arms around my knees. “He slapped me because he thought he needed to shock me.”
“Shock you, why?”
“Because ...” I licked my lips, discomforted by the dryness in my mouth. “I ... I have a, um ...” I found I couldn't say the words while looking at him, unsure that I could even say them at all. So, I laid my hands over my face and said, “I, um ... I have a ... a drug problem.”
Dad's exhale was slow and pained. “Oh, God,” he muttered quietly, and I dropped my hands to find him scrubbing his palm against his lips. “This is ... This is Vinnie's influence?”
The last thing I wanted was for my entire family to villainize my husband, and while I could never control the way they felt, the least I could do in his honor was defend him by telling the whole story.
And so, I did. I laid it all out for my dad. The spirits that had never stopped haunting me, and the depression and old habits that had eaten away at Vinnie until they could no longer be ignored. I told him about that first time, when I'd caught Vinnie succumbing to his demons on the couch and how my curiosity had gotten away from me, and then, all the times after. I left no detail hidden, not even the ones best left private, simply because this was a story I needed to tell, to give it away, to get over it. And when it was all done and out in the open, Dad sighed sadly and nodded as his palm cupped my knee.
“I'm glad that, when it was time to leave, you came home,” he said, his voice gruff with sorrow and disappointment.
“I wasn't going to leave,” I confessed, “but Vinnie made me. He sent me here.”
Dad absorbed 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.
“You have a long road ahead of you,” Dad replied, with another nod. “You will go to rehab, 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—”
“Thank you,” I croaked, swiping my hand beneath my nose.
Then, Dad held up a single finger and said, “But, you will not be in contact with Vinnie.”
My jaw dropped with immediate distress. “What? I can't do that! He's my—”
“I don't care what he is to you, Andrea,” he replied, his tone soft but unforgiving. “He's the one that got you into this mess and if I'm the one helping you get better, I won't put up with him ruining your progress.”
It was all so final and I was far from being okay with it. But I could see the logic in what my father said, and my heart and shoulders sank with heavy defeat. I wished I had known that would be the last time I would see Vinnie. I wished 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. “I can't tell you what's in the future, honey pie. I don't know if you'll be able to work things out with him one day, or if you were only meant to know him for a few months. None of us ever really know how long someone we love will be in our lives, but we can hope that no matter how long we have, we love them enough.”
I struggled with my emotions, as I asked in a whisper, “Enough for what?”
He squeezed my knee in a loving grasp. “To make a difference.”
I didn't know how to decipher those words at first, and all I could do was nod in reply. 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 kissed my cheek, I settled into the fact that I still was his little girl. She was still in there, alive and well, and begging the damaged, adult me to remember and bring her back. It was my father's unconditional love that did that. He loved me enough to make that difference, and then, I understood.
Vinnie had put me in that car and sent me home, where he