Page 107 of Edge of Unbroken

We pull up to Miranda’s house a little over an hour later. The front yard is covered by a pristine blanket of snow, not a single footprint leading to the door. Obviously, no one has come or gone since Wednesday’s snowfall. I follow Miranda out of the truck and up the narrow walkway to the front porch.

She pauses, her hand on the doorknob, before she finally lets herself into the house. She wipes her boots on the doormat so as not to track any snow into the house, though I’m not sure it matters.

“Hi Dad,” she calls out, but he doesn’t return her greeting or in any manner relay that he’s happy to see his daughter.

“What the hell is he doing here?” Miranda’s dad asks as I step into the living room behind Miranda.

One look around the interior of the home and I can immediately tell that Father Jackson has done absolutely nothing to clean up his act.

It looks even worse than it did the day we found him.

The trash can is overflowing, dirty dishes are piled into the sink and on the countertop next to old takeout containers, empty bottles of alcohol litter the small dining and living room tables, and the air has the distinct sweet smell of rotting food and sweat. It makes my eyes water and I scrunch my nose involuntarily.

“Ran gave me a ride,” Miranda says and moves into the kitchen.

Her dad laughs derisively. “Is that what you call it now? Giving you a ride?”

She doesn’t pick up on her dad’s sexual innuendo. “What?” Miranda asks as she tries to compact the trash in the can.

“Stop touching my stuff!” Father Jackson gets up from the couch and staggers into the kitchen.

Miranda pulls the bag out of the garbage can. “Dad, this place is a pigsty.”

“Leave it alone!”

Miranda stops to look at her dad, the overstuffed bag by her side. “I’m only trying to help, Dad!”

It’s pissing me off how nice, how accommodating Miranda is. She doesn’t take any shit at all, except when it comes to her dad. And, fuck, I recognize that from myself. The effect my mother’s mere presence had on me was something else. It completely extinguished any self-worth, any self-confidence in me.

“I don’t want your help. I don’t want you in my house.” He shuffles over to Miranda, his gait unsteady—he’s obviously less than sober—then yanks the garbage bag roughly out of her hand.

Instinctively, I move into the kitchen and to Miranda’s side. As far as I know, Father Jackson has never laid a hand on Miranda, but I’m not taking any chances.

“What do you want, fuck boy?” he snarls. I look at him, surprised. I don’t think I’ve ever been called fuck boy, and I certainly didn’t expect it to come from a former pastor. “Are you fucking my daughter?”

“No,” I say.

He laughs. “Yeah, right. Don’t think I don’t know what you two were up to. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to now.” He moves around us to one of the kitchen cabinets and opens it to retrieve an unopened bottle of clear liquor.

Miranda walks over to her dad, who’s unscrewing the bottle, ready to fill a grimy glass. “Dad, do you really have to do this right now?”

“Yes.”

“You were just in the hospital. Do you not value your life at all?”

“Leave me alone, Miranda!” He spills some of the liquid when he overfills the glass.

“No. Dad, please,” she begs and does the one thing that would piss off any addict: she grabs the bottle in her dad’s hand, knocking the glass over in the process and spilling the alcohol inside it.

Father Jackson’s face contorts, his bloated features turning a bright shade of red. “Stop it, you little bitch.” He yanks the bottle out of Miranda’s hand. “I don’t want you here. I never wanted you here. You’re worthless, do you hear me? A disappointment. The reason I am the way I am is because of you. You’ve put me to shame. You’re an embarrassment.”

I walk to Miranda and pull her out of his path before I situate myself between them. “Stop talking to her like that,” I growl, my voice clipped. I’m pissed but trying to contain my anger.

He lifts his bloodshot, glassy eyes to mine. “I know who you are, fuck boy. I know you’re about as worthless as that disgrace of a daughter standing like a whiny little bitch right next to you.” His speech is slow, garbled. He laughs. “I guess the old saying, for every pot a lid, holds true for you two. Shit is attracted to more shit.”

“Dad,” Miranda says, her voice cracking. I can tell his words are getting to her.

Father Jackson abandons the dirty glass, directing his full attention at his daughter. “Shut up, you bitch. Don’t you get it? You mean absolutely nothing to me. I don’t want your help. You’re no daughter of mine. You’re worthless, and you always will be worthless.”

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