Part II; Chapter 2
April 2025
Dad had spent the last few months in his own personal performance of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Some days, he would put forth the effort of emerging from the clutches of his bed; on really good days, he even showered and came downstairs for an hour or two. Other days, however, it was a struggle to get him to eat. As the days drew closer to the one-year anniversary of the accident, I became increasingly worried as Dad regressed further and further along the latter path.
Steeling myself, I knocked gently once before opening the door to Dad’s room to deliver his breakfast. I had prepared for the worst, fully expecting him to be buried in blankets and sheets, completely unresponsive; the sight of Dad sitting on the edge of the bed—showered, shaven, and fully dressed (in a suit)—took me aback. I watched him work his foot into one of his dress shoes before clearing my throat to announce my presence.
Obviously startled, Dad’s body jerked to attention, his panicked eyes finding me in seconds. “Sorry,” I apologized with a soft smile.
“It’s OK; I thought you’d be at school.” His voice was hoarse from lack of use, and cracked as he forced the words out.
“It’s Saturday,” I leaned against the doorframe, watching him again as he went back to putting on his shoes. “Are you going somewhere?” I asked, hopefully.
Dad finished tying the laces of his Gucci Oxfords, then slipped his wallet into his back pocket before answering. When he finally did, his one word response came as an even bigger shock than finding him in a suit.
“Church.”
In all the years of being dragged to church by my parents, I never anticipated feeling a sense of excitement over the prospect of going—but the idea of my father leaving the house roused a feeling of eagerness within me. “Do you want me to come? I—I can go change.”
He seemed to consider my offer for a brief moment before shaking his head, avoiding eye contact with me. After what felt like the longest silence in history, Dad finally turned his gaze toward me, his sad eyes meeting mine reluctantly. “I’d rather go alone,” he whispered.
“Ok,” I conceded with a nod, trying my best to disguise the obvious disappointment I felt. “Drive carefully—it’s been awhile since you’ve been out.”
Dad nodded, walking past me toward the stairs. I listened from his bedroom doorway as he descended, heard the jingle as he lifted his keys from the table in the foyer, and waited for the sound of the front door opening. Five minutes later, I still had not heard the door; slowly, I made my way downstairs to check on him.
I found Dad standing in the foyer, staring at the wall. As I approached him, I realized it wasn’t the wall he was staring at, but rather what was hanging on it. Right at Dad’s eye level was an 8×10 photograph in an ornate gold frame; frozen nineteen years in the past stood my father dressed in a tuxedo, the jacket thrown casually over his shoulder. A big, stupid grin permanently fixed on his lips.
Standing next to him, one arm laced through his and an equally big, stupid grin stood Mom—dressed in white.
The photo had been hanging in the same frame, in the same spot on the wall, for as long as I could remember—it had become just another piece of the décor, something I didn’t even see anymore, despite walking passed it multiple times a day. Having barely left his bed, much less the bedroom, over the course of the last year left Dad little opportunity to venture into the foyer—plenty of time to forget the wedding photo sat perched above the key tabled by the door.
My feet moved me toward Dad almost of their own volition; I placed a hand on his shoulder, moving to stand between his eyes and the photo. It took a few minutes of me standing in front of the picture, eye-to-eye with him, before Dad realized I was even there. “Are you OK?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Dad shook his head, as if clearing it, and forced a smile. It almost looked natural. “I’m going to be late,” he murmured, turning to open the door. My eyes followed him outside, the bright sun an ironic contrast to the dark cloud of emotion elicited by the date.
I spent the rest of the day worrying about him; his cell phone had turned up under the bed—completely void of a charge and not powering on—when I cleaned his room. To make matters worse, when I went to take the trash out, I found the Tacoma where it had sat for months, while the Explorer was conspicuously missing. Hours passed without word from my father, and it took all my efforts to distract myself from the temptation to go searching for him.
Just as I was giving over to my fears, I hard tires crunch up our freshly oil-and-stone paved street, followed by the sound of a car door slamming shut. I rushed outside, finding Dad shuffling up the flagstone walkway; his balance was compromised and he looked significantly more disheveled than he had earlier that morning. Dad tripped on the first step of the porch, his hands finding the railing in time to stop him from landing on his face. He crawled the rest of the way up the stairs, pulling himself into a somewhat-erect position and practically tripped through the front door.
A pungent cloud of alcohol followed him into the house and toward the stairs. He stumbled on the carpet trying to take his shoes off, and he fell onto the bottom stair, breathing heavily. Slowly, he attempted to extricate himself from his jacket—unsuccessfully. With one arm free of the material, he somehow managed to get the entire thing wrapped around the other arm. Unable to shed the jacket from his body, Dad let out a small whine and slumped against the wall.
When a few minutes had passed and he hadn’t moved, I stepped toward him. “Dad?” My voice was shaky and quiet; had it not been for the familiar grunt he let out, I wouldn’t have had an indication he heard me at all. “C’mon, Dad,” I pleaded, helping him to his feet. His body fell against mine, the dead weight throwing me off balance momentarily. Somehow, I managed to get him up the stairs, into his bedroom, and stripped down to his undershirt and boxers.
At some point during the process, he had passed out, snoring heavily before I even had a chance to bring the sheets up to cover him.