Page 75 of Present Tense

My phone rings, and it’s my fucking father. I don’t have time to handhold him. The only time I get a call is when he’s out of money or in the hospital.

“Are you dying?”

“Is that any way to talk to your father?” He’s slurring. Which means he’s drunk. Which means the doctor won’t fix him. And the fucking cycle begins again.

“It’s sure as shit about time I did. What do you need?” I wipe my eyes, and I’m angrier than I’ve ever been.

“I need new slippers. I lost them. And my heart rhythm is all fucked-up, so I’m in the hospital.”

I roll my eyes. And I’m done. I speak with a tone I didn’t know I had. “How long do you intend to be in the hospital? Should I send the slippers with a side of vodka, or would you prefer gin? Jesus, I’ll send it all to the fucking hospital. Dad, you have to stop. They won’t fix you if you drink. I can’t fix you or anything. I can’t fix this or do this anymore.”

“What’s gotten into you? You sound like your crackpot mother.” He’s scolding me.

“Liam left. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Well. You can tell me all about it when you get here.” I stand up, and I feel the backbone straightening my entire soul. Not that this will be the end of all of my guilt, but I don’t have it in me today. It’s my rock bottom, even if he doesn’t have one.

“I’m not coming. Figure it out. You’re an adult. Ethan, my thirteen-year-old, put himself on a plane, flew across the country, then caught the El and a bus to our house. Surely you can find your own fucking slippers if you can continue to find something to drink. I have faith in you that way.”

There’s silence. I’m not even sure if he understands the impact of this.

He breathes heavily into the phone.

“Ok. No response. Cool. I hope you don’t die. Bye, Dad. Love you.” I still say it, even though I’m not sure of it. I say it because I think he needs to hear it. Or it will finally sink in. I’m his daughter. I’m his caretaker. As I try to hang up, I hear his voice clear and strong.

“Jillien, if I had a choice—”

And now I say the things sixteen-year-old Jillien has always wanted to say. He doesn’t get to say anything to me.

“You did have a choice. And many chances. You’re not the victim. You chose. You made your fucking hospital bed, and now you get to lie in it. If I had a choice, I’d choose Ethan and Liam. That’s my family. The ones who care. But I don’t get to choose. I fucked that up. And again, my choice doesn’t matter. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to fall apart.”

I hang up and sob all over again. I don’t know how to stop. I should pay the rent on this place. I could call it the ‘fall apart pad.’ I could rent it out to all the people who have to hold their shit together in public. All the women who carry the weight of the world on their shoulders. The ones who have no choice but to keep it together. This will be our paradise. I’d stock this place with wine, tea, and tissues. They can take twenty-four hour shifts and lose their shit without anyone knowing. I curl into the fetal position on the freshly vacuumed rug and face the windows of the city that’s like a stranger to me.

44

JILLIEN

Oh my God. Ethan’s killing me with the boundary pushing. I’ve not talked to my father in ten days. I got a notice from the residence that he’s back there, along with the bill. More chipping away at our savings. The doctor called, and I didn’t answer.

Liam’s a fairy tale told to women in their thirties to make sure they keep buying into the idea of a happily ever after. Each day he grows a little dimmer, but the pain and longing are a little more intense. I work out a lot these days, and it still doesn’t help.

I’m not listening to my very insistent son. Then he tugs on my elbow while I’m trying to buy new toiletries for my dad online.

“No, Mom. Hell, you try to make it all ok for the man that’s caused you more heartache and pain than anyone.” Ethan takes my laptop from me. “Do not do this for him.”

He’s hurting, too. I don’t know how to help him get over Liam. “Honey, Fletch didn’t mean to cause pain and heartache. And he would take responsibility for all of this, too. He’s a good man.”

He throws his arms up and rolls his eyes. “Not Fletch. Fucking Grandpa.”

“Oh. That’s none of your concern, sweetie.”

“What are you not getting, woman?” I smile and laugh at him. “It’s all my concern. You keep shutting everyone out. Stop. I can handle all of it. And you don’t have to be everything to everyone.

You’re the first to help Meg or cover anyone at work. You make the cupcakes for people at your gym on their birthdays. Who makes you cupcakes? Not me. I suck at baking. I suck at roasting things and keeping a clean house. You kind of suck at that, too. Mom, I love you so much, but you love him. Can’t you tell him that? He makes cupcakes, Mom. He was teaching me things and hanging out. But he loves you, and you couldn’t, like, share all this shit.”

“I get it. I got the metaphor. Watch your language.”

I put my head in my hands.