My paperwork
“I bet it did. I could barely stand to look at him. Lately, I wore his weakness like a dog tag, and I was embarrassed that the main reason Paul and Hall spent so much time protecting me was because they knew Dad couldn't.”
They never talked about it, but we all knew why they spent so much time quietly protecting my business.
I needed the money. It would have solved all our problems. Dad looked at me with eyes imploring me for understanding, but I turned away.
“No, Dad. Fuck no!”
His eyes widened.
What do you think you've done with our problems? How do you think we'll manage when there's more alcohol in your urine than behind the bar? I could barely contain the anger behind my cutting words and stiff movements.
Dad slumped into the chair behind my desk and it creaked ominously under the sudden weight. The drawer he opened also creaked in protest.
“What are you doing now?” The last thing I needed was for him to start interfering with my paperwork.
“My planner,” she muttered, and the image of her old black leather notepad came to mind.
As a child, and Dad always smiled and encouraged me, I loved to see that book in his hands because it always heralded the appearance of some funny friend. That was when I thought Dad ruled the world. Before Mom died and Dad became something else. Before he became this.
I sighed and shook my head. I no longer thought about those early days of my childhood. I could barely remember them and they were as far from the present as rainbow unicorns and fairytale castles. I had taken responsibility for my father's ruin for so long that I had stopped believing that my Prince Charming could ever come to my rescue. Or any kind of royalty, for that matter. But low-ranking nobles also tended to avoid me.
Now, however, if I saw even the slightest hint of a royal crown and monogram, or a knight on any white steed, I would close the door anyway. I had nothing to offer any man; I hadn't even finished high school because I'd spent too many days filling in for Dad, babysitting Dad, playing Dad by email to keep the business going.
Besides, I had no experience of any kind to offer any man. Being a virgin at twenty-eight didn't bother me. After all, there were things people just didn't have time to do yet, and having sex competed with cleaning the office for priority on my to-do list. That said, virginity wasn't exactly a draw in those days. I was practically grown up now, and each passing day made me less confident that it was actually a good quality. After all, society had left the days of purity behind; experience was certainly what mattered now. At my age, at least.
Some days-on the rare days I had free time-I wished I could be like any other woman my age, with the ability to be carefree, maybe even a little sexy. Attractive. Desirable. I hadn't gone down that road yet, and I was missing something I never had.
Dad was still rummaging through the drawer, and I turned my focus back to him. “Your contacts?” I spat. “What the hell good is your bookie to you now? You've spent all your money, Dad. What you haven't bet, you've swallowed. You're throwing it away.”
He flinched, but didn't look at me as he continued to rummage through the contents of the drawer. I shrugged as I watched him. What did it matter if he ruined my filing system? We were already ruined.
He had already made sure of that.
“I can't be here with you right now. “ I scrunched the bridge of my nose and drew in a sharp breath, trying to hold back the tears that were suddenly stinging behind my eyelids. Frustration washed over me, but I expelled it as despair. Look what you've done to us, Dad! We have nothing left. You've taken everything, and I... I can't fix this.
The words left me empty, and I dug in my pocket for my last dollars and some change. Eight dollars and sixty-three cents. And it was all I had left in the world. I peeled off the five dollar bill and left it on the corner of the desk. Dad looked up from where he was flipping through the notebook he had found. He had been looking at each page as if he needed to wait for his eyes to focus before reading the words.
He stared at me for a moment. “What's that for?”
“I'm taking you home, Dad. I can't do this with you tonight. I don't have anything left. I can't handle anything anymore. “ Exhaustion echoed in my voice. I was exhausted and drained.
Dad turned his attention back to the finely lined pages. “I've got this,” he muttered.
I drove home in a near daze. On autopilot. I didn't even enjoy the sight of the Spanish moss covering the live oaks as I approached home. Instead, tonight, even in the dark, every flaw and crack in the paint on our house screamed loudly. I knew exactly which rotten boards to avoid on the old porch, and the rattling of the pipes as I filled the bathtub was familiar, yet nerve-wracking.
Dilapidation. Dilapidation.
On the verge of bloody ruin.
“Oh, Mom. “ A sigh of regret escaped my lips as I slid into a bathtub that was barely lukewarm.
We once had a house full of staff and lush gardens that stretched to the edge of a swamp. The pancakes were gorgeous then, instead of gnarled and sloppy like they are now. Try as I might, some maintenance jobs were always at the bottom of my list. Yard work was usually at the bottom.
At the top of my to-do list was always Dad. Keeping him barely functioning was second nature. Then I had to keep the Pour House running to make sure we had some money and, at the same time, maintain Mom's legacy. Finally, I cooked and did the laundry, and that was pretty much it. Chores around the house, gardening, repairs. They just didn't happen. Either the problems solved themselves or I learned to ignore them.
I lay completely still in the rapidly cooling bath water until my guts roared. I wasn't even close to relaxing, but I got out before getting dressed and heading for the kitchen. As I crossed the house, I walked past my floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and ran my fingers over the books, but I didn't feel like picking one out. Nothing could escape reality today, not books, much less television. Last month we'd run out of cable because of one overdue bill too many, and now my TV sat dark and silent in the corner like some kind of post-modern ornament. I was pretty sure I was judging myself, really.