Page 2 of Motorycle Daddies

I roll my eyes, realizing it’s going to be a while before I get to sleep.

“Thank you so much for that. You really didn’t have to. Where are you? I’ll come get him out of your hair.”

“We’re at the corner of Fifth and Main. I got him some water to hydrate him. He’s kind of sitting in my passenger seat right now.”

I’m already standing up and grabbing some pants to slide over my pajama shorts. “I’ll be right there. No worries.”

I hang up before she can say anything sympathetic like she always does. I’m probably going to hear it when I get there in person, anyway. Every time I show up to rescue him, everyone’s always so sorry for me.

It gets old.

I grab my keys and purse and rush out the door to my car, not even bothering to brush my hair or anything. I don’t want her to have to deal with him if he ends up becoming belligerent as he comes to. I’m sure she deals with that enough in her day job, especially being a nurse in the middle of Vegas.

However, as much as I feel sorry for her, I’m extremely grateful that she’s kept him from going to jail. As a college student, I certainly don’t have the money—especially with him gambling all of his money away—to get him out of jail.

Traffic is light, so the drive doesn’t take long. Sundays aren’t as rowdy as Fridays and Saturdays, though it’s Vegas so there’s always some level of busy—other people gambling their life savings away and getting too drunk or too high. The difference is that most of them come from out of town on vacation. And they usually don’t have their daughters coming to rescue them.

When I get there, I see he’s practically unconscious. How much did he have this time?

He shifts around a little and moans every once in a while. He tries to say a few things under his breath as I put one of his arms over my shoulder so I can try to get him into my car. Nurse Hadley helps, and the effort of getting him to my passenger seat is so much that we don’t talk.

It’s a nice reprieve from what’s to come. I really don’t want to face the reality of his behavior and how it makes me look.

Sure enough, once it’s done, she looks at me with those eyes—the eyes of someone who feels sorry for the girl with the drunk dad. I look anywhere but her eyes.

“Are you sure you’ll be able to get him home okay? I can try to get him to the hospital and admitted if that saves you the trouble.”

Just what we need, another medical bill because he needs to dry out.

I shake my head. “I’ll run through somewhere and get him some coffee, try to sober him up enough so he can help me walk him into the house. I’ve dealt with this before.”

Nurse Hadley gives me a nod, as if she knows intimately that I’ve done this before. Though I’m sure the number of times would scare her. Hell, it scares me.

“Well, if you ever need anything, you have my phone number now. It’s my cell.”

“Of course. You’ve done enough tonight. I really appreciate this, again,” I say while climbing into the car, trying to avoid any further conversation. All I want to do is get to bed and go to sleep so I can forget the utter humiliation of this moment.

It takes almost an hour to sober him up enough to get him into the house without help. I manage to kind of lump him into bed and get his shoes off before he rolls over and starts snoring.

Usually, I stay in the room trying to make sure he doesn’t puke and choke on it. But I’m so exhausted and angry at this point that I don’t bother. This time, I slip back into bed, and while it’s a restless sleep, at least I don’t have a problem getting there.

The first thing I do when I wake up is make some coffee. It’s instant, this blackish-brownish sludge that reminds me of something that would end up in a public toilet rather than in a cup, but it’s what we can afford. And something about it always gets my father sobered up quicker than the fancy stuff.

I have every intention of having a conversation with him before I leave today. I can’t keep doing this with him—he’s too old, and I’m too busy. He needs to understand the impact he’s having on my life and get one of his own. A safe and nice life. One suited for a man in his fifties.

He comes shuffling into the room thanks to all the banging I’ve done in the kitchen. The best way to get him in here is to take advantage of his hangover. He sounds like something out of Shaun of the Dead as he comes to get a cup of this foul-smelling sludge that I’ve put in his favorite mug for him.

“Why don’t you sit down at the table this morning?” I suggest curtly, my lips pursed. My voice and expression make me feel like I’m acting like a mother more than a daughter. I guess I’m getting plenty of practice for when it’s my actual turn to be a parent.

He gives me a look, but he must see something there that lets him know I’m not here to play. So, instead of shuffling over to the couch and falling back asleep, he slams his coffee mug onto the tiny dining room table with excessive force, dramatically slides out the chair, and sits down. The chair creaks a little under his weight, and I eye it. It’s just an old folding chair that came with the card table set, probably close to the end of its life.

I grab my protein waffle from the toaster and my own coffee, the texture covered up with a ton of milk and sugar, and take a seat across from him. “Dad, we need to talk about last night. I can’t keep coming to rescue you. I came here for the weekend so I could see you and spend time with you. Clearly, you’ve decided that can’t happen, and have chosen to make things hard for me. I’m in college to make a life for myself, and I can’t do that if I’m constantly having to rescue you in the middle of the night. I certainly can’t do that if you gamble away all the money you have. So, what’s it going to take? Is it finally time to force you into rehab? Should Nurse Hadley have let the cops get you?”

He gives me the evil eye and picks up his coffee, downing half of it as if it’s some kind of shot. Setting it back down again, he finally speaks. “This is not the time, Meredith. Last night is not what you think. I was…I was dealing with some things. But now it’s too late. You won’t have to worry about it much longer. Not only am I going to be sober, but I won’t be staying here anymore. And neither will you.”

I stare like there’s some kind of gigantic bug crawling on his face. “What the hell do you mean by that?” Usually, my voice is not this harsh, but I’m so fucking over it.

“I didn’t stutter, Mer,” he says, using what used to be a loving nickname but now tastes like poison in the air. “I’ll be renting out the house in the short term, possibly selling it later. It’s not safe here. Too many people know where to find us.”

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