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It had been over three months since I spoke to my father. We had a terrible argument that turned into a fuck-you match.  Fuck you.  Bastard.  Cocksucker. I was resigned to not speak to him anymore.  It didn't bother me, not at all.  It was better than it was.  Shit.

Three months passed.  Three good months.  I wrote a novel in six weeks within those three months.  I grew closer to my own little family.  I discovered the goodness that came from not caring, not caring about pleasing my folks anymore, and focusing on what was important.  My wife and daughter.  And soon-to-be second daughter.  My future.

So when my sister called me three months later and told me that she was worried about my father, I didn't care.  When she told me that he hadn't returned her calls all day and that it wasn't like him to not return her calls, I still didn't care.  I told her not to worry about it so much.  He'd eventually call her back.  Maybe he was out running errands.  Or something.  I hung up.

It was December 4th.  Wednesday.  Around six thirty.  I stood the Christmas tree up on its pedestal in our living room and stepped back to make sure it was level.  It was.  I sipped my eggnog and whiskey.  I watched my daughter wrap tinsel around her fingers, laughing.  I kissed my wife.  Ho Ho Ho.  The phone interrupted.  My wife looked at the caller id.  It's your sister again, she said.  Shit.  I knew something was wrong.  My wife answered the phone.

She placed her hand over her mouth.  Her faced turned white.  Pale white.  She handed me the phone.  I could hear my sister on the other end.  Sobbing.  What's wrong?  He shot himself, she said.  The motherfucker shot himself, she said.  Shit.

*****

Three months had passed since we fought.  I cried like mad for at least fifteen minutes.  He never said he loved me.  Ever.  Not once.  The thought that he never would say it was like a spur in my heart.  Prodding.  It hurt like hell.  Bastard.

I couldn't think of their phone number, at first.  I started to dial and it slowly came to me.  My mom answered the phone like she was expecting more bad news.  She whimpered.  I told her that I was on my way to San Antonio.  OK, she said.  I could hear the commotion at her house in the background.  Cops.  EMS.  Her dog.

Our neighbor played with our daughter while my wife packed our bags.  I quit smoking three months before and all I could think about was smoking.  Just one drag.  Marlboros.  Lights.  I quit smoking because I didn't want to kill myself.  I might as well shoot myself, I used to say.  Ironic.

An hour and fifteen minutes.  That's how long it normally took us to get from Austin to San Antonio.  Not long.  My wife and I usually talked or listened to music.  Enjoyed ourselves.  Not this time.  I thought of death.  Violent death.  And cigarettes.  My wife drove.  My daughter slept in the back seat.  I could feel every pebble of the highway underneath my seat.  Every single one.  Shit.  It was a long drive.

*****

There were no cars in front of her house.  No cops.  No ambulance.  I kissed my wife goodbye.  I love you, she said.  I love you too.  I got my bag from the trunk.  They drove to her mother's house.  Ten minutes away.  Where I really wanted to be.  Not here.

I rang the bell.  My mother's friend answered the door.  She hugged me.  Tight.  I'm sorry, she said.  Thank you.  The ambulance just left, she said.  My mother was standing right behind her.  Scared.  Alone.  Crushed.  Three months since I last spoke to her.  When I hugged her, I felt awkward.  Distant.  Pack a bag, I said.  Where are we going? she asked.  Anywhere but here.  I'm not staying here.  I'm not sleeping here.  Anywhere but here tonight.  All right, she said.

I waited in the living room for her.  I could see the door to the room where he shot himself.  The door was closed.  My old room.  My high school room.  Where I used to study, read comic books, kiss girls, paint, sleep, dream.  Where I grew up.  Death was behind that door.  Death.  Shit.

Where are we going? she asked again.  A hotel.  I like the Holiday Inn Express, she said.  Then that's where we're going.  I grabbed her bag and my bag and went straight to the garage.  She locked up the house.  Set the alarm.  I drove us to the hotel.  Ten minutes away.  My wife and daughter were also ten minutes away.  The other way.

*****

Don't park too close to the other cars, she said.  I left two spaces between my dad's car and another.  We went to the second floor and found our room.  Two beds.  A small refrigerator.  I dropped my bag and went to the bathroom.  I sat on the toilet and cried.  Sobbed.  My face in my hands.  I didn't want my mom to hear me.  I washed my face with cold water.  The bastard.

I sat on one bed.  My mom sat on the other.  She looked tired.  Beaten.  Did you expect this? I asked.  Not really, she said.  Did he ever mention anything to you?  Once, she said.  I found him sitting in the dark one morning before I left for work, she said.  He said he wanted to hurt himself.  I didn't go to work and stayed home with him, she said.  He promised me he'd get some help.  I believed him, she said.  Did you really believe him? I asked.  Yes, she said.  This last back surgery didn't go so well, she said.  But I thought he'd get through it like last time.  Not this time.

His mother tried to kill herself too, she said.  With pills.  This was news to me.  He used to ridicule her for that, she said.  He didn't respect her after that, she said.  That's why I never thought he'd do it.  Oh, I said.  Oh.

I forgot my pads at the house, she said.  Can you go get them for me? she asked.  My bladder has not aged gracefully, she said.  I got the car keys.  Middle cabinet, middle shelf, she said.  You don't mind, do you? she asked.  No.

*****

I pulled into the driveway.  Turned off the car.  Sat there.  Quiet.  I noticed the garage doors were freshly painted.  Strange.  I turned off the car.  Walked to the door.  Slowly.  Nervously.  I held on to the keys tight.  I unlocked the door and went inside to turn off the alarm.  The beeping siren stopped.  Quiet.  Very quiet.

I could see the door to my room.  It was still closed.  I had to walk by it to get to my mom's room.  Where the pads were.  I walked by it.  Quickly.  In her bathroom, I looked in the middle cabinet, on the middle shelf.  I found what I thought were her pads.  I placed them under my arm.

I was going to leave.  But I stopped in front of my room.  I grabbed the door knob.  I turned it but didn't open the door.  I didn't want to open the door.  But I did.  I slowly opened the door.  Expecting to be horrified.  The room was a mess.  The sheets were on the floor.  The comforter was on the floor.  His robe was also on the floor.  I grabbed his robe and looked in the pockets.  Nothing.  No note.  Nothing.  Bastard.  His glasses were on the night stand.  So was his watch.  The alarm clock flashed 12:00.  The wrong time.  It was closer to 1:00am.  I didn't see any blood.  Except for a red speck on the wall.  I got a good look at the red speck.  A close look.  I touched it.  It was dry.  I wasn't sure if it was blood.  I didn't want to know.  My stomach tightened.  I gagged.  With my hand over my mouth, I left my room.  I didn't turn the alarm on.  I didn't care.

*****

Marlboros.  I wanted Marlboros.  And whiskey.  Lots of it.  Jack Daniels.  On the way back to the hotel, I saw a bar on the access road.  An Irish pub.  I went in.  There were only four people inside, including the bartender.  I made it five.  I ordered a whiskey and coke.  A strong one.  I sucked it down.  Two gulps.  I ordered another one and asked the bartender for a cigarette.  She gave me a Marlboro.  Thank god.  It burned like all hell when I took the first drag.  The whiskey numbed the burn.  I sucked the cigarette down too.  Down to the filter.  Ash.

All I could think about was my father, under the sheets on his bed, with the gun pressed to his head, whimpering.  Then pulling the trigger.  Over.  And over.  I wondered if he thought about me.  My sister.  My mom.  I concluded that he didn't.  I knew he didn't.  Bastard.

The bartender told me I shouldn't smoke.  They'll kill you, she said.  I ordered another drink and sucked it down too.  Three whiskeys in ten minutes.  I left my money on the bar.  No change.  You want another cigarette? the bartender asked.  No thanks, I said.  I knew I quit smoking for a reason.

Back at the hotel, I quietly unlocked the door to our room and climbed into bed.  I tried as hard as I could to go to sleep.  But I couldn't.  Thoughts of my father again, whimpering.  The gun.  The red speck.  Over.  And over.  I glanced over at my mother.  She was wide awake, staring at the ceiling.  Thanks for going to the house, she said.  You're welcome.  Did you go into your room? she asked.  No, I said.  I closed my eyes and didn't say another word.  I thought about my wife and my daughter and knew they were thinking about me.  I knew it.

If you - or someone you know - are having thoughts about suicide, call 1.800.SUICIDE (784-2433). Calls are connected to a certified crisis center nearest the caller's location. Services are available 24 hours a day, seven days a week.

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