Chapter 5
When I finally make it downstairs, I find my father sitting at the kitchen table, newspaper open like a shield between us. He doesn’t say anything so I don’t bother, either. Instead, I start to rummage through the cabinets in search of something to eat. I find half a loaf of wheat bread and settle for making toast, because my stomach is still queasy from the hangover and I think I read somewhere toast was good for that. Grabbing a glass off the dish drainer, I fill it with cold water from the tap.
The water stabs into my brain like an ice pick and I dump the rest of it down the drain, then refill the glass with warmer water. It’s tepid and a little nauseating, like swallowing spit, but at least it doesn’t hurt. I hunt through the drawers for the aspirin I know my mom keeps in t
