Chapter 10 Night of Broken Pictures

POV Scarlett:

After almost three hours, I finally arrived home. I’m tired and very irritated. It took me an hour and a half to get my father’s car back, and as if I wasn’t exhausted enough, I had to drive from Detroit to Ann Arbor. The trip was quicker this time because I floored the accelerator. The little savings I had kept for an emergency had to be used to pay the small fine for parking in an unauthorized spot.

Unauthorized, my ass.

All of this is that asshole’s fault.

I hear the television blasting as soon as I open the door; all the irritation drains away and is replaced by apprehension. My father won’t be happy that I was late; since I wasn’t home to make his lunch, he probably didn’t eat. If I don’t watch over him, he doesn’t eat properly, and I don’t want him to get sick. I can’t lose my father — I already lost my mother, and it’s more suffering than I can bear.

I hung my car key on the little hook beside the door and hurried to the kitchen to prepare a quick meal. I’m hungry too, and this will be a good chance for us to eat together like we used to. I miss the relationship we had, but I understand my father and his reaction; I’ll give him the time he needs to get through what happened.

I opened the fridge looking for ingredients when the sound of footsteps made me close the door and face my father with his shirt open, barefoot, his face confirming that he’d drunk too much again.

“Where were you?” His voice slurred with alcohol; I sighed, bracing myself for what I’ll have to endure.

“I went to the interview for that job I told you about,” I replied, keeping my hands busy washing the tomatoes. An omelet will have to suffice until I can make a more elaborate dinner.

“And did you get it?” The mockery in his voice didn’t go unnoticed.

That’s my father — the man who believes in his own daughter the least. There was a time he wasn’t like this. I think of it with a pain in my heart.

“I have to wait for the call to know if I got it.” I hated myself for lying, but I’m not in a place right now to hear my father’s criticism.

“I doubt you’ll get it.” He turned away, heading back to his old armchair in the living room.

I went back to chopping tomatoes, not caring about the tears rolling down my face. This will pass, I know it will; I just need to keep being strong. If it weren’t for the reserve from the farm my father sold, I don’t know where we’d be today. I need to find a job soon; there wasn’t much left of that money. Mom’s treatment was expensive, and I need to sort this out before things get worse.

I sighed, knowing I’ll have to find a way.

...

It was past one in the morning and I couldn’t sleep; I was worried about my father’s dependence on alcohol — each day he drinks more. What started as a couple of fingers of whiskey escalated, and now my father drinks a bottle a day. Admitting him to a clinic is out of the question; he would never allow it. I also wouldn’t be ready to leave him in the care of people I don’t know. It’s because of the grief that he’s like this; it will pass soon. That’s what I believe, and I fervently hope I’m right.

I got out of bed to go to the kitchen for a glass of milk. Maybe that will bring back my sleep. I took a few steps and the loud sound of breaking glass alarmed me. I ran toward my father’s room and found him on his knees crying with a bottle in his hand, the picture frames with photos of him and my mother shattered on the floor beside him.

“Dad.” I crouched in front of him, but I didn’t have a chance to comfort him — he pushed me, making me lose my balance and fall onto the broken glass.

“It’s all your fault!” he screamed, accusing me once again. “You’re a disgrace, a whore who killed your mother with shame.”

Tears filled my eyes; I didn’t know whether they came from the pain of the cuts the glass had made on my legs, or from what my father had said. Probably the latter.

“Dad, get up — you’re going to cut yourself.” I tried to touch him, but a slap to my hand made me pull it back.

“I’m tired of you touching me,” he muttered. Staggering, he managed to stand up; I breathed a sigh of relief when he was no longer in immediate danger from the shards. “I’m disgusted with you; I’m ashamed to call you my daughter.” He laughed while crying; seeing my father like that breaks my heart.

“Dad, lie down for a bit.”

“Don’t order me around!” he roared, throwing the bottle against the wall. “I want you out of this house immediately.” I nodded; this isn’t the first time he’s kicked me out, and I know it won’t be the last.

“All right, I’m leaving — just calm down, please.” I turned and ran to my room to change clothes.

When I came out of my room, dressed with a backpack on, my father was already waiting for me with the front door open. I lowered my head and passed by him without saying a word. I walked five blocks around the neighborhood, giving my father time to cry while holding the photo of him and my mother from their wedding day, and to fall asleep from sadness.

After I was sure enough time had passed, I went back home and found him asleep in the armchair with the photo clutched to his chest. I turned off the television, covered his body with a blanket, kissed his head, and returned to my room.

I need to rest — tomorrow I’ll go back to job hunting. If it were anyone else I’d tell them to leave this house and never accept living like this again, but I can’t do that. He’s my father and he’s suffering. I’ll be by his side as long as I can, and I won’t let him push me away. Never.