Saving Alice by David Lewis Page A

impasse far quicker than I’d hoped, but I continued the futility anyway, hoping to veer the subject back to its origin. “Listen, I made a mistake,” I said. “I forgot…”
    “You … forgot?” An incredulous snort. “I won’t even dignify that, Dad. But, you know, if you came home once in while, you might have been here by accident. But like I said, no one noticed. You should have kept your mouth shut. I mean, do you think we even care anymore when you break your promises? It’s expected. We plan our lives around it. It gives us a sense of stability knowing that you’re so easy to predict.”
    Amazed again at her articulation, a trait she’d obviously inherited from her linguistically gifted mother, I had long since given up trying to compete with her verbally—like trying to fight a Samurai with a butter knife. I could have tried to argue that my late hours were usually spent at the office, hoping to make our lives better, but that wouldn’t have set any better. And since no one understood my determination to remain friends with Paul and Susan, I didn’t follow that route either.
    As I began to back toward the door, Alycia leaned forward, adopting a more offensive posture. “So … have you talked to Mom yet?”
    I hesitated.
    “You didn’t, did you?”
    “Alycia—”
    “You came here to complain about my headphones?” Another snort. “This isn’t about me, you know? It’s Mom’s party you forgot.”
    “I understand, Alycia—”
    “Actually … you know what I really told everyone?” She was just getting warmed up.
    “No, I don’t.”
    “I told everyone, while they were eating the cake, you know, the one you forgot to pick up, that you were in the hospital.”
    “I see,” I whispered, waiting for the inevitable punch line.
    “You should have seen the look on their faces, Dad. And then when I had their attention, I told them we had you committed for multiple personality disorder. You know what I’m talking about? This strange ‘delusion of fatherhood’ that overtakes you about five minutes a week?”
    “Very clever,” I whispered, resuming my retreat. Reaching back for the doorknob, I glanced back at her and glimpsed her on the bed, startled to see that her eyes had suddenly melted into tears, her thick mascara creating black streaks down her cheeks. When our eyes locked, her face contorted suddenly as if acutely disappointed in herself.
    In spite of all that had just happened, I was tempted to rush to her side, take her into my arms, and make the hurt go away as if she were five and had merely scraped her toe.
    “I’m very sorry, Alycia,” I repeated for the third time, my voice hoarse.
    “ You’r e always sorry, Dad.” The tone of her voice was as anguished as the glossy look in her eyes. “I’m not giving you a clean slate anymore. This one stays up there.”
    I made a small step forward, but she twisted her head sharply, her suddenly furious eyes boring a hole into me, giving me the unspoken warning that I had better stop in my tracks. When I did, she brushed her face clumsily with her sleeve.
    With newfound flatness in her voice, she said: “Please lock my door on your way out.”
    I complied, setting the lock. Pulling her door closed behind me, I headed for the stairs.
    Shaking from the encounter, a small glimmer of hope broke through. She was waiting for me, I realized. She would have locked the door otherwise .
    Upstairs, at the edge of the living room, I gazed down the hallway toward the closed bedroom door, wondering if Donna was asleep. I wandered down the hall and knocked on the door again. Still no answer. I checked the door. Still locked. I paused for a few minutes, then decided against trying again.
    I turned out the lights to the house, then headed back downstairs, but instead of going straight toward Alycia’s room, I turned left into the furnace room area. My study was toward the back, bordering Alycia’s wall.
    I’d spent nearly a year finishing this