Disaster

Disaster

I got home, furious, excited, soaking wet, and in no mood for my father. Even just 

walking through the door you could smell the liqour in the air and see the whiskey and 

bourbon bottles on the floor. Some broken and smashed, probably from a particularly 

violent episode after drinking. 

The carpets, couches and blankets showed years of stains from not only spilled 

alcohol, but also the puke that is so often caused by the liqour. The odor in my house is a 

mix of strong liqours, sweat, anger, and bad hygeine. Once, in an effort to conceal the 

putrid odor, I went through three cans of Oust in one week, barely making a dent in the 

stink exuding from my father, which has been building up for years. Welcome to my 

house, ladies and gentlemen, feel free to sit down. Would you like something to drink? 

Sorry, only alcoholics are welcome.

My mother died four years ago and my dad is still a wreck. I understand that some 

people turn to drinking and wallow in their grief, but it's about time he took a shower, 

shaved, and went out to find a girlfriend. But he won't, and I know it. He misses her, even 

more than I do sometimes, and he's obviously scum without her. I don't know what to do. 

I have cooked, cleaned, and done the laundry for both of us and it isn't enough. I have 

cleaned up after his beer buddies and looked past his snide, sexual comments. I have 

listened and watched as he's made fun of me and said awful things in front of his drunk 

friends. I made sure the bills were paid and the kitchen was stocked with food. I made 

sure we didn't live on the streets and die of starvation. And what do I get for it? 

Absolutely nothing.

So why do I stay? Maybe I feel bad for the guy. He lost his wife and got stuck 

with me. Who would be okay after that? Only a bad person would be okay after that. And 

he wasn't a bad person until the Leukemia took over my mother. When she spent all her 

time in the hospital, holding on to her life, which had long ago slipped from her grasp. It 

was taken from her when she got that fatal diagnosis. It not only stopped her heart from 

beating, but my dad's too. I realize he died a long time ago, when my mother did. 

And now I'm left with the dry, useless carcass that had once been a father and the urn on 

the fireplace mantle filled with my mom's ashes. I hear him talking to her sometimes, 

early, early in the morning, while I lie awake in bed. He talks to her softly, like he used to, 

when he was sober. It's too easy to see past the booze and the parties in my house, and  

look at the love expressed in his voice on those cold early mornings. He has made me 

realize how much pain he is really in. 

There's no fix-it here, no Band-Aid. I'm really not sure how to change his mind. I 

think I just have to wait it out. Let the apples fall where they may.

I dropped my backpack on the floor in my room and laid down on my bed. My 

door was shut and all was quiet. Maybe Dad was asleep. Hopefully. But as soon as I 

thought it, there was a banging on my door.

"Laura...Laura, come out of there right now!" Came my father's angry voice.

Laura. My mother. The same one whose been dead for years. Guess whose drunk   

again.

"No, Dad. It's me, Ava. Your daughter."

"We don't have a daughter, Laura!" 

"Dad!" He often had episodes where he reverted back to their early marriage. I 

walked to the door and opened it, staring Fredrick Jeden right in the eyes. "Remeber, 

Dad. Mom's gone. I'm seventeen, and she's been gone for a while."

He stared into my eyes for a second, letting his emotions run free in his eyes. First, 

I saw anger, anger at me for even suggestiong Laura was gone. Then, I saw shock, shock 

and realization that I was right. Finally, sadness registered as pain took over. He started 

crying silently, still staring me down.

I rubbed his arm thoughtfully. "Daddy, it's okay. Let's go get some water." I led 

him into the kitchen and gave him three glasses of water, to dilute the alcohol in his 

system. He drank them without protest, or much of anything. He just stared at the 

fireplace mantle with longing. I couldn't really blame him. I wanted her back too, more 

than anyone could ever know. Sadly, we'll never have her back. And we need to accept 

that and move on. The faster, the better. I know she's not happy up there watching Dad 

drink his life away. But there's nothing I can do. He's going to kill himself one of these 

days and there will be nothing I could've done.

He stared and drank his water. When he'd finished, he set the glass on the coffee 

table in front of him. He was still silent.

"Hey, Dad? Next week is spring break and I'm going with Jayna to Sweden. Just 

wanted to let you know."

He whipped his head around to face me, and his eyes burned with fury. "You're 

what? No, you're not. You're not leaving me like your mother did!" He shouted at me and 

my expression was solemn.

"Dad, I'm going and you can't stop me. Mom didn't leave you, she just got sick. 

And I'm not leaving you either. I'm going to Sweden for a week." 

He got up and flipped the coffee table over, letting glass fly everywhere, each 

piece sparkling for a second in the sunlight from the window. The table's frame hit the 

brick fireplace, sending everything on its mantle tumbling down. 

My mother's urn crashed to the wood floor, her ashes strewn about the room. I let 

one single tear fall down my cheek as my father stalked off to his room, slammed the 

door, and undoubtedly opened a new bottle of bourbon.

I took my phone from my pocket and sent a speedy text to Jayna, refusing to let his Alcoholism control me anymore.

Hey, Jay...count me in!