“I did, Son.”
My father grew ten years older right before my eyes as he flopped down onto the edge of a chair.
“I did. I enrolled her into rehab four times, and she walked out all four times.”
“She could do that?” I asked.
“Only patients who have mental issues can’t walk out. Your mother had an alcohol problem, not a mental problem. At least none she stayed long enough to figure out.”
“Four times?”
“Yeah, four times. Twice we fought about it. I mean really fought about it. I put our marriage on the line for it, said I’d take you and move us elsewhere and leave if she didn’t get her act together. You know what she did?”
I was scared to ask.
“She started acting sober. Even when she was sneaking drinks, she acted sober, Tyler. I caught her late one night hunched over the bathroom sink, chugging a small bottle of wine she’d been hiding underneath her side of the fucking bed.”
I shook my head as tears rolled down my cheeks.
“It was like your mother was hell-bent on being an alcoholic, like it was her life’s mission. She wasn’t always like that, but one day she woke up and drinking was all she could think about. To this day, I still don’t know what triggered it. My biggest fear is that it was me, something I did or said. And even though I threatened it, I was always afraid that leaving her and taking you would somehow makes things worse.”
I pulled up a chair beside my dad and sat down. For the first time, I saw how this had eaten away at him. I heard his side of the story and could honestly sympathize with him. I took his hand and held it silently, listening as the clock on the wall ticked off the seconds.
An hour later, a doctor came walking into the room.
“Mr. Browning?”
“Yes?” we both asked.
We stood and shook the doctor’s hand before my father started rattling off questions.
“What’s going on with my wife? Is she going to be okay? Where is she? When can I take her home?”
“Slow down, Mr. Browning. You won’t be taking your wife anywhere for a while,” the doctor said.
“Why not?” I asked.
“I take it you’re her son?” he asked.
“I am. Tyler Browning.”
“Tyler, your mother has severe cirrhosis of the liver. She’s actually just shy of it being a fatal turning point for her. We have her stable at the moment, but we’re transferring her to an ICU room while she goes through withdrawal.”
“Oh my god,” my father moaned.
“She’s most certainly going to need a transplant. There’s no recovering her liver at this point, as it is shutting down,” the doctor said.
“I want to be tested as a match,” I said.
“Me too,” my father said. “I want to be tested as well.”
“There’s some paperwork that goes into it, but we can get you started on that. First, a blood test to match blood type, then a small biopsy to make sure the livers will be compatible. There’s also health history and things of that sort to take into account, but we can get the ball rolling,” the doctor said.
“How long does the process take? You know, to see if we’re matches or not?” my father asked.
“First, we deal with the questionnaire. Once that passes our standards, the blood test. That has to come back, which takes at least twenty-four hours, and then we schedule the biopsy. Certain biological conditions have to take place for the liver biopsy to render accurately, and creating those conditions takes a few days. All in all, the process takes about a week.”
“Will she last that long?”
My father asked the question in such a small voice that I didn’t even recognize it.
“We’re going to do everything we can do make sure she does, Mr. Browning.”
I sat back down in my chair and quickly began filling out the questionnaire, but my father only stared at the wall. His face was blank and his eyes were unwavering. It made me sick to see him like that. I put my clipboard off to the side and stood up, then wrapped my arms around my father and drew him into me.
For the first time in my life, I comforted my father while he cried.
Ana
“Aunt Kristi, catch!”
I laughed as a ball bounced off the side of my best friend’s head.
“Hey!” she exclaimed.
“You didn’t catch,” I said, shrugging.
“You didn’t give me a fighting chance, you little booger,” Kristi said.
“Catch me, Aunt Kristi!”
Brody ran outside and Kristi chased after him. I stood on the porch and laughed as the two of them played their own personal game of tag. Brody would smack her leg and Kristi would tackle him to the ground. Then Brody headed for the water hose and I knew Kristi was in trouble.
“Hey! That’s an unfair advantage!” she exclaimed.