She said, “I’m so proud of you.” She murmured, “I’ve missed you, Ronnie.”
She whispered . . .
That I couldn’t hear.
Couple of days later, my father’s sweating and vomiting stopped. His color returned. He once more achieved the vertical position. I came home to more snacks. My mother gained a clean house and evening meal. And the house existed in a perpetual state of peace and quiet. So much peace and quiet. I couldn’t figure out how people did it, living day after day with this amount of peace and quiet.
One day my father greeted me with a huge grin on his face. Surprise! He and I were going camping. Well, actually, we were going to spend the night in a borrowed tent in our backyard, but close enough, right? I bounced all over the house in excitement. Yes, yes, yes!
My mom actually smiled, caught up in our enthusiasm.
Saturday morning was all about prep. We were going to need all the makings for s’mores, plus hot dogs and baked beans. I thought we should definitely have a fire. My father thought we should definitely not. He spun some yarn about mythical forest sprites who would carry away our food and return it magically cooked. I was offended. What? Did he think I was still five?
Just yesterday, he assured me wryly. And the day before that, I was a newborn. Then he cleared his throat and ruffled my hair.
Late afternoon, we carried our gear outside.
My father attempted to assemble the borrowed tent. Much cursing and swearing ensued. I ran piles of blankets and pillows from the house to the yard because we didn’t have sleeping bags, something my father hadn’t realized till just now.
Everything took way longer than expected, my father’s expression becoming less excited, more frazzled. But eventually, the sun just starting to descend, he had produced a tent-like shelter, while I had procured every piece of bedding we owned. I would organize our sleeping quarters. My father would inform the forest sprites of our dinner reservation.
He was gone a very long time. But then, I had a lot of blankets to arrange.
When my father finally reappeared, bearing a tray of cooked franks and baked beans, he was beaming from ear to ear. So pleased with himself. So happy. So very, very happy.
Just like that, I knew why he’d been in the kitchen for so long. His smile faltered. He opened his mouth as if to say . . . No! . . . You’re wrong! . . . I’d never do such a thing!
But the words didn’t come. He closed his mouth, held out the tray. We sat on the ground and ate our meal with our hands, dipping the franks into the baked beans and making a huge mess. I wanted to giggle at the baked beans dripped across my father’s lap, the smear of ketchup on his cheek. I wanted to scream, “Carry the one!” just so he’d laugh uproariously and I could collapse beside him and we’d both be so very, very happy.
I wanted this moment to be real.
But my father was gone. In his place was a drunk who talked too fast. About childhood memories and random facts and oh, wait, look at the color of the sky. He always loved the smell of grass, there was nothing like sleeping under the open sky and we should do this again, wait, we should do this now, and hey, why had we never gone camping before this? Next week, Yosemite!
My father disappeared into the house with our dishes, eventually weaving and stumbling his way back out. He grabbed for the tent to balance himself. Both it and he collapsed to the ground. Never mind. Ghost stories!
By the time my mom appeared, I was carting the blankets from the tent back to the house, so I could drape them over my father’s passed-out form. He and the sofa were one again. Which left my mother and me on our own. She stared at his prone form, still in her coat, clutching her purse. I couldn’t read the expression on her face. Rage? Resignation? Relief that our household was finally back to normal?
I told my mother I was tired and going to bed. Then, clutching a pillow to my chest, I turned sideways as she walked by. I didn’t want her to see the half-filled bottle of bourbon I had stashed behind my back.
Later, in the privacy of my room, I sat on the floor behind my bed and studied my father’s precious bottle of booze. I twisted off the black cap. I inspected the amber liquid, sniffing the slightly sweet brew, dripping it across my palm, licking it off my fingers. I wanted to taste what my father tasted. I wanted to feel what my father felt. I wanted to understand this powerful liquid he loved more than anything in the world.
Even me.
I rubbed some of the bourbon at the top of my lip. I licked more and more off my hands, took tiny sips from the cap. I felt, bit by bit, the warmth spread through my veins. Then I inhaled until the boozy scent formed into the shape of my father, grinning beside me.