Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 111165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 556(@200wpm)___ 445(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 556(@200wpm)___ 445(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Everything inside me shrinks and shrivels and dies somewhere.
Brutal, Aunt Marg, that was brutal.
I close my eyes, trying to gather strength, to fight back the tears that are coming to me so easily lately.
“Laz,” I whisper into the phone, returning to our call.
“What happened?”
“It’s my dad. I have to go.”
“Where are you right now?”
“I just got home,” I say, barely able to form words. I’m suddenly so weak, the dread of what I have to do and deal with is debilitating. “I have to go.”
“No,” he says firmly. “You’re not doing this alone. Stay where you are. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
“Laz…”
“I’m serious. You’re not fucking going anywhere.”
He hangs up. I’ve never heard him be so harsh with me before so I don’t risk pissing him off again. I quickly go into the studio, take off my dress and slip on jeans and a grey T-shirt, take off last night’s makeup with a wipe, and then head back out just in time to see the Camaro pull up.
“You don’t have to do this,” I tell him as I open the door and sit in the passenger seat. “It’s not your problem.”
“It is my problem,” Laz says. His eyes are both soft and hard at the same time as they peer at me intently, his jaw firm. “Because it’s a problem to you, then it’s a problem to me. I’m doing this with you, alright?”
I’m not convinced. This is a part of my life I’d rather keep from everyone. It’s one thing to talk about it. It’s another to see it. I don’t know what my father will do or what he’ll say. I don’t know if I’ll be weak or strong. I don’t think I’m ready to show any of that to Laz.
“Marina,” he says, reaching for my face, his fingertips holding my chin until I’m looking at him. “Let me in. Let me be here for everything, all the good, all the bad. All your light and all your dark.”
I blink, keeping the tears at bay so far. Damn this man. He’s getting in. He’s getting under my skin like no one ever has before.
“Okay,” I whisper to him. “Let’s go.”
The corner of his mouth quirks in a soft smile. He nods. “Okay.”
We drive off and I program my father’s address into his phone so that the Waze app can tell him where to drive. I’m too all over the place right now to be of any help.
My father lives in a mobile home in Lancaster. It’s not close by any means and the longer we’re on the freeway, the more afraid I get.
“So run it by me,” Laz says. “I want to know what to expect and I think it will do you good to say it out loud.”
God, I would kill for a fucking Ativan right now.
“I’m not sure. My aunt dropped off the groceries, said he was basically belligerent and that she wanted to call the cops.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. I mean, he gets bad but not that bad. She sounded scared but my father has never been violent. He’s gotten angry and lashed out but not physically.”
“Well I’m even more glad I made you take me now.”
“Me too.” I pause, guilt rushing through me. “Just, please don’t judge him. He’s been through so much and…”
“You think I would judge?”
“He’s not himself. When he’s sober, he’s wonderful. I mean I love him. But when he’s drunk, he’s someone else. Something else. A monster. It sounds…I don’t know, crazy, but when he’s really bad I don’t see him as him anymore. It’s like looking right into the devil’s eyes.” I don’t mention that sometimes I’m so filled with rage that I want to hurt him when he’s in that state. I want to hit him and shake him and beg for my father to come back. I’m just so fucking angry, it’s almost like whatever is infecting him is infecting me.
“I get it,” he says. “Believe me, you’re not alone.”
I thought he would make a bee pun with that but this isn’t funny anymore.
This is terrifying.
By the time we eventually reach Lancaster, dull desert stretching out as far as the eye can see, I’m a wreck. I can’t even speak. I’ve grown silent as we pull into his neighborhood.
"Is this it?" Laz asks, leaning over to get a better look at the house we’ve stopped outside of.
There isn't much to look at. My father’s place is on a corner lot and there's a small patch of brown grass out front. Behind him is a cement wall lined with barbed wire which separates his place from the junkyard on the other side. The mobile home hasn’t been mobile for a long time and it's one-level, the paint faded, the curtains always drawn. At least the curtains are new though, gauzy blue ones that I picked up from IKEA a couple of months ago. Slowly, very slowly, I've tried to bring some life to his place. I'd love to have the time to paint the house at some point, maybe a cheery yellow color. Something to make it seem alive.