Two weeks in and he’s already been attacked? My father is one of the most easygoing guys I’ve ever met. The fact that he went after Fleet the way he did in the garage was a surprise to everyone, including Fleet, according to what witnesses said.
“Hey, hey, hey… Come on. I can’t handle watching you cry,” my dad croons in a soothing voice. “And we don’t have time for that. Tell me what’s going on with you. How’s school? Work?”
I grit my jaw to keep my emotions in check. We’re supposed to have an hour, but the guard already warned me that Saturdays are busy and this visit will most likely get cut short. So much for prisoner rights. “Work is work. Same old.” I’ve been an administrative assistant at a drug and alcohol addiction center called Mary’s Way in downtown Phoenix for six years now. The center is geared toward women and children, and there never seems to be a shortage of them passing through our doors, hooked on vodka or heroin or crack. Some come by choice, others are mandated by the court.
Too many suddenly stop coming. Too many times I feel like we’re of no help at all.
Dad nods like he knows.
Because he does know, thanks to my mother and her own addiction to a slew of deadly drugs. Heroin is the one that finally claimed her life when I was ten.
“And school? You’re keeping up with that, right?”
I hesitate.
“Mercy—”
“Yes, I’m still going.” Only because it was too late to drop out of my courses without receiving a failing grade. Though, given my scores on my recent midterms, I may earn a failing grade anyway.
He taps the table with his fingertip. “You need to keep up with that, Mercy. Don’t let my mess derail your future. You’ve worked too hard for this, and you’re so close to getting that degree.”
I’ve been working toward my bachelor’s degree part-time since I was eighteen, squeezing in classes at night and wherever I could find the time and money. At twenty-five, I’m two passing grades away from achieving it. Up until now my intention has always been to become a substance abuse counselor, to help other families avoid the same anguish and loss that my father and I live with. That’s why I took the job at Mary’s to begin with.
But shit happened, and now I have another focus, and it is laser-specific.
I swallow. “I’m looking at taking the LSAT.”
“LSAT?” My dad frowns. “That have something to do with being a counselor?” My father isn’t a highly educated man. He spent his teenage years working on cars and skipping class to get high. At some point he decided school wasn’t for him, so he wrote his GED and then got a job in a mechanic shop. It took years, but he finally got licensed.
“No. It’s for getting into law school.” I level him with a serious gaze. “If you’d had a better lawyer than that shyster, you would have gotten involuntary manslaughter at most. Your sentence would have been a sliver of what you’re facing now—”
“No, wait.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “What are you saying, Mercy? That you’re going to give up on your plans and go to law school just so you can try and get me out of here? I mean, do you even wanna be a lawyer? I thought you hated lawyers.” He chuckles as if the idea is amusing.
Nothing is amusing about this. “I want to be able to hug you without some guard breathing down our necks.” My voice has turned hoarse. “I want my kids to be able to play and laugh with their grandfather.” It’s going to be years before there are actually tiny feet running about. But will my fifty-year-old father even live long enough to see the outside again?
“I don’t like this at all.” Dad shakes his head. “How many years of school is it, anyway?”
“A lot less than what you have to serve right now.” Three full-time, plus articling. If I even get accepted anywhere. I’ve always excelled in my courses, but this is a new direction, one I’ve never spent a second considering. And then there’s the whole “how do I pay for tuition and survive for three years while I’m going to law school full-time” question. All of our savings went to that joke of a lawyer who screwed my father.
It’s a lot to figure out, but I will figure it out, because there is no way I’ll accept coming here every Saturday for the next twenty-two years to watch my father slowly wither away.
“This isn’t the life I hoped for you. But I know better than to argue with you.” Dad sighs, his shoulders sinking. “So… what’s the weather like? I haven’t been outside yet today.”