Underwater(32)

“He had his appetite.” She says this as if it should’ve been proof that he was getting better.

My mom explains that what’s wrong with my dad isn’t like having the flu. Eating might not mean anything. It’s something in his brain and his body. It’s something different.

My grandma doesn’t pay attention. Instead, she tells my mom that after dinner, my dad took a long, hot shower. She says she washed his clothes. She stuck her hands in the pockets of his pants, but didn’t find anything aside from two dollars, some change, and a crumpled-up fortune from a fortune cookie. Later, when it was dark and everyone was tired, my uncle Matt came over with three pairs of jeans and five new T-shirts for my dad.

“He brought every color.” My grandma says it like it matters. As if my dad wants to be the best-dressed homeless vet in San Diego.

My grandma says my dad folded the clothes neatly and piled them into a duffel bag. He put his new toothbrush and toothpaste in a side pocket. There was also soap. And deodorant. And two packages of brand-new underwear still wrapped in the plastic bag they came in. My grandma lists everything like she’s reading off a checklist for sixth grade camp.

“It was like he was embarrassed to take everything. Like he wanted to shove it all in the duffel and not look at it.”

I can picture her hovering in the doorway, watching him.

“Why are you packing?” she probably asked.

I can see her walking over and touching my dad on the shoulder. Her touch would’ve made him flinch. I’ve seen the way he flinches when people try to touch him, even if he loved them once. I knew to never sneak up on him to give him a hug. He became skittish even after only one tour in Afghanistan. I knew I had to make sure he saw me before I climbed into his lap and hung around his neck. And then he’d settle me into the crook of his arm and we’d watch TV together. He got worse with more tours. When I was older and he was sad all the time, I’d feel bad when I startled him as I came around the corner and into a room. I’d tell him I was sorry and try to hug him. He’d flinch at the contact and shrug his way out of my hug.

“I begged him to stay,” my grandma says through the phone. “Stay as long as you need. We can get help. We can fix this.” We’ve all said those things before. But as much as we say the words, my dad never hears them.

The last time my dad was home about a year and a half ago, my mom said the opposite. She told him he couldn’t stay anymore. “You need to go,” she said.

Ben and I had his railroad tracks set up in the living room. I was trying to distract him while our mom and dad fought by the front door. They were only hissing at each other at first. But then my mom’s voice got louder. Like she needed to be heard. It was early in the morning and my dad hadn’t come home the night before. He’d been arrested and sat in a cell all night to get sober. It wasn’t the first time. He didn’t call my mom to let her know. He left her at home to worry.

“No more,” my mom said that day.

My dad’s key was still in the lock. She wouldn’t let him inside the apartment. And after that day, he never came home again.

“Tell her what really happened,” my uncle Matt yells through the speaker now. “Tell her how he drank every last drop of alcohol in this house and started yelling and screaming. Tell them how I wanted to call the police, but you wouldn’t let me.”

“Stop!” my grandma cries. “Just, please, stop.”

But my uncle doesn’t stop. “We told him he could stay if he went to rehab. He didn’t like that ultimatum. He never does.” I can picture him pacing across the bright yellow linoleum floor of my grandma’s kitchen, running his hand through his thinning hair.

My grandma starts to cry.

Deep down inside, I’m sure she knew my dad would never agree to get help. But that didn’t stop her from hoping this time would be different.

“I tried to stay up all night,” she says. “But I got too tired. I fell asleep in front of the TV. He slipped out the front door. I woke up still holding the remote control.” Her voice cracks. “He’s gone.”

“And so is most of her jewelry, by the way!” my uncle yells in the background.

“It’s not your fault. He’s sick. You have to stop blaming yourself,” my mom says.

“Tell her, Carol! Tell her what a colossal waste of time this is.” My uncle is so loud that my mom has to switch the speaker off.

She balances the phone between her ear and her shoulder. She mumbles something, then stops to listen. She knots her hair on top of her head. She runs a blush brush along her cheekbones. She speaks calmly to my grandma. She sounds like Brenda. She tells her she did her best.

“I’ll call you tonight,” my mom finally says. “I need to take Ben to school. I have to go to work.”

My grandma must ask her something about me, because I hear my mom say, “She’s still at home.” She pauses to listen to whatever my grandma says back, but then my mom interrupts her. “We’re working on it,” she says. I can detect the clip in her voice. It’s right below the surface. It’s a tone full of frustration. I don’t know if it’s directed at my grandma or at me.





chapter twenty-three

I’m glad today is Tuesday. Brenda is coming. I haven’t talked to her since my emergency call a couple days ago. I wait for her halfway down the stairs outside the front door of my apartment. She stops and stands still at the edge of the pool.