She had rehearsed a dozen different things to say, but when the door opened, the words came without thought: “I found you.” Not so much in a gotcha voice, but in a raspy whisper, shaken by the scene in front of her.
Of course, if the address didn’t tip her off, surely the broken floorboards on the porch and the rusty screen door should have. All visible, audible, and olfactory signs screamed, Brace yourself.
But that’s not the way Celia’s mind worked. She bounded up the rickety stairs two at a time, eager to put the past behind her and make a fresh start.
But the sight of him, not just skinny, but frail, not just with a wrinkle or two but thoroughly wizened, sitting at a wobbly table, with one leg propped up by a pizza box folded in half, cheesy remnants along the sides covered with roaches, stopped her short. Brought the taste of bile up her throat.
“Dad?”
The man didn’t move, except to take another swig of his Mad Dog.
Celia raised her voice. “Daddy, is that — ”
He put the glass down and ran his tongue around his lips, as if to get any wayward drops.
“ — you?”
“What?” was all he said,
She took a step forward. “It’s me, Cealy.”
Now the man turned and stared at her with clouded eyes. “Who?”
Celia took another step. “Me. Your daughter?”
He stared at her and swallowed hard. “I don’t have a daughter.”
WTF? “Of course you do, Daddy. Don’t you remember?”
The man shook his head.
Celia walked around the table and stopped opposite him, unbuttoning her jacket. “We used to play on the Slip and Slide on hot days. In the backyard.”
“Yeah. I’m slipping all right. Sliding, too. Downhill. Fast.”
A lump rose in his throat, and he had to sip to swallow it, his ribs visible through his threadbare flannel shirt. Chill bumps popped on his neck and hands.
Celia reached into her pocket for her cell phone. Slowly. No sudden moves to startle him. “Let me call an ambulance, Pop.”
“Nope.” His bony arm grabbed her hand. “No ambulance for me.”
“Okay, then.” She pocketed the phone. “We’ll go in my car.”
“You can,” he said, taking another sip. “Not me.”
“Daddy, you’ll die if we don’t get you to a doctor.”
His eyes blinked fast several times as he poured the last ounce of Mad Dog into his dirty glass. “I don’t need no stinkin’ doctor.”
Celia stifled a laugh. If he weren’t so pathetic, that might actually be funny. Water filled her eyes. His silly dad jokes once made her giggle so hard, she couldn’t stand up. “You’re the one who stinks, Dad. When’s the last time you had a bath?”
He went back to the hollow stare, a white film covering most of his pupils. Yet he had no trouble finding his bottle or pouring his booze.
“What now?”
She pulled out a chair, wiped the seat with a tissue, and sat down. “I didn’t come here to watch you die, you know.” And just to get his goat, she added, “Herman.”
“Then you better close your eyes.”
She closed her eyes, fighting tears. An instinct that came after years of being teased as a ‘crybaby.’ They came anyway.
But then. What the hell? Let him see them. Let him see how much this hurts. Has hurt. For years too many to count. Cries became sobs, ugly sobs, snotty sobs. Use-up-all-your-tissues sobs.
Her face was in her hands, so she didn’t see, but finally heard her father’s cries. Raw and raspy. Only he didn’t hide his face with his hands. They were still on the glass and bottle. Instead, he threw his head back and wailed to the ceiling. Or maybe to the heavens beyond.
If his cries contained words, Celia couldn’t make them out. Did he cry for help? Or out of humiliation? Or from the deep well of his self-created prison of loneliness? Probably all three.
Celia reached for his hand.
He kept wailing.
She had to pry the glass out of it. “Dad! Listen to me!” she said between sobs. “It’s not too late. You need a doctor. Medication. Some hydration. They’ll put you on Ativan, and you’ll float through detox. And wake up a new man.”
He stopped crying. “And then do what?”
“Why…” She had to think fast. “Whatever you want. Go back to the shipyard…”
“They won’t take me.”
“…Or play the guitar. You do a mean Hank Williams.”
“Did.” He glared at her. “Did a mean Hank Williams. All that’s left is the ‘mean.”
“But that’s not how it has to be.” She leaned forward and rubbed his arm. “You could fall in love again.”
His whole body stiffened. “Never.”
“Why do you say that?”
He picked up the empty bottle.“‘Cause that’s what got me here.”
His head tilted back, and he held the bottle up upside down over his mouth. He shook it to catch the last few drops and set it down with a thud.
So it’s Mom’s fault he drinks? Or his second ex-wife, Rose’s? Or that woman he dated on and off, who dressed like a hooker. What was her name? Tatianna? Tata for short. Celia’d been down this road with him a gazillion times, and it wasn’t pretty.
“No friggin’ way.” Celia stood up. “Not only did they not get you here, you broke every one of their hearts on the way.”
He threw the bottle against the wall, and the damn thing didn’t break. It just clunked and rolled around on the floor. “And this is my payback. Is that what you’re saying?”
“You said it. Not me.” She got in his face, trying not to gag on this breath. “I can’t do this anymore. You made your bed. Now lie in it.”
Both their gazes shot over to the cot in the corner with its unwashed sheets and ratty flannel blankets.
“Great idea.” His words slurred, and when he stood up, he stumbled. But somehow made the five steps without kissing the floor. With a “Good night, then, Cealy-Bealy,” he collapsed on the cot.
Cealy-Bealy?
That’s what he called her when she was learning how to walk and then running after him across the lawn. That’s what he called her when they went for a piggy-back ride to the corner store and got a Nihi for her and a Budweiser for him.
That’s what he called her when she came down the stairs in her teal and silver prom dress, wobbling on her first pair of real heels.
“Daddy.”
She ran to the cot and threw her arms around him.
“Baby.”
His body went rigid in her embrace. Typical.
She drew back, ready to throw him another verbal punch when his eyes rolled back in his head and he flopped on the bed.
Lifeless.
Celia stood up slowly, eyeing the door. Every cell in her body screamed, Run!
Yet she couldn’t move.
Instead of running, she sat down on the floor next to her dad and stroked his cheek. “You took the easy way out, you Damn Fool. God only knows why, but I love you anyway.”
At that moment, the room filled with an ethereal light, even as dusk fell outside. The light seemed to come from the middle of Herman’s chest and rise to and through the ceiling.
That’s when Celia buttoned her jacket and ran outside.
The light emerged above the roof and continued upward.
She watched it continue upward in the darkening sky until she could no longer see it. “Give Mom a kiss for me,” she yelled.
Once back inside, she called 911 and prayed. “God, if Mom won’t do it, You kick him in the ass.”
Trashing the empty bottle, she added a quick, “Amen,” and went outside to gaze up at the stars and an almost full moon.
Marilyn Flower is a sacred fool who writes fiction, poetry, and blogs, inspired by the practice of SoulCollage®. Her books: Collage for the Writer’s Soul, Developing Characters, Creative Blogging, Bucket Listers. Follow her Sacred Foolishness or SoulCollage® for Writers, and stay in touch!