Summer was over and I had a demanding schedule. I didn't visit him for two days. Then, I felt compelled to visit. Like a wall of butter under the sun, my soft side caved in and I drove over the bridge to see him.

  Auntie and Granny met me at the door with welcoming smiles. When I stepped inside, I saw him in the dining room taking the last swig. Then he turned to me and stared.

    "Hi," I said.

  He stumbled, one hand holding onto the kitchen chair and the other setting down the empty glass. He hesitantly strode toward me, but I anniciated a hug. It was emotionless, vacant, cold. I felt like I was embracing a punching bag. He pulled back, patted my arm a little too roughly, and plopped down on the recliner behind him.

    "Hey Jen."

  His eyes were like red spider webs, maps of the past-- everything he wanted to forget. The bridge of his nose was flaming red, his cheeks were flushed and his lips adorned an unusually thick coat of saliva. I sat down uncomfortably and looked at the clock. Is this what visiting your own father was supposed to be like?

    "How was your trip?" I asked.

    "Oh... oh... it was well. It went quite fine. Pretty smoothly, I'd say."

  I stared at him and held back the knot in my throat. He used to be so handsome and could've been today-- but it was complicated. His clear, blue eyes, once full of sarcasm and witty humor were now dim with pessimism and shame. The hairs on his arms were curled into slight, gray ringlets; his sideburns and the stubble on his chin were sprinkled with salt and pepper. I hadn't seen him in over two years, and yet, he seemed to have aged ten.

    "How is Dette?" I asked, hoping for his mood to brighten.

  His low lids rose a bit and he chuckled. "She's doing fine, just fine."

    "And the Philippines? How are your projects going?" I asked.

    "They're well," he said with a heavy sigh.

  And that was it.

  Where did he go? Where did my father go?-- the person that spoke for hours on end, the person others fought with to get a word in edge-wise during a conversation? Where did his articulacy, his love of words and intelligence go? I wanted to jump up and yell; I wanted to ask him anything and everything. I wanted him to keep talking. Tell me what life is like; tell me how you've (really) been doing. Make us laugh until we cry; do impressions and make brilliant analogies like you did before.

  Talk like you used to, I pleaded, but instead fiddled with my car keys and looked down at my tattered jeans.

  As if he knew what I was thinking, my father rose from his chair and went to the kitchen. I glanced at my Aunt and Grandmother with knowing eyes. My younger sister nudged my arm as if she knew, too.

  Within seconds, he had come back with a full glass of beer.

    "So, we're having a ball game get-together on Sunday," Aunt Molly said. My father nodded while draining the glass. In the corner of my eye, I saw Caity stare at our father while he drank himself into another mood.

  When he set down the glass and blinked, a shiver ran up my spine. It wasn't a good one.

    "Get out there and feed the damn chickens," He shrilled.

  It was Thanksgiving weekend, a cold and gray sky poured over Everett and a thick snow blanketed the land. Our parents had divorced only a couple years ago and I had reached my rebellion stage early, age twelve. Both of them became abusive alcoholics, so I had also assumed the role of the mother. I was "the bossy one" until it 'Weekend Dad Visits' came along. Then I was the savior-- to them, at least.

    "But it's snowing out," I muttered.

  My four younger siblings crowded behind me and waited for the last word.

  He threw the chicken feed at my younger brother. "You're a man-- you go feed the chickens!" My father screamed before going to his cooler to retrieve another beer. "I said, get out there, you sonovabitch!" My father yelled.

  Jerry sat there on the broken steps in the loft my father lived in and sighed. The bitter whip of the wind howled over the flimsy tin roof over the old section of the barn my uncle had rented out to my father after the divorce. Next door to my father's shack was the big house of my uncle's where he had a reunion prepared for his well-to-do relatives. While a frozen turkey sweated on the floor next to the cooler full of beer, my younger siblings and I drank juice boxes and scoured our backpacks for the snack packs of chips and fruit my mother and I had packed for them the night before.

    "But, Dad," Jerry said. "Aren't those Uncle John's chickens? You don't have to do it; you can stay inside with us."

    "Oh?" My father laughed. "You trying to weasel out of this? Just like your mother, eh? You just shut the hell up, you good for nothing. You all are a bunch of good for nothings. You're just like your goddamned mother. You don't want to do anything-- you don't understand the value of true, hard work. I'll teach you, you sonsofbitches."

  My father grabbed Jerry by the collar and effortlessly dragged him down the stairs from the loft. "C'mere, you bastard."

  The knot in my throat tightened, I handed baby Caity over to Erin and lept from the loft. "You keep your hands off of him!" I yelled. I twisted my ankle on my way down and fell in a hopeless pile at the bottom of the stairs. My father just looked at me a cackled. Jerry ran back up to the loft with Erin, James and Caity to make sure they were okay. I held my ankle with both hands as if clutching it hard enough would stop the pain.

    "So," he said, taking another swig of his beer. "You want to be the hero?"

  I shot a million daggers at him through my eyes. "Shut up, you drunk," I murmured.

    "What did you say?" He shrieked.

    "I said, SHUT UP YOU FUCKING DRUNK."

  He slapped me. I winced; stinging tears began to crawl down my face, but looked up at the loft where my younger brothers and sisters were watching and forced a smile. 'It's just a game,' I told them with my eyes. And it was.

    "You need to learn to keep your damned mouth shut," he said, and threw the bag of chicken feed at me. Granules of feed sped like bullets all over the floor. I scrambled to try to catch them all, but my ankle still throbbed with pain. As I was collecting the last of the feed, my father was putting on his boots. A naive part of me thought me might come outside with me to feed the chickens, I thought, maybe he wants to go with me.

    "Get up." he shouted.

  I couldn't, my leg still hurt.

    "Get UP!"

  He kicked me in my throbbing ankle and I cried out loud. The pain was like a million needles shooting into the bone; I bit down on my tongue and cried; mhmhhmhhm. It sounded like a laugh. He kicked me again. With tears in my eyes, I looked up at him and fought to focus the blurred scene. I wanted to capture that moment. I wanted to remember it and everything about it. The makeshift kitchen my uncle had made for him in the barn after my parent's divorce; the cinderblock chairs; the microwave oven on a wooden slab; world maps and countries tacked onto the wooden walls; his military uniform hung over his typewriter; the castles of beer bottles in the corner. 'I don't want to become you,' the voice in my mind said. 'I will never become you,' it repeated. 'I will never ever, ever become you.' I turned my face when I finally lost focus and hot ropes of saltwater splayed down my cheeks.

    "You damned coward," he roared, and pulled me onto my feet. "Get up!"

  A lightning bolt shot up my left leg and I screamed. Before I could shoot back with one of my smart-ass remarks, he opened the latch and kicked me out of the door.

  For the next hour, I was barefoot in the snow. I hobbled over to the chicken coups and fed them. When I came back to the door, it was locked. I knocked several more times and grabbed at the knot forming again in my throat and chest; it was too cold to cry, even. My feet were beet-red and parts of my toes began to bleed. I gathered the extra fabric from the bottoms of my pajamas, stuffed it under the soles of my feet and sauntered to the garage next to my father's shack where it was dry. I took a rag I found on a shelf and wrapped my feet together in the wool; and I watched as my uncle's doctor friends and some of my other aunts and uncles drove away in their nice, clean cars. A sense of relief came over me when I realized I wasn't seen, but I worried about what harm might be done to the kids. Once my feet had warmed up, I hopped back to the door and pounded. There was still no answer.

    "Jenny? Jenny?" Aunt Molly asked.

    "Oh...what?"

    "Do you want a Coke or water?"

    "Water, please."

    "I'll get it," my father said as he rose from his chair.

  He came back with my water and another beer. I wondered how long he had been drinking that day, if he still drank in the mornings.

  As he handed me my water, I stood up and noticed a smear of mustard on his chin.

    "Umm?" I hesitated and motioned toward my chin. My father absently gawked at me for a second. "Here," I said, and began to explain before lifting my hand to rub it off, but he pulled back in defense. I sat back down and scowled quietly.

  As I sipped my water, my father glared at me with accusatory eyes while he guzzled his beer. I knew he felt out of place. Why aren't you joining me, Jen? the spider webs sneered. He sat further away this time, as if my sobriety was a disease instead of the other way around. I sank into the couch during the awkward silence and reminisced on a time so faraway, when I was able to easily pat his arm in agreement or wipe the stains from his chin when he was too drunk to notice himself. I remember when he and I were buddies-- way back when I lived with him in the Philippines. We would spend hours on the deck, watch the stars and drink until our cockeyed grins couldn't tell the light of a passing pump boat from a streetlamp. I left the 'States a bright-eyed, pleasantly plump nineteen year old ready to take the bull by the horns. I returned to the 'States an emaciated drunk, motivated to make up for lost time. The drink united us, and I let it because I was so determined to know my father-- wanted to see life through his eyes.

  And I got what I wanted, but in turn I lost the companionship and respect of my younger siblings. It was funny, in an ironic sort of way. Once my father became too old to raise a hand and too hopeless to use his big boots, I carried the torch of hurt and made them suffer with my words and broken dreams. Now instead of guarding them from him, I had to protect them from me.

    "Well, I'm going out for a bit," my father stood up, wobbled over to the coat rack and fished through one of the pockets. He took out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Caity and I exchanged bewildered glances. He's smoking now, too?

  I snatched a cigarette from my purse and hurried after him, but he was just outside smoking by the tree in the front yard.

    "How are you?" I asked as I lit my cigarette.

    "Oh, I'm fine... just fine. But I have some plans I need to tell you about, Jen."

    "Like what?"

    "Well, I'm not sure you want to hear them."

    "Go ahead," I said. "Tell me."

    "Well, I'm going to take the child support away from your mother and the kids. I think it could be put to better use."

  He looked over at me. I was silent.

    "And," he continued, "I want to sell that house they're all living in and give the capital back to your Uncle John. Jimmy was the last straw-- he's an ungrateful shit and I don't want anymore shenanigans happening."

    "So you're going to punish all of them for something James did?" I asked.

    "No!" He yelled. "I'm making a point and the only way to prove that point is to show them what is right. Your mother needs to learn how to deal with life the right way. She doesn't know how to deal with the kids. So I'm going to show her."

  I nodded as if I agreed and watched him take a long drag before exhaling slowly toward the sky. He certainly didn't look like a smoker. I wondered how he started.

    "So," he drawled, "I'm throwing your mother out of the house. Your Nana can live in a nursing home and the rest of the kids can go off their separate ways. James can live on the streets for all I care. He's a lost cause, anyway."

    "The house isn't yours," I growled. "You can't take that away."

    "Oh, but I can." He took another long drag before a smile crept upon his lips. "If I cut off the child support, she won't be able to pay the bills, now will she?"

  I grunted and felt the blood rush to my cheeks. I suddenly wished I had never come out with him in the first place.

    "You just can't..."

    "What?" He mimicked. "Just can't what?"

    "You can't just show up every 2 to 5 years and demand a transformation from the people you left in the first place," I retorted. "True responsibility isn't assumed selectively. You had your chance."

    "Shut up," he snapped. "Just shut up."

    "No," I stood up from the porch steps and stared at him with pity. "You have no right to come back here and make decisions. It is no longer your place."

    "Oh?" He let out a little laugh. "And what about you? I hear you're going to school? I wonder how long that will last."

    "I'm getting my Associate's in May and will be transferring to M.U. in the summer," I defiantly shot back, setting my hands on my hips.

    "You're not going to M.U.," he snapped. "You would never get in."

    "Yes I am, and I have. My transcript was approved. I've already made plans. I am going."

  He scoffed and turned away.

    "And," I continued. "Once I obtain my Bachelor's, I'm going to enlist as an officer in the Air Force."

    "You'll never make it," He said while exhaling his smoke into breeze. "Face it, Jen. It's too late for you. I doubt you'll even survive the first month."

    "You did, and you didn't even have a high school diploma. What, are you afraid that I'll surpass you in rank?" I smiled coyly and dared to look him in the eyes.

    "This conversation is over," he said. "You are delirious."

    "Says the pot to the kettle," I retorted. "You're the one who has been drinking himself silly."

  As he walked back inside, he stopped and looked down at me and stared in disbelief. "Yeah, well." He chuckled, while flicking his still-lit cigarette onto the lawn. "You talk big for a loser."

  There were no tears to fight as I stepped inside after him and collected my purse and other belongings.

    "Thanks," I said to my aunt and grandmother, "But I need to go."

    "What? What?" Granny held a hand to her ear and repeated.

    "She needs to go!" Aunt Molly said.

    "Get the hell out of here-- leave!" said my father. "I don't want to see you again."

    "Well," I choked while grabbing my purse, "the feeling is mutual then."

  Caity grabbed my arm on the way out and looked at me. "Tell me what he said," her big, brown eyes pleaded. I stubbornly shook my arm from her grasp and kept walking. "Going, keep going, going, keep going," I whispered as my shoes rhythmically clapped against the pavement.

  She followed me into the car and I furiously clacked on my seat belt before pounding the key into the ignition.

    "He's a dick," I muttered under my breath.

  Caity sat there silently, wringing her hands in her lap as I pulled out and drove away.

    "Be lucky you don't know him very well," I scowled while we sat uncomfortably at a red light. I glanced over at her; she was studying me closely.

    "And don't you ever let someone else tell you what you can and cannot do," I continued. "Not him, not Mom, not your teachers or friends-- not me. You can do whatever you want to do."

    "I know! I know, Jenny," she replied, frustrated. "I already know all of that."

    "Okay," I croaked, while lighting another cigarette. "Just making sure."

    "What did he say?" Caity finally asked.

    "Osh..ocsh..." I hesitated. "He's just... drunk. I can't stand seeing him like that. All he cares about is the drink. All he cares about is himself. And he's so goddamned selfish!" I clutched the steering wheel and accelerated. "He is not my Dad; I am so glad he is not my Dad."

  I let his discouraging words echo through my brain as I drove us back over the bridge and sighed. Suddenly, the old and familiar pang of addiction crept onto me. I had silver-quick visions of dropping off Caity at our mother's house and afterward driving to the nearest gas station to buy a six-pack. Or anything that would make me forget. The same part of me that sympathized with my father's drunkardness also envied it and I found myself in a mental dilemma. Every fiber of my being ached to grow numb; I wanted to drink and find artificial peace for the night. I wanted to 'not care.' I wanted quick satisfaction, a warm belly and a head full of scribbles and Polaroid memories that, for the first time in a long time, made me laugh in oblivion. I wanted to forgive and forget without having to take the high road. I wanted to keep killing myself slowly, from the inside out. It was the only way.

  When we got to the house, I pulled up to the driveway only half-way and set the car in park.

    "Go," I said.

  Caity glared at me and shook her head. "What are you going to do?" She asked.

    "Don't worry about it."

  She stared at me for a few moments, then gathered her stuff from the car and slowly walked away.

  Once on the road again, I drew a long and heavy sigh. 'I don't want to become you,' the voice in my mind said. 'I will never become you,' it repeated. 'I will never ever, ever become you.'

  In a trance, I passed the big Budweiser billboard and the gas station where alcohol was marked down in price; I drove down the hill and took a right. I had come too far to let him and his habits control me from years and a hemisphere away.

  The parking lot was packed beside the little church made of stone and mortar. I turned in and stopped, anxiously gathered my belongings and wiped the sweat from my brow. Everything was the same as before, and yet so different this time. My heart beat faster as I realized I had just thrown away the chance of getting shit-faced and forgetting what had happened earlier. Once I walked through those doors, I had to face my problems yet again and let honesty flow to the familiar faces who had seen me in there before.

  I softly closed the door behind me and took a chair closest to the corner. There was an utter silence, but the room held an aura filled with peace and acceptance. An elderly woman sweetly smiled at me from across the table and motioned for me to speak.

    "Hi..." my voice emitted to a barely-audible whisper. "My name is Jenny and I'm an alcoholic."

  Familiar faces stared back at me with wide, friendly eyes and smiled.

    "Welcome back, Jenny."