I’m not quite old enough to stay home by myself while my mom works, so I tag along to my dad’s NA meeting with him. I snag a ball from a large plastic bin on wheels and bounce it off the wall in the opposite corner of the school gymnasium where the meeting is held. No one seems to mind. The men are focused on their meeting and barely acknowledge I’m there. I pretend not to listen while each one details his struggles with addiction.
Darren “No-Nose” Gibson is the first to speak. He rubs at the bridge of his deformed nose while he recounts his ten-year addiction to cocaine. He talks about how addiction has ruled his life, wrecked his relationships, and sapped his potential.
My dad told me once that Darren had received his nickname not for the drug use, which had, in fact, eaten away at the inside of his nasal cavity, but instead after having part of his nose bitten off in a bar fight with a kamikaze biker. Darren, he would say, was the type of guy you never expected to make it to the next week, let alone recovery. But somehow, he’d kicked the drugs, and each time he stumbled he’d pick himself up again.
No-Nose tearfully tells the room full of men, “I relapsed recently after I caught my old-lady getting felt up in the stock room by some bozo who stocked shelves, if you can believe it. Of course I went ballistic on him.” He talks about how he thought they’d had a future together, how he’d planned to propose and was working on getting back weekend custody of his daughter. He’d missed the hearing though because he’d been too wrecked to go. And he figured with a new assault charge and no job what chance did he have anyway? “I just feel so messed up now. I mean, after all that work. I’m right back at square one. Nearly six months of sobriety down the drain.”
The men all nod sympathetically acknowledging the major setback. One guy, with rot-black teeth and a teardrop etched into the leathery pouch of skin under his left eye murmurs about stress being a trigger for relapse and how we can’t always control for it, but the important thing is getting back on track after.
My dad hasn’t been to a meeting in a while. He’s never been one to go with any regularity. His attendance is less a deterrent and more a penance for bad behavior. He admits to having used a few weeks before. He’s there as punishment, but also for absolution. He tells them he hates being so weak and wants to get back on track. Talks about how his dad had been a mean son-of-a-bitch, and how he still struggles both with the crucial step of forgiveness and with his own feelings of worthlessness. “I end up using whenever I’m feeling like shit. The only time I ever really feel good is when I’m using.”
I feel a surge of resentment as he says this. I think about the weekend we’d gone fishing just before he’d disappeared. The pride on his face as I’d reeled in what he’d called “the big one,” but which was, in reality, not much more than a minnow. I wonder if he’d been faking all along, playing the part of dad. He doesn’t mention to the group how he’d been fired from his new job, his third one in less than a year, or how he’d disappeared for four entire days. Doesn’t tell the pitying faces that he’d taken the last of the household money with him and hadn’t told my mom where he’d went and when, or even if he was coming back.
I’d overheard mom on the phone asking a friend to spot her thirty dollars till payday so she could buy a few groceries. I could hear the shame and embarrassment in her voice as she’d admitted that my dad had disappeared again and left her with no money for food.
After the meeting, the guys all stand around and sip murky coffee with powdered creamer from styrofoam cups while they chat about last night’s hockey game. No-Nose walks over to where I’m attempting to balance myself on a basketball, arms outstretched like Jesus on the cross. He digs in the front pocket of his jean jacket and pulls out a candy, then offers it to me.
“The strawberry ones are my daughter’s favorite. I always keep a bunch on me.”
I jump down from my perch and take the offering with a shy, “Thanks.”
He watches intently as I peel open the the colorful wrapper to expose a shiny, metallic interior with a cherry-colored hard candy nestled in the centre.
“You’re a good sport, coming out to meetings with your dad, you know.”
I pop the candy into my cheek and shrug. “I don’t mind.” And I don’t. But it’s not like I have a choice either way.
“People like your dad and me; we need this kinda thing. We’re not so great at staying on track and holding ourselves accountable, so we rely on others to help us out. That’s why we come here, to be held accountable. So we can be there for the people who need us.”
I’ve heard some iteration of this speech enough times for it to have lost some of its effect, but I don’t say so.
“I got a girl, little older than you and I love that kid more than anything. Ya know? I’m trying for her—man am I trying.”
I get the impression that he wants me to acknowledge his effort, so I offer up a solemn nod like I understand his difficulties, even though I don’t. Not really.
“Alright, kid. We gotta make like trees.” My dad throws back the dregs of his coffee, then gives Darren a pat on the back and tells him, “Stay solid, man.”
He shoots the cup into the can beside the makeshift refreshment table, and we head out through the gymnasium doors.
Once we’re in the car, he rifles through the receipts and packs of matches in the console and extracts a few coins. He turns to me. “I gotta make a couple stops before we head home, but how ‘bout we go grab you an ice cream first?”
***
I eat my-soft serve with a little wooden scoop from a plastic cup as we drive through the industrial park on the outskirts of town. My dad scans the buildings until he spots whatever it is he’s been looking for. He makes a sharp right into a complex and pulls up in front of a building with six bays and a sign that reads, “Cliff’s Transport.” He reaches over the armrest to the back seat and pulls out a sheet of paper, then tells me, “Hang tight a minute, I’ll be right back.”
Not long after, he returns to the car, a broad smile spread across his features. “They’re desperate for drivers, they just had two quit and want someone to start right away. And the pay is fifty cents more than I was getting at that other shithole.” He pops an AC/DC cassette into the stereo, then drums his fingers on the wheel with excitement. “Man, I got a real good feeling about this one. It’s gonna be different, I’m really gonna stick it out this time.”
I’ve heard these words before, but his enthusiasm is infectious, and I can’t help but grin up at him in spite of myself. I hope he’s right; maybe this time will be different.