Season's Greetings : Christmas Box Set

“Yes. Because sisters have each other’s back, and right now, our family needs each other more than ever.”

The hopeful smile makes the entire trip, and anything I might have to endure later because of it, well worth it.

LE

TTERS SPILL OUT OF the mailbox as we pull into the driveway Sunday morning. I sigh as the freedom and fun of Austin disappears under a gray raincloud. My throat dries, and my heart accelerates. He hasn’t gotten the mail since we left.

“Hartley?” Fiona’s voice quivers.

“It’s okay.” I smile, reassuring her when I’m panicking inside. He’s been in a deep depression. Would he harm himself? No. A few months ago, I wouldn’t question it. Now, nothing feels certain. “Wait here.”

Shaken, Fiona turns to me. She’s been through enough. I won’t let her walk into anything else.

“Should we call someone?”

“No. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It’d be just like Dad to stay cloistered inside all weekend without concerning himself with the outside world.”

“This is true,” she whispers.

Losing Mom drove home the fact that parents weren’t invincible. They’re aging and flawed.

“I’ll be right back.”

Opening the car door, I slip out of the car and walk up to the front door. When I unlock it, I wrinkle my nose at the foul smell of rot. Eyes watering, I cover my mouth and nose with my hand. I want to cry out for him, but I’m afraid he won’t answer. Forcing myself to move farther into the house, I stop in the kitchen. The sink looks like it belongs to a hoarder. Dishes are piled up haphazardly, and trash overflows from the stainless-steel trash can. A napkin sticks to the bottom sole of my show. Disgusted, I shake my leg to fling it off.

Empty bottles line the kitchen island. Oh, Dad. Nothing good comes from downing three bottles of Irish whiskey. I let my hand fall.

“Dad?” I call out. The silence that greets me motivates me to move faster. I run into the living room. Blankets are balled up on the couch, but it’s empty. An empty pizza box rests on the coffee table.

“Dad,” I yell louder, running full out to the study. I push the heavy wooden doors apart, and my heart drops. Dad is passed out at his desk with pictures of Mom strewn on the surface. I skid to a stop, tripping on the corner of the rug a few feet away as I stare at his back, unable to see if it rises with his breaths.

“Dad.” My voice cracks. He doesn’t stir. I scramble over to him and shake him hard as tears run down my face. “Dad. Wake up. You’re scaring me.” Sobs clog my throat as I continue to shake him. He’s still warm.

“Huh.” His raspy voice brings me to my knees. I clutch the handle of his chair. Rolling his head toward me, I take in his ashen color and the spittle running down his chin. He looks like a lifeless doll.

“Dad. You have to stop this,” I croak.

He opens dull, blood-shot brown eyes. The skin around his eyes is sunken in along with his face. It’s like he dropped another ten pounds while we were gone.

I never should’ve left him.

He smacks his lips. “Whas going on?”

“How long have you been here like this?” Body odor slaps me in the face. Leaning away, I breathe through my mouth.

“You back?”

“Yes, and Fiona cannot see you like this. I know this is hard, but she needs you.” I need you. I’ve become a parent in the blink of an eye, and I have no clue what I’m doing. Gripping his arm, I force him to his feet. “You have to shower and sober up.”

“Leave me be.”

“No,” I bark. “I can’t do this on my own. We have to move forward.”

He shrugs me off and stumbles back. Clumsy, he trips over his own feet and falls sideways. Visions of his head smashing against the corner of the desk flash in my mind. I rush forward and right him, correcting his overbalancing.

“She already lost one parent. Don’t make her lose another one.”

He blinks, swimming up from his stupor. Grunting, he lurches forward, heading toward the bedroom they’d moved downstairs when Mom got too ill to travel the stairs. I bow my head, wondering if I’d gotten through to him at all. The sound of the pipes starting up tells me he’s at least showering. I walk over to the windows and open them, letting fresh air in before I jog to the living room and grab the pizza box. Shoving the trash down, I pull the bag and carry them all out the front door. I wave at my sister, who leaves the car.