Montana. I’ve already got the paperwork.”
We’ve been through this before. The out-of-state facilities she’s researched are for hard-core addicts and juvenile offenders. Mindy’s fifteen and likes to smoke weed. I tell Allison I’m on my way.
Mindy survived our divorce and remained the A student she had always been right up until the end of middle school; then she got an older boyfriend, lost interest in grades, and stopped hanging out with her high-achiever friends. It didn’t help that her mother was getting loopier by the week, or that her dad was a drug addict that could only see her on alternate weekends. But our bond has remained intact and she appreciates that I accept her changes.
The 405 north to the Valley isn’t as bad as southbound traffic. I get a hint of nostalgia every time I drive out to my old house in Encino, but as I get closer I start to dread the encounter and realize that I can’t take Mindy with me. Living with her mom might be hell, but my own house doesn’t seem like a sane place to bring a teenager.
I pull into the driveway and there’s Mindy standing by the garage crying. I get out and she runs to me. Her hair is wild, her sunglasses skewed, and she has a bruise on her right cheek. I hug her for a moment and then hold her at arm’s length. I point to her bruise with my chin and say, “What’s that about?”
“Mom’s just completely fucking insane,” she tells me. The front door flies open and there’s Allison, looking splendid in a ratty bathrobe and, for some reason, high heels. She flings a suitcase in the air and we duck; it crashes on the hood of the Z, putting a nice dent in it.
“Next stop Montana,” she screams, “’cause you’re not gonna learn any fucking respect living at your loser dad’s.” And she goes in the house and slams the door.
“Sorry, Dad.” Mindy picks up her suitcase. I open the rear hatch and she tosses the case in. I guess she’s coming with me.
¤ ¤ ¤
We drive in silence for a while. My car is old, but I’ve got a new sound system with an iPod hookup and I put on John Hiatt singing “Feels Like Rain,” followed by Aaron Neville doing the same song.
Mindy says “I don’t know which one I like better, but the slide guitar on the second one is way cool.” We drive a few more miles in silence.
Finally, Mindy says, “She was trying to quit. She took a thirty-day chip at a meeting.”
“Must have been a painful month.”
“Yeah,” Mindy says. “But she hung in there.”
“No,” I say. “I mean for you.” Allison’s one of those drunks who gets even crazier when she stops drinking, and her relapses are inevitably spectacular.
“Yeah, well . . . Jeez, Dad, what am I gonna do?” I love Mindy with all my heart. Her tattoos, her crazy hair, her sanity and basic good nature, and the way she has never let her mother poison her with resentment toward me. But as to what she should do, I’m clueless.
“Well, it’s summer, so we don’t have to worry about school for a while. Why don’t we just take things one day at a time?” Fake it till you make it.
“I could test out of high school and go to City College if I stayed with you.” She’s smiling now, sold on her new future, shaking off the drama with her mother, and ready to settle in to her vision of
Life with Dad
. My cold, dead heart threatens to beat all on its own.
“We’ll see,” I tell her, and I pull into my driveway.
¤ ¤ ¤
We go in through the garage. I had chained the front door from the inside before leaving because the locks were broken. The house looks okay; the mess is the same as when I left. I show Mindy to the empty second bedroom and leave her to unpack. I go to my desk in the living room and inspect my computer. The hard drive is missing, so I get an old one from my closet and pop it in. I need Internet access.
When I Google “Jason Hamel gold” I get pages of hits, all on websites that, by their names, look dedicated to
We’ve been through this before. The out-of-state facilities she’s researched are for hard-core addicts and juvenile offenders. Mindy’s fifteen and likes to smoke weed. I tell Allison I’m on my way.
Mindy survived our divorce and remained the A student she had always been right up until the end of middle school; then she got an older boyfriend, lost interest in grades, and stopped hanging out with her high-achiever friends. It didn’t help that her mother was getting loopier by the week, or that her dad was a drug addict that could only see her on alternate weekends. But our bond has remained intact and she appreciates that I accept her changes.
The 405 north to the Valley isn’t as bad as southbound traffic. I get a hint of nostalgia every time I drive out to my old house in Encino, but as I get closer I start to dread the encounter and realize that I can’t take Mindy with me. Living with her mom might be hell, but my own house doesn’t seem like a sane place to bring a teenager.
I pull into the driveway and there’s Mindy standing by the garage crying. I get out and she runs to me. Her hair is wild, her sunglasses skewed, and she has a bruise on her right cheek. I hug her for a moment and then hold her at arm’s length. I point to her bruise with my chin and say, “What’s that about?”
“Mom’s just completely fucking insane,” she tells me. The front door flies open and there’s Allison, looking splendid in a ratty bathrobe and, for some reason, high heels. She flings a suitcase in the air and we duck; it crashes on the hood of the Z, putting a nice dent in it.
“Next stop Montana,” she screams, “’cause you’re not gonna learn any fucking respect living at your loser dad’s.” And she goes in the house and slams the door.
“Sorry, Dad.” Mindy picks up her suitcase. I open the rear hatch and she tosses the case in. I guess she’s coming with me.
¤ ¤ ¤
We drive in silence for a while. My car is old, but I’ve got a new sound system with an iPod hookup and I put on John Hiatt singing “Feels Like Rain,” followed by Aaron Neville doing the same song.
Mindy says “I don’t know which one I like better, but the slide guitar on the second one is way cool.” We drive a few more miles in silence.
Finally, Mindy says, “She was trying to quit. She took a thirty-day chip at a meeting.”
“Must have been a painful month.”
“Yeah,” Mindy says. “But she hung in there.”
“No,” I say. “I mean for you.” Allison’s one of those drunks who gets even crazier when she stops drinking, and her relapses are inevitably spectacular.
“Yeah, well . . . Jeez, Dad, what am I gonna do?” I love Mindy with all my heart. Her tattoos, her crazy hair, her sanity and basic good nature, and the way she has never let her mother poison her with resentment toward me. But as to what she should do, I’m clueless.
“Well, it’s summer, so we don’t have to worry about school for a while. Why don’t we just take things one day at a time?” Fake it till you make it.
“I could test out of high school and go to City College if I stayed with you.” She’s smiling now, sold on her new future, shaking off the drama with her mother, and ready to settle in to her vision of
Life with Dad
. My cold, dead heart threatens to beat all on its own.
“We’ll see,” I tell her, and I pull into my driveway.
¤ ¤ ¤
We go in through the garage. I had chained the front door from the inside before leaving because the locks were broken. The house looks okay; the mess is the same as when I left. I show Mindy to the empty second bedroom and leave her to unpack. I go to my desk in the living room and inspect my computer. The hard drive is missing, so I get an old one from my closet and pop it in. I need Internet access.
When I Google “Jason Hamel gold” I get pages of hits, all on websites that, by their names, look dedicated to
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