Page 113 of Wildfire
I can’t hide it, the thank-you has caught me off guard. I’m so used to my dad pushing the blame onto everyone but himself. There was always a reason he was in a bad mood or was having a bad day, and it revolved around how we all weren’t doing good enough.
“That day in the hospital when you told me how I made you feel, I thought that was my rock bottom, but it wasn’t because I didn’t change. I was humiliated that I’d made my own son believe vile things about himself—and why wouldn’t you? I’d been living for myself for years, not caring about anything or anyone. But I still didn’t change.”
“But why? Why wasn’t that enough?”
“Because I had further to fall. And I did, until your mom kickedme out and I truly hit rock bottom. I didn’t want to admit I had an issue. It’s easy to hide a gambling addiction because there’s no physical signs. It’s not drugs or alcohol, nobody sees what’s going on. You convince yourself it doesn’t affect anybody but you.” He leans against his knees, his hands shaking as he holds them together. “But that was my turning point. From there things started to get better. I don’t want to be someone you hate, Russ. I don’t want to be someone who hurts you.”
“You’re an expert at lying, Dad. Why should I believe you’re not just dragging us all along for you not to change?”
“Because pride stopped me getting help before. When I was gambling, I was always a bad loser, but I stayed optimistic the next bet would be the right one. I’m taking that optimism and I’m applying it to my recovery.”
“When you were gambling?”
He nods, rubbing at the back of his neck, a habit I’ve never noticed him do before. “I haven’t placed a bet since I saw you at your camp. I know it’s not long, but it’s the longest I’ve gone in fifteen years. I’ve been attending Gamblers Anonymous meetings and I’m going to be starting counseling to try and process some things I need to.”
I’m overwhelmed with information, and it all still feels too good to be true. I know what a big deal this is and I know I’m supposed to be happy, but there’s a small nagging feeling in my brain that tells me not to get my hopes up and to continue to hold him at a distance.
“Do you have any questions to ask me?” he says.
I have millions, but none of them come to mind. “No.”
“You must have some.”
We sit in silence for a full minute and I try to think of what I want to ask him. I’ve spent so many years trying not to engage with him that I can’t remember how to do it now. It’s like trying to use a muscle you haven’t used in a really long time. “I don’t.”
“Well if you think of any, you can ask me anytime. Part of my recovery is to make amends with the people I’ve hurt through my addiction, and I know I’ve hurt you. At GA they say the best form of apology is changed behavior, and I hope over time you’ll see me become someone you want to be around again.”
“I hope so, too.”
“Your brother put me in touch with a debt charity and they’re giving me advice on how to get my finances in order. I’ve been hiding things from your mother for a really long time. I want to pay back the money I took from you.”
“I don’t care about the money,” I say instantly.
“That may be so, but it’s your money and I never should have asked you for it in the first place. It was wrong of me and it shows you’re a good person to be so generous.”
I wonder if I hit my head and I’m hallucinating. Before I’d mentally checked out of my family drama, when things were really bad, I used to have pretend conversations with my dad in my mind. I’d practice what I’d say, how he’d react, and then by the end of it, he’d be better.
“I want to be part of this family again, Russ. I know it’s my fault I’m not, and I know it’s my fault you don’t feel welcome around here, but I hope over time you can trust me enough to see I really do want to get better.”
“I’m glad you’re getting help, Dad. I truly hope it works.”
IHAVE TOO MANY THOUGHTSin my head.
After our heart-to-heart, Mom insisted on us all having lunch together. I cannot remember the last time we sat down as a family to eat. Thankfully, Ethan talking about his band’s new record deal manages to take up the majority of the conversation, leaving me free to listen and observe.
Ethan doesn’t bring up speaking to Aurora on the phone, which I’m grateful for. She feels too precious to risk bringing her into this environment. I know she’s strong and resilient, but I want to look after her, and given the situation with her own dad, she doesn’t need to be made to get to know mine.
If her dad was to make strides to improve like mine is trying to, she’d be first in line to give him another chance. Yesterday marked the first time she told him how she felt, much like me in that hospital room all those weeks ago. I hope it sparks the same kind of reaction I’ve gotten.
Ethan walks me back to my truck in silence after lunch. His eyes are red and glazed, and he’s thinner than he was the last time I saw him, in an unhealthy way. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s high. “Are you okay?”
“Worry about yourself, little brother,” he says, opening the truck door for me.
“You look strung out, Ethan.” I’ve never seen him smoke a cigarette, never mind take drugs. “What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing,” he says, rubbing his jaw with his hand. “You wouldn’t understand anyway.”
“Try me.”
