“After the divorce I used to sit on your side of the bed and pretend you were still there. I’d wrap myself up in the bathrobe you left behind and curl up like you were going to drop through the ceiling all healed. I’d look for you around every corner. I’d try so hard to be perfect so you’d come back. I tried to protect everyone—help Faith, be no problem to Mom. I thought if things were easier you might stop drinking.”
I slapped the rock, shaking. “I took your drinking on my shoulders, Dad! But I can’t keep it there anymore. I’ve changed. I love you, but I can’t be with you unless you change because seeing you so out of control, seeing you wasting your life is too hard for me. I can’t pretend like you don’t have a problem. You need help, Dad! You’re an alcoholic. There’s help everywhere for what you’ve got. But you’ve got to want to get it.”
“I know,” he hissed, “how to handle my liquor.”
“No,” I said back to him. “That’s a lie. You don’t.”
He got up slowly, glared at his bag of bread, and hurled the whole thing into the pond, scaring the ducks that scattered quacking in every direction.
I stood up, too—stood tall. “Please hear me, Dad. If you keep drinking I won’t see you, I won’t talk to you on the phone. I need a sober father. Faith does too.”
“That’s pretty rough, Jenna.”
“I know it.”
Dad walked heavily across the stepping stones toward the gate, then turned back to look at me—anger, hurt, and love carved on his face.
I looked at him, too, but not the old way with guilt and fear. I didn’t know what would happen now, later, or ever. All I knew is that I’d said it finally—spoke the truth—and saying it was like losing five hundred miserable pounds that I’d been lugging around for most of my life.
He stood there for the longest time, then shrugged finally and headed out. It wasn’t until then that I realized I’d been crying.
I always wondered why I had a father who was an alcoholic.
Now I knew.
It made me strong.
It made me different.
It showed me how to say no to the darkness.
I looked at the pond. A few ducks were back swimming around Dad’s plastic bag.
It wasn’t right, throwing that bag in there. This was a bird sanctuary.
I found a long stick and fished it out of the pond. “It’s okay,” I said to the ducks, tore up the bread, and tossed it in the water. I folded the wet plastic, put it in my pocket.
I was always cleaning up after him.
I sat on a rock, aching for my father. But with the ache, I felt lighter and older. I always thought I’d have a permanent broken part in me because of the problems with my dad. Now I see that it isn’t the problems along the way that make us or break us. It’s how we learn to stand and face them that makes the difference.
I squared my shoulders; heard a rustle in the bushes. A scared baby duck stuck his head out, gave a little quack.
I had one piece of bread left. I held it out for him.
He waddled out, unsure.
“Go for it,” I said. “Make me proud.”
I threw the bread in the water. He dove in after it, raced past the other ducklings, gobbled it up.
Daring Duck Beats Odds to Win.
Another true survivor.
Like me.
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JOAN BAUER
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Stand Tall
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Joan Bauer, Rules of the Road
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