It was September 27, 2020, and my birthday was the day prior. My dad left that morning
for a meeting in Bay Harbor. The meeting was at four, but he would have to stay late to help out
the staff. This is a regular event for my family, nothing out of the ordinary, except this time, none of it was ordinary. I sit on our stairwell, the carpet light gray and leading upstairs. My mom
paces back and forth from the kitchen to the front door. She’s antsy; my only guess as to why is
the weather, it’s pouring rain, thunder cracking down, and lightning striking. As she anxiously
paces, I sit contentedly on my phone, clueless as to what is going on around me. The phone rings
and sits on the chipped dark greenish-black granite kitchen counter. My mom answers as if she’s been waiting her whole life for it. I watch her face drop as she listens. She runs up the stairs and slams her bedroom door.
I hear her yelling, her words mixed with sobs, and repeating,“Pull over… pull over,” as he says some drunken gibberish back to her. Moments later, she marches down the stairs, declaring, “Dad’s gonna stay at Papa and Bube’s tonight.” If it weren’t for the tremble in my mom’s voice, I wouldn’t be worried at all.
My dad didn’t return home for another two days. My mother was an emotional wreck, always on the phone with my grandparents and reluctant to talk about what was wrong.
September 29, my dad came home, and the tension in my house was tighter than a wound-up
rubber band. As the days went on, my things became more “normal,” but something was still off.
Still unable to place my finger on it, I let it go. While 2020 and the start of the ongoing Coronavirus pandemic had sent me into a deep depression, things only proved to get worse.
While endlessly scrolling on my phone, desperately trying to sleep, I find an article, published on
October 5th, 2020, in the Record-Eagle with Stuart Hickman’s arrest as the headline. My hands
begin to shake, tears roll down my red cheeks, and I begin to hyperventilate. My mind is no
longer in my body, and I stare blankly into the monotone light of my phone.
Don’t open it, Ava. You don’t want to read it, I thought to myself.
Nevertheless, I click it. As my finger touches the screen, my heart plummets into my stomach, but I continue to read. Holding my gray and white striped comforter over my mouth to muffle my sobs as my parents sleep only one wall away. As my eyes glaze over the words, I choke on my tears.
“42-year-old Stuart Hickman was arrested and charged with a felony while driving under the influence of alcohol on US 31.” I’ve officially lost all control. I feel sick to my
stomach.
My mind lights up with questions, This can’t be real, can it? How could they not tell me? And so many more. My whole life, I knew my dad was an alcoholic, heck that’s how he
lost my grandma, but for all I knew, he had been and stayed sober since. As panic quickly sets in,I text my mom something along the lines of how hurt I was by the fact that I had no idea, and
how I felt like the world was collapsing in on me, and I had no escape. Knowing I had school the next day, my manic brain shuts down, and I fall asleep.
The next morning, the same tension from before has returned. I left that morning for school at 7:25 a.m. The dark, funeral home like halls of West middle school was the last place I wanted to be, but being home was worse.
Just as the clock struck 2:35, the inevitable dread set in; my dad was picking me up, and he would, without a doubt, bring it up. I didn’t want to talk about it; I was filled with too many emotions to even begin to think about talking about them, especially to the person they were directed towards.
The car ride is silent, and an awkward feeling lingers through the Snoop Dogg that plays. We arrive home, and as I reach for the door handle, I hear my dad clear his throat and say
“Let’s talk outside.”
“Okay, let me set my bag inside,” I say.
I dreaded this moment, but I knew it would have to come; it was inevitable. We sit on our black wooden front porch steps, which are moderately damp, and the paint is starting to peel.
He’s the first to break the awkward silence. “I know you must be confused,” he stutters.
Confused? That’s it? I thought to myself, I sit and listen in silence, dropping a
“yeah” or “I know” here and there.
I was much more than confused. I was angry, not that he didn’t tell me, but that he did it,
knowing it would affect our family. Although apologetic, he made a point that stuck with me.
This was a turning point. He goes on to explain how this awful event was a blessing in
disguise. At the moment, I completely and utterly disagree; however, looking back, I now realize he was right. If he hadn’t been caught that night, would we have eventually lost him like my grandma? These thoughts are something I still ponder to this day.
However, I still held some resentment towards my father, not because he did it, but because he did it knowing how deeply it would affect my family. As the anniversary passes I still get reminded of that time in my life, not necessarily the event but the feeling of being so confused with my family and angry and emotional that day.
Certain things still remind me of that night, such as the Record Eagle. They did nothing wrong reporting what happened, but my slight hatred for them still lingers. Also, the drive up to Bay Harbor. I travel that direction often during the summertime, and my mind can’t help but wonder and wander to the question of where it happened. The image pops into my overthinking head. It’s my dad on the phone with my mom, speeding down the wet slippery road with a cop car racing behind him.
After this, even my family is not the same as it was, and honestly, it will never be. However, this change brought new soil to the garden that is my family, and I am quite thankful for it.