The Best Friend's Guide to Surviving Matrimony (and All That Other Happy Shit)

Even after how many years it'd been, pressing the doorbell and hearing the little jingle play over the intercom, that same little jingle that Dad and I had spent hours picking out that one day in the Home Depot when I was just a teenager, still baffled me. It caught me off guard every time. While I knew it'd been the same for years and would probably remain that way until it came time to say farewell, part of me was just surprised that it hadn't changed after all this time.

The light on the intercom beside the door lit up red. "Hello?" came a soft, feminine voice.

"It's Carrie," I said.

"Oh, Carrie! Hi!" There was a bit of shuffling and a click, the door unlocking. "Sorry, we're in the den. I'll meet you in the foyer in just a sec. Door's open!"

I chuckled. "Thanks."

It still felt goofy having to ask permission for entry for my own home, but then again, it hadn't really been my "home" for nearly twelve years now.

I pried back the massive crystal storm door and stepped inside. It was cooler in the foyer, almost too cool, the way Dad had always liked it. The house was quiet, almost estranging. Looking around and seeing all the same stuff the same furniture, the same wallpaper, the same decor - was estranging, too. It'd all been there for years, just like the doorbell, but it still seemed unreal to me. I felt as if all this stuff, like the rest of my chaotic life, should have changed at some point between here and there. After so many visits, I should've adapted to the sensation by now; I should have even been thankful for the single ounce of constancy in such a hectic existence. Really, though, it just made these stops all the more difficult.

"Hey!"

I looked up to see a buxom little blond thing bouncing down the hall, heels clicking against the Sicilian tile and echoing off into the empty caverns of the house. She smiled at me as she approached, white teeth glowing in the darkness.

"Hey, Tiff," I said, a genuine smile coming to my face despite the fact that ninety pounds of stereotypical Santa Monica female was hurling straight toward me.

She came to a prompt halt just as she was about to plow me over. Flipping her bleached mane out of her eyes and straightening her too-tight scrub top, she let out a huff of exertion - no doubt exhausted from running in those heels - and then smiled incredibly bright, saying, "It's so good to see you!"

"Thanks." I chuckled again, feeling a little bashful. This was the only place on earth that could humble me. "It feels really good to be back here."

"He's in the den," she said, pointing over her shoulder animatedly. "Wanna see him?"

Why else would I come back here, my own childhood home, into which I had been unwelcome for nearly half my life? "Yeah," I replied.

"Cool, I'll bet he'll be so pumped. Let's go!"

I didn't need to follow her to the den; I knew the place better than anyone. But walking beside her was too tense. Tiffany was a nice girl and I liked her a lot, don't get me wrong, but the whole situation was weird - this place was more her home than it ever was my own. So I let her lead and trailed along behind, keeping my eyes trained to the floor.

After a moment of silence, Tiffany looked back at me over her shoulder with her too-big baby blues. "He's missed you a lot," she said, her voice much too nonchalant for how awful the statement made me feel.

"Yeah? How's he been?"

"Good, real good." She turned back around, waiting a beat before adding, "As good as he can, anyway."

"Yeah." I forced myself not to process the thought, knowing it'd make me feel even more awful. "Yeah, that's good."

Eventually - finally - we reached the den. The faint rumbling of the television could be heard as we approached, and I was more than 90% certain I knew what he was watching. When we rounded the corner and the screen's electric glow caught my eyes, I had to smile: he was watching infomercials.

Ever since I was little, I could remember him being absolutely absorbed in infomercials. While I found the screaming orators, cheap sound effects and ongoing, repetitive narratives to be unbelievably dull, Dad could sit there for hours and love every minute. He soaked in sales techniques and catchy slogans like they were bible hymns. "I owe half of my success to these damn commercials," he'd say.

Now, seeing him sitting in his favorite chair, one hand clutching a glass of vodka and cranberry and his eyes plastered to the screen as a pretty redhead whored a two-pack of organic facial cream, I felt so much glee that I could almost ignore the beep of the heart monitor in the corner, the shake of his fingers around the glass, the murky gray pallor of his skin.

Almost.

"Otie?" Tiffany said softly, tiptoeing across to his throne. "Guess who's here, Mr. Hough? You won't believe it!"

"The UPS man?"

"No." She laughed. "It's Carrie, your daughter."

There was a pause. "Really?"

And as I stood there, the shock in my father's voice striking my conscience again and again like the bell in a clock tower, I suddenly felt extremely sad.

It was sad that I needed permission to enter my own father's home.

It was sad that I couldn't say hello to my father without introduction.

It was sad that he took the strength and effort to turn around in his seat, to check if I was really there.

It was sad that all of a sudden, his heart monitor was going crazy, spiking and diving and beeping uncontrollably at the sight of me.

It was sad that the first time I saw my father in three whole months, I wasn't sure if it was okay or not to hug him.

"Carrie?"

I cracked a sullen smile. "Hi, Daddy."

He blinked. "Nice of you to finally come by. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten the way."

That was Dad for ya: always blunt, to the point, below the belt; hitting you where he knew it hurt most.

I tried to force a laugh, but no sound came out. I cleared my throat. "So...how are you?"

"That's a stupid question, Carrie. I know you have more brains than that."

He was right, the quest was a little dumb - after all, even though he hadn't given a straight answer, the uneven rate of his EKG spoke volumes. But that didn't make his reply any less brusque. It didn't make it any easier to come up with a response.

"Come over here, will ya? My back isn't the best these days and I haven't had enough glasses of vodka to numb me up yet."

I obeyed his wishes and circled around to take a seat in the chair opposite him. He took a sip from his glass, eyes closed, and my own eyes trained to his hand, grayed and blotted with liver spots. He was nearly down to nothing, just a delicate layer of pale skin stretched over brittle bones, shaking the ice cubes against the side of the glass ever so slightly as he placed it back on the table.

"So, what're ya here for?"

My eyes finally snapped to his face, and I gazed at him, confused. "Huh?"

"Need help with the company? Need to borrow some money? What?"

"Wh - what do you mean?"

"Don't play dumb, Carrie. You haven't stopped by since January. You've gotta have some sort of motivation for coming here."

Faltering, my mouth gaped in disbelief. I got it now - he thought I was coming to mooch.

"What? Dad, I'd never..." I shook my head, simply abashed he thought I was that weak, that he had such little faith in me. "You're kidding, right?"

He held my gaze, disturbingly stoic as he took another sip.

My jaw dropped. "You son of a - "

"Would you like a drink, Miss Hough?"

Tiffany was hovering overhead, smiling nervously as she held out a glass in my direction, a faint attempt at diffusing the situation. I smiled back just as gawkily, thanking her and taking the brandy. She replaced my father's now empty glass with a fresh round, then quickly scampered out of the room.

My father gazed at me expectantly. "As you were saying?"

I stared into his eyes for a moment, then diverted them to my glass and bit my cheek. What was name calling going to fix? It was my fault. Of course he'd expect me to want something. It'd been three fucking months. I was the ass in this situation.

"I'm sorry," I sighed, closing my eyes. "I know it's been a long time. I just...things have been a little fucked up lately."

He proceeded to look at me, waiting for me to continue.

"I...I suck at this, Dad. You know I care about you. I just don't know how to juggle everything. There's just so fucking much on my plate right now."

I could already see the responses brewing in his eyes: "I used to be on that plate. Don't have time to deal with me anymore? You can't even make your own father a priority? After all I've sacrificed for you?"

But he didn't say that, any of it. Instead, very calmly, he asked, "Like what?"

"Huh?"

"What's on your plate right now?"

I was slightly bewildered. "Uh...well, the merge with Penthouse got flushed a couple weeks ago, so I've been scrambling to fix that major fuck up, and we've got a shoot next month that we're totally unprepared for, so I've gotta figure that one out, and I've got tons of new designs to share with the board, but half of them are out with flu so God knows when that'll happen..."

"Stop."

I cut off abruptly to look at him. He shook his head, swirling his glass.

"You know, I can see right through you. Work problems? That's a big load of bull. We both know you like a challenge." He sipped loudly. "Now why don't you tell me what's really bothering you?"

Once again, I found myself staring with nothing to say. Not because I didn't feel I could tell him the truth, but because I was still busy convincing myself that none of it was real.

"It's that Satchel boy, isn't it?"

My eyes widened and my belly dropped to my toes. "Huh?"

His lip twitched, smug.

"Where the hell would you get an idea like that?"

"Just because I'm old, doesn't mean I'm not perceptive. Sometimes I think you forget whose daughter you are."

I didn't know what he meant by that - whether he was saying he'd passed on the shitty "Perpetual Love for Things I Can't Have" gene from himself to me, or that he could simply read me like a book, or both. Either way, I found it was suddenly harder to breathe.

"It's no big deal."

"It's not? Then what is it?"

I shrugged nonchalantly, but my fingers were tracing the rim of my glass so fast it almost started to hum. "Life."

Life. As if life was no big deal. As if Satchel, my life, evaporating right before my very eyes, was really not a big deal at all.

A rough cackle rumbled out of my father's throat as he set down his glass. "I dunno if ya noticed, kid, but life is kinda a big deal." He reached out to hook a strand of wire with his pointer. "You see this? You think I like being hooked to a machine all day? You think I like the pills, the tests, the pain?"

I swallowed, heart pounding as I watched him shake his head and mindlessly reach into his robe to scratch at one of the little electrodes glued to his chest. I still couldn't quite ignore the shake.

"No, this isn't life."

Our eyes met.

"You're young, Carrie. You're intelligent and beautiful. You've got tons of money, tons of friends - you're at your peak. You should be happy.

"Now, I don't know what's going on between you and that boy, and I don't really care to know. I've got enough stress to deal with already; that's your problem. But coming from a man who's been around the block a few times, take it from me - you gotta live while you can. Do what makes you feel alive and forget about the rest, because sooner or later you're gonna end up like me - and it may not add years to your life, it may not be healthy. But it sure as shit will add life to your years, and in the end, it's the livin' that counts."

And with that, he leaned forward, swept the glass from my hands and belted back the rest of the brandy in one gulp. His EKG was racing.

"Tiffany! Where the hell is that broad? Bring me more vodka!"



As I drove out of the Hills and turned back onto La Cienega, I felt sick. I tried to tell myself it was the brandy, but I knew better.

The stench of Beverly Hills followed me all the way home.