Painted Memories by Loni Flowers

my wardrobe for Saturday night with Tyler. All in all, I was having a pretty productive day.
    Checking my watch, I was surprised to see it was nearly seven-thirty already. I put my papers back in my bag and folded up the blanket when my cell phone rang. Dropping everything back on the ground, I dug through my purse. Once I found the green glow of the LCD screen, I quickly pulled it out and read the caller's name. I rolled my eyes and took a deep breath when I saw “Dad” displayed across the screen. What does he want? Since I moved out of the house a couple years ago, he only called me when Mom put him up to it, or when he was drunk, and it never lasted more than five or ten minutes. Even before I moved out, he was never home long enough to have any lengthy conversations. Sometimes, Mom and I would corner him, and make him have a normal conversation, but more often than not, it ended in harsh words and Mom crying in her bedroom. He was never the same after the accident.
    Even though I hated talking to him, I put the phone to my ear, thinking the worst. “Dad? What's wrong? Is Mom okay?”
    “H-o-n-e-y?” he said, drawing the word out with a cheerful tone. “How's my baby girl doing?”
    What? Baby girl? What was up with him? “We both know you don't call me that anymore, so you don't have to put on a cheerful charade. I know you don't care what I'm doing; you haven't for a long time now, or do you suddenly have a change of heart?” I had no sense of sympathy when speaking to my father anymore.
    He laughed as if he heard something ridiculous. “I've had no change of heart,” he slurred. “I wanted to see how you could stand living with yourself everyday for the past five years. After all this time, I still don't see any remorse about what you did to him.”
    Oh, I got it now. “Drinking again, Dad?” I asked. He started early this year, but then again, he probably never stopped. He drank quite a bit when I was still living at home, but it seemed to get worse every week. Finally, I couldn't take him or his words anymore and moved out. Usually, however, he didn't “drunk-call” me this soon. The anniversary of Jesse's death wasn't until next week, which was when he normally called me. He’d go on and on about what I didn't do or should have done.  “Shouldn't you be calling me next week?” I didn't hear anything for a moment, so I said, “Let me speak to Mom.”
    “No!' he yelled back. “She's not here to take your side this time! She always does and I'm sick of it.”
    “Look, Dad, I don't have time for this. Why don't you call me back when you're not draining your sorrows in expensive scotch?”
    “Don't you patronize me, young lady. You have no idea what I go through every day.”
    “You're right, I don't!” I yelled. “You never talk to me about any of it. The only thing you do is place blame. How much longer are you going to blame me for the accident?”
    “I'll assign blame where blame is due. Blame's not forgotten just because you happen to be my daughter. Plus, not talking to you has worked for the past few years; I don't see any reason to change.”
    I stood up and paced back and forth. My eyes burned with tears, which I refused to let fall, and I knew it was pointless to argue with a drunk. He would not remember anything he said to me in the morning. But I couldn't help myself. I couldn't take it anymore. “Why are you talking to me now? You made it pretty clear when I left that you never wanted to speak to me again. What's changed? Why do you keep calling me here and there if you're not interested in my life?”
    “Not a damned thing has changed. But tell me... how do you live with yourself every day?”
    How dare he ask me that! He had no right to assume I could live my life like it never happened. “Just like you, Dad, one freaking day at a time. Unlike you, I can do it without the alcohol. I don't need it to numb my senses. I've tried extremely hard to accept what I did. I've tried to