Ten days ago
Dad actually woke up the day after I’d freaked on the social worker. The doctor said he was lucky to be alive. She also made it very clear that his liver was very fragile, and if he drank, he’d die. That simple.
When we got home from school, our routine was to go check on Dad upstairs.
Dad raised a beer can in the air from his bed. “Cheers!” He guzzled a long sip and then wiped his chin with the back of his hand.
“Again?” Oscar whispered.
“This has to stop, Dad. Beer is just as bad as the hard stuff! Look at your skin. It’s the color of piss! You can’t do this every day. You heard the doctor.” I scolded him like a child.
“It’s none of your damned business! Neither one of you,” Dad shouted from his bed. Oscar and I stood at the foot. We were scared, but we’d never admit that to each other. I just knew we were. I could tell by the look in my brother’s eyes. And I hadn’t slept through the night since Dad was released from the hospital.
Oscar took a big breath. “The doctor was pretty adamant, Dad. She said no matter what you drink, you run the risk of complete liver failure. You were sitting up. You were awake. We all heard her say it. If you drink, you die.” He sounded a little whiny. I knew it would set Dad off.
Dad was wasted—his sixth day in a row pounding beer. Empty cans littered the floor. I kicked one across the room, and it crashed against his dresser. “So you want to die? Is that it?” I turned on my heels and walked down the hall. Truly, I didn’t want to hear his answer. It would be some drunk lie. Alcohol liked to eat the truth. It stuffed itself on honesty until it couldn’t hold any more.
And then it puked all over your legs.
Down in the kitchen, I slammed as many cabinets as I could. It was very satisfying.
“I’m getting rid of all the alcohol in the house,” Oscar announced as soon as he came down.
I gripped the counter and closed my eyes. We both knew Dad had friends, ways, and schemes to get more alcohol. Sure, we could pour every drop in the backyard, but he’d get more. The only bone he broke—miraculously—was his nose, so there was nothing stopping him from slowly walking down the stairs, getting into his car (even though his license was suspended), and driving to the bar—the bar he owned, the bar currently stocked with enough alcohol to get a neighborhood trashed—and drinking as much as he wanted.
He needed to be locked in a safe place. “He needs to be in rehab.”
Oscar actually laughed for, like, a minute.
I fought the urge to tackle him to the floor. “You’re laughing, you dick?”
He coughed and calmed down. “I can already tell you how that’ll go, which I’m sure you don’t need to hear. He’s your father too.”
“Oh, so your big idea is to piss him off by pouring out his bottles?”
The thought of losing him shoved its way inside my head again. As soon as he woke up in the hospital and stabilized, the reality of him dying drifted far, far away. He was alive and alert. He was talking and laughing. He wasn’t dying.
But then his doctor came in and wanted to talk. Her talk was crystal clear: you drink, your already weak liver crashes and burns—but she said it with fancy medical words like cirrhosis and scar tissue. I went home that night and googled everything I could on liver failure. I’d tossed and turned till morning.
Dad’s liver doctor appointment was tomorrow after school. What did he think that guy was going say to him? “So I see from your blood work and the lemony-yellow tone to your skin that you’ve been trashed. Well done, sir.” No, the doctor was going to freak.
“That’s it!” I shouted to myself. “The doctor can admit him to rehab! Doctors can do that. Like, just send people straight there if they need it.”
Oscar’s face pinched and he shook his head. “No, that’s not how it works. Dad’s an adult.”
“I wasn’t asking your friggin’ opinion!” I smacked the cabinet door as hard as I could. Twice. My palm stung so I clenched and released a few times.
And then I whacked it again, and again, and again.
And again.