“Look at me,” I say, ignoring his question, because he hasn’t made eye contact with me yet. “I need you to look at me, Jonathan.”
He doesn’t.
Instead, he sits back down on the hood of my car, mumbling, “Jonathan. It’s been a long time since anybody has called me that.”
“Oh, right,” I say, unlocking the driver’s side door, because I don’t have it in me to stand here and play games with him. “Johnny Cunning. Almost forgot that’s who you are now.”
“I’m still the same person,” he says quietly.
“And who exactly is that?” I ask. “Are we talking about Speaker Cunningham’s son? The dreamer, the believer, the one who never let anything hold him back? Or maybe we’re talking about the alcoholic. You know, the cokehead.”
“I don’t do that anymore.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Because it’s the truth.” His left hand slips into his pocket to pull something out. It reflects the parking lot lights as he holds it up—a shiny bronze coin, not much bigger than a quarter.
A sobriety chip.
I don’t know what to say. Everything gets quiet again. My fingertips brush against his when I take it from him. It’s solid metal, a triangle etched in the face of it, the Roman numeral I in the center with ‘recovery’ written along the bottom.
One year sober.
“People saw you coming out of a bar last week.”
“That doesn’t mean I drank. I wanted to, but I didn’t. I won’t.” He pauses, his voice quieter when he says, “I can’t.”
I want to believe him.
I wish I could.
Once upon a time, I believed everything that flowed from this man’s lips, but it’s hard to give his words any weight after what we went through.
“Then why won’t you look at me?” I ask. “You say that, you want me to believe it, yet you won’t even look me in the eyes.”
“Because I've fucked things up with you,” he says. “Do you know how hard it is to face you right now? I know nothing can erase what I've done, but I need you to know how sorry I am.”
Sorry.
It isn’t the first time he’s apologized. He does it every single time. But he was messed up then, always, and I’m not sure if he is right now, because the sobriety chip weighs heavy in my hand but his eyes still won’t meet mine.
“I’m sorry for the way I hurt you,” he says. “Sorry for everything I did that led us to this point. And I get it, you know, if you hate me. Wouldn’t blame you at all. But I just need to tell you… I need you to know… that even when I was completely fucked up, I never once stopped loving you.”
Those words, they rip the air from my lungs. I clench my hands into fists, the bronze coin digging into my palm.
“I don’t expect you’ll believe that.” He shoves up from my car, his eyes finally meeting mine, and they’re bright blue and so clear, but it only lasts a few seconds before his gaze returns to the ground. “But that’s not the point. Point is, I’m not perfect, but I’m doing the best I can. I don’t know shit about being a father, but I hope you’ll give me the chance to try. Tomorrow… the next day… someday… whenever it is, I’ll be there.”
He starts to walk away with that, like he’s said all he can and he has nothing more to offer.
“Jonathan,” I call out. “Your chip.”
“Keep it.”
“What?”
“I know how I’m doing. I don’t need a token to tell me, but maybe you do, so keep it.”
I stare down at the coin in the glow of the streetlight. I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know where he’s going or how long he really plans to stay.
At the moment, I don’t know much of anything, except that he’s here, in front of me, telling me everything I’ve yearned to hear for a long, long time, and I’m letting him walk away like it all means nothing.
“Jonathan,” I call out again.
He pauses and glances over his shoulder at me.
“I, uh… I’m glad you’re okay,” I say. "I saw about the accident, about what you did, helping that girl, and I just… I'm glad you're okay."
He smiles slightly, a familiar smile, one that’s filled with so much sadness. “I’m going to stick around for a while, lay low in town. I’m staying over at the Landing Inn.”
“Mrs. McKleski’s place?” I ask. “She rented to you?”
A light laugh escapes him. “She wasn’t thrilled about it, but I needed somewhere private. Took some convincing and one hell of a security deposit to get her to go along with it.”
“I bet,” I say, imagining how the woman must’ve looked when he showed up, seeking out sanctuary.
“So, that’s where I’ll be,” he says. “If you’re looking for me.”
He doesn’t wait around for a response, limping away. It’s a little over a mile from where I work to where he’s going. Memories of my mother’s voice nag at me, the angel on my shoulder, telling me I should’ve offered him a ride, but instead, I listen to the devil, sounding a hell of a lot like my father when he says, ‘Never get in a car with a stranger.’
I'm still not sure who he is right now.
Maddie’s asleep when I get to my father’s house, sprawled out on her back on the couch. My father is sitting at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of coffee—decaf. He looks up when I walk in, eyes following me until I drop down in a chair across from him.
Crayons and papers are scattered along the tabletop, an envelope dead center of it all, addressed to ‘Breezeo’ in bright red. The return address says Maddie at Grandpa’s. It’s not sealed, but I can tell she tried, a stamp crookedly slapped in the corner, upside down.
I pick the envelope up and pull out the sloppily folded paper, gazing at it. It’s a ‘get well’ card, the words written in capitals up top, a frowny-face drawing of Breezeo below it. She drew herself beside him, smiling, handing him what looks like a bunch of yellow flowers, a short message written below that.
I saw you got sick in a accident. You should get better! And you should come back cuz Mommy says nobody always is gone. It will make you happy and me too. Love, Maddie
Sighing, I fold the paper back up, shoving it away, setting the envelope down on the table. My father’s watching me, still sipping his coffee. Waiting me out, I can tell. He probably spent all evening helping her make that, telling her how to spell all the words.
“Jonathan showed up tonight,” I say. “Wanted to talk.”
“And did you?”
I reach into my pocket for the coin he gave me, sliding it across the table to my father. He picks it up, letting out a low whistle, a peculiar look flickering across his face as he stands up. Pride. That probably shouldn’t surprise me. I shouldn’t be surprised about any of this, but I am.
Strolling across the kitchen, he sets his coffee cup in the sink before leaning back against the counter, staring at the coin. Not far from where he stands, a set of keys hang on a hook, a similar coin affixed to them, converted into a keychain. Twenty years sober.
My father spent the first few years of my life struggling with alcohol. I only have vague memories of that time. He got clean before it was too late to be a dad, he always said, and I know that’s what he’s thinking about right now.
“You’re looking lost again, kiddo,” he says as I start cleaning up the mess on the table, shoving the crayons back into the box.
“I’m feeling it,” I admit.
He doesn’t offer me any advice. I’ve never been good at listening to it. Had I taken his advice years ago, I would’ve never ended up in this situation. But I have no regrets, despite everything, and he knows that. Regardless of what happened, Maddie came out of it, and she’s worth every moment of heartache.
“We all do what we have to,” my father says, setting the coin down on the table in front of me. “I’m heading to bed.”