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"I'm fine here." It's a lie. I have no idea if I'm fine here, but I'm safe from my dad here.
"Take care." He ends the call.
Suddenly I feel very alone in the dark of my rental car, sitting in front of this cabin in the woods. Well, time to face this one. I have to trust that Henry knew what he was doing.
The fresh scent of a mountain forest hits me as I exit my car. My feet crunch on the fallen leaf litter as I force my exhausted body to walk up the front steps. My tiny knock on the door breaks the loud chorus of crickets and the rush of water nearby.
After a minute of nothing, my lungs deflate. He's not here. All this hope and effort for nothing. He may not be here, but I refuse to believe he's dead.
A crackling sound from the side of the house draws my attention. Summoning my courage, I walk down the steps and around to the back. A shirtless man sits in an old adirondack chair next to a circular fire pit made of stacked stones. He's staring at the flames and balancing a wine bottle on his stomach. Shaggy hair and a long, ragged beard obscure most of his face. I can't make out his tattoos in the shadows. Could that be him?
My toe snaps a twig and he turns his head.
Oh yes. It's him! My Foster is in there under all that hair!
He stands and the wine bottle clanks to the ground. He grabs a shotgun from the seat next to him. He's moving so slow, if I really was an intruder, he'd be dead. He catches his balance and raises the barrel of his gun toward me, tucking it under his armpit.
My heart thumps at my ribcage and I want to run but my feet won't move.
"Who's there?" he asks, the gun swaying in his grip.
I can't get any words out. My throat is closed up.
"Whoever the fuck you are, get the hell off my property," he says, not waiting for me to answer his question.
"Actually, this is my property," I manage to squeak out.
"What the hell?" His voice rasps deep and brash.
"It's me. Mila." Trusting that my Foster would never shoot me, even if he was drunk, I step out from the cover of the cabin. "Can we talk?"
His eyes focus on me before he turns to stare off into the distance as he slowly lowers back into his chair. The gun lands on the ground beside him.
"Who the fuck are you?" His words are slurred and thick with his Brooklyn accent.
"I'm Mila. You know me, Foster. You're just drunk." I take a chance he won't pull his gun again and walk toward him.
"I'm not drunk. I'm shit-faced."
As I get closer, I can see a wall made out of mud and the bottoms of wine bottles. It's so out of place in this rustic setting. The broken bottles lay scattered around him. Spots of dirt mark his face and hang in his bedraggled beard.
I'm sad to see him like this. He's out of touch and doesn't even know who I am. He's wearing his pain on the outside and destroying himself with booze. I hate all this pain I caused him. This is all my father's fault, but also mine for not saying what I should have when Donnie was in my closet.
"Why don't we go inside?"
I don't expect him to listen to me, so I'm surprised when he stands and stalks to the back door of the cabin. We enter a dark, cold room and stand there in silence. Searching the walls, I find a light switch that illuminates a spacious cabin with a steep roof supported by heavy wooden beams. Trash litters all the surfaces and it smells of pee and mold.
"Let's get you in the shower." I guide him into what I hope is the bathroom.
There's a tub, but no shower. "Get in."
It breaks my heart he's following my orders. Where's my Foster who's a fighter? With his shorts on, he flops a foot over the edge, stumbles, hits his head on the wall, and then drops down into the tub with his feet at the faucet side. He stares at the wall like a lost child and I want to hug him, but he needs to get cleaned off first.
The water comes out ice cold, but he doesn't react. Finally it starts to warm up.
Sitting on my knees by his head, my fingers reach for his hair that's much longer than usual now. It's greasy and matted so I do my best to run my fingers through it.
"I'm drunk as fuck." He burps and smacks his lips together.
