He hadn’t seen the hand that took hold of the back of his head, slamming him face first into the door. But he didn’t need to. He knew whose hand it was. It felt like the blood that had been thundering through his body was now gushing out through his ears, but he was stunned…confused. The blood was streaming down his face from his nose, as his head was rammed against the wood panel once more.
“How the hell can you be that stupid? Christ, you are the saddest excuse for a son that any man ever had!” His father was gripping the neck of his shirt at the back, holding him half suspended as he opened the door with his other hand, and threw Lance inside the hall.
He fell over the doorsill and into the coat rack, crashing to the floor in a tangle of coats and sweaters.
When his vision cleared, he saw his mother standing over him, her arms crossed and glaring coldly. “You’re getting blood on the carpet.”
Lance turned his face to the floor again, and let it rest on the scrubbed wooden strips.
When he lifted his head, it was not worn strips of flooring under his face. It was his own front door. The ranch house where he lived was tucked further back off the street than the rest of the houses on the block. All that kept it from being lost in the darkness, was the porch light casting a glare down on him. Lance fumbled his key in the lock and with exaggerated care, slid through the barely opened door, then spoiled the whole attempt at secrecy by falling backwards and slamming it into the frame with a bang that shook the walls.
“You have to stop this, Dad.” A figure detached itself from the shadows in the hallway and moved towards him, pale face suspended in the darkness above a Mickey Mouse nightshirt.
Lance threw an arm sideways to regain his balance, and became entangled in the coat hanging from a hook to the right of the door. At least it kept him upright. “You scared the living crap outta me. What are you doing up?”
Arms folded in front of her, Tori eyed him from head to foot.
“Waiting for you.”
“I’m fine. Perfectly fine,” he enunciated carefully. “I went, I drank, I got the crap beat out of me. It was a reg—regular Friday night and all is right with the world.” Damn, beer was gassy.
“You’re a mess,” she replied coldly.
“Yep, that would be me. I oughta be good at it by now, doncha think?” Lance hiccupped again.
“I can’t keep taking care of you. I’ve been doing it since I was twelve years old and you have to stop coming home like this, because I can’t do it forever!”
If the frustration in her voice didn’t hit home, the words did. His daughter was mothering him, and had been since he’d thrown her mother out four years ago. “I know what I’m doing, Tori.” Lance winced as if he’d been slugged another one in the gut. Only it would have been easier if she had hit him. Instead, he’d hit himself over and over and over, with what he’d done…his daughter had no mother to speak of, and it was his fault.
“Yeah, right. You know what you’re doing, and you’ve been doing a lot of it, lately.”
“There’s nothing wrong. I just need to get some sleep.” He pushed away from the wall, and stood there, swaying. “See you in the morning, sweetheart.”
Her hands twisted at the hem of her nightshirt. Even in the dark he could see her worrying it. “You have to move on. Stop doing this to yourself.”
“I have moved on, and I didn’t do this to myself. Some nice gentleman with an anchor tattooed on his fist, did it. I got a close up view of the anchor.” He stared at her owlishly. When did she turn into twins?
“We’re going to talk about this tomorrow when you’ve sobered up,”
she warned, turning to go.
“No, we’re not!” He hollered at her retreating back. When she disappeared into the darkness, he shrugged his shoulders and muttered,
“Oh, fine. Guess that means we will.”
Lance stumbled though the shadowed hallway to the master bedroom and along the wall to the bathroom. He turned the cold water on and hung his head over the sink, splashing it repeatedly to rinse off the caked blood around his mouth, and wincing as he touched a swollen cheek.
So this is all Tori has…some father you are, he glared blearily at the mirror. I’m supposed to take care of her, not the other way around. Protect her…that’s what fathers do. But who protects her from me? How can I keep it together for her, when I can’t keep myself together? He toweled off his face and wandered back into the bedroom where he flopped on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Move on. People were always telling him it’s time to move on. Like the last eighteen years
never happened. Well, they did and they sucked. Big time.
Eighteen years…I tried to get her straight. Even moved and changed jobs to get her away from the crowd she ran with. I tried. But it wasn’t enough. She was screwing only God knows how many guys, the whole time we were married. Everyone knew but me. Why couldn’t I have done better? Why wasn’t I enough? Why wasn’t being a mother, enough? Now all Tori has is me, and I’m a real prize, aren’t I?
Lance fell into a deep sleep, pursued by his face in the mirror, overlaid by the image of Tori’s mother.
?
Showered, and wearing blue jeans and a flannel shirt that hadn’t been torn in a fight, he entered the kitchen and screwed his eyes up against the bright sunlight. “Morning, baby.”
“Morning, Dad. You want some eggs?” Tori stood with her back to him, slender like her mother was, long chestnut hair flowing loose down her back and over the baggy sweatshirt.
“Ugh. No thanks. I’ll just have some Advil for an appetizer and maybe chase them down with coffee.”
“Did you get any sleep?” Her hands continued to rub at the plate in the dishpan.
“Enough, I guess.” He wondered if she knew how often he cried himself to sleep. No, she couldn’t. How would she?
“Do you remember coming home?” Tori dropped the dish in the drain rack and picked up a towel.
“Yeah, ‘course I do. Just pointed all two hundred horses in that Ford Explorer at the toll way, and said ‘home, boys’, and they dropped me right in the driveway.” Lance’s attempt to grin ended in a grimace of pain as a split lip opened up again.
Tori swung around from the kitchen sink and leaned back against the cupboard, her arms folded. “Why do you go out drinking, so much? You never used to.”
Lance stared down into his coffee, black like his thoughts. How do you tell your kid you wish you were dead? Or that you purposely courted physical pain that would block out the pain of betrayal? “I don’t know.”
“You’ve been doing it since you kicked Mom out.”
She had noticed. But then, he hadn’t tried to hide it, either. Just like he hadn’t tried to hide how he gave her mother a choice between drugs, lies and cheating, and their home and daughter. “Yeah, I know.”
“It’s not like it’s your fault.” She flicked the dishtowel up and down at her side. Something was on her mind, and she was going to spit it out no matter what he said.
I don’t really know what I did, he brooded with his head down. But it drove her away. It made her choose booze and drugs over me and her baby. Who else’s fault could it be? I go out and get the shit kicked out of me, because I can’t do it myself, and I deserve it.
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