He hates me, and I love him. Or, I did love him. I don’t know what this is I feel right now. We’ll never be the same. We haven’t been the same for a long time. The fire destroyed more than just my face.
I think back to the weeks I’d spent in the hospital. The pain of the treatments, then the skin grafts. Seeing the monster I’d become when they finally let me look in a mirror. I was just a kid, and he let me go through it all alone.
And, I’m still hoping he will forgive me.
Dad clears his throat, his eyes like cannons shooting across the bow. I shift my weight, leaning back against the wall. There’s no point in sitting down; this won’t take much longer.
“So, you’re some sort of big hero now? I got your letters.” He won’t keep his eyes on my face. Even he can’t stand the reminder.
I’d been sending letters without fail every month. I’d sent them to the last address I’d known for him, never knowing if he got them or not—my gut telling me not.
From what the social worker shared with me over the phone, Dad’s so called “friends” dropped him at the door of the emergency room, comatose from alcohol poisoning and on his way to liver failure with an infection in his amputated leg that nearly killed him. The social worker managed to figure out our connection from past hospital records and get a message to me. Dad’s been here since and, with me finally making it back home, I can see just how much he’s changed.
The last time we’d talked was between tours. I rented a big three bedroom apartment and moved him in. I tried to get him sober and keep him sober but failed completely. It had been hard to believe, but we were on even worse terms after that. He was so done with me that he up and disappeared one night without a word. For the remainder of the two months I was home, I had no idea where he was or even if he was alive.
Flash forward eighteen months, I’m counting kills and trying not to be killed in the Mountains of Afghanistan. I get called to Ops to take an emergency call from home, and it’s the social worker.
Two weeks after that call, I’m on a cargo jet headed home.
Happy homecoming for me.
“Did you just get all those?” There are at least twenty envelopes sitting on his bedside table.
"Yeah. One of your military buddies dropped them off last night. Said they got returned to your base. Don’t have any idea how they figured out I was here. Damn military, got eyes and ears everywhere.” He’s glaring at me, and my mind is out that door and down the hall, imagining where she went and how I can find her again.
“I’m no hero, Dad. Just doing my job. I’m home for a couple months, then I have to decide if I’m going back. It’s time to re-enlist or call it.”
“Yeah, well, if you want to do something for me, get me out of here. Save me for a change. You’re always tryin’ to save people. Save me from this shit hole.” There is the slightest bit of desperation in his voice, and I glimpse a moment of the once proud man that must still be inside him somewhere.
But, I’m relying on history to guide me. I know it’s not him wanting to get out. It’s the demon. The one that possessed him the night of the fire. The one that needs a drink.
“If you leave here, you’ll die, Dad. They say you’re not a candidate for a transplant, and your diabetes is off the charts. You start drinking again, you’re done.”
Dad’s hair is cropped close to his head, more gray than black than the last time I saw him. There is no life in his deep brown eyes. All the parts of him look familiar, but he’s a stranger.
“Who said I’ll start drinking again?” He narrows his eyes.
No one needs to say it, Dad. It just is.
“No one, Dad. I’m sure you’d be fine. I’ll see what I can do.” My voice is even, flat. There’s no sense arguing. I’m not getting him out of here just so he can go kill himself with a bottle of Jack.
I’m fucking tired. Too tired for any more of this conversation. I’ve been traveling for thirty-six hours, and I’m not even sure where I’ll be sleeping tonight. All I can do is turn and take a step toward the door and hope tomorrow is better. I’ve been doing that for a long time.
“Go talk to that bald guy. He’s in charge.” Dad grunts and rolls a few feet forward as I turn to leave.
“Okay, Dad. I’ll go find him.” It’s hard to hide the fatigue in my voice. After all these years, somehow I held hope it would be different this time.
Some things can’t change.
Giving the chrome handle on the door a yank, I’m surprised at the weight as it opens with a soft swish. I have no intention of finding “the bald guy,” whoever that is. But, I do intend to find her because this cannot be a coincidence. It has to be something more.