Page 57 of Ladybirds

Seth appears at her father’s elbow, staring down at him with a perplexed frown. Sara looks back down at her plate to avoid the temptation to read the meaning between his furrowed brow.

“His name is Miles,” she says. “We’ve become good friends.”

Again, her father nods. “Good. That’s good.”

Seth’s head tilts. The questions in his eyes match her own.

“Princess, wake up.”

She groans, opening her eyes. Seth hovers over her. “Wha—”

He hushes her, a finger to his lips. “There’s something I believe you should see, but you must be quiet.”

Sara frowns, trying to rub the sleep from her eyes. There’s one muddled question at the forefront of her thoughts, but there’s an edge in his gaze that tells her not to ask.

To trust him.

Her chest tightens, a thread of fear winding around her heart. Nodding, she pulls the covers back and stands. Seth’s eyes flit over her Santa themed pajamas with a hint of a laugh hiding at the corner of his mouth, but makes no comment. It’s his silence that makes Sara’s heart race as she follows him, quietly, out of her room.

Her father’s on the back porch, which isn’t all that unusual, but the open expression on his face is. She takes another quiet step closer and is alarmed to see a wetness to his cheeks. Then she registers his voice, low and deep, filtering through the cracked kitchen window, and stills.

“—old bat, and I blamed you for a whole lot of shit you weren’t really responsible for, but I bet you’re laughing up there now. Aren’t you? How many times did you tell me, Gertie?” He looks at the unopened beer in his hands, thumb picking at the label. “How many damn times, and I still didn’t listen.” He sighs, a large hand running over his face as he looks across the horizon.

Sara feels her heart seize at the mention of her grandmother’s name; a still healing wound scraped raw.

“I’m losing her. Just like you said I would. Have been for a long time, now, if we’re being honest. I used to blame you for it—for taking her all the time. Hard to compete against real food and cookies, you know? It was an easy excuse. I know that now. You’ve only been gone a short time and I’m already seeing it. No one but myself to blame, though. Ain’t that right?” He laughs, the sound strangled and wet, and presses his temple against the glass bottle in his grip. “Oh, Gertie. I’ve gone and fucked it all up.”

His face is hidden from her, but Sara can see the way his shoulders shake—hear the soft gasping between hiccuped breaths. She’s only ever seen him cry one other time in her life; a week after her mother left them and it became clear she wasn’t coming back. It was late—hours past the time she should have fallen asleep. He had thrown his empty beer bottle down the driveway, screaming curses until he became hoarse. Sara watched from the window, frozen and terrified, as he sank to his knees, buried his face in his hands, and sobbed.

This is different. There’s no anger in him tonight, no broken bottles, only resignation. Sara quietly slips away, drifting down the hall with her heart in her throat and an unsteadiness in her feet.

When she curls back up in her childhood bed, quilt pulled up to her chin, she whispers into the darkness. “Does it even matter?” Is being sorry enough, is loving her enough, when all her father’s given her the past sixteen years are bruised memories?

“Yes,” Seth says, voice soft.

Sara swallows, eyes tracing the slanted shadow of the blinds on the wall. Her father left the front porch light on. “He’s never going to stop drinking.” Because she knows, at the end of the day, that’s the biggest thing standing between them. His anger—all the hurt that stems from it—is the symptom and not the disease. There’s no filter when there’s alcohol in his system; no empathy to rein him in from selfishness. Perhaps, if he were to stop—

No.

She won’t let herself go down that road of what-ifs and maybes. He’ll never quit, not long term, because he’ll never bother to really try. Because, at the end of the day, that’s the kind of person her father is: someone who will complain about everything being wrong but never step up to help make it right.

Seth sits on the foot of the bed. It’s perturbing to see him perched there, but not feel his weight dipping the mattress. “No. I rather suspect he won’t.” He meets her eyes, sympathy in his gaze. “I’m sorry. I thought—” he cuts off with a shadowed laugh. “No, I suppose I wasn’t thinking at all. Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps it doesn’t matter.”

Sara curls into her pillow, thinking of the way her father’s tears shone under the porch light and feels her chest tighten. Her father loves her enough to recognize the rift he’s sown over the years, but not enough to fix it. Sara can’t decide if that makes it better or worse.

She swallows thickly, gravel in her throat. Eyes burning, she blinks away the threat of tears and rolls over to face the wall. Her old country music poster, a remnant from her childhood, stares back at her with faded ink and curling edges. She used to listen to that album on repeat, wishing the happy songs resonated more than the sad ones.

“It matters,” she whispers, voice cracking. “Just not enough.”

“Fathers can be a right piece of work, I’m afraid. If it’s any consolation, you’re far from being the first person with daddy issues—certainly not the last.”

There’s a bitter edge to his tone that catches her attention. When she looks over her shoulder, he is staring through the slots in the blinds with a pensive frown. “Was yours?”

Seth turns to her, mouth twisting into a sneer. “A piece of work? Without question.” He shrugs. “Though, I suppose it’s unfair to complain, times being so different and all. I rather suspect you’d be hard pressed to find more legitimately happy families than miserable ones.”

She sits up, back resting against the headboard and hugging her pillow to her chest. “You never talk about it.” At his curious glance, she adds, “Your life before.”

There’s an almost imperceptible stiffening of his shoulders, but his expression remains neutral. “It’s a long time gone. Hardly worth your time.”

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