“Dad.”
I rolled over on to my stomach and farted loudly.
“Dad. The girls are coming over. Time to put pants on.”
I ignored her.
Emma groaned and left the room. She was going to get water. To throw on me. I just knew it. And that meant that I had been up to my old tricks again. By which I mean I was drunk. Sloppy drunk.
““Shit,“ I mumbled. “At least I'm at home”. I could hear Emma at the sink filling a large glass with water.
I groaned and rolled over on to my side to vomit. The shower seemed impossibly far away but I knew that I had to get there. And then I had to put on pants and be a dad again.
At least for a few hours.
I couldn't remember why the girls were coming over to begin with but it didn't matter. It was too late to play sick this time. I had to behave while they were there. And that meant more than retiring to the garage while they sorted out the cultural significance Miley Cyrus or cooed about which boy was cutest. I had to be an actual dad. Which, meant being sober enough to greet the parents as they dropped their kids off. And sober enough to linger until the girls kicked me out of the room so they could gossip in private. That was a lot of sober time. And I was starting off in a pretty deep hole.
Emma returned with the water and unceremoniously threw it in my face. “Up, Dad,” said commanded. I sat up and burped loudly. “Who’s a handsome boy?“, I sang.
She had gone to my bureau and was picking out something for me to wear. I burped again and rolled into a kneeling position. She arranged some clothes on my bed and walked into the bathroom with the empty glass.
“More water,” I thought, and made an effort to stand.
This time she handed me the glass with a couple pills. I drank them down with my eyes closed.
“Thirty minutes, dad,” she said. “Shower”.
I knew I was going to vomit again but I was determined not to do it in front of my daughter. “Thirty minutes,” I said and managed a smile.
Emma left the room.
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