This Work Is Untitled Until I Talk to My Father

By Tomás Alfonso Torres

The morning my family went to pick up my dad from rehab, Mom woke my brother and me up early. “I want us to go to church after we pick up your father,” she told us, “so dress nice.”  I didn’t have a lot of nice clothes; everything was either hand-me-downs from my big brother or shirts from the thrift shop that were a size too large. I put on a faded blue button-down with a skinny striped grey tie. I stood in front of the dingy bathroom mirror for what felt like forever, trying to knot it, ignoring my mom calling me down for breakfast as I kept tying and untying.

“Al,” my brother heckled, slapping the door frame, “Mom’s calling you!”

“I wanna tie my tie first!” My eyes were fixed on my hands. 

“You can do that later, come on, dickhead!" he said, slapping the frame harder. 

I turned to him. He was almost big enough to block the doorway. Cris was eighteen, five years older than me, and way taller than Mom and me. He looked like he just rolled out of bed: his hair was flat and greasy, and dark circles hung under his eyes like sleeping black cats. 

"Can you tell Mom I’ll be just a minute?” I asked him, focusing my attention back to my hands. 

“You want me to help?” he asked sincerely.

“Sure?” I responded, unsure if he meant it or if he was fucking with me. He stepped into the bathroom, working the tie close and carefully. His hands were dirty and scratched all over from doing yard work. His nails hadn’t been clipped in weeks.  I didn’t know where to look.

“You might also want to tuck your shirt in again. It looks too big on you as is,” Cris said, straightening my collar. 

“Thanks,” I muttered. 

My brother met my gratitude with a mild slap to the back of the head as he left the bathroom. 

#

After breakfast, we all got in the car and drove to the facility. It was an hour and a half drive that felt much longer because no one spoke a word the entire time. It wasn’t often that we’d visited Dad over the past three years. Mom was either too busy with work, or Cris and I had too much going on with school. The visits became fewer and farther between. The last one I could remember was my thirteenth birthday, five months ago. Dad promised me he’d “get better quick” as my gift.

My dad was the only one outside the facility when we rolled up. He looked nearly unrecognizable. I hadn’t seen him outside rehab in three years, and there he was, waiting for us at the entrance with bags in hand, a white polo that exaggerated his tan skin, cleanly shaven. It looked so fake to me, like he was on the cover of a pamphlet they handed out at AA meetings. Mom was the first to hug him. Cris went after her, only throwing one arm around my dad. 

“Cristobal!” Mom criticized my brother. “Actually hug your father!” 

Cris and my dad shared an awkward look before hugging each other with both arms. 

“Hola, mijo,” he said to me. I realized we were both the same height. Did I get taller or did he get shorter? 

“Hey, Dad,” I said. 

“Come give your old man a hug,” he said excitedly. I put my arms around him and felt him squeeze me like I was a child again. My cheek met his, and for the first time that I could remember, I didn’t feel the stubble on his beard scratch me. I didn’t know how long to hug him for. It felt right that I was supposed to hug him for a long time. For how long are you supposed to hug your dad after he gets out of rehab? 

After loading Dad’s stuff in the car, we drove all the way back to our hometown for church. The car ride home was just as quiet as it was going to the facility. Dad sat up front staring out the window, watching the sky. He kept rubbing his neck, like a child told not to scratch a bug bite.

We arrived at the church ten minutes early because Mom wanted to make sure we got a good spot today. Walking in, we met the priest in the foyer. He was shaking hands and greeting everyone who came in. 

“Well hello, Maria,” he greeted my mom, shaking her hand. “It’s so wonderful to see you and your family again.”

“Thank you, Father,” Mom replied, her hands still cupped in the priest’s.

“Ah, and who might this be?” the priest asked, making eye contact with my dad.

“This is my husband, Juan,” Mom introduced my dad, proudly.

“My goodness, I apologize. It’s so nice to finally meet you,” the priest said embarrassed, clasping my dad’s hands. “I’ve heard so much about you from your wife. My brother suffered from alcoholism for years when I was younger, so you have my empathy. You are a brave man, Juan. It’s so nice to finally put a face to the name.”

“Thank you, Father,” my dad replied, eyes averted. Mom led us to the second pew from the front. We sat squished together: my mom at the end of the pew nearest the aisle, my dad next to her, me, and then Cris. My mom’s hand firmly grasped my dad’s. Even though I was sitting next to my own dad in a church pew, I felt like I was sitting next to a stranger at a bus stop. 

My dad graduated from rubbing to scratching at his neck once the altar boys passed our pew with the candles. My mom would swat at his hand every time, glaring at him but never speaking a word. I kept my eyes on the large stained glass behind the altar the entirety of mass. 

“Do not gloat over me, my enemy!” the priest exclaimed at the end of mass, his arms stretched as if welcoming the congregation for a hug. “Though I have fallen, I will rise. Though I sit in darkness, the Lord will be my light. The word of Micah, 7:8. Brothers and sisters, pertain and treasure this message in your hearts, as we welcome a new heart into the house of the lord, as well as back to his own family. Juan Andrade,” the priest said solemnly, indicating my family with one arm. Dad shrunk into himself. Cris slightly slumped his head into his chest. Mom was flustered, she kept her head down and her hand around her mouth. “Mr. Andrade has recently returned to his family from rehabilitation. A brave soul is he, to be able to face his addiction. So please, keep Mr. Andrade in your prayers so that the good Lord may welcome him back into his open arms. Amen.” The priest, with a wide smile, turned his entire body to the pew where my family and I sat. There were eyes all over us, craned necks peering over pews to look at us, hushed conversations from the back of the church. 

“Amen,” the congregation replied. My brother’s face was buried in one of his hands. My dad’s cheeks were red. He still couldn’t face the priest. Mom was no longer holding his hand. In a hushed tone, I whispered amen. 

#

The first week my dad was home, Mom tried to make things feel special. She would call us all down for family breakfast before we all left the house. She would make a stack of pancakes that reached the moon and serve everyone before she sat down and held Dad’s hand. He would try his hardest to keep still at the table, but something was always wrong with him. His itching only got worse. If Mom caught him and told him to stop, he would tap his fingers on the table instead. He began to twitch more and more; his face shifted wildly, and by the end of the week, he blinked a mile a minute.

“I just have a crick in my neck, hijo,” he told me when I asked him about it. I wanted to ask him if I could trust him or if he was full of shit, but instead I just said, “Okay.” 

“I’ll be fine,” he said kindly, rubbing my head. 

That Friday, Dad decided it would be fun to take me and Cris fishing. Dad had only ever brought Cris fishing when we were younger, because I always opted to stay home with Mom. This time I agreed to go, not because I wanted to, but because that sounded like something you might do when your dad comes home from rehab.

Friday, there was a downpour. Cris tried talking us into going out on the water anyway, but the dock manager wouldn’t let us on a boat. Disappointed, we went to have lunch at an old diner nearby. The windows were grimy and yellow, the asphalt of the parking lot was cracked with faded white lines. As we were walking in, I was attracted to the sound of flicking glass. I looked up to the lone yellow lamp that hung outside the entrance. A mob of moths violently bashed their heads into the light source repeatedly. Some of the moths stuffed themselves in the glass, pressed up against the yellow as dark brown spots. 

 The hostess seated us in what felt like the smallest booth, my brother sitting alone on one side, my dad and I squeezed together on the other. Dad kept picking at his neck, pulling at the skin as if there were scabs. The coat he wore did a horrible job hiding the inflamed skin and cuts along his neck. 

“You used to fish a lot when you lived in Llano Largo, right Dad?” Cris asked.

“Oh, yeah,” my dad replied, taking his hand away from his neck, “we used to fish the lakes clean when the crops didn’t grow.”

“Why wouldn’t the crops grow?” I asked, not knowing if that was a dumb question or not.

“The fuckers who bought up the land before us didn’t treat the soil right. They planted and planted, they didn’t take care of the dirt and the topsoil was just gone. Some summers, it wouldn’t even rain. We sometimes drove to my uncle’s house in Michoacán for food.” 

“That sucks,” my brother said, scouring the menu. 

“This one time though,” my dad said, leaning in close for us both to hear, “I will never forget, a storm passed through the village. It must have been a hurricane or something, because it picked up all the fish from the rivers nearby and it began to rain fish. And nobody knew back then that hurricanes can do that, so everyone ran into the churches and prayed until night came. We never went fishing again after that.” My brother didn’t say anything when he finished. I didn’t know how to respond. Cris’ head was still buried in the menu. My dad went back to pulling at the skin on his neck.

After the first week, those special family breakfast pancakes turned into me and Cris eating cereal in the morning. Everything went back to normal, except we hardly left our rooms.

“Do you think Dad is okay?” I asked Cris one morning. “Something seems wrong with him.”

“He just got out of rehab, dude,” he said, not taking his eyes off his cereal. “He’s just adjusting.” 

“Okay,” I said warily. An awkward silence fell. “He’s been acting weird though. Do you think anyone would know what’s wrong with him?”

“No,” he said, stirring his cereal with one hand, resting his head in the other. Another awkward silence passed until Cris looked up at me suddenly. “You didn’t...ask anybody, did you?”

“About what?” I asked.

“About Dad, you didn’t mention anything about Dad to anyone, did you?” he asked gravely. 

“No, not really?” I said puzzled. 

“What do you mean not really?”

“I didn’t bring it up with anyone. No one knows, okay?”

“Good,” he said, resuming his stirring motion in the milk. “Don’t actually tell anyone, ok?” 

“Not even my friends?” I asked.

“Don’t tell anyone about dad,” he said. I wanted to ask why not, but I also didn’t feel like talking in circles with my brother. The car ride to school and the car ride home, we said nothing to each other.

Later that night, I woke to the sound of dry heaving coming from the bathroom down the hall. The sounds were guttural, like someone choking on their own tongue. I went to check, and found my dad hunched over the toilet. The left half of his face looked like a layer of skin was peeling off. My mom rubbed his back gently as he violently gagged and heaved into the toilet. My mom’s cheeks were red and puffy, bags under her eyes, she looked defeated.

“What's wrong with dad?” I was scared. The fingers on his hands clutching the rim of the toilet looked like they were melding together. 

“Your father is fine,” Mom said sternly. “Go get him some water.” 

Her words phased through me. I couldn’t stop looking at my dad, his head buried in the toilet bowl. My mom dragged me back to the moment, ordering, “Alfonso! Go get him water! Now!” 

After I brought a cup of water, my mom told me everything was fine, and that I should go back to bed. 

“Is Dad going to be okay?” I asked.

My dad spit out the water she fed him. 

“You father’ll be fine. He’s just sick is all. Go to bed, Alfonso.”

 That night, I dreamed I was being choked to death with a tie.

#

The next morning, Mom left the house early with dad and said she was going to take him to a hospital. I couldn’t focus in school that day. My dad hunched over the toilet played over and over in my head. I had seen him like that before. When I was eight years old, I was walking back home from a friend’s house and I found him face down in a puddle in the flower beds in the front lawn, a beer bottle in one hand, the running hose in the other. I ran over to him and pushed as hard as I could to turn him over until he was on his back. He wasn’t moving. I shook him as hard as I could. 

“Dad!” I cried, “Dad, you gotta wake up!” He wouldn’t move, he wouldn’t breathe. I kept shaking him, I pounded my fists against his chest as hard as I could, over and over and over and over. 

“Andrade!” My Spanish teacher brought me back to reality. I hadn’t even noticed he was calling on me. “¿Cuántas personas comieron pescado el semana pasada?” he said slowly, walking me through every two words. 

“I’m sorry, what?” I said, rubbing my eyes. The class laughed. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention, Señor.” 

At the end of class, my teacher asked me to stay behind to talk to me.

I sighed and threw my backpack back under my desk. I really didn’t feel like getting chewed out today. 

“Are you alright, son?” he asked me, taking a sip of coffee… 

I hesitated. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You seemed to have really spaced out in class today,” he said, getting up from the front desk and moving closer to mine. “Not to mention your grades as of recent have been falling quite a bit. Are you sure you don’t have anything on your mind?” There were so many things on my mind. I wanted to tell him my dad just got back from rehab. I wanted to tell him that something was wrong with my once-alcoholic father. I wanted to tell him that no matter how many fishing trips my dad took me on, how many diners we went to, how many times we had to sit next to each other, all I ever wanted to do was yell at my father. I wanted to tell him that I didn’t believe in God, or at least the one my mom believed in. No God magically cured people and brought them back the same. No God could bring back the Dad I knew before a judge sent him away. 

But instead, I said, “No, I’m sure. Thank you, Señor.” 

Cris and I came home before Mom and Dad came back from the hospital. Cris went straight to his room, but I felt too anxious to leave the living room, waiting for my parents to come back. They came home two hours later, my mom’s arm around my dad, the one side of his face wrapped in gauze. She looked tired. Her hair was frayed and unkempt, her skin was pale, she looked like she hadn’t slept in days. My dad’s skin was grey, and he walked in with a limp, half-asleep. 

“Help me get him upstairs in bed, Alfonso. I could use some help,” Mom said. She sounded exhausted. I threw Dad’s other arm around me and helped him up the stairs. 

“Mom, what's wrong with him?” I asked, laying my dad on his side so he faced the open window. My mom wouldn’t answer, her attention fixed on my dad.

“Mom!”

“Nothing, niño,” she replied, throwing the covers over my dad. “Your dad is just...not doing too well. But he should be alright.”

“Mom, what the hell? Look at him!” 

She wouldn’t look at me, she kept staring at my dad. 

“Mom!”

“He’s just sick, niño!” She exploded. My mom was shaking. She walked past me to leave the room. “Stay here with your dad, I’m going to get him some water.”

I didn’t know how to feel or what to do. I sat at the foot of the bed. When I looked over to my dad, the light coming through the window hit his face. Next to the bed, on the nightstand, sat a prayer in a frame: God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference. I tried rubbing my dad’s back, but that didn’t stop him from shaking. He kept staring out the window, his eyes directly into the sun. I sat up to close the curtains, but when I shut them, my dad shook even more violently. He groaned and wailed; he threw his head into the pillow repeatedly. I had never been frightened by my dad before. When I opened the blinds, he calmed down.

“What happened?” My mom ran in.

“I just closed the blinds, and he started shaking.”

 My mom stood in the doorway, holding on to the frame, trying to catch her breath.

“I don’t know what to do.”

“It’s okay niño,” she said, walking over to me. “Go to your room and relax. I’ll take care of this.” 

“Are you sure? He looks like he needs help,” I argued. 

“He’ll be fine!” she snapped at me. “Believe in your father. Pray for him. He got better and he needs us now more than ever. Just let me handle this.” Hoping my mom knew what she was doing, I went into the bathroom, hoping to throw some water on my face. When I turned the light on, I was face to face with a large moth hanging from the mirror. Its body was broader than any I'd seen before, its wings stretched out, wide enough for me to make out the pattern. I watched it take flight and bash its head repeatedly against the light. I washed my face and left the window open as I left the bathroom.

#

Over the next week, my dad only got worse. Every day after school, I would go to my parents’ room and check on him. His skin was peeling off at a faster rate than before. He was practically rolling around in a bed of dry, dead skin. His hair seemed to grow at a rapid rate. His eyes began to bulge and turn black. My dad no longer shook, but he would wander around the house and stand in the light of the windows. My mom always gently led him back to their room. 

When night came, my dad would wander around the house and turn the lights on, standing in the glow. One night, I woke up to the sound of my dad shambling through the hallways, throwing himself against the walls. I followed him as he went downstairs, watching him flick on every light switch he passed until he arrived at the kitchen and turned on every light on the chandelier. He stood there under the chandelier, mesmerized by the light, his arms hugging his body tightly. I stood with him for a while that night. I tried holding his hand, but he swatted me away, holding himself instead. I tried to give him water, but he wouldn’t stop staring at the chandelier. 

“Dad?” I lightly shook my dad, trying to gain his attention. “Dad, you gotta wake up.” But he wouldn’t budge. Under the chandelier’s light, I could make out the shadow of something growing from my dad’s head.

He just swayed. Nothing I said reached him. I sat with him for another hour or so. I was so exhausted.

#

“Alfonso!” my mom shook me awake. I had fallen asleep on the kitchen table. My brother Cris was trying to tear Dad away from the chandelier. He wouldn’t budge. Mom leaned closer to me, and in a calming voice, asked, “What were you doing down here?”

I rubbed my eyes with the palms of my hands. The light was so blinding, I couldn’t keep my eyelids open. “I followed Dad,” I said sheepishly. Mom and Cris exchanged a look of concern. 

“Come on, Pa.” My brother tried pulling my dad, “we gotta get you upstairs.” 

But Dad still wouldn’t move. He kept smacking Cris’ hand off. 

“Come on, sweetheart,” Mom said, trying to move me from the seat, “ You don’t need to see this.”

“Come on, Dad!” my brother demanded, frustrated.  Dad pushed him away.  “That's it!” 

My brother let go of my dad and proceeded to turn off the chandelier. When dad ran over to try and stop him, Cris pushed him away. 

“Alfonso, get up,” Mom commanded. Dad tried moving past my brother, but he was too weak. After all the lights went out, Dad ran into the living room and stood under the light there, moaning and wailing, hugging himself. 

“Mom, what’s wrong with him?” I asked.

Mom sucked her teeth. “Shut up. Come upstairs, your dad’s just a little sick.” 

Cris walked into the living room and turned the lights off. . Dad ran into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. He was fiddling with the doorknob, but Cris threw the door open before my dad could lock it, and flicked the lights off. 

The wrinkles around my mom's bloodshot eyes said it all. 

“Get upstairs, Pa,” Cris roared. My dad writhed in the darkness, finally escaping to the sanctity of the upstairs lights. My brother chased him.

“He’s not sick!” I yelled. “Something is really wrong and you’re not telling me!” 

I heard the door slam upstairs. My mom looked dejected.

“I’m tired of neither of you telling me anything! I’m old enough for you to tell me!” I cried.

“We don’t know, Alfonso!” she hissed at me. “But what does it matter that you know? That any of us know? What your father needs is his family, more than ever. All we can do now is be there for him and pray God will give us the answers.”

“That’s bullshit,” I lashed out. She was taken aback, but I cut her off before she could speak, “If we don’t know, then we should take him to a hospital. God won’t do anything for us! Just like he hasn’t for three years! For my entire life!” 

My mom fell silent, her arms crossed and chin to her chest. 

“Why are you so against taking him to a doctor? What’s one more person who knows he’s an alcoholic? Why should we be ashamed?”

Mom said nothing, then finally smoothed my hair. “Just go back to sleep, niño,” she said, walking away. Her voice was sluggish. “You have school tomorrow.” I stayed seated in the dark kitchen for some time, drinking water and staring at the clock. There was a pit in my stomach. After an hour, I navigated my way through the dark house back to my room. I heard a vigorous scratching from behind the door that was my parents' room at the end of the hall. I wanted to open it, but I knew there was no point. 

#

My dad’s condition only worsened: large antennas grew from the top of his head, his skin became rigid and skinny, and his eyes were large and totally black. I didn’t see my dad as often anymore. Cris and Mom kept him locked away in a dark room for a while before moving him into the attic. They rarely let me see him. They said that the attic was the best place to treat him. Just until he got better. 

One night, my mom, Cris, and I were eating fish and rice at the dinner table. Cris was hunched over his food, shoveling it into his mouth like he was being timed. Mom hardly touched anything on her plate, resting her head into her palm. She looked skinnier. Her hair was thinning out too. I ate slowly. Muffled wails of pain came from the attic. It broke my heart to hear my dad. I looked up at both Mom and Cris, but they didn’t even look up from their plates. 

“Can I bring him something to eat?” I asked, breaking the silence. Mom looked at me with concern. Cris glared at me. They both shared a look before the silence was broken with another wail from Dad. 

“Sure,” she capitulated, sighing. “I’ll make him something” She got up and scooped some of the rice onto a plate. Cris still glared at me, his hands frozen while holding his utensils. 

“Leave it for him at the latch and come right back down, okay?” Mom instructed.

“Okay,” I said. I carried the warm plate up the stairs with one palm, like a waiter. I pulled down the latch to lower the stairs, and climbed up. The attic was dark and damp. Its wooden beams were cold to the touch. The attic had only one window that was boarded up so that my dad wouldn’t absorb any light. I heard a crunching sound at the other end of the attic. I slowly moved boxes out of my way to get closer.

“Dad?” I exclaimed. In the furthest end of the attic I found him huddled into a corner, chewing on something. I could make out the shadow of antennae, hair covering his face, another set of arms growing out of his torso. He shook violently, whimpering when I pulled the box out of the way to see him. I had so much I wanted to say to him, but I didn’t know how to say it. I slid the plate of food closer. He didn’t move, didn’t even look over.

“It’ll be okay, Dad.” I couldn’t bear to see him like this anymore. I pulled out the lighter I stole from Cris and tried to flick it on. In three flicks, a small flame illuminated the dark attic. My dad reacted quickly to the light and sat in front of it. His face didn’t scare me. His facial hair was long and stood on end, his eyes were enormous and black as coal, and I could see the flicker of the lighter’s flame reflected in his eyes. It looked like his neck had disappeared, his head fixed firmly to the top of his lanky grey-yellow body. His skin was so pulled back that under his jacket, I could make out the outline of his ribs. The only thing human left about him was his mouth, though his jaw hung open as he stared into the light. His mouth was full of cardboard. His second arms were cradling a half-eaten box. 

I took a deep breath. “Do you remember when you almost died, Dad?” I rubbed his back gently. My words didn’t faze him. His eyes focused on the light. “You were facedown in the front lawn. You were facedown in a puddle. Do you remember that? Sometimes I think about what would’ve happened if you died. I know it’s scary, but I think about it a lot. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I didn’t leave my friend’s house early that day. You would have died and I wouldn’t have to worry about Cris or Mom being angry with me talking to other people about you. At least then, people wouldn’t have to know you were an alcoholic.” With those last words, the lighter went out. I tried lighting it again, but before I could, my dad let out a huge wail. I dropped the lighter. My dad picked it up with his second set of skinny arms and tried lighting it, but he had no more fingers. He kept trying and trying before throwing the lighter aside and crawling back into the corner, weeping soundlessly.

“Alfonso!” I heard Mom call for me. “Come back down!” 

I turned back to my father, weeping in the corner. How long does it take for an alcoholic dad to get better? How do they get better? Will he ever get better?

I shoved the largest, heaviest box I could over the latch. I went for the boarded-up window. 

“Alfonso!” I heard Mom banging at the latch. I grabbed a crow bar from one of the boxes and put it between one of the boards and the window and began prying. Dad crawled over the window as more and more light shone through. The screaming and the banging on the latched door grew louder and louder. The first board was the hardest. The rest came off quick. More and more moonlight spilled into the dark attic. My dad basked in its glow. The banging and the screaming increased when Cris joined Mom in trying to move the latch. But it was too late. I closed my eyes and felt the last board peel off the window. I turned to my dad with a smile on my face.

He stood there in the light of the moon. Slowly he started bending forward until both sets of arms were on the floor. His back made a crunching sound, like someone stomping on bones. Two large humps appeared under the jacket along his back. I stepped away from the window. When all the light hit him, two large moth wings broke through his back, tearing away the jacket. With one leap, he jumped through the glass window and took flight. He flew around aimlessly in the night. I stared at my dad out the window, edges lined with shattered glass. As he fluttered about, there was a part of me that hoped he would fly back inside, or land on the front lawn. Instead, he flew off into the direction of the moon and disappeared into the night.