“Because...” I licked my lips, discomforted by the dryness in my mouth. “I ... I havea, um ...” I found I couldn't say the words while looking at him, unsure that Icould even say them at all. So, I laid my hands over my face and said, “I, um... I have a ... a drug problem.”
Dad'sexhale was slow and pained. “Oh, God,” he muttered quietly, and I dropped myhands to find him scrubbing his palm against his lips. “This is ... This isVinnie's influence?”
Thelast thing I wanted was for my entire family to villainize my husband, andwhile I could never control the way they felt, the least I could do in hishonor was defend him by telling the whole story.
Andso, I did. I laid it all out for my dad. The spirits that had never stoppedhaunting me, and the depression and old habits that had eaten away at Vinnieuntil they could no longer be ignored. I told him about that first time, whenI'd caught Vinnie succumbing to his demons on the couch and how my curiosityhad gotten away from me, and then, all the times after. I left no detailhidden, not even the ones best left private, simply because this was a story Ineeded to tell, to give it away, to get over it. And when it was all done andout in the open, Dad sighed sadly and nodded as his palm cupped my knee.
“I'mglad that, when it was time to leave, you came home,” he said, his voice gruffwith sorrow and disappointment.
“Iwasn't going to leave,” I confessed, “but Vinnie made me. He sent me here.”
Dadabsorbed the information for a quiet moment, before he nodded and said, “Well,maybe there's some hope for him after all.”
“Maybe,”I muttered, remembering the vivid image given to me by Vincent.
“Youhave a long road ahead of you,” Dad replied, with another nod. “You will go torehab, and you will go to therapy, and ... whatever you need to sort out your,um ... issue. I'll make sure you get the absolute best care you can get—”
“Thankyou,” I croaked, swiping my hand beneath my nose.
Then,Dad held up a single finger and said, “But, you willnotbe in contactwith Vinnie.”
Myjaw dropped with immediate distress. “What? I can't do that! He's my—”
“Idon't care what he is to you, Andrea,” he replied, his tone soft butunforgiving. “He's the one that got you into this mess and if I'm the onehelping you get better, I won't put up with him ruining your progress.”
Itwas all so final and I was far from being okay with it. But I could see thelogic in what my father said, and my heart and shoulders sank with heavydefeat. I wished I had known that would be the last time I would see Vinnie. Iwished I had said more, I wished I had at least said goodbye.
And,as if he could read my mind, my father offered a small, encouraging smile. “Ican't tell you what's in the future, honey pie. I don't know if you'll be ableto work things out with him one day, or if you were only meant to know him fora few months. None of us ever really know how long someone we love will be inour lives, but we can hope that no matter how long we have, we love themenough.”
Istruggled with my emotions, as I asked in a whisper, “Enough for what?”
Hesqueezed my knee in a loving grasp. “To make a difference.”
Ididn't know how to decipher those words at first, and all I could do was nod inreply. Then, I lost the battle against a long, wide yawn and Dad took the hint.He tucked me in, the way he used to when I was a little girl, and as he kissedmy cheek, I settled into the fact that I still was his little girl. She wasstill in there, alive and well, and begging the damaged, adult me to rememberand bring her back. It was my father's unconditional love that did that. Heloved me enough to make that difference, and then, I understood.
Vinniehad put me in that car and sent me home, where he knew I would get the help Ineeded.
Hehad loved me enough, but what had I done for him?
Thevision of his lifeless body, laying cold on the floor, filled my exhaustedmind. I hadn't told him about it and I hadn't taken the time to know if it wasa premonition or a warning. But I was afraid, and I used that fear to pick upthe phone.
Ihoped that would be enough.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-SIX
ANDREA
Dadhad talked to Mom, because like a coward, I couldn't face her myself. Icouldn't stand to see the look of blatant disapproval and disappointment on herface. I couldn't handle hearing the horrible things she'd have to say aboutVinnie. I was grateful for my father, who carried more of my burden than heever should have, and when he dropped me off at the rehab facility the nextday, I had hugged him tighter than I ever had before.
Ididn’t want him to leave. I didn't want to be left alone with all of thesestrange people and ghosts, in a place I was unfamiliar with. It was the firstday of school jitters at their finest, but I managed to check myself in whileholding my head high, and my father said he had never been more proud of me.
Thewithdrawal had been the worst.
Justhours after I'd checked into Hope Meadows Rehabilitation Center, the anxietyand agitation had begun. I worried about Vinnie, about the damage I'd done tomy body, family, and future. The ghosts—all loved ones of the otherpatients—came to me in droves, and when the aches in my muscles and bonesbegan, I couldn't take it anymore. Detox had begun, with a cocktail ofmedications, and so had the dreams.
Vinniewas in them, and he was always dead.
Ialways awoke unconvinced that he was truly gone. He would have come to me, Iknew that in my heart, but that never stopped the tears from coming. It alsonever stopped the crack in my chest from widening, allowing for more of thegood to spill out while all the bad and despair rushed in to fill me up.
