In an Instant(49)

My dad’s face jerks up at the distressing thought that Chloe still loves Vance, especially after what he saw on Saturday.

Chloe doesn’t see it. Her chin has dropped to her chest, and tears run down her cheeks. “And now, he’s left me.” Her body convulses with her sobs.

“Exactly,” my dad says, acid in his voice. “He left you.”

Chloe lifts her face and blinks through the wetness. “Not out there. Out there he left me because he had to.”

“But you just said he left you.”

“After,” she cries. “He left me after. He won’t answer my calls. He hasn’t come to see me . . .”

“Baby,” my dad says. “He’s going through his own—”

“His own what?” she screams. “I went with him. I followed him. I left you and Mom and Oz, and now he just tosses me aside like I don’t exist, like I’m nothing, like I mean nothing.”

“Chloe—”

“No,” she says, standing and whirling toward the stairs. Before she starts up them, she turns back. “This,” she says, holding up her half-pinky hand, “is nothing. I’d give up all ten fingers and all ten toes for someone I love. The problem is loving someone that much and discovering they don’t love you back.”

She stumbles forward, leaving my dad staring after her, lost, not for the first time, when it comes to dealing with his daughters.





59

Men can’t handle stewing in their emotions. At least men like my dad can’t. Boredom and emotion lead to irritation and frustration, which, when combined with testosterone, is highly combustible and leads to irrational action, world wars, and mass destruction.

“Get up,” my dad says, throwing a sweatshirt that was on the floor at Vance, who lies on the bed in almost the exact position he was in the last time my dad burst into his room two days ago. The only difference is that Vance’s cheek is now bruised where my dad slugged him with his crutch, and dried blood stains the side of his lip.

“Now,” my dad says.

Vance flops to his side and pulls his pillow over his head.

“The hard way or the easy way, you’re coming with me,” my dad says. Fueled by my mom’s cooking and some newfound purpose, my dad’s strength has been miraculously restored.

“Kill me or leave me alone,” Vance mumbles.

“Killing you would be my choice, but I can’t do that, so get the hell up.”

When Vance still doesn’t move, my dad hobbles to the bathroom down the hall, empties the waste bucket onto the floor, fills it with cold water, awkwardly hops back, rips the pillow from Vance’s head, and dumps the water over him.

“Shit, man,” Vance says, rolling off the opposite side of the bed to his butt. “What the fuck’s your problem? I told you, leave me the fuck alone.”

“Can’t do that. Now let’s go. You’re driving.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you too.”

Vance lunges at my dad, a clumsy charge of a kid who is stoned and was never taught to fight. My dad used to be a boxer, so even with him on crutches, Vance doesn’t stand a chance. Vance runs straight into my dad’s outstretched crutch, impaling himself on the rubber base, and he collapses to the ground, gasping for air.

“Shit, man. Get the fuck away from me.”

“You need to talk to Chloe,” my dad says.

What? I’m as shocked as Vance, whose eyes literally bulge from his emaciated face.

“I can’t,” he stutters, all his badass bluster gone, and suddenly he looks like a scared little boy, his chin trembling as he wipes snot from his nose with his deformed hand.

“Well, you have to,” my dad says, pretending he isn’t affected. “So let’s go.”

“She doesn’t want to see me,” Vance moans. “And I can’t see her. I can’t.”

My dad’s fury returns full force, and he slams Vance across the shoulder with his crutch. “Don’t you dare tell me what you can or can’t do. Chloe needs to see you, so get the fuck up. NOW.” He hits him again across the calves.

With a whimper, Vance rolls out of range and stumbles to his feet.

Standing, he’s even more pathetic than he was on his bed—bruised and battered, stoned and broken, dripping wet and stained from head to toe.

“Shit, you smell,” my dad says. “Shower first. I don’t want you to kill Chloe with your stench.”

As Vance shuffles toward the door, his eyes slide to the wooden box that holds his drugs. My dad sees it, too, and he shifts to put himself between Vance and his stash.

With a sigh of resignation and maybe a glimmer of hope, Vance continues past him and into the bathroom to shower. My dad collapses to sit on the bed, wincing in pain as he lifts his leg, a moment to let down his guard and catch his breath.

I stare in disbelief. Is he nuts? Chloe can’t see Vance like this. Forget waiting until Wednesday for Lisa to bring the final fatal dose. This will destroy her. She won’t make it through the night. The only hope there is for her not following through with her plan is the deluded hope she still holds for reconciliation with Vance, a naive optimism that things can return to what they were. It’s what she clings to, but if she sees Vance like this, all hope will be lost.