My alarm woke me, and as I opened my heavy eyes, I thanked my past self for remembering Skye, even if he had left me only thirty minutes to get to Toni’s. I stood, took a moment to steady myself as the blood settled into new pipes, ran to the bathroom, relieved myself of the night’s toxins, necked a couple of Advils, grabbed my keys and wallet, and raced from the house.
I don’t know if you’ve ever run in Los Angeles. The heat makes it feel as though an angry dragon is constantly misting you with hot breath. The heat is tinglingly close, and there’s no breeze for even a moment’s relief. I definitely wouldn’t recommend running outdoors in LA when it’s approaching high noon, and I particularly wouldn’t suggest doing it hungover.
I covered the two miles to Toni’s place in twenty-eight minutes. I used to clock six-minute miles when I was a proper man, but now even fourteen-minute miles involved a near-death experience.
I arrived, dripping sweat, dizzy, panting, lungs burning with exhaustion and pollution, and I’m pretty sure I stank.
Toni lived in an apartment building on North Hickory Avenue. Four white buildings, now streaked with grime, were connected in the shape of a cross that stood in a small garden. Each block was three stories and contained twelve apartments. Toni had one on the ground floor. Her barred windows overlooked an alleyway that ran beside the building and gave her a view of a restaurant parking lot and auto body shop. It was cheap and functional, a place to pass the night before the daily grind.
Every visit kick-started feelings of guilt and shame at having failed my wife and kid. They lived with the constant rumble of traffic from Rosencrans, an ugly view, bums, and weirdo neighbors, a galley kitchen and combined living room that wasn’t big enough to pass for a dog kennel in Beverly Hills, two bedrooms little bigger than jail cells, and a wet room with a shower over the toilet.
I slowed to a walk and caught sight of Toni standing by her kitchen door. She had the Look, her familiar expression of disappointment and anger. Like her favorite T-shirt, she wore it often, and I felt every inch the heel each time I saw it.
“Just in time,” she said as I pushed the six-foot-high green gate that was meant to guard the main entrance. It was always broken.
“I know, I know. I’m sorry,” I replied, sucking in as much air as my sore lungs would take.
She glared, dialing the Look up to a six out of ten. “She’s your daughter, Peyton. She deserves better than this.”
“I know,” I conceded honestly. “But I made it, didn’t I?”
“Just.”
“Any news from the doctor?” I asked.
“They said it would be a few days before we’ll get the results,” Toni replied.
We couldn’t afford proper health care for Skye, which was another source of shame. Whatever tests the white coats needed to do, our daughter would be bottom of the heap.
“You got no car,” Toni said sourly. “So, what are you going to do with her?”
“Take her to the park.”
My allotted morning with Skye would be spent in an LA public park because I’d totaled a vehicle I hadn’t finished paying for. I couldn’t help but feel like a loser.
“She’s thirteen, Peyton, not eight. The park.” Toni frowned and shook her head in ill-disguised disappointment.
Skye appeared behind her. I wanted to wrap her in my arms and tell her everything would be okay, but even I couldn’t be sure of that.
The apartment was too small for her not to have heard Toni doing me down. She sized me up, and while Toni’s eyes blazed with anger and frustration, Skye’s glistened with sadness. It broke my heart to see her feeling sorry for me.
“Hey, kiddo,” I said. I felt so inadequate. I didn’t deserve to be her dad. I had to do better. “You ready?”