I talked more that day than we had in seventeen years. Not that we weren’t close before. It’s just that
neither of us is very expressive. We didn’t share our thoughts or feelings or do any of that stuff they tell you is
important on those public service announcements you see on Nickelodeon. When we ate dinner together, we were
always in front of the TV, and there was no way either of us would interrupt the program with lame small talk. That’s
just how we were.
But that day we talked.
We talked about his work.
We talked about my grades.
We talked about Mom.
“She’s really not coming back, is she?” Dad took off his glasses and rubbed his face with both hands. We were
sitting on the couch. For once, the television was off. Ours were the only voices that filled the room. It was a good
kind of semi-silence, yet scary at the same time.
“No, Daddy,” I said, bravely reaching out to squeeze his hand. “She’s not. This just isn’t the right place for her
anymore.”
He nodded. “I know. I’ve known for a long time that she wasn’t happy maybe even before she knew. I just
hoped—”
“That she’d change her mind?” I offered. “I think she wanted to. That’s why she kept leaving and coming back, you
know? She didn’t want to face the truth. She didn’t want to admit that she wanted a”—I paused at the next
word—“divorce.”
Divorce was just so final. More than a fight. More than a separation or a long speaking tour. It meant their marriage
—their life together—was really and truly finished.
“Well,” he sighed, squeezing my hand back. “I guess we were both running away in different ways.”
“What do you mean?”
Dad shook his head. “Your mother took a Mustang. I took a whiskey bottle.” He reached up and readjusted his
glasses, an unconscious habit—he always did it when he was making a point. “I was so devastated by what your
mother did to me that I forgot how horrible drinking is. I forgot to look on the bright side.”
“Dad,” I said, “I don’t think there is a bright side to divorce. It’s a pretty sucky thing all around.”
He nodded. “Maybe that’s true, but there are a lot of bright sides to my life. I have a job I like, a nice house in a
good neighborhood, and a wonderful daughter.”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh God,” I muttered. “Don’t go all Lifetime movie on me. Seriously.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, smiling. “But I mean it. A lot of people would kill for my life, but I didn’t even consider that. I took
it—and you—for granted. I’m so, so sorry for that, Bumblebee.”
I wanted to look away when I saw the tears glistening at the corners of his eyes, but I forced myself to focus only on
him. I’d been turning away from the truth for too long.
He apologized multiple times for everything that had happened over the past few weeks. He promised me he’d
start going to weekly Alcoholics Anonymous meetings again, to go back on the wagon, to call his sponsor again.
And then we poured every single bottle of whiskey and beer down the drain together, both of us eager for a clean
slate.
“Is your head all right?” he asked me about a million times that day.
“It’s fine,” I kept telling him.
He always shook his head and murmured more apologies for slapping me. For saying what he had. Then he’d hug
me.
Seriously, a million times that day.
Around midnight, I joined him in his nightly ritual of turning out the lights. “Bumblebee,” he said as the kitchen went
dark. “I want you to thank your friend next time you see him.”
“My friend?”
“Yeah. The boy who was with you last night. What’s his name?”
“Wesley,” I muttered.
“Right,” Dad said. “Well, I deserved it. He was brave to do what he did. I don’t know what’s going on between you
two, but I’m glad you have a friend who’s willing to stand up for you. So please tell him I said thanks.”
“Sure.” I turned and walked up the stairs to my bedroom, praying that wouldn’t be anytime soon.
“But Bianca?” He winced and rubbed his jaw. “Next time tell him he should feel free to write a strongly worded letter
first. Hell of an arm on that kid.”
I smiled in spite of myself. “There won’t be a next time,” I told him, taking the last few steps and heading to my
bedroom.
Both my parents were facing reality, giving up their distractions. Now it was my turn, and that meant quitting
Wesley. Unfortunately, there were no weekly meetings, no sponsors, or twelve-step programs for what I was
addicted to.
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