Washed Up

Upsurge

Ross

Upsurge. Noun. [up-surge]. A rapid or sudden rise or increase.

I sit on the couch, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees, and study the white door with its peeling paint and sun warped windows. An envelope rests in my hands, addressed to World Service International. It's my acceptance letter.

I blame Riley for this irrepressible discontentment. I wasn't going to accept the internship--I was going to stay here and take care of the kids until some eventual day when Dad would be able to take care of them himself. Or they graduated high school, whichever came sooner. But I'm realizing I have to take control of my own life. I don't want Mason and Ivy and Sammy to grow up believing that my current lifestyle is all there is for them, that dreams never amount to anything, that they're destined to live on this island forever. I refuse to let them follow in my footsteps.

Only one obstacle remains between me and the global service internship: Dad. When he walks through the doors, I'll know whether this dream might actually come true or whether I need to finally lay it to rest and accept my fate.

As if on cue, the front door swings open and Dad enters. I drop the envelope on the couch and rub my sweaty palms on my cotton hoodie. Dad pulls his keys from the lock, turned away from me so I can't see his expression in the pale glow of the evening moon. He wears a faded button down with a few beer stains, haphazardly tucked into a pair of jeans. It doesn't look like much, but for Dad, this is putting forth some effort.

"So, how'd it go?" I ask, standing up.

Dad jumps, dropping the keys and then bending to pick them up. "What the--I didn't know you were there. What, lying in wait for me?"

"I just want to know how it went. Did you--was it good?"
Dad sighs and runs a hand through his hair, prematurely gray. "It was the first session, Ross, with me and a bunch of old people whose husbands and wives died from cancer. They're probably next."

I resist the urge to slap him. Doesn't he have any sympathy for other people who've gone through the same sort of pain? Why has this tragedy hardened instead of softened him? I don't understand.

"What'd you talk about?" I ask, grinding my teeth together to keep from lashing out at him.

He went to the grief therapy session. I have to at least give him credit for trying; maybe it'll make a difference. Maybe something will change. Dad groans, sitting back in the recliner chair across from me and staring up at the ceiling, stained by cigarette smoke. His fingers trace a tear in the leather on the arm of the couch.

"They talked about the stages of grief, like losing someone is something you can just get over."

"What stage are you in?" I ask.

I'm familiar with the stages; I researched everything I could find about grief psychology to try to help the kids and me and Dad cope with everything. The kids are as alright as they can be without a mother, but Dad has a long way to go.

Dad laughs humorlessly and grips the chair arm. "I don't know. I'm angry, I'm depressed, I'm in denial. I haven't accepted anything."

"Do you think you'll go back?" I ask, picking up the envelope and fiddling with it.

"I...I don't know, Ross. I know I should, but...they want us to think about what in our lives we want to change, and I realized I want to change everything. What I do with you kids, my job, my...my drinking."

I sit up straighter and watch him, my heart pounding a chest. He's not only admitting that there is a problem, but that he wants to change it. Maybe, after five brutal years, he'll finally attempt to change.