Resigning myself to texting the girl who’s waiting for me instead, I take out my phone as I walk alongside him. Keeping a few paces behind, I call up her number.
“Finn?”
“Sorry, babe. I’ve got to take the old man home. Can’t make it tonight.”
“Can you drop him off and come back later? I can wait.”
I eye the way my father is stumbling and know the next few hours will be spent taking him out to meet his friends, then collecting him when he becomes too belligerent for even them to deal with. Once back at the trailer, he’ll insist I hang around, waiting on him to keep yet more beer in his hand then, finally, helping him into bed before or even after he passes out. Subsequently I’ll be cleaning up the vomit that’s invariably present, maybe even having to change his bed after he’s pissed himself. I’ve had a lot of practice.
“Nah, not tonight.”
There’s a silence on the end of the phone and then come the words that aren’t entirely unexpected. “Well, you call me when you’ve got time, and maybe I won’t be busy myself.”
“Babe…” But she’s already gone.
Fuck my life.
Telling myself I’ve just got to hang on for a few more months, I take Dad home like a dutiful son, take him out, bring him back, pander to him, then when he’s eventually asleep and, as expected, after I’ve cleaned up both him and the carpet, go to bed myself.
I’m woken by the sound of crashing—not an unusual occurrence. Dragging myself out of bed, I emerge to see what damage has been done. He’s tried to make himself a coffee but dropped it because of his shaking hands. I clean up the mess, then start returning to my bedroom.
“I’m hungry. Cook me something.”
I would argue, tell him to do it himself, the words on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow them with a reminder it’s too important that I have a base for the next few months. Biting my tongue, I cook him bacon and eggs, knowing most of it will go to waste, especially as he washes it down with his first beer of the day.
“What are you doing today?” he queries, a calculated look in his eyes. He’ll have a list of chores a mile long if I allow him to get started.
“Training,” I tell him, knowing those chores will immediately lessen in importance.
His eyes gleam. That’s something of which he approves. Wobbling, he stands, the action making him fart loudly. “You’re a good boy,” he tells me in passing, burping a lungful of sour breath in my face. “Going to get that scholarship, I know you will.”
If I do, I’m not going to take it, but my excuse gets me out of the house, and training isn’t a lie.
First, I drive to the beach. I’ve lived in southern California for all of my life, and swimming has always been one of my favourite pastimes and a way to escape. In the water I feel weightless and free, though doing it solely for pleasure stopped when I first set on my dream. Now I follow a punishing schedule, trying to put in at least a mile, timing myself to improve my performance as this is what will hopefully get me on the rung of the ladder to the next stage in my life. Back on the beach, I do push-ups and sit-ups, working until my muscles scream. Now I run a circuit I’ve estimated is a mile and a half while trying to beat my best, grinning when I shave off another second. After that, I dive back into the ocean to cool myself off this time, floating on my back and focusing my mind on the dream that’s within tasting distance.
I’ve always excelled academically, fuck knows how. It wasn’t in the genes my dad passed onto me, and I have to suspect those had come from my mom. She was intelligent enough to get out, even though she’d left me behind. Did she think I was turning into my old man? It’s a fear that’s always lurked in my mind during the intervening years, spurring me on not to be like him, in any way, shape or form while battling the fear nature might always win out.
Days pass, and I begin to grow excited. Dad sees the gleam in my eyes and thinks it’s because of my football future. I don’t tell him it’s not. When the day I’ve been waiting for arrives, I sneak out of the trailer before he awakes.
I’d signed on the dotted line some weeks back and passed the background test as I’d always kept my nose clean. Now I’m taking the Armed Services Vocational Attitude Battery, a punishing series of tests. I emerge triumphant with a score in the high 80s and get my Navy contract. But that isn’t what I’m aiming for.
It’s coincidental, but when I get home elated about my marks, Dad is waving an envelope at me which he’s already opened, of course. It’s the offer of a football scholarship. He wants me to sign right there and then, even going so far as to offer a pen to me. I brush him off with a comment about first reading what I’m signing up for.
I bide my time. The Physical Screening Test is fast approaching, and this will be when I see whether all my training has paid off. I pass with flying colours, and that night return home with the SEAL contract in my hand. I hadn’t had a moment’s hesitation when putting my signature to that.
The second PST I conquer just as well as the first, and hell, I’ve never been so pleased in my life to receive my instructions to go to bootcamp in Illinois.
“The fuck?” my dad asks, as he sees me packing my meagre belongings into a rucksack. “Where the hell are you going?”
“I’m joining the Navy.” Already I don’t want to admit what arm of the services I’ve actually qualified for, wary even now of it coming back to bite me if Dad goes around spouting it off.
“You-you’re fuckin’ what?” His face goes red. “You’re not throwing your fuckin’ life away. You’re going to be a football player.”
“Nah, that’s your dream, Dad. Not mine.”
“You ungrateful bastard!” he roars.
Deciding I’ll allow him just one, I brace, but for once he’s not drunk, and his punch snaps my head back. I no longer need his address or a roof to lay my head under, I’m moving on. I flex my muscles and crowd toward him, my hands wrapping around his fists.
“No more, Dad. It finishes now. I’m going, and you can’t stop me.”
“I’m your father. You can’t leave me. You’ve got the scholarship…”
Being my father is a title he’s never earned. Nothing he can say will dissuade me. I toss him away from me, making sure he lands on the couch.
I don’t bother to argue. “Goodbye.”
I get into my car and drive away without one glance in my rearview. I’m never going back. That was a vow I kept.
3
Seven years ago
Stormy…
I’m back in the sandpit again. Squinting, I take the shades out of my pocket and put them on as I walk away from the briefing. I listened, of course, but where I’m sent doesn’t bother me that much. I’m used to having no say in what mission I’m sent on. Whatever it is, I’ll do my best. I’m serving my country. This is my life and it’s everything I’d ever hoped it would be, though it can never be described as easy.
I sink to my ass, take out a bottle and drink some water, idly staring at the base bustling around me as I find my mind drifting back to how I got to where I am today.