Dish Fairy
Lindsey Danis
Dad’s in the kitchen when I get home from school, instead of hiding out in his study. Crazier still, he’s gone grocery shopping. He surveys the thin paper bags lining the counter, clutching a bottle of red wine like he can’t decide whether to pop it open or put it away.
“Janie’s coming over tonight.” He sets the wine beside the fridge. “She’s got some new fellow, she’s bringing him with her.” The camera zooms in on Professor Riordan’s face. It’s expressionless. Blank.
“Already? Isn’t there some kind of two-week rule about dating?”
Professor Riordan shuffles toward the pantry. Looks inside, dismay settling over his face. “I’d like it if you could set the table, maybe make some mashed potatoes or something.” Beat. “I got a rotisserie chicken, if I could find it in this mess. You see it?”
He asked me to do something. He needs my help. Intrigued, I start unpacking.
By the time I’ve put away the groceries, though, my father is back to his usual. Ice clinks in the other room. I dice potatoes into a pot of water and try to block out scotch o’clock by starting my geometry homework. The house is clean. Dad can keep it under control. They’ll dine and dash.
When Jane lets herself in and yells out, “Hi guys!” in this phony voice, I start to worry. Her boyfriend calls my dad Sir and hands him a bottle of cognac. Jane’s only eighteen but this guy—Charles Alexander Duncan Jr., he introduces himself as, only half laughing off the “junior” part—looks like he’s thirty, with a ruddy face and hair that’s thinning at the temples. He nods his head at me like we’re old pals.
My dad steers us into the living room. He hands Jane and Charles Jr. red wine, but he doesn’t offer me anything to drink. As I get up to grab my own damn glass of water, he calls out, “Honey, bring the appetizers.”
He never calls me honey. What game is he playing? I open the fridge to humor him, and sure enough, there are plastic cups of fresh fruit, crackers, and cheese. More liberated leftovers from Film Department meetings. I grab a tray and start organizing everything, making tidy rows of crackers and cheese cubes until my fingers stop shaking.
Charles is telling my father about this internship he had over the summer in a circuit court near Scranton. He went down there without knowing anyone, but through the Harvard grapevine he rented a barn on someone’s property. “It was my first time living alone, being alone, cooking for myself … I’d gone from the dorms at boarding school to the dorms at Harvard. It opened my eyes, you know?”
To what? I slide the appetizers on the coffee table.
Jane plucks a berry. “That’s when he decided to be a judge.”
They make googly eyes at one another.
“I lived on bread and cheese sandwiches and rode my bicycle to the courthouse every day.”
I shove a cheese cube into my mouth and wait for Charles to get on with his story, but he doesn’t. From the way he’s looking at my dad and me, it’s clear he expects some kind of reaction. My dad’s busy crumbling his cheese cube onto a wafer cracker, so it’s down to me. “Well, I’m sure you’re glad to be back in the land of creature comforts. Speaking of sandwiches, Jane, did you see they want to close Haven?”
“That tired old diner?” Charles asks.
“Our family favorite.” I push my tongue against my teeth, trying to soften my jaw, trying to pretend like everything is fine. Like this is normal. Another cheese cube. That might help.
“Your favorite. We haven’t been there in ages.” Jane reaches for his hand, demonstrating where her sympathies lie.
“Enough,” says my father, an edge to his voice. “Janie, Moriah, why don’t you girls check on supper?”
Whatever it takes to get this night over with. I follow my sister into the kitchen and grab serving platters. Jane’s got the door cracked so it blocks the living room from view. “I reorganized,” I tell her. Tried to hide the wine. Then he moved it to his study. “What are you looking for?”
“Come here.”
“What?” I brace for blowback about my rude comments. I’m not trying to fight with Jane or her boyfriend. Sometimes it seems like stress over Dad seeps into everything else and I end up acting out to take the pressure off.
She cups her hand around her mouth and whispers, “How long has he been like this?”
“What, sexist? Or a drunk?” I lean against the wall and let out a small laugh. I can’t get into this now, then sit and eat and pretend everything is fine. It’s like emotional whiplash.
“He can’t string two sentences together. Charles was explaining about his internship, and Dad interrupted him to ask what classes I’m taking this semester. Which I’ve told him six times. I was mortified.”
When did Jane get so image obsessed? Is it a Harvard thing? Some indoctrinated elitism? This is classic Mom, always concerned about how things reflect on her. “I do what I can to help him, but he won’t listen to me. You want to try something, go for it.”
The timer buzzes, sharp. Jane jumps. I can tell she wants to say more, but I turn back to the stove and grab the potatoes, burning my hand on the pot handle. I run my hand under cool water then vent my frustration by mashing in two tablespoons of butter.
For the rest of dinner, I keep quiet. Dark thoughts rattle around in my brain, crowding out everything else. I’m not even hungry anymore. Just exhausted. I move the food around my plate until Jane asks me about school. “It’s horrific,” I say.
Jane rests her silverware across her plate, then reaches for her wine glass. She rubs the stem with two fingers, taking a brief time-out. “I know how awful it can feel at first, but sometimes you have to put yourself out there, Moriah.”
“Oh, I’m totally out there. You should hear how they talk about my hair.” Which is currently two parts cherry-red to one part brown roots, desperately in need of a dye job I’ve been too lazy to do.
Jane tucks her shiny brown hair behind her ears, and something catches the light. Mom’s diamond studs. Weren’t they an anniversary gift from Dad? I didn’t know Mom had given them to her, but I guess it makes sense. Why would Mom wear them now?
I knock my feet into the chair rail, wishing I could take my plate upstairs, or that Jane actually cared how I was doing in school instead of taking every opportunity to lecture me about my offbeat style. “How are the students taking the news about Haven closing?” I say when the dinner-table quiet drowns out thoughts in my head. The school is the building’s landlord. So if there’s some institutional plot to turn the diner into the glee club rehearsal space, they might have the inside scoop.
Charles shrugs.
“Well, I’m going to the meeting to save the diner. It’s going to be huge. You’ll see.”
Jane dissects her food. “I know you love the diner. But Charles was saying it’s all part of a larger plan, something that could do a lot of good for the community. You should take the time to learn more about it. Maybe you’ll be surprised.”
“What’s there to find out, other than Harvard gets what it wants?”
Charles swirls the wine in his glass. The ruby liquid catches the light. “The Square is changing. Cambridge is getting more prosperous; tourists are coming. Harvard is booming, but when is it not?” He looks to Jane, like he’s expecting a chuckle. After a sip, he continues. “Landlords are starting to charge more for rent because businesses want to be in Harvard Square. More business means more money for the city, and you know what that means.” He pauses, waiting for me to chime in like some starry-eyed undergrad. “At the same time, places like Haven that maybe have been struggling for a while or don’t reflect what the Square’s about, they’re getting pushed out. It’s Econ 101, right Jane?”
He’s taking delight in goading me, the way the neighbor’s cat stretches to swat a chipmunk. “But how does that help the community? If the shops used by people who live and work here are pushed out, the community suffers. But hey, I doubt they have Being a Compassionate Human 101 at Harvard.”
“The broader community. A vibrant Square is better for everyone.” Charles is patient as he tries to explain, but I don’t trust his smile—or his TA pontificating.
And besides, the Square is the definition of vibrant. It’s filled with the most eclectic mix of people, a surprise around every corner. Like the homeless guy who ruled the chess table all summer. But Charles isn’t speaking about the people who use the Square. He’s referring to those who stick to its edges, the gentrifying overlords who freak out when they encounter the homeless, the punks, the runaways, the street preachers, and the teens. Those huddled masses seeking shelter in the Pit.
“You’ll push everyone out!” I sit on my hands to keep from fidgeting.
My sister reaches for my arm, like calm down, you’re getting worked up again. I am yelling a little. Maybe I’ve taken polite dinner conversation and made it personal. I think back to my last Haven trip, with my best friend. “It’ll be nothing but busloads of tourists doing the college tour circuit. And rich Harvard students.”
Jane lets out a warning sigh, like I better cool it before I get in trouble. But I couldn’t care less; I’ve got troubles enough. And I’m too angry to stop. I narrow my eyes at Charles. “Say what you really mean. It’s good for the Harvard community. Is that the bullshit they fill your minds with behind those gates?”
“Moriah!” Dad throws his napkin on the table. “Enough!”
“Sorry,” I mumble, not sorry one bit.
I don’t say anything for the rest of dinner and get up to clear the plates before Dad asks. Jane follows me into the kitchen, her mouth set in a scowl.
“I know things are hard for you, but you’re acting out.” The cool way she says it grates on my nerves, as if she is an adult now that she’s in college and I’m still a whiny baby. “You’re not the only one in a new school. You’re not the only one who suddenly has to divide their time between divorced parents. This is hard on me, too, and it would be nice if once in a while I felt like you cared how I was doing. But it seems like all you care about is that diner.”
She sounds defeated, like she expects better from me and I’ve disappointed her again. I almost feel guilty. It’s true, I haven’t once called or visited, and I spend every day right outside her campus. I am curious about her new life. But now that she’s brought her snobby boyfriend here, I won’t ever visit her dorm room, because I don’t want to chance running into him.
Dad comes into the kitchen to dish out ice cream. Apparently this torture has one more course. “There’s a quiz tomorrow,” my voice trails off in a lie. “Can I be excused to study?”
Beat. Professor Riordan blinks. Spit collects in the corners of his mouth as he thinks. “Our guests will be gone soon. Come join us.”
I do. But I keep it to one-word answers when Dad rallies to ask whether I’ve joined any clubs at school.
When Jane and her boyfriend leave, I tell Dad I’ll clean up before hitting the books. He hovers in the hall for a minute before retreating to his study with a full glass of wine—part of my plan. I’m too pissed to talk and too agitated to go to my room. I need to get out of here. I need space to think. Space where I can breathe. Or dance.
Dad shuffles out of his study as I’m halfway up the stairs. Beat. The camera frames him in the doorway, a mess of books and papers in soft focus. “Moriah. You’re home late.” His brow furrows. It’s like he understands he’s supposed to yell at me, but no one fed him his lines.
I shrug off my backpack. “I told you, I was hanging out with friends. We went to the community meeting to save Haven. There’s going to be several more meetings.” If he asks me how it went, if he shows the slightest amount of interest, I’ll tell him that I’m in charge of organizing some kind of rally. Me. Crap. Why did I say yes, again?
For a minute, I picture him putting on a clean shirt and jeans and coming out to the event. Maybe he’d nudge the person next to him and say, That’s my kid. What would it look like if he were proud of me? Would his face break into a smile, or would he act stoic? When’s the last time he smiled, anyway?
He doesn’t say anything. He puts the kettle on and watches it. Then he fixes tea and walks away as if I’m not there. Latent parental instinct compelled him to say something, but he clearly doesn’t give a hoot. What I don’t understand is why it still bothers me.
When I get home on Wednesday, Jane is camped out in the living room with a jumbo coffee and an arsenal of healthy snacks. Books are scattered across the coffee table, their pages stained with highlights. “Nice hair,” she says. My face must look doubtful, because she adds, “I mean it. Sometimes I wish I could do something zany like that. Maybe after I bomb this econ test, I’ll shave it all off.”
“There’s nothing zany about fun hair.” I fall into the wing chair, Mom’s old favorite, and grab a few of Jane’s pretzels.
“Yeah, maybe not for you. Things are different at Harvard.”
I hide an eye roll by looking out the window. Why is it people who go to that stuck-up school can’t ever let you forget it? “Yeah, you freak out over getting a B.”
She cracks a hint of a smile, and I push on before she kicks me out of her study zone. “When you need a break, I’ve got the perfect distraction. We have to get Harvard Square reclassified as a historic district.” It’s the best way I can think of to stop all the landlords from raising rent so high that Haven and all the independent stores can’t afford it. Plus, the move will make Jane stand out on law school applications.
“How about I get through my midterms first?” Jane asks.
“But you’ll help after your exams? More stores have closed. There’s not a lot of time.”
“Nor is there a lot of time for me to study. Harvard is big leagues. I don’t have time for hobbies.”
I press my toes into the carpet. “But you’ll do it, yes?”
Jane groans, and it takes me back to May, to the day our parents officially split up. I remember going to the kitchen to talk to her, confused over the bomb that landed in our living room when my mother said that she didn’t love my father anymore, and she didn’t know if she ever had. Jane brushed me off that day, and she’s doing it again. “I have to ask you something,” she says.
Jane’s voice is flat, and I spend a panicked minute sure she’s going to tell me she’s engaged to her obnoxious boyfriend, and I’m going to have to pretend to tolerate him for the next fifty years. She’s too young to get married. I bet they haven’t even had sex, what with her rigorous study schedule. But maybe they have, and she’s pregnant with his baby, and I’ll be an auntie while I’m still in high school.
“Mom is worried, and I am too. I don’t know how you can live with all this.” She gestures around the living room.
“I just cleaned,” I mumble. “Sorry if it’s not the best housekeeping job, but I have to go to school and stuff.”
“Are you okay?”
I grab more pretzels. When did my sister get so chummy with Mom? Does Mom call Jane at school? Because she never calls me here. Not to mention, why did Mom put it on Jane to talk to me about this if she’s the one who’s worried? “Mom only cares how things look, instead of how things are—”
“That’s not true—”
“—well if she cares so much, then why did she leave?”
“It’s not that simple.”
I wipe pretzel crumbs from my mouth and flick my eyes to Jane, waiting for her to carry on.
“If he’s not keeping the house in order, what else is he forgetting to do? Pay the bills? You can’t do it all for him. He needs to pull it together before the power gets shut off or you get mice or something.” Jane shivers, then grabs a handful of pretzels.
“He’s getting worse,” I mumble.
Jane raises her eyebrows, as if she’s surprised we’re in agreement. “What else is happening?”
My voice shakes. “It’s not about what he’s doing. Although he did come home in a rage, and I got out of there fast. It’s everything he’s not doing. He wanders around in the same dirty clothes, looking about as clean as the homeless guys in the Square.”
Maybe I’ve been keeping Dad’s behavior a secret, not wanting to give Mom ammunition, but that’s hurt me. And him. “I keep thinking he’s going to pull out of it. Like one day I’ll come home, and there won’t be a pile of plates with moldy bits of cheese dumped by the sink, waiting for the dish fairy. He’ll be clean-shaven, and he’ll look at me and he’ll have something for dinner he didn’t steal from work.” I close my eyes hard, before I get all weepy.
“Have you told him this?”
“Did you hear the part where we don’t talk? Not an exaggeration.”
“Well, have you told Mom?”
I hunch into the chair. “Jesus, Jane. No. Mom’s different with you.” Her brown eyes skate over my face, and for a second I think my sister’s going to cry, and then I’ll need to comfort her.
But she pushes a hand through her hair and says, “No one knows, huh?”
“It’s fine. I’m used to it.” Jane holds out the pretzels, but I wave them away. “I won’t keep you from midterms. I wanted to let you know you were right, is all. I thought you might know what to do.”
“If he’s neglecting to provide for you, legally, Mom could—”
“Living with Mom is not the solution.” My voice is sharp.
“Okay, fine. If you feel safe here, then stay here. We’ll come up with a way to help Dad. In the meantime, what if you stop cleaning up after him?”
I laugh. “This place is going to be filthy by the end of the week. How is that going to help anything?”
“Keep your room clean. Wash your clothes. But the rest of it—let it be a mess. It’s his mess to deal with. She did everything for him, you know. On top of work and getting her real estate license and cooking us dinner.”
I hug my knees as my breath hitches. Jane carries on. “What if he needs to see how far gone he is to admit that he needs help? What if by cleaning up after him you’re making excuses for him? What if we all stop pretending this isn’t happening by brushing it under the rug?”
“Do you really think that will work?”
“One of my roommates is a psych major and she thinks it will, so… I don’t know, Rye. I don’t have any better ideas. I’ve been thinking it over since that godawful dinner. Going around in circles.”
“Yeah. Me too.” I try to suck back the tears and stay quiet, but the more I try to contain it, the more pressure wells up in my throat, so then I’m shaking too hard to get a breath in, which only kickstarts the tears. I run to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. My lips and eyes feel swollen, and my mouth is dry from the salt.
Jane raps on the bathroom door. “You know, Charles thinks a therapist might be good for Dad—and it might be good for you too, Rye.”
“I’ll think about it.” The last therapist kept asking about my same-sex experience, making what happened with Erica sound clinical. It’s normal to experiment, he said once, trying to get me to open up. After I heard Mom parroting back his psychobabble to me, I gave up. He didn’t actually want to help me. I told him what he wanted to hear and got really good at faking like everything was fine.
“We could go together. There are therapists who specialize in this—”
“I said I’ll think about it, okay?” I bite my lip to keep from falling apart again. I want to stay in the bathroom until the anger passes through me, but talking through doors feels like something he would do, and I don’t want to be like him.
When I open the door, Jane pulls me into a hug. We’re not big huggers and it’s startling at first, but as she rubs my back, I relax. “So you’ll help you with Haven?” I ask.
“Yes. I’ll help. Just—”
“I know. Midterms first.”
We spend the rest of the afternoon in the living room, studying together. I stretch out on the sofa and power through last week’s geometry homework. It feels good to have her here. Less lonely.
When Jane gets up to go, I walk her to the door and say she can come back and study anytime she likes. She’s got that distracted look on her face, and I can tell she’s in the middle of a scheme. “Don’t tell Mom,” I say.
Her face drops. “Mom’s not the enemy, you know?”
“Yeah. Sure. Just—I don't need her pressuring me any more than she already does.”
When I grab the mail off the porch, she harrumphs at me.
I hug the mail. “What? It could be for me. And I got the message: no more dish fairy.”
When she’s gone, I sort the mail into piles. Half of it has Mom’s name on it, and that throws me. I find a marker and scrawl on all her mail, No Longer Lives Here, until I’m gasping through another ugly cry.
The day of the rally, school feels surreal. I zone out through history and science lectures but pull together for a geometry quiz. I race through the areas of irregular shapes and hand in the quiz first, then spend the rest of the period doodling anti-gentrification slogans.
That’s what matters. Not the stuff we’re learning in Mr. Harper’s class, even though he’s one of the best teachers here. Organizing for Haven has made me more of a fighter than Longfellow ever could. I’ve learned more planning the rally and looking up public speaking tips than I have all year in English class.
I find Sam after school, and we walk over to the library where we meet the other protestors. We’re all too pumped to stand still. People chatter nervously as we squish onto the narrow, cracked sidewalks and head toward Mass Ave.
Sam and I pause at the corner and unfurl our banner, which says Defend Harvard Square. The street is already congested with traffic. The more, the merrier. We shift the banner so it faces the cars. A few drivers honk in support while, over by the Y, the senior stretch set waves as we pass. We pause outside City Hall, where people sit and soak up the late afternoon sun. A few of the protestors weave through the crowds, passing out flyers. Someone starts chanting, “Defend Harvard Square,” and the chant ripples through our group.
We walk on, our voices growing stronger as we draw closer to the Square. I imagine greedy administrators in their ivory towers picking up our chant. Running to their windows. Locking the doors. They never thought we’d come for them. Never thought we’ve have the guts. The tall brick wall with its twenty-seven iron gates comes into sight. Here we are. Ground zero. Sam and I raise fists when we spot a photographer in front of one of the gates, a camera to his eye.
Harvard student activists fall in with us as we cross to the Pit. The hippies are drumming us in, and I’ve never been so glad to see tie-dye and Grateful Dead tees. The diner regulars turn to stare out the window at all the commotion. Smiles break over their faces as they spot our banner.
The anarchists are the first ones up. They climb on top of the glass enclosure over the subway station and start dancing. “That’s gonna get us shut down,” I whisper to Sam.
Sam starts us a chant: “Speak truth to power!” We link arms as we sing and chant for an hour until the Harvard coalition passes a megaphone to a pastor who does hunger relief at a local church.
As the pastor starts talking about the moral stakes of gentrifying the Square, Jane threads her way through the crowd. She squeezes in beside me and throws an arm over my shoulder. We all fall silent and listen. The pastor is fiery, and he gets me fired up to the point where I don’t feel worried about the city meeting. I feel clarity, right down to my gut, that justice is on our side. If I could storm city hall right now, I would do it. I fight back tears while everyone claps and yells.
As the pastor wraps up, the crowd thins out. Sam folds up the banner and says she’ll take it home until the big meeting. Jane waits until I’ve said all my goodbyes, and then we walk off toward Dad’s house. I’m still floating on all that incredible protest energy as we enter the house, but as I see the house through Jane’s eyes I come crashing down.
“What’s the smell?” she asks in the front hall.
“Dishes. Check the sink.”
She shakes her head. “It’s like sweat and acid and musty clothes.” She shifts around me and starts opening all the windows. “I hope it’s not a dead mouse.”
I drop my bag. “Where do you want me to start, the kitchen?”
“Hang on.” Her voice sounds far away. She’s by the door to his study, and she’s trying a skeleton key. The door pops open. She presses her way in. “Eeew. You weren’t kidding.”
“Duh,” I call out. “I’m starting in here.”
By the time she catches up with me, I’ve wiped down all the counters and done a full rack of dishes. Jane hops on the counter. “I just cleaned that,” I sigh.
“Yeah. That’s why I’m sitting there.” Her face is pickled.
“You gonna help or watch?”
“I’m gonna get us help. There’s nothing to eat.”
“Never is!”
“I told Charles what we were doing, and he offered his assistance. Tell me what you want from Haven, and I’ll have him bring us dinner. And some air fresheners.”
We divide and conquer and it still takes two hours to get the house looking reasonable. Trash bags pile by the front door as Jane drags I don’t know what from all corners of the house. She’s got one of my bandanas wrapped around her mouth.
When Jane and I go outside for fresh air, I slump against the porch railing. You can feel winter in the air. See it in the intense orange glow of the sun that cuts through bare branches, then sinks out of sight. I go over my cleaning checklist, trying to keep calm.
Jane hops up and runs to Charles, who’s a block away. I can hear the strain in her voice, and I can tell she’s been trying to hide it from me. Must be worse than I thought. Charles gives me a quick smile as they walk up to the house. I follow them inside but stop when Jane drags him into the study.
I head into the kitchen to make myself a plate. Not that I asked, but Charles brought a whole pie. Pumpkin. Extra whipped cream. I cut a small slice and eat standing up by the sink, and that’s how Charles finds me when he comes in carrying the vomitous blankets from Dad’s study. I rush to get the door to the washing machine for him. When the wash is in and he’s scrubbing his hands in the sink, I thank him. “It means a lot that you showed up. You really don’t have to be here.”
He dries his hands on a dishtowel, then holds one out to me. “You’re brave. I know that’s a dumb thing people say when they don’t know what else to say, but I mean it.”
I cut him a slice of pie and hide my smile. We eat together, and it feels like we’re sharing a secret. I was way too quick to judge Charles, but he’s here. He showed up.
I haven’t told my friends about Dad’s drinking, I’ve been too ashamed, but now I wonder: Who would show up for me, if I let them in?
Jane and Charles are in the living room with Dad while I put together a plate of snacks, noshing on a cheese cube as if it can counteract the dread in my stomach. This feels like an ambush.
I drop the plate on the coffee table and grab an armchair across from my father. Jane and Charles sit on opposite ends of the sofa. They reach for a snack at the same time, and I wonder if I’ll ever be that in tune with someone.
Everyone nibbles on cheese as my dad chats with Jane about school. He’s engaged this time, asking all the right questions, but I can’t relax. I know what comes next because we’ve practiced it a dozen times, the three of us, with Charles role-playing for Dad. I grab another cheese cube and shred it into bits, appetite gone, and then I start to play with my hair to give my hands something to do.
Jane studies her lap and says, “Dad. There’s something we need to talk to you about.” Her voice starts strong but ends flat, so I flash her a smile with my eyes. Dad grabs his wine glass, and I can’t decide if he knows what’s coming. Jane carries on; her voice is monotone because it’s the only way she can get the words out without crying. “We love you and we’re worried. Last time I was over here, I found empty bottles in your office. My roommate is in one of your classes, and she said you lose track of your thoughts.”
“It’s called getting old, Janie.”
“You’re not that old, Dad. I think it’s something else. I think you’ve been drinking too much. Since the divorce.” Jane flicks her eyes at me. My gut tightens. This is where I’m supposed to come in and back her up, but all my prepared thoughts flew out of my brain.
“I can stop anytime I want,” he says, with an edge to his voice.
Charles pushes the wine bottle down the coffee table, away from my father. The look my father gives him is like nothing I’ve seen.
“Bullshit.” My voice shakes. I feel hot and jittery, and I need more water but I can’t get up now that they’re all looking at me. “Maybe you think that, Dad, but we don’t. We’re worried.”
“Who is this royal we?” he sneers. “Don’t tell me your mother. That bitch.”
“Don’t talk about my mother like that!” I yell, remembering once Jane shoots me death eyes that we’re supposed to be gentle with him. I’m fucking this up. I run my hands down my legs, trying to find my way back to calm. I’m trembling so hard, but my legs feel like bricks. “I’m worried. I’m here with you and I see bottles in the recycling, in the office, in the kitchen, even though you try to hide it. I’m scared. I’m scared of you when you drink, if you wanna know, and I’m scared for you. You could get really sick.”
I snatch another cheese cube even though I don’t want it. My dad swills the rest of his wine. He starts to reach for the bottle but pulls back. He sits back against the sofa and then he looks at me, really looks at me. I blink under his gaze. Speak truth to power. “We care about you,” I tell him. “I care about you.”
Dad looks small and scared. He jingles the change in his pockets. “Okay,” he says. Whispers it really, though the word reverberates around the room.
