But obviously I pretend to be really angry at her, and I am genuinely apologetic, and Jock and Pam try to be polite about the whole thing. I guess we’re all trying to figure out how to get out of this without too much awkwardness. Sue Ellen makes some excuses for Tallulah’s behavior, and we all agree that she’s a dog that needs to be worked with a lot, and we theorize about how she ended up the way she is. The two of them never do actually tell us straight-out they don’t want her, but we go ahead and load her back in the car anyway and say good-bye and get the hell out of there as fast as possible.
We drive in silence for a while—windows down, the cold purifying somehow. Tallulah has climbed up onto Sue Ellen’s lap, and even though she’s big and bony, Sue Ellen lets her stay. We’re both petting her absently, and the cold is all around us.
I’m not sure how much time passes, but suddenly I look over at Sue Ellen and notice she’s really crying hard. I mean, she’s just crying and crying, and when I ask her what’s wrong, she tells me she doesn’t think she can stand letting Tallulah go to anyone else.
“No one will ever be good to her the way we are,” she manages to get out through little gasps of breath. “No one will take the time to try ’n’ understand her.”
I glance down at the stupid fucking nutjob of a dog.
“Yeah,” I say. “She’s just kind of our dog, isn’t she? I mean, she fits with us—and, uh, I don’t think she’d really fit with anyone else.”
Sue Ellen nods. “Nic, I don’t mind taking care of her while you’re on tour, okay? I know I said I did, but I promise you I don’t. I wanna keep her, Nic. Is it okay if we keep her?”
I lean over and kiss both of them, even though I’m still driving.
“Yeah, we’ll keep her,” I say, focusing on the road again. “I don’t think we ever had a choice.”
Sue Ellen laughs at that. “No, we never did.”
She reaches over and turns on the CD player.
I roll up the windows.
We all three of us drive home.
Ch.29
So, he’s here, you know? Standing right next to me.
It’s been such a long time, and yet, in a way, it’s been no time at all. I take the warmth of his hand in mine. I put my arm around his shoulder. I lay my head against his chest. I am twenty-four years old. I am a little child. He is my dad. He’s the one who raised me—the one who got me up for school in the morning, made my lunch, tied my shoes. He’s the one who helped me with my homework, came to my sports games, plays, parent-teacher conferences. He’s the one who was there—every day—every night—when I woke up screaming, terrified, calling out his name. He was the one.
And then, again, he was the one who was there when I came home strung out and crazy and sick and rambling. He was the one who answered my desperate phone calls. He was the one who drove me to rehab, visited me in rehab, had his stomach torn out every time I relapsed—and then relapsed again. He was the one who tried to find me, tried to help me, even when I threw the help back in his face. He was the one who didn’t give up on me. He was the one who couldn’t let me go.
But then what happened? It all got so tangled and frantic, and he couldn’t let me figure things out on my own. He wanted to control me. He was too frightened not to. So I had to go away—show him that he didn’t need to manage my life anymore—that I could do it on my own—that the words of a counselor at a rehab center weren’t necessarily gospel. Because I really do believe that’s how he came to feel. And it’s not like I can blame him. He watched me fall and fall again. He watched me as I lived so close to dying that I barely even lived at all. He watched, powerless. He watched, waiting for some kind of answer—waiting for anything, anyone, who would promise to fix me. And that’s what those rehabs promised—they promised to make me well. It was all he had to hold on to—the one hope, the one solution. Obviously he was gonna freak out when I decided to go against what the “experts” were telling me—you know, ditching out of that rehab in New Mexico and running off to the other side of the goddamn country. I totally get it. I understand. And, well, at this point, I just hope we can try ’n’ put it all behind us, move forward, be friends again. ’Cause that’s what we are—truly—friends. We’ve always been friends. And, man, it’s great to be able to be here with him. It’s amazing, really. I mean, I’m so thankful we’re doing this together.
Being on book tour this winter is basically like the weirdest fucking thing ever. I feel like a fraud, like somehow I tricked all these people into thinking I have something to say. I feel like a fraud staying in nice hotels, ordering room service, having everything paid for when I barely even have enough money in my checking account to buy cigarettes. Professional drivers pick my dad and me up at the airport, take us to events, have complimentary bottles of water waiting for us. At bookstores people ask for our autographs. I mean, they actually want my signature. They want me to sign copies of the book
