Page 645 of Rock Me All Night
"Did you ask him about it?"
"He said he had a woman over. That it was hers." Her voice is weak, like she doesn't believe herself. "It's possible."
I press my fingers into the back of the phone. "It's not."
"Maybe… it's a slip. Maybe he'll get over it." Her voice wavers. "Jessie, I don't know what to do."
"We can't do anything. He's almost sixty. If he wants to drink, he's going to do it." I take a deep breath. I know the words are true. I know there's nothing I can do if he doesn't want to help himself.
Still, my legs go weak. I grab onto the nearest thing—the wall—and use it to brace myself.
I'm empty.
It's eighty degrees outside but I'm freezing.
"You don't mean that." She chokes back a sob. "There must be something."
There's not. "He only went to rehab the first time because of Aunt Zoe. If he doesn't want to get better—" My stomach clenches. I can't feel my feet. "If he doesn't want to get better, there's nothing we can do."
The hope drains from her voice. "Do you think he wants to get better?"
"I don't know." I take a deep breath, trying to figure out the answer. It won't come. I don't have a clue how this will go. But I know it's out of my hands. I have to be okay with that. "I'll think of something, Maddie. Give me some time."
"Okay."
"We'll do something. It might not work, but we will do something."
"Okay."
"We'll talk later."
"I love you," she says.
"I love you too."
I hang up the call and drop the phone on the couch.
Dad is drinking again.
What the hell am I going to do?
The microwave beeps. That must be the tenth beep. None of the other ones made it to my ears.
The food smells like nothing. Something with chicken, rice, and spinach. I'm sure it's delicious but it smells like nothing.
The forks are in the cabinet. I pour a glass of water. It tastes like nothing. Or is that how water always tastes?
My chest is tight. Has it always been this hard to breathe? Has the air always felt this heavy and cold?
I fill the glass again. I can't sit in this house. I can't decide which is harder—moving or standing still. There's the backyard. It's only a dozen feet away. I pull the glass door open, ready for my thoughts to tear me into pieces.
Pete is here, sitting on the edge of the pool, his legs in the water, his hands curled around his e-reader.
He looks up at me. The aqua glow of the pool casts highlights over his concerned expression. Thankfully, he says nothing. Simply nods a hello like we're polite and courteous roommates and nothing more.
I sit at the patio table and dig my fork into my food.
It tastes like nothing.
