Everything felt weird. Like. I was detached from it. Even as I started packing, that night. Even as I finished packing the next morning or explained to a confused Will that I was leaving.
"To paraphrase Mr. Bennet in Pride and Prejudice," he said, "without you, the conversation will lose much of its animation and all of its sense."
Because of course he did. He's Will.
"Flattering," I'd said, laughing humorlessly, "but Adrian and Magda are perfectly sensible."
That was the problem.
"I know," he said, "but we'll still be lonely without you, all of us, but especially Adrian."
He didn't seem offended when I kept packing as he spoke. If I kept moving, kept doing what needed doing, it would just get done, eventually. And I could move on.
I felt like I was just…going through the motions. That the "real" me, if there were such a thing, was just…observing. As the busybee Lindy did her thing.
"You can come back," Will mused. "If not here, then in the city. We'll be there in spring, no matter what. Will you come to us then? In the spring?"
It can't have been me, down there. Packing away clothes and wiping away tears. She hadn't redone her braid, and it was loose and frizzy and it would have driven me insane.
"Yes. Of course," busybee Lindy answered.
I'd never been heartbroken, before. I was no stranger to disappointment, and certainly not to the concept of unfairness. This was…more than either of those, though.
This felt closer to grief. Loss.
It felt like this after my mom died. Pain and confusion and deep-seated devastation and the errant thought that the world should be kinder, and stop, after something so terrible. That it continued to go on, and that things continued to need doing…was cruel.
It felt like. Like the. The morning after. After Hob.
When I'd borrowed a phone book from the neighbor to write down numbers for free clinics, I hadn't…been me, either. That had been busybee Lindy, too.
And I hadn't been able to be me for a long time. Busybee Lindy took the reins. I was happy to let her.
To borrow from T.S. Eliot: "This is the way the world ends / Not with a bang but a whimper."
Anguish. And wrongness. And a terrible sort of...loneliness.
God, it was lonely. After having the nearly constant companionship of Adrian and Will and Magda. Of our family. The one we'd made together.
Magda. Oh, Magda. She hugged me so tight.
"Oh, Lindy. Why you go?"
I laugh-cried. "My. My family. My Dad. He needs me. He's. Um. Very sick."
"You go, then. And come back to us."
I nodded. "Okay, Magda."
I…lost time. I was in the taxi. Oh. It. It was a bus. It was. I was on a bus, now. My cheeks were dry, but my eyes burned. My hair wasn't loose. I'd re-braided it.
I'd changed. I was wearing my green coat, my pearl studs, and boots with blue jeans. The sweater I was wearing was a cashmere one from my Bloomingdale's closet back home.
I mean. The brownstone.
This…was familiar. Coming back, after I'd walled the pesky emotions away. Stuffed them down. Busybee Lindy knew her shit. Repressing to the extreme. That was our creed.
Because I didn't want to feel how I'd been feeling. If I allowed myself to just…feel all of that. Then I'd never be able to move forward again. And the reality I lived in wouldn't allow for that.
I had my notebook—my journal—in my lap. I'd been writing. Huh. That was…probably new. Busybee Lindy was keeping me current. Not creepy at all, that I didn't remember writing this.
'In a way, I hate Adrian for taking me out of my life, for making me think anything could be different…and I hate him for sending me back, too. Maybe if he'd said, "Don't go," it would have given me the excuse I needed to stay.'
The feelings crept back then, and I retreated. Closed the notebook. Looked out the window, and gratefully dissociated.
More lost time. It could have been a new century. I was in a limo. I was holding an envelope fat with cash, and ATM card, and a note, not Adrian's handwriting, that read, 'Stay safe and come back.'
My cheeks were wet.
I wiped them dry.
The man—the limo driver, an older man with mostly white hair present in his short beard and mustache—politely called me 'Miss Lindy' instead of 'Miss Owens,' so busybee Lindy must have corrected him, before.
He told me we were turning onto the street of the address I'd given him.
He seemed nervous. Poor man. This neighborhood was scary. Probably hard to maneuver a limo through.
"I just have to pick someone up," I said softly. "Then we can go to that other address I gave you? If you don't mind."
"No problem," he said courteously.
"Thank you, Mr. Knight," I replied, so he must have told busybee Lindy his name, before, too.
Then I got out and found my father.
I felt…fear, then. For a moment, looking into the pile of trash, seeing him there, right where I'd seen him the previous night, a lifetime ago…I was terrified that he had died, in the night, before I could get to him.
His hair had been…going grey for a while, now. But. But it struck me how much older he looked. A lot of it was the drugs, and not eating right for a while, but. But he looked okay. Post-Rehab Daniel looked like he had potential.
He was wearing a newer-looking coat, which was actually a relief, to me. He hadn't sold it, yet. He. He still valued his own warmth above a fix. That was. That was actually huge, for him. No scarf, though. No hat. It looked like he'd pulled up the hood of the coat for warmth, but it had slid off, of course.
"D-Daddy?" I said softly, and then cleared my throat. "D-Dad? Can. Can you wake up? I'll. I'll take you to the doctor."
An eternity of a moment: uncertain, holding my breath…
And then he moved—grunted, shifted up to look at me. "Lemme 'lone. Lindy?"
I laughed a little, hearing his voice. I let out my breath. "Dad," I said a little louder. "It's freezing, out here. Let's get you to a doctor, okay? They have a clinic—"
"What're…Lindy. What're you doin' here?"
He regarded me with suspicion. Calculating intelligence obvious in his gaze, not currently unfocused or blank from drugs.
The same eyes I saw when I looked in the mirror.
He was my dad. He was a person, under the junkie.
And then.
Well. I'll spare you the whole scene. How at first, my Dad didn't know if I was real or not. (Didn't know if he was still hallucinating or not.)
Ooh. Or how, after he figured out I really was there, he got mad at me and yelled at me. Because he thought he would have to go to jail, since that meant I'd left Adrian, and he was free to tell the police about him and press charges.
Screaming match on the street. Yeah, that'll grease the old hinges, won't it? The dance was familiar, at least. Sucky. Annoying. Loud. But familiar.
The bargaining. Pleading with him to get in the fancy limo and let me take him to a doctor.
The informing. Emma first. Then Sarah. Per the protocol.
A new step, though. My dad gave me a card from his pocket. A number to call.
Thus appeared rando sponsor guy who I'd never met, but who nevertheless came when I called, on New Year's Day. I hadn't expected actual human decency today, and so my expectations were exceeded.
Howard Mulholland (But please call me Howie, everyone does) was about my height. He spoke softly, smiled easily, and was big on clarifying. He had solid grey hair, which was thin, but he wasn't balding, he was wearing a blue knit sweater with giant snowflakes on it, and he kept his hands in the pockets of his corduroy pants because they shook. (It alarms people in this community. Recovering addicts, you know. Officially, it's Parkinson's. I could take medication for it, but. Well. Recovering addict, you know.) Howie had…I dunno how they call it. A sort of…hangdog expression, I guess. Age had sagged his face into looking…perpetually sad. Well. Wistful, maybe.
He treated me to a coffee in a paper cup from a machine and waited with me at the counter by the empty receptionist's station while my dad was back with the doctor, being examined.
"You're the youngest daughter," he said, not asking it as a question. Smiling. "Um. Hold on, I know this. Danny told me. Linda? But you go by Lindy?"
I hadn't expected to smile again. Not after the night I'd had. Not after the morning I'd had. But I did. "That's right," I nodded.
I…hadn't heard anyone call my dad 'Danny' since…I was little.
"I'm sorry," he said, and he said it…sincerely.
I shook my head. "No, I should be sorry. Interrupting your new year. It's nice that you came, but you didn't have to."
He brought his paper coffee cup to his lips while I talked, and I watched it shake and tremor violently as he expertly took a small sip, and then lowered the cup again without spilling a drop.
"I only filled mine three-quarters of the way up, I'm quite a handful," he said, offering a wink as I laughed incredulously at his self-deprecating joke. "No, but I meant. Um. Sorry for you. I, uh, have been on both sides. For me it was uppers. Anything to squeeze more hours out of the day. Until my, uh, second? Heart attack? Then. Someone I love. For. For her it was, uh, downers. She had. Um. trauma. That she didn't want to work through. The booze and the pills helped her to. Ah. Ignore it. For a while."
I nodded, not sure what to say.
"It's. Ah. It's hard. I. I know that, now. To. To be on. On your side. It was, ah, triggering. For me. I couldn't. I couldn't sponsor her, I'm. I'm too close."
I took a small sip of my coffee, swirling it in its cup lightly to help it cool.
Howie smiled at the action, pointing at my cup. "Danny. He does. He does just that same thing. Isn't it. Isn't it the. Ah. The darndest thing?"
I offered a small smile, setting the cup on the counter next to me.
The darndest thing. Huh.
"Now I met, uh, your sisters. Sarah and Emma. Lovely girls. Lovely. But. Uh. I could. I could tell they, ah. They hadn't been with him. Danny. For. For a while. It was. It. Fell to you. Didn't it?"
I watched as he took another Parkinson's-defying sip of his drink, and I nodded.
"Until recently," he clarified, taking a second sip.
I nodded again.
"I. I thought so. It's. It's the behaviors, you see. We're all of us. Ah. Creatures of habit. Ah. If you'll. Um. Pardon my. My accidental pun, there. Even addicts. Behaviors are formed as. As a. A response to. To our environment. You see. Good ones, bad ones. All of them. Say I. Uh. I have a certain brand of. Of soap. In my bathroom at home. It's. It's thinner, you know, so. So whenever I wash my hands, I pump out twice, three times."
He raised his eyebrows, wordlessly asking me if I followed. I did. I nodded.
"Now, when I go somewhere else to wash my hands, y'see, it's. It's habit to. Ah. To pump out twice, three times. Which. If it's a different brand of soap, means. Ah. I have too much. Y'see my environment changed. But my habits don't. Don't always get the memo." He smiled, tapping his head. "Especially. Hmm. Especially this guy, huh? It's. It's hard to change, when. When the habit's in there, deep."
I nodded again, smiling.
"Then. Then you go and. And add drugs. And it makes. It makes it difficult. Because it. It alters the chemistry in. In your brain. You might. You might change the environment, but. But the habit's there."
"And at that point, it's both kinds of habits," I smiled sadly.
He jabbed his finger in my direction, an action that almost looked like he was trying to pop a balloon. "Bingo."
I picked up my cup again, taking a thoughtful sip of the coffee, then a bigger gulp, noting how drastically it had dropped in temperature.
"This. This was his first time, right? Doing real, honest-to-God rehab? Instead of just. Just muscling it alone?" Howie asked, in that way that…wasn't really asking. Just clarifying facts.
I hesitated. Nodded. "I. I think so. It's. He's." I made a sort of circular swirling gesture with my hand. "I was. Um. I was seven. When my mom died. So. So I was maybe…eight? Nine? When I started to. Um. Notice."
"Mmm. Did you know, or. Or were you aware? That. That it usually, ah. It actually usually takes a few times? A. A few facilities? I mean. It depends on the program, I suppose, but. But I don't trust an addict who's only been through one or two programs to have. Ah. Lasting change. I. I like to sponsor first-timers, but. But I like to. To put that information out there. For. For the caregivers, too. Because I've. I've been on both sides, and. Well. It's. It would have been nice to know."
I felt…emotional, then. And it wasn't surprising. Shit night. Shit morning. Thy name is Lindy.
But…I was seeing my dad. His…his…addiction. In a different light.
"Most. Most recovering addicts…first-timers. They've. They've made mistakes. As addicts. But. But they don't. They don't know how to make mistakes as a recovering addict. And. And they. They need to. To relapse. They. Hmm. If they make mistakes early, it means. It means they can learn from them. Do. Do you understand?"
Howie had that. That same, earnest tone in his voice that Will used. That steel, that gave no quarter.
This was Howie's hill. And he'd die on it.
"Falling off the wagon is. It's normal behavior, for him. Is that. Am I right? You're. You're not surprised by it?"
I shook my head. And. And it…felt like betrayal. In this light. I felt my eyes heat up, again, and the conglomeration of heartbreak and this new information I was getting that treated my dad like a human being with a problem, and not this massive cross to bear…
The tears came easily, but silently.
Howie had no judgement in his face, though. He just nodded. He reached over the counter, procuring a tissue box, placing it in front of me.
After I'd…gained a little mastery over the tears, again, and blown my nose, and subsequently sanitized my hands with the giant bottle of Germ-X by the business card stand, Howie smiled, offering a shaky hand to me in handshake position.
I took his hand to shake it, giving him a questioning look.
"Hi," he said simply, shaking my hand firmly in a two-handed grip that lingered. "I'm, ah, Howard Mulholland and I'm an addict. Please, ah, call me Howie, everyone does. I'm, hm, going for my ten-year sobriety chip this coming June. I've replaced one addictive behavior with another, healthier one. I, uh, work in a pawn shop, restoring old jewelry and furniture. I, uh, I also sometimes work with the company we outsource with so, uh, I get a chance to clean rugs."
He let go of my hand, but maintained firm eye contact with me, continuing his…speech.
"I was, ah, recently diagnosed with Parkinson's, which makes my fine-motor skills…understandably dreadful. So I, uh, have a plan to make a change, this year. Work with, uh, cleaning companies. I have goals for my future by, uh, necessity, because idleness is dangerous for someone with, uh, an addiction to stimulant drugs."
I wasn't sure what to say. I nodded, uncertainly.
"You've, ah, never been to a meeting?"
He didn't need an answer. I shook my head anyway.
"You don't…get to see that side of him. Daniel."
I scoffed, and it was a little wet-sounding. "He'd have to be genuine and vulnerable. He'd. He'd have to be honest. Un-fucking-likely."
I covered my mouth with my hands, then, mortified to have said that aloud, in a public place, in front of this man I'd never met before today.
Howie's smile was as sad as his face. "I'm sorry to hear that. Being genuine and vulnerable is, uh, easiest when there is safety and trust. I'm so…so sorry you two aren't able to have that, uh, connection."
I said nothing, and Howie continued.
"Honesty…is easier. Honesty can be used, uh, as a weapon, really. I'd, uh, think he's. He's too honest," he said, and I got to chew on that because a harried-looking girl finally appeared and sat behind the counter. Three pens stuck out of her ponytail and she was pulling her stethoscope out of her ears, settling it around her neck.
"ThankssorryourreceptionisthastheholidayoffandI'mpullingdoubleduty," the girl said, I'm sure, without drawing breath. "Patient'snameanddateofbirthplease?"
"Daniel Owens," Howie prompted, and I mentally shook myself, tabling our conversation for later.
"Four-twenty-nine-sixty-six," I rattled off expertly.
"Owens," she said under her breath, clicking rapidly with her mouse, eyes tracking information on the screen with impressive speed.
"Lookslikehe'sallcheckedindoc'sstartedhimonanIVsalinesolutiontohelpflushhissystem," she said, still without drawing breath. "He'sinroomonesixteenstraightdownthehallfourthdoorontheleft."
We thanked her and went in the direction she indicated, sharing small smiles at the girl's expense for her…brusque manner.
"If Danny is amenable, would you like to go in together?" Howie asked, and I nodded vigorously. I would prefer that to going in to talk with him alone.
When I talked with him alone, we usually ended up shouting.
"He's probably still mad," I muttered.
Howie smiled. "You remind me of my granddaughter. You're about her age. She turns, mm, seventeen in August. Gonna be a senior."
I nodded again. "My birthday is. Oh. Was. In November. I'm. Uh. Seventeen."
I'd been ignoring my birthdays for…quite a few years, now. God, that had been two months ago, though.
"She's excited for prom. Her school is doing prom in April, and they've already started planning for it. She's always showing me dresses in different colors. I told her I'd pitch in to get her something nice."
We reached the room, then, and I was glad.
I knocked on the door, firmly, loudly, and then opened it with a pre-emptive, "Hey, Dad, Howie's here."
My dad wasn't laying in a hospital bed, he was just. Sitting on an examination table. He wore scrubs, inexplicably, and a grumpy expression.
I entered the room silently, but Howie came in from behind me and swept past me, arms open, enveloping my dad in a hug, which surprised me. My dad…hadn't been big on physical affection in…a while.
"Thank God they found you, Danny," Howie said softly, and I…felt abashed. Like I was being intrusive.
"Don't be so dramatic, Howie. I'm all right," my dad said, and he sounded gruff and annoyed. But…he was smiling. A little.
He had a tube connected to the back of one of his hands, and he picked at the tape holding it there. The IV. Saline solution to start flushing his system.
He looked up, though, and saw me…seeing him. And I saw…a wall go up. And it surprised me.
"Doc took my clothes," he said when Howie stopped hugging him, gesturing to his ill-fitting hospital scrubs like an explanation.
He looked…odd. This way. All elbows and length, hunching to make himself smaller. He looked better than he had last July, when I'd made the deal with him to go to rehab. I'd noticed that when I found him.
Rehab suited him.
Made him look more like my dad. Instead of skin-and-bones and desperate, like I usually thought of him.
"Did he say—" I started softly, but Howie interrupted my line of questioning.
"How are you?" he asked instead, levering himself up to sit next to my dad on the patient table, the paper rustling as he adjusted. He sat on the side not connected to the IV, hanging sentry from its pole.
I took his cue to sit, too, in the chair with wheels usually reserved for the doctor.
"I'm f—" my dad started, but Howie cut him off like he'd done me.
"You're confused, I think. Maybe…mm…maybe ashamed?" Howie asked, and it…wasn't really a question. His shaking hands were clasped in his lap, and he was looking at my dad intently.
It was…the most bizarre thing.
And…my dad responded to it. "Don't do that," he said, his tone annoyed. "Don't do that thing where you think you can read my mind. You don't know what I'm thinking."
"Oh, I, uh, don't want to. You…you can think some dark things, Danny," Howie said amiably. "No, I should. I should clarify: I, ah, I know how you're, uh, probably feeling. At. At this point. The, uh. The confusion is. Is obvious. You, ah, didn't plan for. For being found before you were, ah, ready. But that. That's an easy one." And Howie pointed at me, that same gesture from before, like he was popping a balloon. He even made a clacking noise with his tongue to accompany the motion, and then smiled.
I waved, unsure how I played into this.
"You're the one who said it, Danny. Lindy's the, ah, the wild card. You can count on her in a pinch. She didn't write you off, hmm?" Howie said, and.
Oh.
I…flushed at the unexpected praise.
He'd…said that? About me?
My dad…didn't look at me.
I felt…guilty. Moreso.
"Dad, I—"
Howie held up a hand. "Sorry, ah, sorry. Lindy. It's. Sorry. Not your turn yet, huh? Can—may I finish, please?"
I nodded, pressing my lips together.
"So what had we. Uh. Said. The. The confusion. Right. And the shame," Howie said presently. Softly. Looking intently at my dad, again. Until my dad looked at him. "Again. Obvious." Howie smiled, sadly. "Don't play poker, Danny."
My dad let out a scoff of laughter that I mirrored, surprised.
"To be, uh, fair. Danny. Your poker-face notwithstanding. It. It would still be, uh. Low-hanging fruit. Easy, I mean."
"Because you've been where I am, yada-yada. Get a new tune, Howie," my dad snapped, though there wasn't bite in it.
"Oh, but, ah, the. The old tune's working. Mm. Just. Just peachy," Howie said gently, nudging my father's shoulder. My dad pulled his shoulder away, frowning.
Oh my God.
They. Howie was teasing him.
Maybe it had been my months of accidental facial-reading cues from a blind man and a…beast…man. But I could see, now, what Howie saw.
I saw, in his body language, and in the subtle uptick of a corner of his mouth that for all his…bluster…he…he was happy to see Howie.
Happy that he'd come for him.
And…it was. God. I hadn't…associated teasing with my dad in the longest time. All he'd been was…anger. And depression. And desperation.
It…had been hard to see past that.
"Hey, Danny?" Howie said when the silence had stretched a little. And my dad didn't answer. But he looked at him.
"I'm sorry, buddy."
And my dad shrugged it off. Immediately. "Don't."
"Don't apologize?"
"No. It's. Don't."
And…
My dad looked at me.
Just for a second.
And looked away, again.
This…was like. So bizarre.
"Do…Dad, I could leave—" I started to say, but Howie cut me off.
"Lindy, hon, you. Mm. You need to stay. It's. It's not your turn."
I nodded hesitantly.
"Daniel…I'm sorry," Howie said, again.
My dad didn't stop him, this time.
Holy. Holy Shit.
My dad…was crying.
Howie put a shaking hand on my dad's shoulder, again, and my dad didn't shrug it off. "I'm sorry, Danny. I'm sorry about Mari."
My dad. Oh my God.
At the mention of my mom's name, he sort of…melted. He just. He slumped, where he sat, and Howie guided the motion, pulling my dad into a hug.
"I'm so sorry, Daniel," Howie murmured, and my dad didn't say anything. Didn't move. Didn't even hug Howie back.
"I'm sorry about Mari. And I'm sorry, Danny, about your girls," Howie said, then, and looked at me, when my mouth opened. "I'm sorry they left."
And with each further thing Howie said—each additional thing he was sorry for—my dad…crumbled a little more.
And then I was just…watching as my dad sobbed like a child, clinging to Howie as the smaller man rubbed comforting, trembling circles on his back.
(Aww, poor baby Lindy. Get it all out, lambie. It's no fun to be sick, is it? It's okay. I'm here.)
I didn't. I didn't know what to do with my brain for making that connection.
I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen my dad…cry in front of me. Be. You know. Openly vulnerable.
I teared up a little, myself.
The door opened, and the doctor came in. He was young, with his brown hair cut in a sort of lopsided way, a beard that was stuck somewhere between being on-purpose or being the result of forgetting to shave, wearing thick glasses and carrying a chart and a small cup with pills in it, lugging a cart behind him.
"Alright Mr.—"he started, looking at the chart before looking up and seeing us. "Oh. There's more of you. Okay. Um. Gotta get your bloodwork and documentation, Mr. Owens, your. Uh. Your family's here, talking with Reese about the Mt. Sinai placement."
My dad sat up, wiping his face with the heels of his hands.
Howie looked at me and smirked when he saw I was doing the exact same thing.
The doctor put the chart on the counter, transferring the cup of pills to his left hand before offering his right hand to shake.
"Hello, I'm Dr. Schmitt," he said genially, and he said nothing about me stealing his chair. He just pulled up one of the chairs with no wheels to sit across from my dad.
"He was staying at Cedar Creek," Howie said, when it was his turn to shake the doctor's hand. "Couldn't he go back there?"
Dr. Schmitt reached behind him awkwardly with the hand with the pills for the chart, which he somehow managed to grab without spilling the pills. "Yes I, uh saw that on—on the chart," he said quickly. "Unfortunately they, uh, didn't hold his, ah, hold his spot. There is an opening at Mt. Sinai—we're partnered with them, and they have specialties in either Addiction or Chemical Dependency," he said easily, flipping the chart open, realizing it was upside-down, and correcting it, managing to keep the pills from spilling.
It was like watching an explanation of 'chaotic good.'
Or maybe 'cartoons masquerading as people.'
One of the two.
"Oh, sorry, here's your. Um. This one's an antibiotic—it goes with the shot I already gave you. This one's the PEP—it's an antiretroviral—which protects you against HIV infection. I'll get. Sorry. Water. I've already—oh, sh—oot."
I smiled a little as the doctor first offered the pills, then explained the pills, and then spilled the water on himself.
This. This was the definition of a hot mess.
I frowned, though, catching up with his words.
Wait. HIV?
Dr. Schmitt was standing, now, brushing water off his scrubs, refilling a new cup with tap water. He was indicating the cart he'd brought. "Sorry. Son of a b—iscuit. I brought. Sorry. The cart is so I can document the—we can. If you'd like privacy, we can ask your family to step out. Sorry. Have to. Uh. Do the." He flipped the tap off, and carefully offered the cup of water to my dad. And then spun around, fetching the pill cup from the countertop and offering both to him.
My dad just. He was staring at the ground. He hadn't said a word since the doctor came in.
After a pause—a long, awkward one—my dad finally took the two cups.
As if it had been the 'on' switch he needed to continue, Dr. Schmitt did so. "I, uh. I have your clothes here in this bag. The. The window for DNA collection is—it's been longer than, uh, the allotted time, so it's. I can document. Uh. Injuries. And. Uh. Let that count for, uh, evidence."
Dr. Schmitt was wrestling with the strap of a clunky-looking camera and a filefolder with papers in it, muttering, "pen, pen, pen," to himself, seemingly unaware of the pen sticking out from behind his left ear.
And then…it clicked. HIV. Evidence.
Oh shit.
"Evidence?" Howie said, and…and it was a question. Not a clarification.
Oh fuck.
(I can refuse. So. So I. I refuse. No. No Rape Kit. P-please. Just. I need the. The pills. So. So I won't get. Get sick with—with an STD or. Or AIDS or—or p-pregnant. Please.)
"The, uh, documentation for Mr. Owens'…ah. Assault," Dr. Schmitt said, pushing his glasses up his nose, brandishing a new pen, unaware of the papers slowly starting to slide out of his filefolder.
My dad downed the pills, and then looked steadfastly back at the floor.
Oh.
Oh shitfuck.
Uh.
No.
Nope.
I stood, I opened the door, and I left, just as Dr. Schmitt sadly said another hilarious not-swear when the papers slid elegantly out of the folder, scattering everywhere.
-o-
AUTHORSNOTE
*Throws chapter into the void*
Just. Just Take it.
*Flees*
