The smell down here was worse too, the odor so thick and foul that I could taste it. I pulled my T-shirt up over my mouth and nose and tried not to breathe as JC and I paused at the bottom of the stairs to scan the space. What other horrors would we have to endure as we made our way through these rooms in search of the man who’d made my childhood hell?
Luckily, we didn’t have to look far. Two adult men and a half-dressed teenage girl lay sprawled out on the couch in front of us, and there, on the floor beneath them, was my father.
He appeared asleep or passed out or maybe just so doped up he wasn’t able to move. The latter seemed most likely since his arm was splayed to his side, a rubber tube tied around his bicep and blood dripping from a pinpoint just below the inside of his elbow. He was hard to see like that, but I couldn’t look away. He’d aged ten years in the last fifteen months. His hair was thin, his clothes unkempt, his face gaunt and his skin flushed. Bruises and track marks decorated his arm, and an abscess oozed on his forearm.
This man had always been a giant in my life. A monster with strength and rage that always made me feel frail in comparison. Like this, puny and pathetic, he was barely recognizable. I wanted to have compassion, and I guess I did or else I wouldn’t be there, but I wasn’t moved the way I thought I should be. Maybe all his faults had stemmed from his slave to addiction—first to alcohol and now to heroin. Maybe he couldn’t help the person he’d been to my siblings and my mother. That didn’t make him forgivable. He’d had a responsibility that he’d ignored.
Now I understood my reasons for having to do this for him. It wasn’t out of love or obligation. It wasn’t, actually, for him at all. It was for me. I could only do this if he no longer had a hold on me. This was proof that I was free of him in a way that he’d never be free, even if he chose rehabilitation.
I took a deep breath, ready to confront him.
One of the men on the couch noticed us and turned his eyes slightly toward us. “If you’re looking to buy, we ain’t got anything. Unless Jake is back.”
JC tightened his grip on my arm. “Not buying.”
“Well, then.” The addict blinked a few times. “If you’re looking to steal, we still ain’t got anything.”
My father shifted, rolling his head to peer at us. His eyes were crossed, and I wasn’t sure if he could focus, but he seemed to meet my gaze. “Gwen,” he said, his tone absent of inflection.
It was the only word he spoke, and I took it as an invitation to approach him. JC kept his hand at my back until I crouched down at my father’s feet. “Hi, Daddy.”
“What are you doing here.” Again, his voice was flat, his question sounding more like a statement.
“I came to see you. The last time we saw each other, you said you’d be back. I got tired of waiting.”
His eyes lulled shut then he jerked up, as if he was fighting unconsciousness. His face was expressionless, so I couldn’t be sure he even knew what I was talking about. But then he said, “The cash. Did you bring it?”
He was slightly more animated now, as though the thought of money was the only thing worth getting excited over. I wondered how many bundles of dope twenty grand could buy him. Wondered if he was struggling to calculate it in his head. Wondered how long he’d go before spending it all. Would he even be able to go through half of it before he’d consumed enough of the drug to kill him?
Still squatting, I hugged my knees. “I didn’t bring cash, Daddy. But I’m here to offer you the money in another form.” His lids opened just a bit wider, indicating I had his attention. “I want you to go to a treatment center. There’s a good one I’ve found. It costs just over twenty thousand, and JC and I are willing to pay for it if you choose to go.”
There was no way to know if my father remembered JC, though he didn’t ask me who he was. It wouldn’t have surprised me to find he couldn’t process anything at all in his current state, but he evidently could because he asked, “You’ll only give me the money if I go to your place?”
“Yes. That’s the condition.”
“Then I’ll go. Give me the address and the cash, and I’ll make arrangements.”
It was almost funny that he thought I’d believe that. “I’m not giving you the money, Daddy. We’ll take you to the facility and pay the bill for you.”
“Nope. Not doing it.” He leaned his head back on the sofa, and I was unreasonably relieved that he didn’t fight me further. Like, what was he going to do to me? Take a swing? He could barely lift his neck or train his focus. Even if he tried to throw a punch, there was no way he’d connect.