Captain Joshua Dennison was like a second, well, third father to me. He tried as hard as he could to help me after Zac’s death, but you can’t help someone who doesn’t want to help themselves.
I knew he was at his wits’ end with me. After all, I’d had a handful of altercations inside and outside of the department. As soon as I hit the bottle, my life quickly unraveled, and I didn’t mind taking down anyone and everyone else with me.
I started showing up drunk to work, getting into scuffles with co-workers and even punched a suspect in the face when he whistled at me. I was lucky one of my brothers or sisters in blue didn’t have to arrest me.
Even my best female friend from work refused to talk to me. Apparently one night when the department went drinking, I blacked out after one too many Long Island iced teas. The story goes, I thought her husband was my Zac. I was so fucked up, I’d forgotten my fiancé was murdered. I pulled her husband into the bathroom with me and lunged at him. He tried to push me off, but I couldn’t help it, and Lisa found us in the bathroom together, my hands all over her man’s junk.
It was a safe assumption that everyone I called “my family in blue” hated my guts. It was as if my subconscious wouldn’t quit until I reached rock bottom. And I think I was close as hell to getting there.
“Hey!” Jack broke the silence. “Want to see what I found?"
This time, I followed him into the remodeled kitchen. Miniature bottles of wine covered the walls atop a cream wallpaper. Jack must have installed a new wine rack, which hung by the oven. My stepdad bent down near the corner cabinet and scoured through to pull out a dusty bottle of whiskey.
I smiled, wondering when I'd be able to try some of the expensive liquor. I'd been eyeing it for years, but if I ever opened it, I'd be in more trouble than it was worth.
"Ever tried this?”
"Not yet." I winked while my glands salivated for the amber liquid.
I collected glasses for us; luckily, they were still in the same place.
My mother walked into the kitchen, and her eyes grew to the size of beach balls once she saw my stepdad holding the whiskey.
"Jack!" she hissed. "What are you doing?”
"Just a little toast now that Elle is home," he said shyly. "Would you like one, too?"
She glared at him with narrowed eyes. "No, thank you. Now don't go getting yourself a hangover before lunch.”
Once my mom turned away, he gave me the "thumbs up" before he poured us healthy servings of the aged whiskey in the glasses I set out.
I couldn't help but love Jack like a father. Not only was the man gracious and kind, but funny too. He loved my mother with all his heart. It swirled in his eyes, the way he looked at her; it was like the love he held for her seeped out of his pores. They reminded me that it's possible to find true love at any age. Hell, they found each other decades ago, in high school, and reconnected as adults. Talk about fate, huh?
We clinked glasses, and each took a deep sip of the whiskey. It burned my throat at first but finished smoothly. I emptied the rest of my drink in another gulp and set it down a little too roughly on the table.
"Whoops," I said, embarrassed, my cheeks reddening.
Jack cracked a smile and emptied his too. He pretended to sway and wobble as if he wanted to audition for the role of Johnny Depp in the next Pirates movie. Little did Jack know, this wasn't my first drink of the day. It wasn't my second or third, either.
For the next hour or so, Jack, my mom and I sat in the living room and made small talk. My mom filled me in on the latest Keygate gossip while I relayed some bits of information about Ashford. I told her about a new restaurant opening down the street from my apartment.
"What's it called?" my mom asked.
"Ready Spaghetti," I said. "They have every kind of pasta you could ever imagine!”
My mouth watered at the thought, and I hoped I'd have enough restraint once the Italian spot opened up not to eat there every day. After beginning my administrative leave, I abandoned my strict workout regimen. Instead of a six-pack of abs, I enjoyed a six-pack of beer every morning for breakfast.
Around four o'clock, my mom retreated to the kitchen to start dinner. She promised to make a delicious pot roast, but I respectfully declined. I needed to visit my father. Here I was playing catch up across town while he mourned the loss of his wife only a few miles away.
We exchanged brief goodbyes, and I said I would return in a little bit. When I mentioned getting a motel to my mom a few nights ago, she told me not to be silly and that I would stay with them.
I walked out of the house with a heavy heart as I continued to notice all the differences in my childhood home. The familiar pang of being home didn't resonate just yet. I guess my home had disappeared once I left. It must have dissolved with the realization that a house didn't make a home, the people with you made it so. Inside my car, I finished the remaining sips in my water bottle, backed out of the driveway and headed across town.
Three
I drove to my father's condo with cement in my gut. What do you say to someone you love who's just lost someone they love? Can any combination of words make it better? Make the wound heal faster? Help them forget their grief?
No, I knew that firsthand.
I looked down at my ring finger, noticing the tan lines where a beautiful princess cut diamond once sat. I'd finally gotten up the nerve to remove the piece of jewelry a few weeks ago, but without it, I carried a new ghost. A reminder that a ring should be there.
Cruising through town, I drove by the sandwich shop where I worked in high school. It was my first job, and most of my paycheck went to buying food during my shift and my prom dress. I couldn't believe the shop was still open. I passed a few other boutiques and the ice cream parlor I often frequented as a kid. I could almost taste the vanilla and chocolate twist with rainbow sprinkles.
After memory lane came to a dead-end, I pulled into my father's parking lot where his two-bed, two-bath condo stood with a manmade lake in the backyard. He moved here after the divorce and settled in nicely. I'd visited the place every weekend and during some weekdays before soccer practice, although now it seemed as foreign to me as the home where I grew up.
Despite the bright skies, I could almost make out a looming cloud above my father's place, like his grief had materialized into weather, and a storm poured down over his residence. I chewed my nails to the quick until one of them began to bleed. I wiped my hands on my jeans and took a deep breath.
I stepped out of my car as slowly as possible, wanting to avoid the inevitable. Out of the corner of my eye, the curtains in my dad's place shifted ever so slightly. He saw me arrive. There was no turning back now.
My dad opened the door with a fake smile, in no way distracting from the red of his eyes and the dozens of extra wrinkles and gray hairs consuming his appearance. "Hey, sweetie," he said in a hushed tone. "Come on in.”
I stepped over the threshold, and an eerie silence greeted me. Clearing my throat, I asked, "So, uh, how's everything?" Despite knowing full well, everything was not okay. Not even in the tiniest bit.
"Oh, you know," my dad said, trailing off.
I swore I saw a single tear slither down his cheek. Why did I ask that? I mentally slapped myself across the face—such a moron.