In an Instant(52)

Vance sneers at my dad, the briefest glimpse of his former self.

“Exactly,” my dad says. “So welcome to your new home.”

I think Vance is going to protest some more, but instead he lunges for the kitchen, barely getting there in time to puke his guts into the sink.

The “say no to drugs” video was surprisingly accurate in its depiction of withdrawal. Vance’s skin fluctuates between green and white, his body trembling as he heaves up his lunch—a poster child for staying off drugs.

“Clean that up and make sure you drink some water,” my dad says. “Vomiting causes dehydration, and at this altitude, that can cause a nasty headache.”

“Fuck you. Give me my keys. I’m leaving.”

My dad laughs.

“This is kidnapping,” Vance says, clearly not willing to tussle with my dad again.

“You drove.”

“Because you told me Chloe was going to be here. You lied.”

“Drink some water.”

“Fuck you.”

“Suit yourself.” My dad turns and hobbles toward the bedroom.

“You can’t keep me here.”

“There’s the door.” There’s cruelty in my dad’s tone, a dare for Vance to defy him as he did the night of the accident. Tonight is not as cold as it was a month ago, but it is still brittle, and Vance wears only a T-shirt and jeans.

The door to the bedroom closes behind my dad.

“Fuck you,” Vance roars, and then he bends over the sink to throw up again, his body quaking.

His eyes slide to the door, another crossroads in front of him, but this time he is not as naive, entirely aware how much a single step can cost.





62

I decide to check on my mom to see what she thinks about my dad not being home and discover she’s not thinking about it at all. My mom sits with Bob at the end of a bar known as the Dirty Bird. Its real name is the Sandpiper, but it’s so seedy and infamous for its grunge factor that for twenty years it’s been referred to almost exclusively by its nickname.

“. . . and I swear, honest to God,” Bob says, “the woman’s out cold, but the moment I start to drill, her hand shoots out and latches on. And what can I do? I’ve got a drill in her mouth, and she’s got me by the crown jewels.”

My mom laughs and takes another sip of her drink.

She’s drunk and he’s drunk. I can tell by the way they slosh around on their stools as they talk and laugh.

Bob drinks. A lot. I see it now that I’m dead. When he works, he’s sober; the rest of the time, he’s drunk. On his way home from the office, he stops off for a scotch. The moment he walks into his house, he downs two beers. And with dinner, he drinks wine with Karen. Then before he goes to sleep, he has half a tumbler of something gold.

It must be worse these days because Karen mentions it often. “Sweetheart, don’t you think you’ve had enough?” she said last night when he poured a third glass of wine. In response, he downed it in two gulps, then poured another.

It seems every word from Karen’s mouth is an irritant, like the very pitch itches his brain. Meanwhile my mom seems to have the opposite effect, her company a soothing elixir that makes him witty and charming, affectionate and happy.

“Do you need to go?” he asks.

My mom shakes her head. “Jack left. He’s gone to stay at the cabin.”

Bob doesn’t say he’s sorry; that would be too disingenuous. Instead he swallows the remainder of his drink and, wobbling slightly as he stands, says, “Let’s get out of here.”

I beg my mom to say no, but that would be asking too much. Without a flicker of hesitation, she stands, and Bob takes her hand to pull her from the bar toward the hotel across the street.





63

I decide to hang out with Karen, curious to see how she is dealing with Bob not being home this late after work.

Karen does not sit idle. Karen is never idle. Since her return from the mountains, she never stops. She avoids thought through maniacal busyness and avoidance, relying on regimens of activity and obligations that allow no time for reflection. If there is a report of snow on the news, she changes the channel. If there is a car accident on the freeway, she exits and takes side streets home. Her coping mechanism seems to be based on the theory that the past can only hurt you if you let it, only if you stop long enough to consider it. Best not to dwell on things, even better if you don’t think about them at all, pretend nothing happened, and live in denial that anything has changed.

This is fine when it’s daytime and Karen can run from her PTA meeting to the women’s shelter to the grocery store and to the gym. But at one in the morning, when she’s awake and the rest of the world is asleep and her husband is not home, none of these distractions are available, and so instead, obsessively, she cleans, pretending not to recognize that Bob isn’t there, acting as if he’s only a little late and as if it’s not in fact very early on another day altogether.

Perhaps she convinces herself that he is having a drink with the other dentist in his practice or that he fell asleep at the office. I don’t know. I only know her mind refuses to recognize the truth. She polishes and dusts and straightens. She freshens her makeup and vacuums. She sorts through the bills on her desk. She purges her emails. She polishes and dusts and straightens again.