He was worried about his daughter in that way of doing what I say, not what I do, and she had a life of her own and it was dangerous by his standards, nothing like the risks he had taken. She was an alcoholic, hardly ever drugs, which was a good thing, but she was a binge drinker. A bottle of vodka or maybe four or five bottles of wine, sometimes a few bottles of sake and then she would pass out. When she would call him in the throes of a drunk, she would cry and tell him she was an outcast. She didn’t fit into normal society. She saw the world in a different light. Pain was part of her sexual experience and afterward she would feel guilty and it all related to the way she had grown up as a child. The secret things that had happened.
But he would console her and she would feel unworthy of his love and slowly she was disintegrating.
He called her: You need to stop drinking so much. Can you do that for me?
I don’t know. Maybe.
Hey, when you are not drinking for a few days, is that really true? Are you really not drinking or are you not being honest?
Well, I’m not being honest.
Okay, that is a bigger problem for me then drinking too much. If you want to drink a lot, just tell me and I’ll send you the money. There’s no reason to lie.
Right, but if I’m telling you the truth, then I wouldn’t want to drink. I’m too dead inside, dad, too cold for what you say.
Later that night, as he tried to sleep, he kept seeing her fall, floating in the air, downward into the cloudy mash of his mind, where lumpy forms with distorted faces were the people he loved.
(For A. and me, the collision of our lives.)