Page 24 of Combust (Everyday Heroes 2)
“Dylan McCoy, her daughter.”
“Yes, I have you on the list of approved contacts. Ms. McCoy, she’s still in a very fragile place so please don’t say or do anything that will upset her.” What about all she’s said or done to upset me? “She’s allowed five minutes on the phone.”
“Yes. I know.”
“Hold, please. I’ll connect you.”
The electronic beep of a ring comes through the phone. One. Two. Three. “Hello.” She sounds so frail.
“Hi, Momma.”
“Dylan?” Her voice is cautious.
“How are you?”
“Miserable. Do you know what they do to you here? Detox is hell. Friggin’ hell. And they try to pretty it up by using the term abstinence, but it’s still the same damn thing. My hands shake and my mouth is dry, and I’d give anything for a drink right now. And—”
“You promised me you’d try.” Again.
“I am, but you know it’s your father’s fault, right? I loved him but obviously not enough for him to love us back.”
“I know, Mom.”
“Do you have any idea what hell this place is? Do you . . .” She drones on, complaining about the same damn things she always does, never letting me get a word in edgewise until an electronic voice comes over the line.
“You have one more minute,” it warns.
“Dylan, I’m sorry. How are you? I’ve been selfish, prattling on this whole time and I haven’t asked a single thing about you.” Because alcoholism makes you selfish. “How are you? Did you need me for anything?” she asks as a tear slides silently down my cheek.
“No. I just wanted to hear your voice is all,” I say, trying to find comfort in her the only way I know how. In the only way this disease has allowed me to over the years.
“You’re okay, then?” she asks when she’s in no place to offer any kind of solace for my bruised ego.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“I love you. I’ll try harder.”
“I love you too.” Please try harder.
The line goes dead.
And this is what it comes down to. Five minutes. That’s all I get. This seems to be all I can remember getting from her.
Me needing her when she still craves something else.
First it was my father.
Then it was the alcohol.
Maybe it’s still my father she still craves.
I’m not sure. All I know is it has never been me.
Seems to me I always come in second place.
“Are you avoiding me, McCoy?”
My boots clomp on my wooden porch, and I take a seat beside her on one of the steps. She doesn’t respond, and I don’t push as I look at the progress on the playroom. It isn’t pretty, but it’s a work in progress.
