The Good Father

She didn’t text back.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

IN JANUARY, CHLOE invited her husband to Santa Raquel for the weekend, on the grounds that he either stayed with Brett or in a hotel.

She told him that weekend, when he was there, that she’d been staying with Ella all along, leaving Jeff feeling stunned.

“It’s not that I blame El,” he said Saturday evening as he lounged with Brett at the poolside fireplace in Brett’s backyard, watching the flames and drinking a beer.

Brett had started drinking beer again over Christmas. It had been his present to himself.

And only so long as he limited his intake.

“It’s just...I feel kind of betrayed, you know?” Jeff’s frown spoke of confusion more than anything else.

And still Brett asked, “Did it make you mad?”

“You know—” Jeff turned to look at him “—it didn’t. I didn’t really think about it until you asked, but no. I’m hurt. I fee

l stupid, really. I encouraged Chloe to confide in El. And I know my sister was looking out for my best interests. It’s just...she’s my sister.”

“Who was looking out for your best interests,” Brett reminded. “She was trying to keep control of the situation to give you time to get help.”

“Yeah. I think I’m most upset with myself,” he said. “Knowing that my little sister had to do that for me, that I put her in that situation...I can’t stand that.” He shook his head and took a sip of beer. He was still on his first one, and they’d been out by the pool for over an hour. Brett asked Jeff about the counseling. About his support group. And knew that Jeff was being completely up front with him when he told him that the therapy had saved his life.

“What do you think your chances are for getting complete control over your anger issues?” Brett asked, studying Jeff closely. Three to eleven percent. He knew the statistical answer. Wasn’t sure Jeff did.

“So here’s where my expected response would be that I anticipate a full recovery,” Jeff told him. “Most abusers are going to say that while they’re in the program, right? A lot of them probably believe it, too. Why be in the program if you don’t think it’s going to work? Unless you’re doing it for the wrong reasons to begin with, and then there’s no hope for you anyway...”

Jeff leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and turned back toward Brett. “But in my case, I think I have better chances than most. I’m not fighting years of alcohol or drug addiction or a gambling or debt problem.” Standing, Jeff put another log on the fire. “In some ways I almost wish I did have some concrete problem to blame this all on. But mostly, I’m just so thankful that I have such an incredible family, and friend, who saw what I couldn’t see and forced me to get help.”

“So you really think you can beat this?”

Brett needed to hear the answer.

“I do. I’m going to stay involved in the support group—even after I complete my therapy. I’ve already been approached about the possibility of facilitating a group, and I think I might like to try that, later, if I can do it without creating stress at home.”

“So what’s the magic secret?” Brett asked. He’d read all the books he could find. He’d been through counseling as a kid and as an adult, too. He knew the rhetoric. The facts.

“For me, it’s self-awareness. I know what I want and need. I see what I became, which has made me aware of my vulnerability. And I’m arming myself with tools to prevent me from falling into it again. I know how stress feels inside, and I know now that if I’m feeling that way driving home, I shouldn’t go home. I’m going to drive out to the golf course, park and call Chloe.”

Something told Brett that Jeff’s confidence didn’t just come from the thought of the idea. “You’ve been doing that already, haven’t you?”

“Yes. But only at her bidding. She wanted to know if it helped.”

“And has it?”

“Weirdly enough, yes. I love to golf. The course, even just the smell of it, relaxes me. And talking to Chloe usually clarifies whatever it was that was building up inside me.”

The way a shower relaxed Brett?

“So what happens if sometime you guys disagree, and talking to her only makes you angry?”

“I hang up and calm down. If I can’t, I go home and sleep in the guesthouse. And if there comes a day when this doesn’t work, I find something else that does.”

It sounded so...doable.

But there were those statistics. The three-to-eleven-percent success rate among abusers who sought treatment.