Melody notices the bottle at the same time, and we pause to take in the sight. “He’s here. He’s smiling down on us.”
Parker runs to our side and I lift her up as the three of us make our way toward the sun filled foyer, beginning our beautiful future together as a family.
23
Six Months Later
For once, things have been easy, allowing us to move forward on our journey together as a family. My relationship with Melody is beautiful and unbelievably flawless. It seems easy to have only one job; being here for my love, being her rock and showing unconditional love.
I know without a doubt, I will always be here for her.
But, there’s one thing ...
Blinded by love and the reality I buried behind me, I failed to ask an important question: what happens when life falls onto its side for me? Is Melody strong enough to pick me back up and be my rock? I naively assumed she wouldn’t have to step up to a role because I convinced myself I’m strong enough for the both of us.
I was sure I was.
I was so sure of it—until today.
“Through thick and thin, health and sickness …” Did she understand what she agreed to when she said: “I do?” If she didn’t, it was my fault for not being more transparent. Then again, I thought I could hide the reality of what lives inside of me, from Melody and Parker. I had locked it away for so long, I convinced myself that part of me was gone forever .
A murderer. A killer.
I’ve let her down—the woman I love, the stepmother to my adopted daughter, and I’ve let Parker down too because I am a monster. Some kind of perfect monster.
I told myself it wouldn’t happen, and that I wasn’t like the others going through endless battles of unhinged thoughts and feelings. I was sure I had more control.
But here we are. Facing the truth, one I’ve chosen to turn a blind eye to.
My knees are bouncing, and my fingers are tapping against my thighs. I am trying my best to sit still in this family-style restaurant. Parker is staring at me like I’ve gone mad, and Melody—her eyebrows furrow as she reaches across the table, nudging the salt and pepper to the side. “Give me your hands,” she says.
I shake my head. “I’m fine,” I say, feeling a twitch in my left eye.
“Brett, what is going on?”
I notice Parker’s gaze falls to her lap. She knows. She’s only seen it a few times, but she knows. I hate that she knows.
We’ve been together, Melody and me, for two years—married for six months. We’re still in our honeymoon phase.
I’m not looking at Melody. I’m staring over her shoulder as she continues to reach for my shaking hands hidden beneath the table.
Melody retracts her reach and pulls her phone out of her purse, handing it to Parker. “Here, sweetie, why don’t you find a game to play while I talk to Dad for a minute.”
Parker doesn’t say anything. She takes Melody’s phone and thumbs in her password to find Candy Crush, her favorite game.
Melody stands up and sits next to me on my side of the booth, locking me in the middle between her and Parker.
She grabs my hands and notices they are covered in sweat.
“What’s wrong, baby?” she asks through a whisper.
“Can you go back to your seat?” I ask, trying to remain calm.
Melody seems to recoil at my words like I hurt her. “Why?”
“Please.”
She stands up from the booth and returns to her seat. “You’re scaring me,” she says, leaning over the table, trying to keep her words soft, so no one else hears.
I want to tell her, but I would never want to subject her to the horrors in my mind at the moment.
Melody notices I’m not looking at her and turns around to see what or who I’m staring at, but she wouldn’t know because I don’t talk about the things that scare me. She scans the area and returns her focus to my face. “Should we leave?” she asks. “We can get our food to go and eat at home.”
“No, you wanted to go out tonight,” I remind her. I realize I sound as if I’m blaming the unknown situation on her, but she just seems more confused rather than hurt by what I didn’t mean to say.
“Look at me,” Melody says, her words more forceful than before. “Brett Pearson.”
* * *
I close my eyes.
I see him.
He’s two feet away, standing above my tired body, and it’s dark.
I can’t make out much of his figure, but I see the red and white shemagh scarf with only the whites of his eyes staring down at me.
He’s carrying a tactical knife in one hand and has an AK-47 draped over his shoulder. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I recognize him as one of our translators.
But he wants to fight. He wants to kill.
Was someone in his family hurt or taken from him today? Is he seeking revenge on me?
He wants to kill me.
It’s him or me.
I pull my sidearm out from the holster on my leg. I kick him in the knees and jump to my feet. He barely loses his balance but there is one-second of surprise and I knock him down with an elbow to his nose. I press my boot against his throat and stare him in the eyes, searching for the fear I don’t see. He doesn’t care that I have the ability to win or that he could die. I point my sidearm closer to his forehead and he pulls out a small pistol, aiming it at me. I pull my trigger into his forehead just before he pulls his into mine.
He’s dead. His eyes are still open, looking as fearless as he was before. The men in my battalion surround me, some on the lookout for more, other’s panicking for being thirty-seconds too late to the sneak attack.
We thought we were safe. We have guards watching our area. You can never be too safe.
Two of the other guys grab me by the arms to help me away from the scene. “Come up, bro. Let’s walk away.”
“We got this taken care of,” another guy says.
I should be numb.
He was number five. That’s five too many.
* * *
“Yes, could we possibly have our food to go? I’m not feeling very well,” I hear Melody tell the waitress.
“Is he okay?” the waitress asks.
“Oh yeah, he’s just had a long day at work.”
A long day? I work in a bourbon shop now. I’ve experienced the raw definition of a long day; An endless hummer ride through an Afghanistan sandstorm with a mortar attack blocking us in. Melody doesn’t need to know about that kind of “long day.”
“I’ll get your food prepared to go. No problem at all,” I hear.
“Brett, I need you to look at me,” Melody demands.
I try to do as she asks, but I look directly past her at the man sitting two tables away with a red and white shemagh around his neck. He reaches to the side of his right thigh, the side I don’t have visibility on. He’s going to attack.
I don’t have a weapon. I have nothing but my hands to save us.
The man twists his head to look at me as he releases a laugh.
I slide out of the booth and rush toward him, pulling his arms behind his chair, securing them in one hand as I wrap my arm around his neck. He struggles to pull away from me, but pushes his chair back, forcing me to lose my footing. His arms are free, and he's pinning me to the ground at the shoulders. “What are you doing?” he asks.
I’m breathing so hard I can’t muster a word. I’m sweating, shaking, debating whether to kick his knees to regain my position. “Why are you here?” I grunt.
The man turns his head to look at the people he’s seated with. “I’m having dinner with my family. Why are you here?”
The thoughts in my head clear and I realize I’m staring up at an innocent man holding me to the ground in a family-style restaurant. What if he’s just acting innocent?
The man releases his hands from my shoulders and takes my hand, pulling me up to my feet and visually scans me from head to toe. “Marine,” he says.
&nb
sp; I’m wearing an old pair of camo pants I cut into shorts.
Is my title derogatory to him or is he asking? I could be a threat. Therefore, he could be a threat.
“Brett!” It’s the fourth time I’ve heard my name shouted in the last sixty seconds.
I turn to face the table where I was seated. Melody has Parker facing the wall, and she’s staring at me with more horror than I’ve ever seen on anyone’s face.
“I’m not here to hurt anybody. I live here in America. My family and I are traveling to Canada to visit Quebec. That is all.”
My mouth is open, ready to speak, knowing an apology is the very least I can do. I was wrong. The entire restaurant now knows I was wrong. I attacked a man while he was eating his dinner.
There are sirens echoing down the street. I am the enemy.
I hold my hands up in defense, knowing the man will have all the power to hurt me if he pleases, but I can’t fight anymore. I shouldn’t have been fighting in the first place today.
The local police walk into the restaurant, surveying the scene, taking note of me and the man I attacked. I’m sure they were warned of what happened. The police officer walking toward me looks familiar. I think I went to high school with him.
“Is everything okay here?” the sergeant asks.
“No,” I answer. “I attacked him for no reason.”
The sergeant looks at me for a long minute and asks me to follow him outside as he tells his partner to collect the information from the man I attacked.
The moment we’re outside, everything inside of me tightens to the point where I feel weak or like I might vomit. “Pearson?” The sergeant asks. “It’s me, Laren—Ted Laren. We—”
“Yeah, I know. We were in school together. I didn’t recognize you with all your gear on,” I say, feeling more deflated with each word I speak.
“What happened here?”
“I thought he was reaching for a weapon. I—”
“I heard you were deployed a couple times,” he follows. Small town problems. There aren’t many people who don't know about each other around here.
“Yeah,” I answer.
“My brother was over there, too. He got out after his four-year term. He struggles a lot.” I know what Ted is saying without any further explanation. His brother suffers from post-traumatic stress. We all do, for the most part. We just handle it differently. “Are you getting any help?”
I shrug. Two hours ago, I would have said I don’t need help. I’m not exactly in the position to say that right now. “No.”
Ted shakes his head. “However this turns out tonight, I need to advise you to find a counselor because if this happens again—”
“I know.”
“I’m going to go back in and see if the man wants to press assault charges. If so, I’m going to need to bring you down to the station. If not, consider yourself lucky this time.”
I would press charges if I were him.
I assaulted him.
“My wife and daughter are still in the restaurant,” I tell Ted.
“I’ll see them out,” he says. He makes a gesture to his cruiser and another police steps out. “Wait with him while I go back inside.”
The other police officer is older, overweight, and disinterested in standing here babysitting. It’s obvious by his stance and his arms crossed over his chest. I decide it’s best not to say anything. Instead, I stare out into the darkness of the night, wondering how this happened. Why? I've been away from Afghanistan for nine years. What the hell is wrong with me?
I wait for about ten minutes before Melody and Parker step out of the restaurant with Ted. Melody has been crying, and Parker looks traumatized. It’s my fault. I hurt the two people I love more than anything in the world because I’m so unbelievably screwed up inside.
Ted stands between Melody, Parker, and me, facing my direction. “He’s not pressing charges. He said you aren’t the first to do this to him and it’s a fact he lives with while maintaining his culture and faith in another country. He said he hopes you’ll see they aren’t all bad people.”
It would have been easier if he threw a punch or wanted to press charges. I wouldn’t feel as disgusting as I do now. I’m going to be released without a penalty after assaulting an innocent man.
“I need to get a copy of your license in case we need to contact you for any further comments or questions,” Ted says.
I reach into my back pocket, retrieving my wallet, swiveling through my cards, my military ID and license. “Here.”
“Give me a minute,” he says making his way over to the cruiser.
Melody is staring at me with a look I can’t decipher. I don’t know if it’s shame, fear, disappointment, or all of the above. What if she hates me now? She sees what I’m capable of. What if she thinks I’d hurt her if I lose my ability to see clearly again?
I signed my life away. I thought
I signed my life away. I thought I got it back when I was discharged from the Marines, but I see now, it was a forever commitment.
24
Melody must feel like she’s looking at a stranger in the house. We’re both sitting on the couch, facing each other, but I have said very little because Parker is brushing her teeth and getting ready for bed.
“I’ll be right back. I’m going to go check on Parker,” I say.
I catch her as she is stepping out of the bathroom across the hall from her bedroom. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she says. “Are you okay?”
“I will be.” I hope I’m not telling her a lie.
“Does Melody know about the bad dreams you used to have? Or about that time at the parade in town?”
I shake my head, feeling as though I’m scolded by a parent rather than my nine-year-old. “I’ll talk to her in a few minutes.”
“Grandma told you to see a doctor. I heard her. Why won’t you?”
“It’s hard to explain,” I say.
“Dad, please. This isn’t your fault.” Parker doesn’t understand what she’s saying. At least, I don’t think she does. I’m afraid to know what she’s learned or read about. I’m afraid she's using Google for reasons other than her homework. Her mother died overseas. I have to assume she wonders about more than she lets on.
“I was wrong tonight. I’ll go see a doctor, okay?”
“I want to go with you.”
“Let’s talk about this more tomorrow. Are you sure you don’t want any more of your grilled cheese?” Parker ate her to-go food in the car on the way home, but she only had a few bites.
“I’m not hungry.”
“I love you,” I say.
“I love you too, Dad. I’m just going to say goodnight to Mel.”
Parker stops at the stairwell, and I hear her say goodnight to Melody, receiving her “Sweet Dreams, sweetie,” in return.
I tuck Parker in, kiss her forehead, and make my way back downstairs to face a conversation I have dreaded for a very long time.
Melody looks distraught, stiff, unsure, and pale. “Can I start with an apology?” I ask.
“No,” she says.
“I knowI have some explaining to do.”
Melody tilts her head to the side and studies me with intensity. “Brett, do you think I married a man I know nothing about?”
I wasn’t expecting the conversation to begin this way. I hate that I feel as though I should answer her question with a yes.
“I don’t know how to answer your question.”
Melody presses her lips together and shakes her head. “When we watch the news, and someone is bleeding on the side of the road, you turn white. Your eyes open wide. You stare through the TV as if it's glass. I ask you if you’re okay, and you don’t respond.”
“What?” I don’t know what she’s referring to.
“At night, when you’re in a deep sleep, you shout to take cover. You make comments that you’re out of ammo. You sometimes call out for backup.”
I know I used to have n
ightmares, but I don’t think I’ve had any in a long time. None that she would be aware of, anyway. “When?”
“At least once a week,” she says without skipping a beat. I rub your back until the nightmare goes away and I choose not to bring it up in the morning fearing that it will spark whatever memory you were living through in the middle of the night. “Last year, during the fourth of July celebration, someone was shooting off fireworks down the street. For the next ten minutes, you were breathing heavily and sweating in silence.
“Then there was the time when a pair of headlights on a dark icy road nearly forced you into a tree. You were out of it for five minutes, and I thought you were hurt, but you were lost inside your head.”
“I—”
“I know you have to sit in the seat facing the door whenever we’re in a restaurant. I know if someone whistles in a strange way, you duck and spin around. I know you’re afraid to be alone in a dark room. I know you can’t watch war movies. I know you walk away from a conversation when someone says they’re thinking about enlisting. I see the way you look in every car window when we are on a highway.”
“Why the hell are you even with me?” I ask, my voice broken, croaking with the pain seething through me.
Melody’s bottom lip quivers. “I knew all of this within the first six months we were together, Brett. I’ve asked questions, and you have changed the subject. I know it isn’t because you want to keep me away from that part of your life. It’s because it’s too painful for you to speak about. Me supporting you is silently being next to you when you don’t think you need me. I love you even with the shattered pieces in your heart that you carry around like fresh wounds.”
“I went too far tonight.”
Melody sniffles and nods with agreement. “You did. And we will talk to someone together.”
“Like marriage counseling?” I ask, terrified of her answer after only being married for six short months.
“No,” she says, her face screwed into a look of offense. “Like I’m going to be by your side, quietly, and be however much you need or however little you need. If I sit in the waiting room, I sit in the waiting room. If I sit beside you and hold your hand, so be it. You said no one was there for you when Abby died. It’s not fair, Brett. It’s not. I can’t turn back time, but I can make things right going forward. No matter what it is you are dealing with, I will be there right next to you without judgment, with no grudges or disappointment. That’s the least I can do for the man I love—for the man who has been beside me at my lowest moments over the last couple of years, holding me up and giving me strength.”
Bourbon Nights (The Barrel House Series Book 3) Page 18
