More Than Anything (2 page)

“Hey, Dad.”

“Morning, Sage. You ready to roll?”

“Just getting coffee. Where are you?”

“I rented a car. I should be up in your neck of the woods in twenty minutes or so.”

Crap. Less time than I’d hoped for. “Um, okay. You have Melody’s address?”

“She gave it to me. See you in a few.”

I hang up and eye Melody, who’s flirting with the barista working the cash register. Melody’s got no off button when it comes to males, and views every hunky example as an opportunity to hone her skills. If nothing else, I have to admire her determination and energy.

When she returns to the table with our coffee, I tell her we have to take it to go, and she shrugs. “Lead the way. I already packed a bag.”

That stops me. We hadn’t discussed her going with me.

“You don’t have to come, Melody.”

“Bull. I’m here for moral support. Besides, I’d just be sitting around the apartment gorging on chocolate and burning myself out on reality TV. And I don’t want
America’s Top Model
or
Honey Boo Boo
to lose their luster.”

“I still can’t believe you watch that crap.”

“Don’t judge. It’s like watching a car wreck. I can’t turn away.”

“Seriously, though. We may be up there for a few days.”

“More time to check out the local talent. I’ve got a thing for flannel shirts and cowboy boots.”

I laugh. “Clear Lake isn’t
that
much of a hick town.”

“Don’t ruin this for me.”

We make it back with a few minutes to spare. Melody announces to her mom that she’s going with me, and her mom doesn’t bat an eye. She’s acting all starstruck, and it’s making me nervous. I’m not used to people being so nice.

A honk from downstairs saves me from trying to rally any small talk, and we troop down the steps to where a red Ford Festiva is waiting at the curb. Melody gives me a skeptical look, which I ignore. It was probably the cheapest option. There’s no shame in being frugal.

My dad turns the engine off and gets out of the car to give me a big hug. You’d think he hadn’t seen me in seven years or something. We stow our stuff and climb in, me in the passenger seat, Melody in back, and he doesn’t question her presence.

The fog’s burning off as we cross the Golden Gate Bridge and enter Marin County, which is all green hills and expensive houses. Dad and I aren’t talkative, both of us dreading the ordeal to come, so Melody fills the dead air with an ongoing description of her time in New York – the totally hot dudes she met, her impressions of big-city life, and a synopsis of every reality show on television.

Eventually my dad joins the discussion. “So, Melody, what are you going to do when you graduate? College?”

There’s no faster way to shut Melody up than to ask her what she’s planning to do in the real world once school’s over.

“I’m still thinking that through,” she says.

“No firm plans?” my dad continues. “It’ll be here sooner than you think.”

“I was hoping to be Sage’s road manager. Deal with all her groupies. Somebody’s got to do it.”

“So far, that’s just your mom,” I say.

“Gotta start somewhere,” Melody agrees.

We pull off the freeway and take the winding mountain road that leads from civilization to Clear Lake. By the time we pull into town, Melody’s an impressive shade of green.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Let’s just say I’m not in a hurry to grab lunch.”

We check into a moderately priced hotel on the edge of town and get two rooms. My dad calls the hospital and confirms that visiting hours are until six that evening. After unpacking, we walk down the main road to a café that’s famous for its oversized pancakes and hearty country fare. Melody’s normally healthy appetite hasn’t returned, but I remember the restaurant’s trademark chocolate chip pancakes and order them for lunch, ignoring my father’s look. Melody gets a fruit plate, and my dad selects the burger, which when it arrives is the size of my head.

“I have to return the car tomorrow by five o’clock. We should plan on getting out of here by two,” he says between mouthfuls.

Not a problem. I swore I’d never return to this place, so I can’t get out of town fast enough. Melody seems unimpressed by the local studs sitting at the counter, which is a first as far as I can remember. Her car sickness must have thrown her off her game. She picks at her fruit while I scoop a heaping mouthful of chocolate chip pancake into my mouth, savoring the melted chips with each bite.

The hospital lot’s mostly empty when we roll in and park near the main entrance. My nose crinkles when we’re inside – it has that institutional antiseptic smell, a combination of bleach and something sour that seems to coat us with a film as we take the elevator up to the critical care floor where my mom’s staying.

The head nurse at the central station is rude when we ask for my mom’s room. She snaps at us as though we’ve interrupted something important, which apparently involves her texting on her cell.

“Room 310. Down that hall. You kin?” she demands suspiciously. We nod. After a final glare at my dad, she loses interest and waves us away.

The door’s open, and I can see two beds, one empty and my mom lying on the other. An IV is hooked up to her arm, its vital signs monitors blinking and pulsing beside her. She’s pale as a ghost and looks like she’s lost twenty pounds since the last time I saw her, which means she’s barely more than skin hanging from bone. Her eyelids flicker open as we enter. She peers at us with unfocused eyes and then closes them again, her curiosity exhausted.

“Mom?” I try as I near her bedside. Melody hangs back by the door, and I don’t blame her. The room stinks of death and decay.

No response. My dad approaches and stands next to me. He swallows hard and reaches out and touches her hand, delicate as a hummingbird’s claw, the skin sallow and yellowish. She’s still in her thirties, but looks sixty from alcohol abuse.

Her eyes flutter and open again, and she tries a smile, which winds up looking more like a grimace of pain. “You come to bury me?” she croaks in a faint voice.

“Just in the neighborhood and decided to stop by. Look who’s with me. Sage,” he says.

Her gaze wanders to where I’m standing. I can tell she recognizes me, but her face doesn’t change.

“I thought you were gone for good,” she says, her words barely distinguishable. I realize that she must be on something really strong.

“Forever’s a long time,” I say, wishing I hadn’t come.

She doesn’t say anything more. The silence is broken by a voice from the door I’ll never forget, even though I’ve spent enough time trying.

“What the hell’s going on here?” Ralph demands, glaring at my dad and me.

“Ralph, nice to see you. We thought we’d stop in and see how she’s doing,” my father says, his tone neutral.

“Well, you’ve seen her. Now you can leave.” Ralph advances into the room, brushing past Melody, whose alarmed expression speaks volumes.

My dad turns to face him, and when he speaks, his voice is even, no trace of stress in it. “Ralph, ratchet it down a few notches, would you? Sage and I are here to spend time with her mother. My wife, in case you forgot.”

“The wife you deserted. How can I forget that?” He glares at me. “I had to take care of both of them.”

My dad’s gaze returns to my mom. “Looks like you’ve done a fine job of it.”

Bam! Totally below the belt, but I’m glad he said it. Without an enabler like Ralph, my mom wouldn’t have deteriorated as quickly. At least that’s what I’ve always told myself. Maybe it’s true, maybe not, but it’s a lot easier to blame someone else rather than accept a loved one’s decision to destroy themselves.

“I want you gone,” Ralph snarls, his fingers curling into fists.

“Or what, Ralph? You going to take a swing at me? Or better yet, try to beat my daughter up? I have a feeling you’d do a lot better against a defenseless girl than someone who spent enough time in the joint to wipe the walls with you and not break a sweat,” my dad says. His tone is calm, like he’s discussing the weather.

“I’ll call the cops,” Ralph says, but he’s no longer advancing on us. Something about my dad stops him, and I realize Ralph’s scared – cowards and bullies are always afraid of someone who can take them.

I hold up my phone. “Use my cell. I can’t wait to hear this. ‘Officer, my girlfriend’s teenage daughter, who I beat up until she ran away from home, is visiting her mom in the hospital.’ I’ll bet they send a SWAT team.”

Ralph’s face darkens. “Still got that smart mouth of yours, I see.”

“It only seems smart because you’re not,” I fire back. For a split second, rage flares in his eyes, and I’m afraid he’s going to hit me.

Then my dad takes a step forward. “Ralph, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. We’re here, we’re going to stay until we’re good and ready to leave, and there’s nothing you can do about it. So either buzz off and stop bothering us, or lighten up and cut the threats, because it’s been a long day so far and I might lose my patience.”

Ralph flinches and backs up a few inches, and it’s clear how this is going to end. There’s no question in my mind, or anyone else’s in the room, that my dad can flatten Ralph if he wants to – and might actually enjoy it enough for it to be worth going back to jail for.

“Just leave her be. She’s in bad shape,” he says and spins on his heel and stalks out.

Melody catches my gaze with widened eyes. “Now I see why the street’s better than living with him.”

“You don’t know the half of it. We hate each other. This is like a warm welcome home compared to what it was like before I left.”

“What’s his problem?” Melody asks.

“He’s got dickitis. Can’t help it,” I say, and my father chuckles.

We turn back to my mom, whose breathing is shallow as a sparrow’s, and who’s obviously so out of it she hasn’t registered any of the drama. My father touches her hand again, but she doesn’t stir. He shakes his head.

“She…she looks like a completely different person,” he says in a soft voice.

“Drinking a half gallon of gin straight to your head every day will do that to you,” I say, my tone flat. I gave up on my mom long ago, and it’s all I can do to keep the disgust out of my voice.

My dad closes his eyes like he’s praying and takes a deep breath. When he opens them, he looks resolved. “Still. We’re her family. Blood’s thicker than water. She needs us. She deserves to have people who care about her around.”

He doesn’t have to say, ‘as she dies.’

“You left her over her drinking before. What’s so different this time?” I ask and immediately feel terrible for saying it.

His expression radiates hurt. “I know I was wrong, that’s what’s different. That decision was the worst one I’ve ever made. I never want to make the same mistake ever again. And I don’t want to see you make it, either.”

Which is all fine and good, but he left once, and I can’t help but wonder whether he’ll leave again. It’s irrational, but there it is. If I fail, will he abandon me? If things get rocky, will he disappear again?

I shake off the negative inner dialogue. He’s a different man now, and the circumstances are completely different. I’m distorting things, probably because of the stress of the situation, and my inside voice is going to work on making me miserable. At least it’s reliable in that sense. I resolve to stop torturing myself – the situation’s bad enough as it is without my help.

We hang out in the room for another half hour, but my mom never acknowledges us again. A nurse comes in and checks on her toward the end, and my dad has a hushed conversation with her in the hall. When he returns, his expression’s grim.

“She was admitted again a few days ago. She hemorrhaged after being out of the hospital for a week. Was told to stop drinking when she was released, but when they found her this time, she had enough alcohol in her system to light a bonfire. The booze is causing the rupturing, and they’re pretty sure if she makes it home again and even touches alcohol, that’ll be it.”

“They should keep her here,” I blurt and immediately regret my tone. “The house is filled with booze. Ralph refuses to throw it out. Says she’ll just drive to the liquor store and get more anyway.”

“They can’t hold her indefinitely. Hospitals can’t keep people from killing themselves, only patch ’em up the best they can and send them on their way. If she’s hell-bent on drinking, there’s nothing anyone can do about it.”

“Can’t you sign some sort of form committing her? I mean, she’s mentally ill, right?” I ask.

“I’ll talk to someone, but I suspect not. The system’s not set up to keep addicts from abusing their drug of choice, honey. Once you’re an adult, it’s on you to keep your nose clean.”

I’ve had enough. The hissing of the machines, the beeping of the monitor, the sight of my mother dying in front of me, it’s all too much. Even though she’s been responsible for most of the misery in my life, she’s still my mom, and even if she’s done this to herself, I can’t stand by and watch her die. My gut feels like someone’s twisting a knife into it. My eyes well with tears, and I choke them back as I push my way out the door, looking for a bathroom, a vending machine, anything to escape the ugliness in the room.