Page 116 of The Mistake

“Your coach has no idea I’m a drunk, does he?” Dad mutters, and now he’s no longer looking at me. He’s staring at his hands.

“No, he doesn’t,” I mutter back. “I only told him about the accident. And that was just because I needed to tell him something so he’d get off my case about not entering the draft.”

Dad raises his gaze to mine again. “You should’ve told me you didn’t declare.”

“What difference would it have made?”

“A huge one,” he snaps. “It’s bad enough that I woke up the other morning wearing clean underwear and all tucked into bed like a fucking child, with the knowledge that my twenty-one-year-old son is the one who put me there.” His head shifts to Jeff. “And that my other son is running my business because I’m too much of a mess to do it myself. But now you’re telling me you’re passing up the chance to play for the goddamnBruinsso you can take care of my sorry ass?”

He’s breathing hard, his hands shaking so wildly the bottle is close to toppling over. He lifts it to his lips and takes a hurried sip before slamming it on the table.

Jeff and I exchange a wary look. Seeing him drink brings identical frowns to our faces, which causes Dad to groan in anguish.

“Goddamn it, don’t look at me like that. I have to fucking drink this, because the last time I tried to quit cold turkey I ended up in the hospital with seizures.”

I suck in a shocked breath.

So does Jeff.

Dad looks from me to my brother, then addresses us in a voice that rings with despair. “I’m going back to rehab.”

The announcement is greeted with silence.

“I’m serious. I spoke to someone at the state facility I went to last time and asked to be put on the waiting list, butthey told me a slot opened up five minutes before I called.” He snorts. “If that’s not divine intervention, I don’t know what is.”

My brother and I remain quiet. We’ve heard this speech before. Many times before. And we’ve learned not to get our hopes up anymore.

Sensing our misgivings, Dad sharpens his tone. “It’ll stick this time. I’m going to make sure of it.”

There’s a beat, and then Jeff clears his throat. “How long is the program?”

“Six months.”

My eyebrows fly up. “That long?”

“With my history, they think that would be best.”

“In-patient?” Jeff asks.

“Yeah.” Dad’s features grow pained. “Two weeks for the detox. Christ, I’m not looking forward to that part.” Then he shakes his head, as if snapping himself out of it. “But I’ll do it. I’ll do it, and it’ll stick. You know why? Because I’m yourfather.”

Shame pours off him in palpable waves. “My kids shouldn’t be taking care of me. I should be taking care ofyou.” He gives me a hard look. “You shouldn’t be giving up your dreams because of me.” He turns to Jeff. “And neither should you.”

“That’s all good and well,” Jeff says, sounding tired. “But what about the garage? Even if the program sticks, you still won’t be able to work because of your legs. You can handle the administrative stuff, sure. But not the labor.”

“I’ll apply for disability.” Dad pauses. “And I’m going to sell the business.”

My brother doesnotlook pleased about that. Me, I’m still reeling from everything else he’s just told us.

“Kylie and I are only traveling for a couple years,” Jeff says unhappily. “I want to work here when we get back.”

“Then we’ll hire someone to run it until you’re ready to come back. But that someone won’t be your brother, Jeffrey. And it won’t be you, if you don’t want it to be.” He slides his chair back and gingerly gets to his feet, then reaches for the cane leaning against the wall. “I know you boys have heard this before. I know it’ll take a lot more than a few promises to prove I’m serious about this.”

He’s right about that.

“The center is picking me up in an hour,” he saysbrusquely. “I have to go pack.”

Jeff and I stare at each other again.

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