Hi there, I’ve been in the hospital this week so I’m sharing a story this time around. I hope you’re cool with it. I’m home and I’ll be okay, but I’m not up for writing a traditional blog post this week. This is my story from Writer's Digest short story competition. They had over 1600 entries and only three winners. I didn’t win anything, but I like my story. I may publish it in an anthology eventually. You get to read it now, lucky you!
Twenty-eight Years by E.N. Chanting ©2023
Arriving at my dad's duplex ten minutes late, I'm prepared to hear some yelling and cursing. I wasn’t expecting to find my dad passed out on the couch and my little brother entertaining himself. Maybe I should’ve guessed it when he poured vodka into his orange juice at breakfast.
I shake his shoulder, “Dad! Wake up. We have to get Tom home for dinner.” He doesn’t budge. I get my brother packed up from our weekend stay and load the car. I try to wake dad again.
“Tom, please go wait in the car, we'll be right out.”
“Dad! Seriously, get up right now!” I shake him hard as I yell in his face.
“Whaa? Why you shaking me?” His eyes flutter as he pries them open.
“Dad! Tom is waiting in the car. You told mom you’d have us back on time. We have to go now!”
“So’kay, I’m ready. Ooooh, yeah, let’s, let’s, go,” He mumbles, stumbling across the room with the car keys.
“Dad! You’re not wearing a shirt, or shoes, get dressed!” My voice cracks, I’m not usually one to yell.
“So'kay, can’t be late, your mother…” He trips down the single step and out the door.
“Dammit! Dad, what are you doing!?!”
After locking the front door, I follow him. When I open the car door my little brother is in the front seat. Dad is lying in the back seat, out cold.
“Okay, kiddo, I’m driving. Put on your seatbelt,” I tell Tom.
Yeah, I’m 15. The law requires a licensed adult in the front seat when a student driver only has a learner’s permit. I start the car and the gas gage needle doesn’t raise above ‘E’. I have to put gas in the car, not to mention drive it on an expressway. I’m talking I-95 in South Florida, Miami. I've never driven on an interstate before. At least I’m pretty good with the manual transmission.
My first priority is a gas station. I’ve never done this before either, I’m likely gaining valuable knowledge, cue eye roll. Dear old dad left his house in only a pair of shorts, no wallet. I don’t know if you remember being 15. For me, it’s a time when every penny counts. Yep, I have a crappy job, at a crappy restaurant. I had to lie to get it, too. I work hard for that money, scrubbing toilets hard. I’m upset I have to use my hard-earned money to put gas in his tank. I have $6.52, and that’s the amount I ask the guy inside the glass box, to put on pump 7.
Once we get safely on the highway, I think about the situation we are in right now. Our dad is passed out drunk. His child had to use her money to fill the gas tank, and then, drive us home. How many times has this happened during the weeks I’ve been dating Steve and skipping my visits to dad's house? How many times has he driven drunk with my little brother in the car? My eyes water, guilt overwhelms me.
Despite his status as a little brother, I really love Tom. He’s smart and funny, he entertains me all the time. It would kill me if something happened to him, we have a special bond.
That’s it, I make the decision to stop all visits with our dad until he quits drinking. Things happen quickly when I pull up at home. Tom hops out of the car and runs to the door happy to be home. I open the hatchback and collect our bags. Inside the house I corner our mother and ask her for help.
“Mom, I drove home. Dad is passed out drunk,” Her eyes grow wide, and her lips press into an angry line.
“Please help me. I don’t want him to die driving home like this. Please let him come inside and have some coffee and a sandwich or something. Please,” I implore her to set aside her anger, save my dad, and anyone on the road who might get in his way.
“Fine, he can come in. I'll go put on some coffee. But we are going to talk about this.” I squeeze her in a quick hug and run through the door. My dad is standing outside his yellow Toyota. His eyes squint against the sun. His hair is disheveled, his whiskers unshaved, confusion mars his face.
“C’mon, mom says you can come inside. We'll have a snack and some coffee,” I raise my chin and pray he will listen, or God will. I reach out and grasp his arm, attempting to steer him towards the house. Yanking his arm free, he covers his chest. He runs a hand through his messy hair.
Turning away from me he says, “Nah, I’m not dressed, I don’t have any shoes. I can’t let your mother see me like this,” He rounds the back of the car.
“No, dad! It's okay. She said it’s okay. I told her you were tired, and we left without your shoes. Please dad. Please!” I chase after him around the car. He grabs the keys from the seat and sits behind the wheel.
“No, I can’t let your mother see me. I'll call you later. Okay? Thanks,” He starts the car.
Tears fill my eyes. I’m trembling.
“Dad. Please don’t drive. You can stay out here. I’ll bring you coffee. Please,” I beg with my hands pressed together.
He nods, “Yeah, okay, go get me some coffee.”
“Thank you! I'll be right back,” I tear off around the car as relief fills me, pushing me faster. The car clicks into gear and the engine revs as he pulls away. I spin, my jaw hanging open. I snap my teeth together and run after him.
“Dad! No! Please! Don’t go, please!” tears refill my eyes and overflow them. I chase after him, he races off. I collapse onto the sidewalk sobbing, I’m so scared. Yes, my brother is safe. My dad isn’t. What if he kills someone? What if he kills a family with a car full of kids? I hiccup as my sobs continue. My brain floods with horrific images of blood and gore, caused by my father.
“Sweetie, what are you doing out here? Come on, let’s go inside. How about some cookies to cheer you up?”
“Thanks mom. Sorry, I don’t think I can eat right now,” I sniffle as I stand up and brush off my legs.
“What did he say?” She asks in a soft voice.
“He said he was embarrassed for you to see him shirtless and shoeless. I convinced him to let me bring him a cup of coffee,” I sniff again, “Then, he drove off. Mom, I’m so scared he’s going to die, or hurt someone else.” My tears refresh and soak my freckled skin.
My mom hugs me with one arm as she guides me to a seat at the kitchen counter. She squeezes me once I’m seated. She makes a glass of chocolate milk and puts out a plate of her famous chocolate chip cookies. She pours herself a cup of coffee and sits across from me.
Her head tilts to the side examining me as she asks, “Are you going to be, okay?”
“No. Not until I know he’s home safe and hasn’t caused any accidents. I don’t care what your custody agreement says. Tom and I are not going to visit, or go anywhere with him, until he stops drinking. How many times has he driven Tom without me there? I had to put gas in his car, he doesn’t even have his wallet.”
“Son of a bitch! Sorry, I mean dammit! Ugh!” She fights her anger. Her face is red, her hands fisted. Dad's lucky she didn’t talk to him. She’s pissed.
“I don’t care. Let it out, punch a pillow. I’m not at the anger phase yet, I’m still too scared,” the stupid tears return.
Tom comes bouncing into the room oblivious in his little boy head. He’s been struggling with our parent’s very recent divorce. I can’t tell if he’s truly unaware or blocking it out. I quickly swipe away my tears with a napkin and paste on a fake smile for his benefit.
“I’m hungry mom, when's dinner going to be ready?” he queries in earnest.
“In a few minutes, why don’t you go wash up?” Her manufactured smile looks better than mine. More years of practice I suppose.
When dad calls to check in the next day, mom lets him have it. I refuse to speak to him. We don’t hear anything else from him for almost three weeks. Finally, he calls and tells mom he has been sober for two weeks. He's taking it one day at a time.
He was sober 28 years when he died in 2010.
~The End~
As always, thanks for reading!