Beneath the Surface(68)
“Maybe he was.” Kristin stroked Sheryl’s palm with her thumb. “The funeral director told me everything was taken care of. That we shouldn’t worry about anything.”
“How is that even possible?” Sheryl asked. “The man had nothing left.”
“The truth is, we don’t know what he had and how he arranged for this. He was sober for five months and deadly ill. He could have made all sorts of provisions.”
“I don’t even know how he got by all those years. I always assumed he was on welfare or something, sponging off the state. He never asked me for anything.”
“How could he have?” Kristin tipped her head. “The most important thing is that you don’t have to worry about any of it.”
“Just show up at the funeral and say my good-byes?”
“If you want to. We don’t have to go.”
“You know he tried to stop me from going to Mom’s funeral. Well, it wasn’t an actual funeral, more like a memorial service. Because she had committed suicide she couldn’t have a service in the church. Anyway, I insisted on going, sat through the whole thing as stoically as I’d ever been, braved all the glances of those who automatically believed she was a coward for taking her own life. It was horrible, but I had to do it. I was twelve, so not exactly a child anymore. Not someone you can still hide the truth from.” Sheryl’s voice broke. She coughed, trying to sound like herself again—her old self, no matter who that was or if she would ever be that woman again.
“How do you feel?” Kristin asked.
“I’m not sure. I suppose I’m glad I got to see him before he died. I wouldn’t have put it past him to have lied about the state of his health to garner my sympathy, but I guess he was telling the truth.” She stared at her hands. “It’s just so strange to have any feelings at all about a man who hasn’t been in my life for such a long time. But I do feel sad, for him. For the life he could have had. For the relationship we could have had. Mom’s death could have brought us closer together, but instead it did the opposite. Perhaps I should have tried more, like you are trying with me now, to get him off the booze. Book him into rehab. Whatever it took. But just like he never had it in him to be there for me, I didn’t have that in me either.”
“Babe, you should never forget that he was your father, your only remaining parent when you were only twelve. You can’t compare the two. You didn’t owe him anything.”
“At this stage, I think I might need AA and a damn good therapist.” Sheryl managed a little chuckle, tried to lighten the mood a bit.
Kristin nodded and gave her hands a squeeze.
“When all my friends first started drinking, my wish to not be like Trevor was so great, it easily stopped me from drinking with them. It was just so ingrained in me. It was the most sacred vow I made to myself after it became clear he was destroying himself with booze. It was a given, you know? And I had an answer for every wisecracking boy with a can of cheap beer in his hands who dared to question me. I was so tough back then. I wish I could get some of that back.”
“So much happened to you. You carried it all with you in silence for so many years. No child is supposed to go through what you went through. You are so incredibly strong. I’ve believed that about you ever since you took me to your family’s cabin. You are, by far, the strongest person I know. The one who has endured the most. That’s how I know you can do this.”
“You think too much of me.” Sheryl smiled regardless of what she had just said.
“On the contrary,” Kristin said, pulled Sheryl toward her and held her in her arms for a long time.
Chapter Thirty
Sheryl took a deep breath and entered the community hall. Kristin was close on her heels, followed by Martha, Micky, Robin, and Caitlin. It was a Saturday afternoon, two weeks since her father had died, and the room was filled with more people than usual. Sheryl would know, as she’d been there almost every day since she’d started coming ten days earlier.
She hadn’t sneaked out for a drink on the day she found out about her father after Kristin had nodded off. Their apartment had remained an alcohol-free zone. On Sunday, they had researched AA meetings together, of which there were at least a few every day spread out over Sydney. Sheryl had chosen a local meeting in Darlinghurst, mostly out of pure convenience. She didn’t know any university staff who lived in her area, and if she were to run into someone from school at one of the meetings, she hoped it would become their secret.
Her sponsor, Bert, a man who reminded her of her father, mainly because of his age and spindly frame, greeted her. He had brought his wife and introductions were made all around. Though the crowd was bigger than usual, the atmosphere remained the same: solemn and full of hope.