Page 107 of Drowning Erin

“Are you ever going to dance with him in the middle of the night wearing nothing but a T-shirt? No, because he won’t even dance. Because he wouldn’t even understand why you’d want to. Are you ever going to strip off all of your clothes and spread out on his couch when you want to get laid? Are you going to bake for him and sing at the top of your lungs while you do it? Let me answer for you: No, Erin, you won’t. That’s not who he is or what he wants, and you won’t. And those things aren’t peripheral. They areyou.”

Maybe he’s right, but none of those things even feel relevant right now. My family is sinking, and I have a duty to them. That’s what’s important here, not whether I ever dance half-naked again. As much as I might want Brendan, what I need most is to know that we—me, my parents, Sean—are safe. And even if I could afford to risk it, there’s no guarantee Brendan won’t change his mind. The past few weeks have been awful, but to lose him when I’d really thought we had a chance would be so muchworse.

“I was happy until you showed up,” I cry. “Before you came back from Italy, I was fine. I was happy then, and I’ll be happyagain.”

“You weren’t happy, Erin. You still aren’t or you wouldn’t be in here with me crying. And I don’t want to make you cry, but I’m in love with a girl you want to kill off, and I don’t know what else todo.”

He leans in, capturing my mouth, his hands framing my face, and I let him. I let myself have this one last time, his mouth and his heat and my tears slipping between our skin. And then I pull back, and I leave him behind forgood.

74

Erin

Present

By the following day,my father’s condition is considered stable. The hospital tells us he can be released within 48 hours. The doctor requests a meeting with all of us, and I’m relieved that Rob is back at work and will miss it. I have no idea what the doctor will say, but it feels like our secrets are on the move now, that the trap door they hide under has begun to shift and lift, and things that are meant to stay hidden may be about to slip free. Rob sort of knows about my dad, but he doesn’t know the rest of us are just as sick in our own ways, and it’s something I’d prefer he not findout.

My parents are back to performing The Doyle Show when the doctor walks in: my dad the gruff but lovable patriarch, my mother giggling and giddy. I’d almost stopped noticing it, but now I can see nothing else. The falseness of it sickensme.

The doctor’s smile is patient, but small. It’s obvious he’s here to discuss something serious, something neither of my parents wants tohear.

“Before Mr. Doyle goes home,” he says, “there are a couple of issues we need toaddress.”

“We can’t wait to get home,” my mother says briskly. “We’re having a big celebration dinner tomorrow night.” Her eyes widen as if she’s just had the most brilliant idea, so brilliant it startles her. “You should come! You’ve never had chicken parm like mine, I promiseyou.”

I flinch, embarrassed for her, and Sean looks away. She is the only person in the room who doesn’t realize how insane shesounds.

Dr. Taylor doesn’t even smile in response. He’s not one of those doctors who makes friends with his patients, and in this case that may be a good thing. He’s unlikely to be bringing goodnews.

“I’ve gone over your labs and your biopsy report,” he tells my father. “As you know, cirrhosis is irreversible, but you still have the possibility of ten good years, maybe more, if you can manage not to drive into any more telephonepoles.”

My father nods. “I won’t. I just need to learn not to stay out solate.”

My mother squeezes his hand. “We’re getting older. I think we both need to remember to take better care ofourselves.”

I feel like I’m choking. My father is dying from alcohol poisoning. He could have killed someone last week. I can’t believe they still refuse to seethis.

“No.” My voice is like breaking glass, making every other action in the room cease, every head turn toward me. “No, this wasn’t lack of sleep. You don’t get to pretend this was lack ofsleep.”

“Erin, stop,” my mother scolds. Her voice isn’t harsh, but her eyes are. They dare me to continue. It’s the same look she gave me as a child, when someone asked why my father was absent at a school concert or an awardceremony.

Except I’m an adult now. She’s no longer a foot taller, and I’m no longer the little girl who needs her tosurvive.

“He could have killed someone. That telephone pole could have been achild, Mom. That could have beenme. Would you still be pretendingthen?”

“We can discuss this later,” she says, her eyes shootingdaggers.

“Mr. Doyle had a blood alcohol content of .25 when he arrived here that night,” says Dr. Taylor. “I think he should consider attending a rehabprogram.”

“Everyone has a few too many once in a while, doc,” my dadsays.

His tone is jovial. It’s his “come on, boys will be boys” schtick. I’ve heard it way too many timesbefore.

“Your cirrhosis didn’t happen on its own,” the doctor replies. “If none of that persuades you, I’d encourage you to consider the fact that you’re also facing a DUI charge. Given how high your blood alcohol content was and that this wasn’t your first DUI, rehab may be the only thing that keeps you out ofjail.”

He leaves, and my parents bluster, as outraged as they might be had the doctor accused them of child pornography or humantrafficking.

“He’s crazy,” my mother insists. “Erin, you and Rob need to find a lawyer for your father. Thebestlawyer.” She turns to my dad. “We’ll get you out ofthis.”

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