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Plain and simple, I loved her.

“What do you think, honey?” Dave asked me, as uncertain as I'd ever seen him.

I poured milk and Stevia sweetener into my decaf coffee and stirred, watching black turn creamy brown and
thinking on his suggestion. “Buying Faith a car
will
get her out of the house and into civilization again. It will also solve another problem. I won't have to chauffer her all over creation. I'll get more work done.”

Last night, I'd shared with Dan about Faith's suicidal thoughts. He, too, was apprehensive about her mental stability.

“But do you think she'll be responsible?” he asked. “She hasn't done too well in the past. We've already had to junk three cars after she drove them. And how will we know she won't go straight to druggies … I don't know.”

He drained his cup of black coffee and then looked across the kitchen table at me, his generous green eyes appealing. “Help me out here.”

I sighed deeply, feeling the weight of stress. “She's going to have to start making her own decisions some time.” I sipped my coffee, letting its warmth soothe me. “I think Faith will appreciate wheels because she's been without for quite a spell. As for taking care of it — there's only one way to find out, don't you think?”

I shrugged. Beyond that, no solution presented itself.

“Well, my insurance settlement from my collision a while back will enable me to find her a fairly nice car. I could certainly use this money for us, but I won't have another opportunity to do this for Faith. As you know, our reservoir of free cash is empty.”

“I know.” I smiled at him and his generosity. Just when I thought it had run out, here he upped and surprised me. He certainly had a right to his misgivings about this pursuit.

Both of us kept hoping that each of these hand-out episodes would be the magic bullet to get Faith on her feet and sailing in the right direction.

“She needs a life,” I said. “Something to keep her occupied. And being stranded won't cut it. She can't even get a job without transportation.”

“Yeh,” Dan agreed, rising to depart for work. I envied him because he was usually out of the war zone Faith and I shared. At the same time, I was glad he was spared because of the complexities of his and Faith's relationship.

He leaned to kiss me soundly. “See you later. Love you, darlin'.”

“Love you, too.”

His gaze slid slowly over my face, his big hand cupping the back of my head.

“Love you more.” Another kiss and he was quickly out the door, having had the last word.

I grinned, warmed, feeling extremely lucky.

Blessed.

Then I heard the upstairs door open and close and Faith's footsteps descending the stairs. Instinctively, I braced myself. I never knew which Faith I would get on any given day.

Actually, this was early for her.

Faith was rarely out of her bed in recent days and neither Dan nor I dared to wake the sleeping dragon. When she did finally roll herself out, headaches or equally debilitating ailments assailed her and had her grunting monosyllabic replies to my attempts at conversation.

Most of the time I left her alone. Like now.

I needn't have worried. Faith sailed past me without a word, dumped dirty dishes she'd carried upstairs in the sink of hot soapy water I'd prepared. Without pausing, she snatched her cigarettes and lighter from the counter where she kept her stash and headed for the front porch, her preferred roost.

I sucked in a deep breath and blew it out, looking at the sink full of dishes crusted with dried food. I walked over, counting to ten, scraped them and ran a little more hot water to cover and soak them. It always made me angry.

The entitlement issue.

Before I knew what was happening, I found myself headed for the porch to confront her. But — on the way — reason took over. I could attack her and guarantee an explosion. Or I could wisely strike up a neutral conversation to prelude the duties discussion.

Maybe I would tell her the good news about the car.

I took the white rocker near Faith. “Daddy and I were talking this morning — ” I began and Faith interrupted.

“Talking about what a mess I am, I imagine,” she snapped, then took a long drag on her cigarette. “I know how you feel about me.”

The words whiplashed me. For long seconds, every nerve and sense in my body burned and spun. I squeezed my eyes shut and gulped deeply of fresh air. How could she jump to such rash conclusions? Then, I swallowed back an angry diatribe.

“Faith, your father is one of the most generous men I know. He's constantly doing for you.”

“Huh.” She snorted. “And he never lets me forget it. Tells me almost daily what a waste I am. So don't bother to defend him.”

I felt sick over the love/hate thing with them. The antagonism.

Then the ashes mess caught my eye. Something about the litter and stain, heaped atop my pulsing edginess, stung me more than usual.

“You need to sweep the cigarette ashes off the porch,” I said, trying to sound civil. “And pick up the butts that have fallen on the floor.”

“I know, I know,” as in
nag, nag, nag.
“All you ever do is tell me what I'm
not
doing.” Another flippant pull on the cigarette. “I'll sweep them off in a minute. Don't know why we can't just have a normal conversation without lectures.” Her flat reply, as always, left me feeling even more desiccated.

I marveled again that she was such a master at playing with one's mind. Her ability to skirt the actual subject was legendary. Faith knew her father and I both hated that the entrance to our home resembled a ghetto movie set. Neither did I like seeing her dirty dishes dumped in the sink, forgotten, for hours at a time.

“When are you going to wash up your dishes?” I then asked. “I leave the kitchen clean each night.”

“In a minute.”

Irritation sizzled. “You never wash them quickly — ”

“There you go again.” This, trailed by expletives. “I'll wash them in a minute. After I smoke.”

Smoking preceded everything. Always. And I knew she would not wash the dishes right away. They would sit for hours.

That was invariably the direction of our “duties” exchanges. I don't think Faith planned it that way, but somewhere along life's way, she developed this extraordinary sense of control.

“Faith missed her calling by not becoming a prosecuting attorney,” I told Dan repeatedly. He agreed. “She's a genius at turning words to her advantage.”

Even worse, somewhere along the way, she decided she didn't care what others think of her. She didn't give
a hot dang about orderliness. Trying to teach her to have a place for everything and to put everything in its place was like daily banging my head against a chipped, bloodied cement wall.

Intermittent bouts of neatness did seize her following the drug-riddled years. But they soon stifled and fizzled beneath an impatiently discarded outfit followed by a ton of others.

There is, to Faith, a flame-like aura, one fired by an eagerness that, when prodded, instantly evolves into snapping impatience. Her rash disregard of decorum, I think, comes from gestational hard-wiring.

I do not excuse it. I simply observe her struggle to conform, when over and over, the impetuosity wins out.

Dan and I
do
care what others think of us, but in a wholesome way. A messy, cluttered house is
not us
. Cleanliness. Little things like self-respect and character and ethics of behavior remain important to us.

We're into relationships.

Faith is a near-recluse. She avoids extended family get-togethers except on rare occasions. And she hasn't been interested in the opposite sex for a long, long time.

Today, I pushed these thoughts aside. Weary beyond words. Thought about how unnatural this was, to have an adult child under my roof.

Needy. Demanding. Controlling.

I stood and started into the house.

Then stopped.

I turned. “By the way, Faith. Your inconsiderate, stingy, unloving dad is planning on buying you a car.”

Her mouth dropped open on that one. She looked at me, truly looked at me.

“You serious?”

“Has a cat got a tail?”

I slammed the door behind me.

“Thanks, Dad!” Faith gushed and threw her arms around Dan. He patted her back as she squeezed exuberantly, allowing the luminous warm side of her to emerge. Nobody does affection quite like an overjoyed, abandoned Faith. He handed her keys to the mint-condition, white Mercedes Benz he'd found.

One owner. For whatever reason, the owner was letting it go at a price Dan could afford.

Parked in our driveway, it glistened beneath the afternoon sun.

Moments earlier, Dan had sat Faith down and laid out the rules.

“Faith, nobody, but
nobody
else is to drive this car. The insurance will not cover anyone else should an accident happen, in which case, your mother and I could be sued for everything we own.”

“I promise, Dad.” Faith rushed to reassure. “I understand perfectly. Believe me, I'll take care of this car — protect it with my life.”

Oh, how I hope this will happen.
Hope floundered up in me like an injured butterfly.

Her past track record was not encouraging. She'd trashed the last three vehicles we'd helped her acquire. They'd not even limped home. They'd died and been towed to the car graveyard.

Now, with wheels, Faith's demeanor did an abrupt turnaround. Her voice even changed. Gone were the snippiness and the biting retorts. Her social life cranked up. At first, Dan and I were pleased to see her engaging
with other peers. Though we collectively held our breath, praying the peers would not be of the drug culture.

The day she first sat behind the Mercedes wheel, she said, “I'm going to visit a friend. I'll be back in a couple of hours.”

Dan didn't let her off that easy.

Thereafter, he would push for accountability. “Give me a time”

“By nine.” She would mean it. I knew she did.

And for several weeks, she kept her word. Then, she began slowly to take liberties, adjusting rules to her own time clock and agenda. Pushing closer and closer to the edge she lived on.

I worried. Dan obsessed.

“She's getting into something she's not supposed to,” he insisted, frantic with misgiving.

Faith's explanations were given so convincingly that we had to give her the benefit of the doubt. Her weight loss was the most profound change. Seemed overnight, she ceased to care about food.

Eventually, Faith moved closer and closer to the dark precipice, driving Dan crazy.

More and more, she would leave “for a few hours” and not be back for two or three days, calling regularly, however, to check in.

“I'm over at Betsy's. She's sick and needs me to help her out. I didn't want you to worry about me.”

The reasons were sound. Still —

Our calls to Faith's cell phone would go unanswered. Suddenly, she was completely inaccessible.

That really unglued us. Especially Dan, whose vigilance increased in those coming weeks.

Her explanations were simple. I couldn't get a phone signal there or I dropped my cell in a puddle of water and it wouldn't work for a while or I forgot and left my phone in Betsy's car overnight.”

Faith's excuses were instant and conceivable.

“I hope she's wise enough to not screw up this chance,” Dan said repeatedly, looking as though an elephant sat upon his weary shoulders.

“The pull of drugs is powerful,” he added, almost to himself.