“Do you remember me at all? Like—”
Do I remember her? What kind of question is that? Well, a deserving one I suppose after neither of us supposedly recognized each other while sitting together on a four-hour flight. I could ask her the same question though. I don’t think I’ve given her the impression that I don’t know who she is, or who she was.
“What do you mean?” Maybe I’m confused by her question. Is she asking if I remember who and what she wanted to be someday? Because I do.
“Never mind,” she follows.
Melody’s words are loaded, and there is obvious frustration in her voice too. I’ll play this out carefully because I don’t know what is going through her head. “From our odd encounter on the flight? Yeah, of course I remember you.” Maybe my statement is more of a mind game than a one-step at a time introduction to our past. Maybe she doesn’t remember me from when we were younger. Not that I’m claiming to be unforgettable, but I guess it’s possible that she’s truly confused as to why I’m acting as if we didn’t sit together on the plane ride to Vermont.
“No, I mean from years ago.” Well, there we go. She remembers me, and I remember her. This conversation has turned into a grade-age teasing match. Why would she think I’d forget who she is? We’re both acting childish.
“Hmm,” I reply with a sigh, intending to play into the back and forth of what is so awkwardly obvious. “Vaguely, maybe.” Too far? Maybe.
Melody sweeps her hair away from her face, and the muscles in her cheeks clench. I can’t tell if I’m aggravating her or winding her up to play back. “There’s supposed to be a tasting today,” she says, changing the subject. Is this a move in her playbook or does she want to end this conversation? How am I this stupid with women?
“Yeah, we have a little time. It’ll only take a few minutes to set up.”
Melody pinches her lips together and nods her head, understanding, but obviously has more thoughts swimming through her mind. Maybe she hates me. I wouldn’t blame her, I suppose. It would explain why she never wrote back to any of the letters I sent her when I was in Afghanistan.
The bell above the door screams, startling me into turning around in search of who is throwing the front door open. Journey. No surprise there. Although, she has coffees in both hands and looks to have kicked the door open.
“Coffee?” she shouts, moving across the shop to the back counter where she places the recyclable cupholders down. “What happened to my shelves?”
She was quick to notice the mess that Melody was calling organized.
“Me,” Melody answers.
“All you had to do was sit here and look pretty, Mel,” Journey tells her. I walk away from their little banter and tend to the register that needs to be cleared from last night.
“Okay, if you don’t want to just be pretty, can you grab a bottle of Quinn Apple Red 2013, Quinn Original 2014, Quinn Peak 2011, and Quinn Pine 2012?” Journey asks Melody. “We’ll need those for the tasting.” I guess Journey knows more about what’s going on here than Melody, or so it seems. I think Journey has helped out in the shop from time to time, living in town still. Melody has been gone for so long, I can understand why she wouldn’t be knowledgeable about what’s going on in here.
The sample glasses are in the sliding cabinet beneath the register,” I add in.
Melody seems frazzled, spinning around in search of the bottles Journey just spat off. “I’ll be right back,” Journey says, disappearing into the back room, leaving Melody and me alone once again.
Melody slaps her hands over her face and exhales loudly. I feel bad, seeing how frustrated she obviously is. No more games. It isn’t the time. I walk over to a nearby shelf where I can grab one of the bottles for the tasting.
“I remember you, Melody,” I say.
“Yeah, from all the way back to yesterday. Good memory,” she says, snapping at me. Maybe I deserve that comment. I wasn’t trying to play her for a fool or pretend I forgot her. I can’t read whatever is going through her mind and I was being cautious. Too cautious.
“No, I remember you from when we were kids, all the shop holiday parties, and the last big bash we were both at all those years ago.” It was the party where one kiss would unknowingly dictate all future kisses for comparison. I didn’t just forget. I never forgot, or stopped thinking about it, or her.
“You do?” she asks, sounding shocked by my statement. She must take me to be quite an asshole for thinking I’d forget about that night. I’m not sure what I did to give her such an impression.
I remember many details, all of them, in fact, from those few minutes we spent together. “Yeah, didn’t you try bourbon for the first time?” It was the reason for her sudden confidence to approach me after walking past me without so much as a glance for years. I’m not big on bravery found through inebriation, but I would rather have known she didn’t hate me as opposed to having feelings for me but not having the courage to say so. I’m grateful to have known the truth. I just wasn’t so grateful about the timing.
“That’s what you remember?” she replies.
I give her a quick wink. “I wasn’t sure what you wanted me to rehash.”
Seemingly flustered, Melody walks away from the conversation toward the back of the shop to set up the taste testing. Everything I say to her feels like the wrong thing. What else should I talk about? It’s been ten years and now we’re working together while her Dad is losing a battle with his life. Nothing feels like the appropriate thing to converse about, so I’ll continue cleaning up the bottles on the shelves while she handles the sampling. Maybe less is better for her. I can keep quiet.
However, she is the one who sent me the friend request last night. She’s confusing the hell out of me, and I’m pretty sure I’m making things a lot worse for her.
My spinning thoughts take up much of the next hour until Journey flies out from the back room. I forgot she was still here. “We have to go,” she shouts over to Melody.
“What’s going on?” I ask, realizing it’s probably none of my business, but with the frenzied look on Journey’s face, I can’t help but question.
“Dad collapsed. Mom just called. The ambulance took him to the hospital,” Journey tells Melody. Shock fills Melody’s eyes, her face bleeds of all color and she wraps her arms around her waist as if she’s in pain.
“Don’t worry about the Barrel House, I have everything under control here,” I say.
Without blinking, Melody unties the apron she has around her waist for hosting the tasting and places it on the bar stool behind the small table.
Journey hands over her coat and wraps her arm around Melody’s shoulders. “Come on. Let’s go.”
“Thanks, Brett. We’ll keep you updated,” Journey says on the way out. Once they’re both out of sight, I feel like I’m the one who’s seen a ghost.
The silent panic, the frozen beat of a heart, shattering news that can’t be comprehended in the time needed. It’s all too familiar to me. I wish I could take the pain away. I wish no one would ever have to feel so helpless.
On base, when someone was sick or if someone passed away, we would all join forces and help the surviving family, spouses, and children. We knew what they needed. Most of us were good at offering emotional support even when not wanted. But, no matter how much effort is put into helping someone in their time of need, it’s never enough to take away the inevitable pain of grief.
9
Brody picked up Parker from school today and brought her to Mom and Pop’s for her Tuesday night taco party. We carpool a couple days a week to lessen the load since we’re both playing double duty in the parenting game. I’m not sure if I’d call our situation irony, but I never expected the two of us to end up as single dads. Brody’s story is a little different and a bit more conventional than mine, but those details don’t matter during the shuffle every day. It’s nice to have each other to talk to, complain, and question what higher power decided we would make good single dads of gi
rls. Brody seems to be at his wits end most days, but his fuse is an eighth of the size of mine and Hannah is twice as difficult as Parker, for now at least. Hannah is always well behaved for me, so I don’t see a lot of what he talks about with her attitude, but Brody knows all about attitudes and the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. Hannah is a mini version of Brody and it’s funny watching him parent her sometimes.
I was about to head to our family fiesta night when Mom called me as I was locking up The Barrel House.
The questions about Melody and Journey are endless and she’s hardly taking a breath to allow me a minute to answer. Mrs. Quinn must have told Mom what was going on with Mr. Quinn.
“Are they all at the hospital now?” Mom asks.
“I assume so. They left the shop a few hours ago and I haven’t heard anything, but I’m not exactly expecting to hear anything either.”
“Those poor girls,” Mom says, gasping for the air she needs. “I should bring them some food.”
The thought crossed my mind, but I don’t want to be intrusive at such a sensitive time. “I can do that. I just didn’t want to overstep my bounds.”
“I don’t think you’re overstepping,” Mom says. “Leave it with the nurse’s station if nothing else. They should know we’re all thinking about them.”
I have been. It’s all I’ve been thinking about.
“Yeah, I’ll do that. Save me a taco and tell Parker to start her homework.”
“Her homework is already complete. I’ve done this a time or two, Brett. You don’t give me much credit.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll call you when I’m on my way back from dropping off food at the hospital.”
“Take your time. If they need help with anything at home or whatever, please lend them a hand.”
“I was planning on offering.”
“I know you were, my unsung hero.”
“Mom,” I stop her.
“You are. You can be my hero even if you don’t want to be anyone else’s.”
“I’m not a hero. It’s not something I want to be called.” I tell her this every time she toys with the word.
“Well, we can all think what we want, but my heart is full, watching the kind of man you have become. I don’t think I tell you often enough.”
Her words come from a place of love, but it’s like nails on a chalkboard with how frequently she feels the need to tell me how wonderful I am. She sees me much differently than I see myself and that will never change. I don’t think she understands the guilt associated with the word hero.
I grab some subs at the pizza shop near the hospital, hoping none of them are gluten-free or vegetarians. Otherwise, I’ll just be a shitty, nice person. I wonder if food is allowed in the hospital. I should have looked up the restrictions, but no one seems to be giving me a weird look as I walk by with a large white paper bag that smells like pickles and onions.
I haven’t been to a hospital since Parker was born. Seeing the hospital from that point of view is much different than being sick, hurt, or watching someone suffer. Suffering. I can’t cope with the thought and understanding of what it means to suffer because I know the truth. I’m not nervous to see Harold, but it’s the feeling of helplessness I’m dreadful of. It’s like seeing a guy on the side of the road, wanting to help him up, but there’s a barrier and all I can do is watch him lay there alone, slowly dying.
Mom sent me a text message with the room number Harold is in. It’s just a few feet away and my heart feels like it’s in my throat. I pause before approaching the door; I turn off my emotions and feelings, press my shoulders back and lift my chin, just as I’ve been molded to do. If no one else can sense my fear and angst, they will not feel the same.
As imagined, Harold is hooked up to monitors and has tubes running across his body and pale face. I knock on the door, waiting for the invitation to join them. Melody, Journey, and Mrs. Quinn are all sitting around Harold—Mr. Quinn. I guess I stopped calling him Mr. Quinn last year when he demanded so. He said if I was going to be helping out here and there in the shop, I’d need to call him Harold rather than making him sound like an old man. However, I was raised to address my elders by mister, misses, or miss.
They all look surprised to see me. So surprised, they don’t actually tell me it’s okay to come in. I assume it’s all right, though. “I thought you ladies might be hungry,” I say, walking in closer to Harold’s bed.
I place the food down on the rolling tray and reach my hand out to shake Mrs. Quinn’s hand. I’ve been home for two years now but haven’t run into her once. The times I was working at the shop were when they were on vacation or Harold was giving me the rundown. I haven’t seen her since the last time I saw Melody; I guess. She looks much the same as I remember; her coffee-brown hair is short and cut sharply around her chin. Her eyes look a bit tired, the hue a dull blue compared to the vibrancy I recall. Mrs. Quinn was always a ray of sunlight, happy and outgoing—full of life. She and Mom are a lot alike in that way, which is why they’ve always gotten along so well. Mom has aged gracefully, but Mrs. Quinn appears a bit older than she is with a few extra worry lines on her forehead and creases forking out from the sides of her eyes. She looks worn down, as if life has taken its toll on her. I can’t imagine it has.
She takes my hand and smiles, reminding me of the warmness she emits with just a friendly gesture. “It’s been a while, but I’m Brett Pearson,” I tell her, worried she might not recognize me like one of her daughters who is currently pretending not to notice me.
“You look just like your father,” Mrs. Quinn says. “Goodness. You’re all grown up now. It’s been years since I’ve seen you. I’m not sure I would have recognized you if we passed by on the street. It’s amazing what a decade can do.”
I’ve been told the military can change a person’s appearance. It’s hard to recognize it in myself but seeing as neither Melody nor Mrs. Quinn found the resemblance of the eighteen-year-old they saw last; I must have changed. I have a jawline now, I guess. Then there’s the stubble I prefer not to shave and the short hair. My hair was always hanging over my forehead and ears as a kid. I’m also closer to two-hundred pounds versus the one-fifty I was when I left for boot camp. Thankfully, it’s muscle rather than beer, but it could have easily gone the other way, especially since I do look just like Pops.
“Age does that I guess,” I say, running my hand down the side of my face. I have yet to look over at Melody because I feel like we’re back in high school pretending neither of us exist. I wish I understood why she is so uncomfortable around me.
“Brett is that you?” Harold mutters through his partially closed lips. I didn’t realize he was awake. It’s nice to hear his voice. I’m glad he’s awake.
“Yes, sir. Just closed up the shop and wanted to check in to see how you are doing.”
I can sense Journey’s glare burning down my side. I can only imagine what she thinks of me since Melody won’t look up.
“I’m doing great,” Harold says, trying to shrug his shoulders. “They said I can try running a few miles tomorrow if I’m up to it.” Harold releases a phlegm-filled laugh before settling himself down. “Tell me, did the water shipment arrive today?”
“Yes, sir. I have everything settled.” I offer a smile, hoping to ease his worry about the shop. It’s the last thing he should be concerned about right now, but I can understand him trying to keep his focus on something other than his illness.
“Thank you, son.”
Son.
Maybe that’s his subtle reminder to stop calling him sir. “If these two give you any trouble, you need to let me know, okay?”
Oh, boy. They might as well just throw me out of the room. Both of the girls are going to have daggers out for me if Harold doesn’t stop talking to me this way. I can sense the fury they aren’t doing a great job at hiding.
“Oh, we’ll all be just fine.” I take the opportunity to glance over at Melody, catching her gaze. “Right?”
Sh
e chokes and clears her throat before sitting up straighter in her chair. “Yeah, everything is under control,” she says, sounding as if she’s questioning me, or maybe Harold.
“Thanks for bringing us food,” Journey says.
“Yes, thank you,” Mrs. Quinn follows.
They both sound sincere, easing my concern that Journey might hate me too. “Of course. Is there anything else I can do to help you guys out right now?” I’m sure this is the time where they say thank you for offering but there’s not much else I can do for them. I can move it along and leave them to their privacy. God, I haven’t been this uncomfortable in a long while.
“Where’s your daughter?” Melody speaks up. Her question surprises me, not so much because of the context, but because it sounds accusatory, like I left Parker on the side of the road somewhere so I could bring them dinner.
“You have a daughter?” Mrs. Quinn questions.
There’s no way Mom didn’t tell her about Parker. My mom can’t keep much to herself, let alone the mention of a grandchild.
“I told you about this incredible guy right here,” Harold follows. I guess he knows. Maybe Mom and Mrs. Quinn haven’t spoken as much as I thought they might have over the years. That’s too bad. They used to talk daily.
“Yes, ma’am. She’s seven, but my mom is probably feeding her millions of cookies as we speak, so she’s perfectly fine. I just won’t get her to fall asleep tonight, but help is help, right?”
Mrs. Quinn looks partially enamored by what I’m saying and somewhat confused at the same time. I feel very out of place, as if ten years have definitely passed without a fleeting thought of each other.
Mrs. Quinn shakes off her longing stare at me and follows my brief explanation of Parker with a change of topic, which is definitely welcomed at the moment. “One of us needs to go home and let the dog out,” she says, looking back and forth between Journey and Melody. Mrs. Quinn’s mind must be in a million places. I can’t imagine what she’s going through.
Bourbon Nights (The Barrel House Series Book 3) Page 7
