Page 53 of Lassoed Love

Istep into the chaos of our home, a place that’s supposed to be a haven—now transformed into a battleground of emotions.

The air reeks of alcohol, assaulting my senses as I find Dad in the kitchen, a hurricane of frustration tearing through him. Drawers and cupboards open and close with a violent urgency.

“Dad, what’s wrong? Why did you call?” I ask cautiously, my tone tinged with apprehension. Slowly, I move towards him, trying to gauge the storm brewing within him.

“Please, calm down,” I plead, my eyes searching for a connection with the man who once held my world together. I raise my hands in a placating gesture, my voice soft yet laden with understanding.

“Don’t tell me to fucking calm down. Where is her damn phone?” he bellows, his anger a tempest that threatens to consume everything. I keep a safe distance, unsure of how he’ll react, not wanting to push him further into the abyss of his own anger. The memories of my mother being the soothing balm in these situations play in my mind, but now, I am alone in navigating this turbulent sea of emotions with him.

“How much have you had to drink, Dad?” I ask, my voice edged with concern. He just grunts, his frustration continuing to spiral as he searches relentlessly for the phone. The crash of a phone book hitting the floor reverberates through the room, a harsh punctuation to his anger. I recall the words I’d read about handling dementia-induced aggression—stay calm, reassure, address the underlying feelings, distract.

“Where do you think you saw it last, Dad?” I ask gently, my voice a calming melody amid the chaos. He’s agitated, his eyes darting around the room as if the phone might materialise before him.

“It was on our bedside table,” he replies with clear frustration. “Now it’s not there, and I tried callin’ it, but the damn fucker goes straight to voicemail.” His words carry the weight of confusion and anger.

I take a deep breath, remembering the importance of maintaining composure. “Okay, Dad. Let’s look together. Maybe it got moved somewhere else,” I suggest, hoping to redirect his focus.

He slams a drawer shut before moving into the lounge room, a tempest leaving chaos in his wake. I follow, my heart aching for the man he once was, grappling with the storm within his mind.

“NO! It couldn’t have moved; I never touched it. Where is she?”

Dad's anger echoes through the walls, and I find myself grappling with the knowledge I've gathered about dementia. The guide in my mind speaks again, suggesting a gentle reminder for those lost in a confusing reality. My heart is heavy, so I decide to navigate this delicateterrain.

“Hey, Dad,” I say, keeping my tone soft. “Let’s sit for a moment. I want to talk to you.”

He eyes me suspiciously, still seething from the frustration of the missing phone. “Talk ‘bout what? No time to fuckin’ sit.” His words slur, no doubt from the amount of alcohol he’s consumed.

I guide him toward the couch, a small oasis of calm in the storm. “Just... about Mum,” I say cautiously, choosing my words with care.

“Remember the funeral? We went through the order of service together. Maybe looking at it again will help.” The mention of her brings a flicker of recognition to his eyes, a momentary pause in the tempest.

Hesitantly, he follows me to the couch. As I retrieve the funeral program from a nearby shelf, I hope that, somehow, these tangible connections to the past can anchor him in the present.

The mention of Mum’s passing only fuels Dad's confusion, and a volatile anger sparks in his eyes. “She ain’t dead. What the bloody hell are ya talkin’ bout?” he retorts, the words a harsh rejection of the reality I’m desperately trying to navigate.

In his frustration, he seizes a small vase from the coffee table, filled with delicate daisies, and hurls it to the floor. Glass shatters, scattering across the room. As the storm within the house intensifies, a distant echo reaches us. The sound of persistent knocks on the door.

As Dad’s rage shatters the fragile calm, a distant voice echoes through the turmoil. “Isla! Open the damn door!”

The urgency in the voice seeps into my veins, and I recognize it asXavier’s. His pounding echoes through the chaos, a resounding plea that refuses to be ignored.

My father, now even more agitated by the unfamiliar voice, demands, “Who the fuck is that?” The question hangs in the air, unanswered, as the storm within the house matches the tempest outside. Xavier’s fervent knocks persist.

Fucking hell, Xavier.Why can’t he ever listen? The glass crunches beneath Dad’s boots as he trudges over it, heading toward the door. He swings it open to reveal Xavier, his expression a blend of concern and anger. “What the fuck are ya doin’ on my porch, boy?”

Dad's voice bellows, the anger palpable. Recognition flickers in his eyes, and he turns back to me, suspicion etched across his face, probably connecting the dots about my dress. “You with...him?” Dad seethes, the disgust evident in his tone.

Panic seizes me, and I instinctively step forward, forgetting about the glass scattered on the floor. Xavier notices my movement and reacts swiftly. “Isla, don’t fucking move. There’s glass everywhere. Are you okay?” he says, his eyes searching mine.

“What the fuck did I say about those Mitchell boys, huh?” Dad’s anger escalates, and I feel the weight of his disappointment.Shit, this is just getting worse and worse—caught in the crossfire of Xavier’s concern and my father’s rage.

I walk up to the door, the glass crunching beneath my feet, and face my father as he steps forward towards Xavier. “Dad, please.” I place a hand on his shoulder. “You need to calm down. He was just leaving,” I implore, my voice a desperate plea.

Xavier, his eyes never leaving Dad, steps closer, a protective force that sends ripples through the tension-filled air. “Isla, he’s been drinking. He’s too disoriented right now. I’m not going anywhere,” he asserts, his tone resolute.

My face flushes with heat, embarrassed that Xavier has to witness this. He's my father, I shouldn't feel this way because of him, but damn it.

Dad seethes, his voice a thunderous demand, “I ain’t gonna ask you again. Get lost, boy. This doesn’t concern you.”

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