Twelve Steps to Normal(2)
I promised I would, and that was that.
When she sent me off to the airport this afternoon, she gave me a long hug. I breathed in her scent of jasmine that had become one of my only comforts over the last several months. There were tears in her eyes when she pulled away.
In the row across from me, a dad watches his kid play some game on his Nintendo DS. The glow of the screen lights up their faces. He gives an encouraging “Good job, buddy!” when his son levels up. The entire exchange makes my gut twist in nervousness. I wish coming home to my dad would be that easy.
I pull tighter at my knots.
Six hours and one layover after taking off, I finally land in Austin. I’m jittery, like a rattling car engine on the verge of breaking down. This is home. I should be breathing sighs of relief. So why does being here feel so… foreign?
I go through the motions of shuffling off the plane, then make my way to the baggage claim. My two huge suitcases are patterned with silhouetted birds in flight, so they’re easy to spot on the carousel. I’m channeling all my inner Hulk strength—Why did I bring so many shoes?—as I lift the last one from the belt.
And that’s when I hear it.
“Goose!”
I am not actually named after a particularly ill-tempered bird. I should find comfort in the longtime nickname my dad gave me, but a part of me doesn’t want to be his Goose. I just want to be Kira.
“Hi,” I say as he comes toward me. I’m sort of glad I have my luggage in my hands, because it’s an excuse not to hug him.
The first thing I notice is that he’s lost weight. His naturally dark hair is peppered with more gray than before, and he has traces of bags under his brown eyes. Most evenings he would drink himself to sleep, but maybe the detox threw off his internal clock.
My dad steps through my barrier of luggage and leans in to hug me. I breathe into his soft button-down out of habit. Smelling alcohol on him was always a giveaway, but all I smell is unfamiliar laundry detergent and a bit of musky cologne.
“Here, let me get that.” He takes the handles of my two heavy rollaways in each hand. “How was your flight?”
“Good,” I lie.
Small talk. I’m sure he doesn’t care to hear about the weather and the plane that shook us around like a Magic 8-Ball.
“Good, good,” he repeats, and then we walk out of the airport and into the balmy Texas night.
I spot his cherry-red Nissan as we walk to the parking lot. Old dents and dings and scuffs litter the body, but I find myself inspecting it for new scars. Which is stupid. My dad wasn’t allowed to bring his car to Sober Living and he hasn’t been home long enough to inflict new damage.
He places my bags in the trunk and then we get inside, ready to make the forty-minute drive to Cedarville.
My stomach flips in a nervous sort of way. I shouldn’t be so anxious to go back. Maybe it’s because I haven’t contacted Lin or Whitney or Raegan, three of my best friends since elementary. It’s not that I didn’t want to let them know I’m back, because I definitely do. I guess I wanted it to be real for me first.
I begin to type a group text to them.
“Good to know not that much has changed,” my dad jokes, glancing at my cell.
It’s an attempt to break the ice, but I don’t reply. I’m not in the mood to try and put forth any type of conversation. Even though he’s written me dozens of apology letters, that doesn’t make up for all the time I lost being without my friends and boyfriend and my own life.
I finish typing and hit Send.
My dad takes a small breath, like he’s gathering up the courage to speak. Then he does. “Sober Living is a great facility. Really great, supportive people. I’m feeling really good about this, Goose.” When I don’t respond, he continues. “The ranch was beautiful. I took some pictures, but I still need to figure out how to get them off my SD card. There were horses—it reminded me of when you were a little thing. When I took you to the petting zoo near Austin?”
I nod, remembering the brochure from Sober Living all those months ago. It talked all about how the twelve-step program could explore and empower their lives and how they used equestrian therapy to create connection and personal fulfillment. I didn’t quite understand how riding a horse was supposed to enforce sobriety, but whatever.
“We made a lot of ceramics, too,” he continues.
Arts and crafts. Brilliant.
I don’t want to come home with a terrible attitude toward his progress, but it’s hard to trust his optimism when Alcoholics Anonymous hasn’t exactly worked for him in the past. He’d commit to it for a while with the help of Michael, his sponsor, and the twelve-step program, but then he’d ultimately fall back into his excessive drinking routine.
I was thirteen when my dad came home from his first AA weekend retreat. He brought a present for me, poorly wrapped in newspaper. When I opened it, I discovered a pale green ceramic mug he’d made by hand. At the bottom was a decal of a cartoon pug, his floppy tongue hanging out.
“Because you love pugs!” he said.
He was so proud of himself. It made my heart ache. My pug obsession had ended in like, second grade. It was like he barely knew me at all.
His creation sat in the china cabinet, displayed for all to see, but when he wasn’t home I took it out and hid it in the back of the pantry. It was embarrassing—something a little kid should show off, not a grown adult.