They got worse and worse over time. At first, it was just simple stuff, like, “How are you?” Then it turned into, “Are you okay?”
After that, it got worse. Frantic apologies. Bitter goodbyes. That hurt the most. Then he’d apologize, and he’d leave things alone. I tried to keep my phone off as best as I could, but I had to check. Every time I did, I had to put down the phone to keep from calling him. I was still sick. I still cared, and it was psychotic.
When I got out of the shower, I wiped the fog off the mirror and took a step back. I hadn’t been taking care of myself the way I should’ve. My hair was wild, and my eyes were puffy from crying. I was a good person gone wrong, and it was eating at me. I had to start taking care of myself, so I began with a brush.
I’d always considered the things to be torture devices. My hair was so fine that tangles became an irreparable disaster. I must’ve spent at least an hour trying to make it look somewhat presentable. When I was done, it was damaged and crimped, but at least it was straight.
My makeup was easier. A quick layer of foundation and the damage was gone. I even added a little lipstick and a smoky eye to complete the effect. I looked good. Not as good as I did when I was with him. I’d never have that glow back, but at least I could walk out of the bathroom with a little more confidence.
When I walked out of the bathroom, I heard the sound of my father’s breathing machine. I walked into his room to check on him. His head was propped on a pillow, and he watched TV. He turned the volume down as soon as I walked in.
“How are you?” he asked.
“I’m fine.” I walked around the bed and leaned down to check his heart monitor.
“You’re lying, and we both know it.” I turned around to walk out, and he started shifting around in his bed. “Ow, it hurts. It hurts.”
“What hurts?” I turned around to see him clutching his leg.
“Please,” he whimpered and lifted up the sleeve of his shirt, where the dark outline of patch adhesive covered most of his shoulder.
“Dad, those fentanyl patches are a hundred times stronger than heroin.”
“I know, baby, but it’s the only thing that helps.” He had a strained look on his face.
“Fine.”
Under the TV, my mother kept a safe filled with all of his pain medication. He went back and forth between opioids until he couldn’t handle anything but the strongest stuff on the market. I opened the safe and stood up to help him put it on.
“What is wrong with you?” He lifted his sleeve higher.
“What are you talking about?”
“You had a good thing,” he said.
I took a step back. “You want your drugs?” I asked.
“I need them.” He widened his eyes and stuck out his bottom lip, like he was a puppy trying to get adopted.
“You’re faking, and we both know it.”
“I’m allowed two a day,” he said.
“As needed, and even if I did know what you were talking about, I don’t have time for this conversation.”
“Do I look stupid, Mercedes? I’m your father. Half the time I know what you’re going to do before you do it.”
“What are you saying?”
“You broke your own damn heart,” he said.
“What? No, Dad. I can’t do this now.” I turned around and walked out.
I didn’t want to think about it, but I just spent most of my free time for the day giving my father opioids. There was no way we could possibly pay for his treatments now. Jake wasn’t paying me any longer, and they didn’t pay me anywhere near enough at my new job. I only worked a couple hours every day and I couldn’t even live off of what I made.
I wasn’t sure why I took the job, not at first. The owner, Brenda, was sour and rude. She smoked every few minutes, and she always tried to talk to me and get to know me. But I admired her. People streamed in every day, and she changed their lives. So long as they listened to her, they could find work and a place to stay, even shelter from abusive partners. It was amazing to watch her at work. I didn’t mind being there or going to the coffee shop every morning for her before work.
When I walked in, she was sitting in her office with the door open. She looked up from her desk. “Oh my God. What happened? I was starting to think you were homeless.”