Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
“I doubt it,” I say, my patience way thinner than normal. Whether it’s the pain in my abdomen and shoulder or Weaver’s outsider’s perspective making me see the dysfunction of my family in a new light, I can’t say. I only know that I don’t hesitate before I add, “Love is about showing up for people, and he hasn’t shown up for me or Gramps in a long time. But we’ve shown up for him, and I’m ready to show up again by paying for his treatment from my savings. Tell him that.” I start to walk away, only to turn back at the last minute and add, “And tell him that if he doesn’t go, if he didn’t mean what he said in the message that he left for me, then he can forget he has a daughter.”
Cathy’s jaw drops, but I don’t stick around to see what she’s going to stay when she stops sputtering. I pull up the website for the rehab center with income-adjusted admission and place my call, moving toward the railing overlooking the atrium for privacy.
Twenty minutes later, I have a bed reserved for Dad at the second place I called, which thankfully takes Dad’s insurance. It won’t pay for everything—we’ll still have to pay the three-thousand-dollar deductible—but they have room to take him tonight and a successful six-week program that has solid online reviews.
I tell them I’ll call back when I know Dad’s estimated arrival time and head into the waiting room to rejoin the family.
Cathy’s sitting in the corner, looking like the cat who got sprayed with water and denied her daily dose of catnip, but when I tell her I found a bed for Dad, she nods.
“Okay,” she says, waving her phone in the air. “He said he’s ready to go as soon as I come get him, but I know he’d like to see his dad first. So, we’ll just swing by here on our way and—”
“No, he should go straight to the center,” I cut in, my gut assuring me this is the best way. The less time Dad has to worry about what rehab is going to be like before he’s there, the better.
And selfishly, I don’t want to see him again right now. I’m in too much pain—emotional and physical—and I’m not sure I would be able to hold back all the angry things I want to say. That wouldn’t be good for me or Dad, and sometimes, it’s okay to be selfish.
It isn’t even “selfish,” I realize as I stand firm throughout Aunt Cathy’s second attempt to wheedle me into changing my mind. This is self-preservation. My father has probably sobered up by now, but there’s no doubt he’s still exhausted from his drunken run-in with the law and the fight with Weaver. Not to mention craving a drink. He’s in no place to handle a stressful situation like seeing his father fresh out of surgery.
Besides, as I remind Cathy, “He was kicked out of the hospital. They’re not going to let him walk back in. Not if they see him coming, and I don’t see how they could miss him in a blood-spattered shirt.” Cathy’s lips part, and I quickly add, “Don’t say you can take him home to change or buy him a shirt or whatever you were going to say. He’s going to rehab. That’s it. If you don’t want to take him, I can order a car service.”
Weaver offered to arrange for the service, but I don’t feel right asking him to help any more than he has already.
He’s already done enough for the man who assaulted him by giving him a chance to clean up his act. From now on, I intend to do my damnedest to make sure my family drama doesn’t touch Weaver in any way. He’s been so understanding and wonderful, but I know everyone has a limit to how much crazy they’ll tolerate from their significant other’s family, and I don’t want to push Weaver’s.
Because hearing him say “I love you” at the end of his message?
It was by far the best thing to happen to me today. Even in the midst of all the insanity and pain and disappointment and fear for Gramps, those three words made me feel like I was sixteen again and Henry Chandler just asked me to the prom after the first beach volleyball game of the summer.
It also made me feel like a grown ass woman for the first time in my life.
I’ve been “grown” for a while now, but working with family means I’m still treated like a kid most of the time. To Gramps, I’ll always be that ratty haired little girl he brought home after her parents abandoned her. As far as he’s concerned, all my problems can be solved by ordering pizza and letting me watch cartoons, and it’s inappropriate to go any deeper than saying “your dad tries” when discussing the failures of the man who helped bring me into this world.