ADDISON AMADECK

Kirkland, Wash.

It’s 6:52 a.m. on a frosted-over Friday in

September, and my dad and I are running late as
we wind down our steep hill to school. My dad
ducks down and peeks out the sliver of visibility
at the bottom of the windshield. I sit on my hands
to keep them warm as sherbet skies rise behind
the Cascades. We are harmonizing to The Wood
Brothers’ “Keep Me Around.” He sings the
melody; I try to find the major third. We click
into tune on a word, then I wince as my pitch
slips to dissonance until I slide back in. We belt
out the lyrics: “Hello, I’m Faith, and I might be
blind,” I hit the minor fifth. “But I’m the one
who’s gonna keep towin’ the line,” I climb to the
octave. “And you land on your feet almost every
time,” I drop down to the one, exploring different
tones within the key.
At some point in everyone’s life, a promise stops
being forever. Marriages end in divorce, BFFs
drift apart. But no matter how many times a
promise is broken, I’ve always wanted to believe
that someone will keep one to me.

Back in early
May, I was in AP Biology when I got a text from
my stepmom. My dad was in New York City on
business and she hadn’t heard from him. He was
missing. I felt a pang in my chest. I called him.
No answer. I called again. Still no answer. I
called again and again and again. I heard the
same voicemail. I could no longer contain my
tears. My friend noticed. “Are you okay?” I
broke. My phone fell onto my desk. My friend
held me as I cried. “It’s going to be alright.”
Every breath I drew held half the air I needed. I
pictured graduating without my dad there. I saw
someone else walking me down the aisle. I saw
my kids with no grandpa. A dark, enveloping
fear overtook me. I shook.
That night, my dad was due to fly home. And he
did: most of him anyway. I noticed that no matter
how much I stared at him, he wouldn’t make eye
contact. He eventually sat down and looked at
me. In that moment, I didn’t know if I wanted to
hear the truth or anything but. Anything other
than: “I’ve been drinking.”
My ears rang. My mind went blank. All I could
hear was the same toxic phrase in my head, over
and over, as I stared at a freckle on the wall. I
started to worry that if my dad couldn’t keep this
promise, no one would ever be able to keep one
to me. I couldn’t understand how after all the
years of work he’d done, after how much he’d
grown, after missing my 7th birthday while in
rehab, he could just throw it all away. I had
always assumed that this promise would be kept,
especially from my dad, and I couldn’t help but
feel disappointed and betrayed.
After that night, dad immediately resumed
working his AA program, but I found myself
stuck to work out my emotions alone. After
weeks of songwriting and immersing myself in
music, I determined that trust, vulnerability, and
acceptance are love’s inherent ingredients. The
behavior of others is unpredictable. I found I
could apply my acceptance of his relapse to
different experiences in my life, whether teenage
gossip or catastrophe. I can’t control the actions
of others; I can only alter my perspective.
I look over at the driver’s seat on that September
morning. My dad plucks the strings of the stand-
up bass as I beat the drums on the dashboard. We
sing at the top of our lungs, “Try askin’ the dark
where the light comes from.” No matter the
pitch, every note can be harmonized. I need only
transcribe the key.