The Problem With Crazy (3 page)

The elephant in the room was my father’s drunken display the day before. For some reason, it felt like we were dancing around the topic.

“What happened with Dad?” I finally got a word in. She eyed me suspiciously, her hands poised, ready to open the refrigerator door.

“I haven’t heard from him.”

“He was drunk.”

“I guess so, Katie.” Mum took out a bottle of orange juice and placed it on the counter. “You know he’d started to drink a bit before he left.”

Memories of those times flashed back to me: Dad, having a few too many beers, his unsteady gait. The slightly slurred speech he’d developed. One night, he’d been so drunk, he barely recognised me.

I’m glad he went away.

But I’m not. Or, I shouldn’t be.

You’re not supposed to hate your father.

“So, he’s not coming back?” I raised my eyebrows.

“I’d like to see him try.” Mum’s auburn hair bobbed around her shoulders as she poured me a glass of orange juice and placed it in front of my bowl of cereal. She pulled out a wooden chair and sat at the table opposite me, a bowl of yoghurt and blueberries in front of her. She was acting normal, like nothing was wrong. Like people disappeared out of your lives, sent a text saying they wanted to show up at your graduation then appeared drunk-as-a-skunk every day.

I stared at my juice, silent. Just like that. He’d disappeared from my life, come back for a one-morning-only show, and now he was gone again. I hadn’t exactly expected a happy family reunion, but I’d expected something. Something more.

Even though I didn’t really like him … did I?

“It’s no-added-sugar, darling, so go ahead and drink it.” Mum pointed to the glass of juice in front of me. For some reason, she thought the idea that I could be dwelling on anything other than the carbohydrate count in my drink seemed rather unlikely.

“You’re going out with Dave tonight, aren’t you?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Well, just so you know, I’ve made an appointment with the doctor so we can get you on the pill.”

My eyes widened, and I took a huge sip of orange juice.

Screw it, that wasn’t nearly enough to give me the brain freeze I required to delete that comment from memory. I drained the whole glass.

“Don’t look at me like that! I’m not as naive as you think.” Mum shook her head. She speared a blueberry with her fork and delicately placed it in her mouth. “Your father and I used to have intercourse a lot.”

“Mum.” I drew breath.

“We did.” Her eyes glassed over, and she had this weird, wistful smile thing going on. I wanted to be sick. “Not that we would any more, mind. You can’t have sex with a drunk man, Kate.”

“I won’t! I have a steady boyfriend, I’m not going to go pick up some drunk—”

“I mean you literally can’t. Physically. Men often can’t perform when they’ve had too much to drink.”

That was it. I really was going to be sick. I excused myself, and went to my room to start to pack for tour. I knew I was getting in early, but I always liked to be organised—and besides, what if I needed to wash a few things?

I took out the list I’d made a few weeks ago. I noticed Dave had scribbled the words
those red lacy panties
on the bottom of it. He wouldn’t stay mad at me for long, and even though I was pissed he’d acted like such a douche about the Dad thing, I was kind of excited about wearing those red lacy panties for him, too.

I threw them into the bag, along with a bunch of bikinis, dresses and tanks. I rifled through my dresser drawers, discarding some items and adding others to the “maybe” pile until I found it. I shook out the black singlet with gold-embossed letters, reading their name one more time: Dave & the Glories. I clutched it to my chest for a moment, then stuffed it into a ball and threw it into my bag.

By the time I’d finished, it was late afternoon. Mum was at work, and I had the house to myself. Bliss. I grabbed my phone, thinking about Dave and smiling.

Hey babe, what are you up to? Wanna come ‘round here instead of going out? Mum’s not home …

At band prac. Be there later.

Okay, so it was hardly the “Coming right now, can’t wait to see you” I’d kind of been hoping for. But it was better than nothing.

I danced my way downstairs to make sure the kitchen was presentable. It was completely nerd-girl of me, but I hated having people over when the house was a mess.

After chucking a few saucepans under the sink, I did a quick time check. Perfect: six o’clock. If Mum wasn’t home by now, there was a chance she wouldn’t be back until after ten, due to the nature of her shift work. Hopefully, Dave would come around well before she got here.

I raced around the living room, turning out all the lights, and then darted into the kitchen, rifling around the pantry for some candles. A bit of mood lighting would definitely help.

I’d hit my head on one of the high shelves and stopped to give it a little rub when I heard the screech of the screen door being yanked open. He was here early!

I tiptoed to the kitchen counter and laid down my candle stash. I’d just have to start my mood lighting in here.

“When we have to, that’s when.”

The voice was accompanied by the sound of keys in the lock. That was odd. Mum was home early.

“No, now!”

I froze. That voice belonged to my father.

Once more, it was the childish, slurred sound. He was drunk.

Again.

He was in the sanctity of our home, a place he hadn’t been for a little more than a year. I closed the pantry door and pressed my forehead against its smooth surface. What was happening? Why was he here?

“Paul, maybe we can put you in care, just for the night. She’s going away on tour in three days, then we have weeks to plan how we’ll tell her.”

What? Plan what? In care? Was Dad going to rehab?

“No care. I want to be here.” This last sentiment was accompanied by a
thwack
, as if something had fallen from a shelf, or perhaps Dad had drunkenly slammed into the hallway wall.

“You need to stay calm and concentrate. I’m trying, Paul. I’m not entirely sure why, but I’m trying.” Mum’s voice was clipped.

My heart slid down to my stomach and I held my breath. What was going on?

Was my drunken father moving back in?

It felt like something out of a movie. I didn’t belong in this scene. I delicately tiptoed to the end of the tiled kitchen area. If I was fast enough, perhaps I could slip past them and straight up the stairs, escaping observation whatsoever. But the sinking feeling that had lurked in my belly since Dad showed up at school turned into an anchor. It weighed me down, forcing my feet to stay rooted to the spot.

“Oh! Kate. Hi,” Mum said, as she rounded the corner into the kitchen. Dad was draped over her shoulder, leaning on her for assistance. He was worse than I’d thought. “We didn’t think you were at home. Why are all the lights off?”

I watched as Mum helped Dad into a chair at the breakfast bar. The whites of his eyes weren’t the bloodshot colour I’d expected them to be, and he didn’t smell of booze. His posture gave him away, though. He was hunched, bent and slack, like his bones were jellied. When Mum released her support on his shoulder, he slumped forward like a sack of potatoes before righting himself.

“What’s he doing here?” I raised my eyebrows. He couldn’t just walk back in here, needing our help like this. That wasn’t fair. Not when he’d embarrassed me so much and disappeared for a whole year.

“Sweetheart, we’ll talk about it in a second. Can you go get me a beer from the fridge outside, please?” Mum dismissed me.

“The last thing he needs is another drink.” I pointed at my father’s sorry figure.

“It’s not for him. It’s for me.”

I stepped back. For my mother? But she rarely drank. We only kept booze in the fridge outside for special occasions.

So what was so special about this?

“Make that two,” Dad’s voice was breathy, exhausted.

“No.”

“Kate …” Mum warned.

“Not until somebody tells me what’s going on.” I locked eyes with my mother, engaged in a silent stand-off.

“Kate. Tomlinson. Go and get me a beer from the outside fridge.
Now
.” Mum’s words were fierce, her eyes flashing with anger.

I sighed and stomped out the back door, walking through the slightly too long grass accompanied by a chorus of cicadas to the garage where we kept the second fridge. It housed copious amounts of water, soft drinks and beer, as well as the occasional supply of ice cream I liked to hide from Mum.

I opened the door and covered my mouth. The room before me was a dirty, dusty mess. I kicked at a wrench lying on the floor near the entrance, watching as it scratched out a path past tools, Mum’s car and the window, which offered a twilight view of our empty driveway with its fresh-cut grass. Everything looked so normal out there.

Heat radiated off the engine of Mum’s Ford as I stepped closer to it. That was when I realised.

Dad’s car wasn’t in the garage; Mum’s was. I hadn’t really expected it to be parked alongside hers, what with him clearly having been on a bit of a bender, but if he really were here for two days or more, where had he left his pride and joy?

How had he even gotten to the ceremony yesterday?

My mind started spinning as I tried to piece it all together. Maybe this had been a long-term problem, the reason he left. Maybe he’d sold his car to pay for drinks, and bought a ticket back to see us when the money finally ran dry?

I shook my head. That was the sort of behaviour drug addicts engaged in, not the sort of thing my father would do.

Would he?

I made my way through the dirt, around the bumper of Mum’s car and retrieved a bottle from the fridge, slowly traipsing my way back through the garden. The beer was cool, a nice contrast to the summer air that had my armpits drenched in sweat.

Mum and Dad weren’t in the kitchen anymore. They’d retired to the living room, with its almost floor-to-ceiling window draped in floral curtains, and its cream suede couches, which surrounded a wooden coffee table in the middle.

I handed the bottle to Mum then sat on the edge of the couch opposite them, facing the window. Outside, a summer breeze was tilting the heads of the flowers in the garden, their shapes highlighted by a streetlamp as it flickered to life. Night was officially here.

I didn’t want to look at my parents. A feeling of impending doom hung in the air.

“Kate, there’s something we need to tell you,” Mum started. Her hands shook as she flipped the top on her bottle of beer. Her lower lip started to tremble. “It’s … about your father.”

I turned my attention to him. He was seated apart from her, just a little. His hands were shaking, too, his eyes sallow and sunken. He looked thinner than I remembered him, and every now and then his left knee gave a tiny spasm, as if he couldn’t keep it under control.

My earlier thoughts came rushing back.

That was the sort of behaviour that drugs addicts engaged in …

“Are you . . . are you on drugs?” The words I never thought I’d speak came out. Mum choked on a mouthful of beer, causing Dad to pat her on the back. Tiny droplets of alcohol landed all over the room, over the coffee table and on the stack of old magazines sitting in the corner. Some fell on Dad’s leg, which he attempted to pat dry with another unstable gesture.

“I told you it wasn’t that ridiculous,” Mum said.

“Your mother thought that, t … too.” Dad shook his head and stared at the beige-coloured carpet next to his brown scuffed shoes.
Funny
. I remembered them from when he’d leave them at the door after work.

“What is it, then?” I kept my voice level.

Silence enveloped the room, and I widened my eyes, raised my eyebrows. Any time, now …

“Your father—he’s sick.”

The words echoed around my head, repeating themselves over and over.

Sick. My father was sick.

“What do you mean? The kind of sick where you get better soon?”

“The kind of sick where you—”

“I have a disease.” Dad said the words with pride, like he wore them as a badge. He straightened his posture a little, chin jutting into the air.

I could hear my heart thudding.

My father was sick. He had a disease.

“In the way that alcoholism is a disease?” I bit my lip.

“No.” Mum sighed. She was frustrated; her tone gave her away almost as much as the hand on her temple. “A disease that affects his behaviour.”

I blinked. It was all I could do not to jump to my feet and scream. What sort of a disease changed the way you acted? Yesterday I’d graduated from high school, and today my parents were trying to tell me that my dad had a disease.

So why was everyone taking so long to get to the goddamned point?

“What
kind
of a disease?”

Please don’t say cancer. Please don’t say cancer.