Page 109 of Close Match
“Dad…” His sigh of pleasure eases something deep inside of me, soothing a hurt that’s been there longer than the night Monty slipped into alcoholic oblivion.
“That one word coming from your lips, Linnie. It makes me fight harder. I know intellectually it’s impossible for me to will my cells to get better but…”
“Can I say something?”
“Anything,” he affirms.
“You just explained why I haven’t let him go,” I tell my father quietly. “Why none of us should.”
There’s stillness on the other end of the line.
“It’s impossible for me to will him to get better, but I have to believe that the strength of our combined faith in him might give him incentive.” When he doesn’t say anything, I keep going.
“Did I fail, did we fail, because we didn’t notice his illness before it was too late? I knew about him having bad dreams, about the nighttime drinking. Should I have said something? Pushed harder? Demanded he talk about something he wasn’t ready to?”
Heavy breathing is followed by a growled “No.”
“Mom earned her second chance. Despite everyone she hurt, she earned it,” I tell him firmly. “She was an amazing mother. She raised a beautiful family after she gave up the bottle. She lived a glorious life.”
“She never hurt my girl,” he counters.
“She did. It’s arguable about the ways, but she did.” Silence greets my declaration. “And long ago, Patrick gave her a small measure of hope by not walking away. He knew how addicted she was, and he gave her a second, third, fourth, chance. He may not have been the best man to me at the end, but he taught us not to give up on people. I’m giving Monty one chance—one—to make the right choice. To choose love, to choose me. If he makes the wrong one, I will walk away with a clear conscience.”
“It’s easy to forget love can ruin lives.”
“Just as it has the ability to change them,” I concur sadly. “Which path we follow isn’t always up to us. What is up to us is how we move forward on it.”
“Where do you see your path leading you, my darling?” The rustle of the sheets tells me he’s getting comfortable.
Blindly, I stare out at the skyline. “For now, to the stage. I need to lose myself for a while by becoming someone else. Sepi contacted me about a small role Off Broadway that’s the most interesting thing I’ve read in ages.”
His chuckle in my ear makes my eyebrows wing up. “Why are you laughing?”
“Because, the minute someone realizes that play is as amazing as you will make sure it is, I’m betting it will be moved to Broadway within six months. Tops.”
“It’d be good if it did,” I muse. “There’s a lot of unknown talent in it.”
“They won’t be for long.”
No, I guess not. “So, tell me about what they’re saying about when you can go home? How are your favorite nurses? What does Dr. Spellman say?”
My father launches into a monologue about how things are in the hospital, grumbling about the tasteless food for at least ten minutes. I ask innocently, “So, you’re not hoping to extend your stay?”
That sends him off on another diatribe about how he needs “a damn good night’s sleep” and “some damn privacy.”
About thirty minutes later, I hang up with some ease in my heart, knowing that no matter what cross I’ve had to bear, I gained something astounding out of this entire experience.
A man who gave me life whose life I helped save in return.
Maybe, just maybe, it will work out like that for Monty. And like my father, I won’t give up at the first hurdle.
* * *
Later that night,I’m smoothing cream gently over my face. Critically, I examine the remnants of the physical damage. After four weeks, and a lot of TLC, my bruises from the wreck have faded to a pale yellow; they’re barely noticeable. Fortunately, there were no broken bones in my face from where the car crashed, just a lot of discoloration. The ER doctor recommended ice, sleeping with my head raised, plenty of rest, and using arnica cream three times a day, all of which I have done religiously.
But just because the bruises aren’t visible doesn’t mean my heart doesn’t still ache as badly as when they were.
I have no idea if Monty is grateful for or resentful of the fact I concurred with his family that he goes to rehabilitation. By the time we were found, he technically would have escaped a jail sentence, but my father was willing to press charges if I was. I couldn’t—no,wouldn’t—stand by while the rest of his life was spent replaying his nightmares over and over when there was something I could do about it.
