Between shots of tequila, I called Christine and hung up on her machine. Now I knew how someone could become an alcoholic. I had a new reverence for them and would never judge someone like Marion Barry or Mary Tyler Moore again. Real pain sucked.

I hadn't seen my Dad in a year, but he would call me often when my mom wasn't home.

"Need any money," he would say or, "I sent you something that's just between us." And then a check for two hundred would arrive. He didn't mind that I was gay. I think, although he would never say it, the thought of me never being with a man relieved him in a strange way.

Now that he was gone, I wondered if I would ever see my mother again. It hurt even more that that could be a possibility so I threw another shot down my throat. It was taking a lot of tequila to numb out, more than I thought. I needed something stronger so I called Christine again.

"Hello." There was her voice and it calmed me just knowing she was there, but I wondered how I was going to get this out. I wanted to be rational and tell her that I felt sad, empty, and needed to talk to someone.

"Christine," My voice whimpered and I stopped.

"Fran, is that you?"

"Christine..." a long pause... "My dad..." I lost it. I cried like a two year old baby who lost her mom at the mall. Christine said nothing, just waited for me to calm down, but I knew she was there.

When I finally resolved to deep breaths colored with shaky sighs, she said, "Fran, you home?"

"Yeeaahhhees."

"I'll be right over. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Don't go anywhere."

"I won't." My words were still interrupted with residual gasping breaths.

She hung up and I turned the cap back on the bottle of tequila. I sat on my yellow bean bag with my hands in my face. It amazed me the physical toll that this kind of tragedy took. I hadn't done anything since Jamie told me a few hours ago, but suddenly I was

exhausted-- my head pounding like thunder on a humid day.

It wasn't long before Christine rang the bell. I was scared to answer for fear I would suddenly break down again when I saw her. And as I opened the door, I felt the gush of horrible pain resonate in my body and I fell apart yet again in Christine arms. She closed the door and guided me to the couch.

"I had no idea," my speech was quick and garbled by tears, "that these kinds of feelings existed within me. It's horrible Christine; it hurts so bad."

I put my head in her lap and she brushed my hair with her hand, rubbing my head relieving the pounding. She stayed, made me chamomile tea, and slept with me to kept me warm like I was a sick child. Which is exactly how I felt-- a sick child.

The next day Christine called in sick and went with me to the funeral. I don't know if I would have gone without her. When I saw my father for the last time, dead in his casket, she was there.

Standing right by my side.