Page 83 of You Started It

“That’s because I was pretty good at hiding it and I’d begged your mom not to tell you. I didn’t want you to look at me the way you’re looking at me now.”

“How am I looking at you now?” I ask.

“Like you’re disappointed. I get it. I would be too.” He hangs his head low and I bring my chair closer to his, tapping my knee with his.

“I’m not disappointed that you’re an alcoholic. I’m disappointed you felt like you couldn’t tell me.”

He raises his eyes to meet mine. “Your mother and I were so young when we ran off together, and despite that, or maybe even because of that, we thought we had all the answers. Turns out we knew nothing. About raising a baby. Being married. About ourselves. But we both loved you so much. You’re the reason we stayed together for so long, because we couldn’t fathom being without you.” He pauses and sighs. “It was hard living in the middle of nowhere, away from all my family and friends. I used to be an adventurous guy and I felt so…stuck. Eventually, the highI’d kept searching for led to a battle with some inner demons. Enter alcohol. It got to the point where I was no longer just a danger to myself but to you as well.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, tucking my hands under my thighs.

“Your mother pleaded with me to get help. She cleaned up my messes. Gave me more chances than I could count. But after she learned I’d driven you home from the baseball game drunk, it was game over.”

“Oh.” I remember that day. I was thirteen and a half. Dad had taken me into the city to watch the Blue Jays play. We had hot dogs. He let me drink soda (which Mom never did), and he had a beer. Maybe more than one. Every time I looked at him his cup was either full or empty. I never thought to question it. He was my father and I trusted him.

“It was reckless and dangerous and every time I think about that moment it makes me want to punch a wall or, even worse, hurt myself. So I ended up hurting myself more and more. Drinking to erase the shame. To erase all the mistakes I’d made. To pretend none of it was true.” He drags the mug back and a puff of laughter escapes as he seemingly reads the words for the first time. He brings it to his lips and takes a sip. “I’ve been sober for ten months. I’m ashamed it took me so long to get my life together. Every time I tried to reach out to see you, your mother wouldn’t let me when she learned I was still drinking. I couldn’t seem to hide it from her. She’s too smart for her own good,” he says around a smile. “But this last January, after I missed your seventeenth birthday, it finally clicked. All this time was passing. Time I’d never get back. And for what? A drink?”

“Alcoholism is a disease. She shouldn’t have kept you from me,” I say.

“You’re right, it is a disease, and maybe it wasn’t the right decision to keep us apart, but it was her decision and I respect that.Knowing I’d driven home drunk with her baby in the car. I’d never trust me again either if I were her.”

“Plus, she’s stubborn,” I say.

“Not that you’d know anything about that,” Dad responds, and we both laugh. There’s a smile on his face. A smile I haven’t seen in years, and it fills me with warmth. And a bit of sadness. How many smiles I’ve missed. Hugs. Tender moments.

“My one year of sobriety will be on your eighteenth birthday. You were the reason I got clean, but I’ve learned another person can’t be the reason why you stay clean. So now I wake up every morning and decide I’m doing this for myself.”

“I’m happy for you,” I say weakly as tears fill my eyes.

“I regret so much, Jamie. Most of all that I missed out on watching you turn into this beautiful young adult. If you’ll allow it, I’d love to be invited back into your life again. But you call the shots. Your mother and I have agreed that you’re old enough to decide for yourself.”

I swallow before turning to face my father. “I’ve missed you every single day you’ve been gone. Your absence had a pretty devastating effect on my life. It made the divide between Mom and me even wider. I tried to mask the pain by kicking butt in school and parading around with Ben, but inside, I was broken. Until…” I pause and close my eyes. Axel’s face appears and my stomach sinks.

“Your mother isn’t perfect, but she did her best. I believe that. She was trying to protect you. She begged me to get help. Eventually, she gave me an ultimatum: get sober or leave. When I left, she had to figure things out alone. She’s done well for herself and you. You’re healthy and thriving at school. And that boy, Axel, seems like a good friend. I remember how much you always wanted to have a best friend, and it looks like you have that now.”

“Yeah,” I say, breathing out some of the weight of this moment. “He’s pretty great.”

“I don’t know how he tracked me down, but when he did, he was so excited. Just like a golden retriever puppy. I didn’t want to go along with his plan at first, but, well, he can be pretty persistent and charming.”

I smile, swiping away a few tears that have sprung loose. “Yeah. He is.”

“Is he maybe more than a friend?” Dad asks with a raise of his brow.

“It’s complicated.”

“You know,” Dad grins. “ ‘Complicate’ is a tricky homograph. The differences between the multiple meanings are so slight, it really takes a sharp mind to see them.”

“Did you know the word ‘complicate’ comes from the word ‘complicit’ and the Latin word ‘complicare,’ which translates to ‘fold together’?” I ask, sniffling slightly.

“And?” Dad asks with a soft smile.

“And when you think about it, Axel thought bringing you back into my life would be as easy as folding a piece of paper in half, but what he forgot to take into account were all the previous existing creases on the page, which made making a perfect fold…impossible.”

“Does that mean you’re upset with him?”

I exhale and try to answer my father’s question, but the truth is, I don’t really have an answer because I don’t know. I’m both grateful and upset.

“Hey,” he says, placing a hand on my thumping knee. “Maybe you can tell me about it later. Once you’ve had a bit more time to process. Your mother invited me to dinner next weekend.”

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