Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
I feel like I’m in a nightmare.
A nightmare that continues as I’m poked and prodded by a nurse, then poked and prodded by a frazzled young doctor with freezing fingers, who pops my shoulder back into place amidst much air-sucking and nearly passing out on my end. Afterward, the nurse helps me into a sling she says I’ll need to wear for at least four days and gives me an ice pack to hold on my stomach while I wait for someone to fetch me for the CT scan.
Eventually, I’m sent to lie in a terrible vibrating coffin for what seems like hours before once again being returned to my curtained bed, where the only improvement is that the puking baby has apparently been treated and discharged.
Cathy checks in on me via text from upstairs on the third floor with the rest of the family, but there’s still no news about Gramp’s surgery.
Her only significant update comes in the form of a text promising—I’ll keep my mouth shut about you and that man, but you need to take care of that, Gertie. Whatever’s going on there, it’s no good for anyone. Especially not your father. Hasn’t he been through enough with Weaver Tripp?
I lie back with a sigh, resting my head on the scratchy little pillow. I’m the one lying in a hospital bed, waiting to find out if my father damaged my internal organs when he punched me, but he’s the one Aunt Cathy’s worried about.
I might cry about it if I had any energy left.
But I don’t. I’m so beaten down and exhausted by the insanity of the morning that I’m almost asleep when my phone rings. I startle out of my near-slumber, shifting the ice pack on my stomach to the table as I fumble to fetch my cell from beneath the thin blanket.
When I hold it up, the screen says the call is coming from a local police station. I move my thumb away from the answer button and silence the call, waiting for it to go to voicemail. I don’t have it in me to give my statement right now. The officer can leave a number, and I’ll get back to him once I’m out of the emergency room and know Weaver and Gramps are going to be okay.
It’s definitely a “one crisis at a time” kind of day.
A few moments later, the voicemail notification pops through. I tap the play button and put my cell to my ear, only to be surprised by the sound of my father’s voice.
He sounds like absolute hell…
“I’m so sorry, honey. You have no idea how sorry. If I could go back and redo one thing in my life, it would be what happened this morning.” He clears his throat before continuing, “That’s why I’m using my one call to call you, not a lawyer. I need you to know how sorry I am. And that I’m going to make a change. It’s time. Past time. You deserve a father you can trust, one you know is never going to hurt you, not even by accident.” He pauses, exhaling a breath that hitches into a sob.
I press my fist to my lips, fighting tears.
“I’m just so sorry, baby girl,” he wheezes. “I swear, I’m going to get better. I’m going to be the dad you deserve. Even if I have to do it in prison. I’m going to get sober and stay sober. I love you, and I always will, even if you decide you never want to talk to me again, which…I would understand. You’re a good person, Gertie. You’re so funny and you work so damn hard. And you’ve got the best heart. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have put up with a deadbeat like me for so long. Whatever you decide, just know I’m so proud of you.”
The call ends, and I let my phone fall into my lap.
My dad has never expressed any interest in getting sober. Not once. He isn’t that kind of alcoholic. He would never admit he had a problem in the first place, let alone think about getting help. He always made other excuses for why he couldn’t work or function like other human beings—the accident, his brain injury, his back pain, his depression, his untreated ADD, even.
To hear him actually owning the disease and expressing a desire to get better is huge, though I know it won’t be that simple. Dad’s in so deep that he’ll need medical care to survive getting off alcohol without killing himself. He’ll start going into withdrawal in a few hours and be in bad shape by tomorrow morning.
But I’ve already vetted several local rehabilitation centers. I did a deep dive back when I was sixteen and still believed helping Dad was just a matter of getting him through a pair of sliding glass doors and into the care of medical professionals. There’s even one that takes patients on a sliding scale. They’ll probably treat Dad for close to free if they have a bed available.