Bourbon Nights (The Barrel House Series Book 3)

by Shari J. Ryan

  Her tug at my heart is almost more difficult than watching her cry at the mention of Abby’s name. “Are—wait, are you sure? I don’t mind.”

  “I’m seven, almost eight. I’m okay.”

  What if I want to sit in the hallway? I want to ask.

  “I’m proud of you. I love you, peanut.”

  “Love you too, Dad.” I leave the room, slowly, making sure she doesn’t change her mind about me sitting in the hallway before I go downstairs. With only a few steps down the hall, I hear, “I love you, Mom. Goodnight.” I hear this every night. Not one day has gone by when she hasn’t spoken to Abby as if she isn’t standing right by her bedside. “I think I like Melody. Dad seems happy around her.”

  I stop short when I hear the last part of her goodnight conversation.

  15

  I sat up in bed, watching mindless TV for three hours before falling asleep last night. I considered sending Melody a text, apologizing for running out of the house so quickly, but the conversation would lead to a woe-is-me story that she doesn’t need to hear at the moment.

  “Why are you up so early?” Parker asks, walking into the kitchen, finding me packing her backpack. “We’re not going to The Barrel House this early again, are we?” Parker cocks her head to the side and groans.

  “Not this morning,” I tell her.

  “Then why are you up early?”

  “We’re going out for breakfast,” I reply.

  Parker’s eyes grow wide, and a smile forms across her dimpled cheeks. “I know what that means.”

  When Parker has a moment, one that she deserves more of, we do our “thing” to realign our lives. Abby had an obsession with doughnuts. A gross, unhealthy obsession, which I found utterly bizarre seeing as she was a petite woman. Her overachieving metabolism was responsible for her high-energy level and ability to consume more food than a large, hungry man. There were days where she would eat more than me, and it was embarrassing considering I had at least five inches and probably seventy pounds on her. Doughnuts, though, those were her favorite. We would split a dozen, and it’s disgusting to think about it now because I definitely can’t eat like that anymore, but Parker has the same desire for doughnuts as Abby. The sweet pastry fixes everything, so the legacy lives on.

  “Is it doughnut time?” Parker asks.

  “You know it, peanut. Get dressed and let’s get to the doughnut shop before the powdered Bavarians disappear.”

  Parker knows how to move her butt when doughnuts are waiting. She even tore the braids out of her hair and dragged a brush through the snarls enough to make a lopsided ponytail. Rather than torture her this morning, I fix her hair a little when she finishes, pulling up the fallen strands to loop around the spun knot on the top of her head … “Ballerina Style” as she calls it.

  We’re in the truck and moving within ten minutes, much faster than our typical morning routine, which means we’ll have some time to sit and talk. I think a talk is necessary.

  Parker releases a loud sigh from her booster seat as we pull out onto the main road. “Dad, why were we at Mr. and Mrs. Quinn’s house last night, and why wasn’t Mr. Quinn there?”

  I know I’ve mentioned Harold being sick, but I didn’t go into detail. Parker could think he has a cold for all I know. Lying to her won’t do much good, not with the expected outcome. “Well, I think I told you he was sick, right? That’s why I’m helping out at The Barrel House.”

  “Yes,” Parker responds with an inquisitive tone.

  “Melody seemed upset last night, and it made me wonder what Mr. Quinn is sick with? Is it like the flu or something?”

  To the child who knows too much grief at a young age, how will she comprehend another person losing their parent too? I’m scared she’ll think it’s more common than it is, and it will once again reinforce the fact that life doesn’t always have a happy outcome. She has never known the comfort of innocence.

  “Not exactly. He has nothing like the flu.”

  I’m thankful we pull into the parking lot of the doughnut shop before it warrants further explanation. Maybe the break in getting doughnuts will make her forget the question. Although, the answer to her question can only be put off for so long.

  There isn’t a line inside, so we have our breakfast within minutes, not long enough for a seven-year-old to forget about her question though. Parker folds her hands over the table, staring me down as if she’s waiting for me to continue the conversation that was paused ten minutes ago. Her doughnut is sitting on a napkin in front of her, which is her weakness, and yet, she is waiting for me to talk before she takes a bite.

  “Eat your doughnut,” I tell her.

  “Tell me what Mr. Quinn is sick with.”

  I unintentionally shake my head, wishing she would change the subject, but I’m not getting away from this table without at least an ounce of the truth. “Have you heard the word, cancer, before?”

  I don’t know where she would have heard about cancer, but the kids at school seem to talk about the unthinkable at a much younger age than I remember being able to comprehend most of what comes out of her mouth.

  “Yes, Mrs. Joy had cancer last year, remember?” Parker responds immediately with a glimmer of hope swimming through her big eyes.

  “That’s right, your art teacher was out for a few months last year because she was receiving treatments for cancer. You have a good memory.”

  “She’s all good now and better than ever,” she says.

  This is where things will get tricky. “Yes, she was so lucky to get better. I remember the party you had at the end of the year when she returned.”

  “We should have a party for Mr. Quinn when he gets better, too,” Parker says, finally lifting up her doughnut between her pink polished fingers.

  I run my finger over my bottom lip, lost in thought, wishing I could see the world like she does, even after knowing so much sadness. “So, sometimes, when people have cancer, it can make them sick faster than others, and if that happens, there isn’t always enough time to treat the person with the medication that can help them get well.” I feel like I’m speaking gibberish to her, but she stops chewing and places the doughnut back down on her napkin.

  “Mr. Quinn is going to die?” Her voice doesn’t falter; she just stares into my eyes as if I should be able to change my answer from what she’s already expecting to hear.

  “I would rather give you hope and tell you he might not die, Park, but from what we’ve been told, he doesn’t have much time left.”

  Parker lifts her doughnut back up and takes a giant bite, her eyes crossing as she focuses on the powdered pastry. She takes a minute to digest both my words and the food in her mouth. “We should help Melody. She needs help.”

  I’m not sure why Parker seems so fixated on Melody, especially since she’s met Journey and Mrs. Quinn too, but maybe she has a sixth sense of some sort. “She has her mom and sister. I don’t know if we should be in the way right now,” I try to explain.

  The work is piling up at The Barrel House because Mr. Crawley has been out for a couple of days with a stomach bug, and Melody or Journey haven’t had much time to help. I don’t expect them to be here at all, in fact, so I need to get a lot done in a short period of time today.

  The new barrels are ready to fill, and there’s about an hour’s worth of inventory, another hour of shipping, and the place needs to be straightened and dusted. I’ve accomplished twice as much as these tasks in less than a workday before, but I was a few years younger and had way more energy. Nevertheless, I can handle things.

  Famous last words.

  It’s hardly noon when I need a break, finding two wooden crates to set up in the corner for a few minutes. I didn’t get a call from the school, which I was partially expecting, so I know Parker is hanging in there, and I suppose silence from every other direction is a good sign. But, as always, I think these thoughts too soon. My phone buzzes on the counter, and I polish off the bottle of water I had been chugging bef
ore seeing who is sending me a message. The school would call, so panic isn’t a thing unless the phone rings during the hours between nine and three.

  There’s a text from Melody, one I wasn’t expecting.

  * * *

  The Girl of My Dreams: I’m so sorry if I caused you and Parker any trouble last night.

  * * *

  Jesus. The poor thing is most likely at the hospital right now, and this is what she’s concerned about. I hope she hasn’t been worried about this.

  * * *

  Me: You did nothing wrong. Parker is fine. Please, don’t worry about us.

  * * *

  This was the reason I left so quickly last night. They are in no position to take us on as a concern, and my situation with Parker is permanent, not temporary. It can be handled and dealt with accordingly. We don’t need open arms and empathy. It's a normal life for us.

  * * *

  The Girl of My Dreams: I wanted to make sure everything was okay.

  * * *

  Me: Thank you for checking. How are you doing this morning?

  * * *

  The three dots flicker a few times before disappearing, and I torture myself with wonder if I shouldn’t have asked how she is, but it would be a shitty thing not to ask too. I stare at the screen on my phone for several minutes, wishing I knew what was going on now that I’ve gotten no response. Things might be bad, bad enough that she has nothing to respond with, but if so, why would she be concerned about Parker and me?

  * * *

  Me: I assume you’re not okay by the lack of response.

  * * *

  I’m going out on a limb with my message, but she is harder to read than the fine print on a jackpot-winning lottery ticket.

  * * *

  The Girl of my Dreams: They’re moving him to hospice right now.

  * * *

  With all the honesty in the world squeezed into seven words, my heart throbs as I re-read her message to make sure I understand correctly, though, there isn’t much to be confused about. I know what hospice is and the purpose. It’s either a place or a service to ease the comfort of one’s final days. When Pops called me earlier in the week to tell me about Harold, I didn’t think we were talking about days. I figured maybe weeks or at least months, but this is a lot at once, especially since I believe the Quinn’s are fairly new to this information, as well.

  What do I say? Sorry is just a filler of a word. It won’t help. What can I do? Food isn’t comforting when waiting for someone to die. I don’t know what it feels like to wait for a moment like that. I only know what it feels like to have the ground torn out from beneath me.

  * * *

  The Girl of my Dreams: I can’t talk, I’m sorry.

  * * *

  I’m the one who gets the “sorry.” She has nothing to be sorry about, and I’d tell her that if responding wouldn’t be an over-the-top move after her simple statement.

  This isn’t right. I have to do something, aside from cleaning up the shop. I have to help. After I was discharged from the Marines, I often get this uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach when I just sit around. There is always someone in need, and something I can be doing. It’s all I knew for eight years—it’s all I cared about. I signed my life away to protect and serve others, and now I’m a dad but I’m not sure how great of one I am. Melody isn’t just a hand reaching out for help, she’s the silent sufferer, holding in her pain, to be strong for her loved ones. Being the person who takes care of everybody can be rewarding but can also be the most difficult job in the world.

  With a glance around the shop, torturing myself for an idea of what I can do, I grab a couple of bottles from the shelf and place them in a paper bag, then set them off to the side.

  I grab my phone from the crate beneath me and dial Mom’s phone.

  “Hi, sweetheart. Is everything okay?”

  We spoke this morning after I dropped Parker off at school so I could fill her in on what happened last night. Mom knows if we disappear without saying goodbye, there’s a reason, and though she was concerned, she knows well enough I’d call if there is an emergency. If she doesn’t hear from me, it’s because I’m handling everything until I can fill her in on the situation. It wasn’t always like this with Mom, but we both learned to accept this way of life when I was deployed and even when I was just working on the base. I think it was harder for her to accept this way of life than it was for me but she adapted over time and trusts that if something is serious, she’ll know. During our conversation, we were both wondering if I would get a call from the school today, letting me know that Parker isn’t acting like herself or she’s upset and not speaking, but I think we’re moving past those days, slowly.

  “Yeah, no call from the school thankfully, so she must be doing okay,” I say.

  “Thank goodness. I started to think back on the last few times she broke down. She seems to be handling her emotions a little better now. I think she stayed at school the last time too, didn’t she?”

  I think back for a moment, trying to recall the last time Parker had an emotional breakdown, and it was on Abby’s birthday. We went to the therapist and to Church, before stopping to get a cake to celebrate Abby’s birthday. We did everything we could do to make the day survivable, and Parker was so strong all day, almost too strong, and I should have seen it coming, but she went from being a smiling seven-year-old to a traumatized little girl in a matter of seconds, and it took me a good hour to calm her down. I was sure she would even make it to school the next day, but she did.

  “Yeah, she’s getting tougher, which I don’t want for her, but it’s better off that she learns how to cope now rather than when she’s older.” I’m speaking out loud for the sake of hearing my voice. Mom and I have had this conversation so many times. My family has been by my side since the second Parker and I moved home and have done everything to make our lives feel normal, which is something the two of us had never felt before.

  “Is everything else okay?”

  I sigh and clear my throat because I’m not sure I want to bring this topic up to Mom, but I need her help, so I have to be honest. “You know how I told you Melody was the one who asked about Abby last night?”

  “Yes,” Mom says, drawing out the word, so I know she’s asking for more details.

  “She texted me earlier to apologize for hurting Parker, and then I found out they’re moving Harold to hospice today.”

  “Oh no,” Mom says, her words muffled by what sounds like her hand.

  “Yeah, I feel helpless right now, and I think I need to just do something for them, Melody, at least. It’s clear she’s having a tough time.”

  “You don’t have to explain yourself, Brett. I’m not stupid, and I wasn’t born yesterday,” Mom says in her deep motherly voice that I rarely hear anymore.

  “Okay, well, I think I should reach out and try to be a friend tonight when she gets home.”

  “I can feed Parker dinner so you can do what you need to do,” Mom offers.

  Normally, I might insist on sitting around and watching Parker like a hawk after a night of breaking down but getting the attention of Mom and Pops when I’m not around is the highlight of her life. They have been exceptional grandparents to her, and I could never thank them enough for what they do and how accepting they have been of our situation. Anyone looking in at our family would not know Parker was not my child by blood.

  “Thank you, I appreciate it. I’ll drop her off after she gets through with her homework.”

  “Brett,” Mom says, hinting at an incoming mini lecture.

  “Yes … ”

  “It’s okay to distract someone when they’re hurting inside. It’s okay to be a friend in that way and to be a shoulder to lean on. I know you’re struggling between what’s right and wrong, and what might be too much, too fast, but you might be the exact thing Melody needs at the moment. You’ll know if that’s true, you’re good at picking up on signs.”

  I didn’t tell Mom tha
t Melody said she couldn’t talk earlier. That comment should have been a big enough sign that she wants her space tonight, but I’m not convinced she doesn’t need someone to listen to her, or just sit next to her so she isn’t alone.

  I might be stupid for thinking this way, but I think it’s what I should and need to do.

  16

  I’ve been sitting in front of a dark house for over an hour. I’m still battling the idea of being so intrusive. She might think I’m crazy when she gets home—if she gets home. Maybe she’s staying overnight with her dad. I don’t know what the rules are for relatives of a hospice patient. If she isn’t home in the next half hour, I’ll take it as a sign and leave.

  I don’t think I ever noticed how dark this street is, and my headlights must be pinging off the windows of the few neighboring houses. I shut them off to make sure I’m not bothering anyone, leaving myself in the pitch black between Melody’s house and the woods on the other side of the street.

  I wonder how many grown men fear the dark and let their minds wander to the worst-case scenario when visibility is low. I would guess I'm one of the few, but all of whom have either been traumatized or are combat veterans. We had night-vision goggles, but I didn’t sleep with them.Even during the nights, we had to camp in man-made holes in the dirt and rubble surrounded by a vast landscape of desert. I often wondered about the odds of a mortar attacking us in the middle of the night, during the few hours we were getting the minimal sleep required to survive. Would I hear it fast enough? Would I react quickly enough to take cover? What if there was an invasion from the enemy who had been plotting all day, waiting for us to have more men asleep than on guard? The holes I dug often felt like coffins, which made me wonder about my future. It was surreal, and though I told myself I volunteered to be sleeping in this hole on the front lines to protect my country, I wondered if I was strong enough to make it through to the end. My heart would race all night; the panic never relenting, and sleep felt like a foggy resemblance of being wasted. My guard was down, and it could get me killed but it was a risk I had to take.