“Dad.” The conversation ends, and if I knew what the next one would consist of; I would have happily teased her with the secret I’m not sharing just yet. “Why did you attack that man last night?”
How can I answer her? My brain tricked me.
“I don’t think I have a good answer to your question, Park.”
“Did he do something to you?” she continues.
“No.”
“You told me I should always keep my hands to myself,” she says.
I thought she might have understood more than she did last night, but I think she recognizes a look on my face and associates it with the “daytime nightmares” I sometimes have. I’m not sure she understands the reason behind any of it.
“I was confused, and what I did was wrong.”
“Obviously, the police came.”
I pull the truck over to the side of the road, suddenly fearful of what Parker might say in school today. “It was just a misunderstanding. Adult stuff.”
“Oh,” she says.
I twist around in my seat to face her. “Look, Park, I need you to do me a favor and keep what happened last night between us. Can you do that?”
“Like a secret?” she asks.
Okay, I get it. She’s mad at me. I turn back around to face the steering wheel, frustrated and having no idea how to handle any of this. I pull away from the side of the road and continue toward the school, keeping silent, which I rarely do.
Parker knows there’s a reason I’m not speaking because the second we turn into the looping line at the school, she says, “I’m sorry. I won’t tell anyone about last night.”
I hate that I have to ask her to hide something. It doesn’t feel right, but at the same time, God knows what will happen if she tells anyone I attacked a man wearing a scarf over his head.
“Thank you,” I say, pulling up to the line where the parking lot volunteer is waiting. “I love you, Park.”
“Love you, Dad.” My heart breaks when she steps out of the truck and clutches the book to her chest as she slowly walks into school. I’m hurting her.
It’s hard to focus when I leave the school area. I feel like I’ve screwed up a hundred times in the past day, and I don’t know how to fix it. How can I take care of two kids and a wife if I can’t handle myself?
I pick up my phone and hit Brody’s number. We used to carpool the girls together, but Hannah is in middle school now, so the schedule doesn’t work out anymore. “What’s up, bro?”
“Do you have a few?” I ask. “Can you meet me for coffee or something?”
“Are you okay?” Brody asks. He’s asking because I don’t usually call him out of the blue to have coffee.
“No, I need to talk to you. Nothing is wrong, I just—”
“Meet me at Dunkin’ at ten,” he says.
“I’ll be there.”
I’m only a few minutes away from Dunkin’. I pull in before he does and grab a couple of coffees and snatch up the last table in the corner. He walks in, looking like he didn’t sleep last night.
I lift my hand, so he sees me, and he nods with acknowledgement as he walks over. He fixes his backward hat, so the rim is sitting lower at the base of his neck. “You look like hell,” I tell him.
“Thanks,” he says. “I’ve had a stupid head cold all week. I’m fine.”
I hand him his coffee. “Well, don’t breathe near me then.”
“I won’t breathe at all. How about that?”
The banter never ends between the two of us. It’s easier to have a conversation about nothing than a real conversation about something I never talk about. “Sounds good,” I continue.
“What’s going on? You—look like hell too, and I don’t think you’re sick.”
I take a sip from my steaming cup before speaking. “I almost got arrested last night.”
Brody nearly spits a mouthful of coffee out. He squeezes his eyes shut to swallow the hot liquid; then, his mouth falls open. “Say what? You? What the hell could you have done?” Brody is the typical older brother who enjoys making me feel like a weak nerd in his presence. Maybe it was the case when we were younger, but I think I’ve proven myself since then. Although, not in the sense that I would get myself nearly arrested.
“I—ah—saw a man wearing a shemagh over his face in a restaurant last night.”
“A shemagh?” Brody questions.
“The patterned scarves people from the Middle East often wear.”
“Shit,” Brody says, releasing a heavy sigh. “What happened?”
“I guess I had a flashback and thought he was pulling a weapon out. I don’t really know. It all happened so fast. I was sitting at the table with Melody and Parker one minute and nearly strangling the guy in the next.”
Brody is quiet, which is unusual for him. He scratches his eyebrow. “Brett, that’s not okay, man.”
“I know.”
“Did Parker see this?”
“Yeah.”
Brody’s head falls back with frustration. “Is she okay?”
“I think so. Maybe not. I don’t know.”
“And Mel?”
“She’s fine.” Besides the fact that I ruined a dinner where she was going to tell me we’re having a baby that I can’t tell you about yet.
“Has this happened before?”
Another sip of coffee is the pause I need. “Not like that, but I’ve played the situation out in my head too many times. I hadn’t acted on it until last night.”
“Why haven’t you said anything about this? You obviously have PTSD from the war. It’s common, you know this, right?”
Sure, it’s common, except I don’t have anyone that has been through the same thing that I have. That’s who I could talk to. Somebody who would understand. I can pour my heart out to a therapist who will nod their head a million times and tell me they understand, but do they really? “Thankfully, the guy didn’t press charges, so they let me go.”
“Maybe it was just a one-time thing,” Brody suggests, “But, you need to talk to someone, like, as soon as possible. You can’t let that happen again.”
“I don’t know if I’m ready to talk about any of this with anyone,” I say honestly.
“It doesn’t matter, bro. And I’m sure you already know that when you start therapy, it will get worse before it gets better.”
I didn’t know that. “Why is that?”
“Well, as I know too well, when you start therapy, you have to talk. They go at your pace, but it digs up a lot of old scars because it’s like reopening a wound that didn’t heal correctly in the first place. They teach you coping mechanisms to get through difficult moments. Don’t get me wrong, it isn’t a cure, but it guides you through pain and discomfort, and desensitizes you with the hope that the wound will heal enough so that your quality of life will be good.” I’m not sure when Brody became so philosophical with his metaphors, but it makes sense, and he’s definitely been in more therapy than the rest of us so I can take some truth from what he’s saying.
“I’ll call my therapist today and get the name of someone who specializes in working with veterans. Is that okay with you?” he asks.
“Yeah, that would be helpful. Thanks.”
“From now on, if you get one of those thoughts or feelings, text or call me. I can talk to you. You don’t have to go through this alone, and if you aren’t ready to talk about any of it, I can just make fun of you until you get pissed off about something else.”
Well, that’s what brothers are for, I guess. “I thought Melody was going to hate me last night after we got home, but she was way more understanding than I deserve.”
“Don’t forget, she’s put up with Journey her whole life. She knows how to deal with a pain in the ass,” Brody says with a wink. A wink he’d get slapped for by his fiancée, Journey if she was here with him.
One big happy family here, which means if one person says something about last night, our parents, Journey, and Mrs. Quinn will all know. I knew there would be pros
and cons of Brody and I marrying a pair of sisters, but for the most part, it’s worked out great. But, for a private issue like this, I’m not sure I can handle the masses right now. “Please don’t tell Journey about this,” I request.
“You know what will happen to me if Melody tells her, and I don’t say anything?”
I lower my head to my closed fists. “This isn’t going to get better or go away.”
“No, you need help, Brett. It’s not going to go away on its own. And you’re damn lucky to have a family who cares about you as much as we do. This doesn’t need to be a secret because we’ll support you and do what we can to help you through this shit. Let us in.”
I feel like my fingers just gave out from the cliff I have been hanging onto.
26
“You’re not going to be better within eight months,” isn’t what I wanted to hear from the therapist who specializes in treating veterans with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
I thought therapists were supposed to give s hope, not a dose of reality. I guess I had that wrong. I’m glad I went into the appointment by myself, although Melody insisted on sitting in the waiting room. The last thing I need is her thinking I’m going to become some kind of basket case throughout the pregnancy. I bet she was worried that I was going to blow off the appointment or that I’ll need moral support when I come out. Either way, it is nice to know that the love of my life is in the lobby waiting for me.
I shake the therapist’s hand as he opens the door into the waiting area where a Parent's magazine article has captured Melody’s full attention. “I’ll see you next week, Brett,” he says.
Yeah, weekly. I guess I'm in rough shape.
“Thank you. I’ll see you then,” I say.
Melody’s first ultrasound is this afternoon. I wish our appointments hadn’t been scheduled on the same day because I don’t want to be on center stage, taking away any part of the excitement she feels right now, but I know she’ll have questions for me. I’m going to be honest and not hide anything. If I sugarcoat the facts she’ll know and that won’t do either of us any good.
Melody stands and waits for me by the door. We planned ahead and have coverage in the shop today since our appointments are scattered throughout the day, so we steal a little time for ourselves and go out for lunch before her appointment.
“So, how did it go?” Melody asks as we walk toward the exit of the old building.
“He doesn’t cherry-coat anything,” I tell her. “I don’t know.”
“Did you tell him what happened last week?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
I was hoping that this conversation would wait until the end of the day, but we’re here now and she deserves to know after what I put her through. “He told me to write out what I see when I have the flashbacks and start keeping a journal of the entries.”
Melody appears relieved as she slowly blows air out of her pursed lips. “I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe it will help.”
“Maybe,” I say.
“You can always burn them after,” she says.
“He suggested that. Which is when I told him I wanted to burn the letters I wrote to you—just let me talk before you say anything.” I watch her lips pinch together, visibly stopping herself from speaking. “He told me I should go through them, maybe even share them with you so I can bring you into some of the moments I experienced. I guess it will make me feel less alone when I think about certain things. He said some people aren’t strong enough to be the listener, but if you are, it would be a helpful way to release—whatever is in my head.”
Melody stops walking and places her hands on my shoulders, staring up at me with a circular reflection of the light-bearing down on us in the lobby. “Just because I’m pregnant doesn’t mean I’m not strong. I need you to know this. I am here for you and I can handle whatever it is you need to share. Everyone needs someone. You said so yourself. I’m your someone, Brett.”
I lean down to kiss her. “You are my someone. My only one.”
“As long as we have each other—everything will be perfect,” she says.
“He said I might fall again,” I say, needing to give her a fair warning.
“I’ll catch you.”
“All five-foot-three of you?”
“I’m stronger than I look.”
Parker still looks angry when she spots the truck. Her backpack is chucked into the backseat first, then she climbs in and slams the door. “Hi Melody,” she says.
I turn around, watching her buckle her seatbelt. “Is there a ‘Hi Dad’ in there somewhere too?”
“Oh, hi, I didn’t see you there,” she says.
I smirk as we drive off. “In the mood for some ice cream?”
“I don’t know. Is it secret ice cream?” Clearly, Parker has spent the day stewing over everything, but I’d rather her be upset about the secret rather than what happened last night.
“It could be,” I tease.
“Then, no.”
“Tough. We’re going anyway,” Melody tells her.
“Fine, but only because you are saying it,” she responds.
“Parker,” Melody continues. “Go easy on your dad.”
I spot Parker pulling her book out of her bag through the rearview mirror. I don’t know how she reads without getting carsick. I could never, but she is a devout little bookworm. Melody reaches across the middle console and takes my hand.
“Ew,” Parker groans. Melody wraps her arm around mine and rests her head against my shoulder. “What is wrong with you two?”
“Nothing, we love each other,” I say.
“Gross.”
I wasn’t looking forward to this attitude after watching Hannah’s tween years. Still, I’m thankful to have Melody next to me, and now that I’ve seen Hannah get over most of her attitude issues, I’m sure it’s only a temporary phase.
Parker brings her book into the ice cream shop and plops down into a seat without telling me what she wants. I already know, anyway. She gets the same thing every time we come here. Cotton Candy with hot fudge, which sounds disgusting, and also something Abby would have gobbled up.
When we’re all seated at the table, Melody and I both stare at Parker until she lifts her head from the book. “What?”
“We’re ready to tell you the secret now,” I tell her.
Parker slowly closes her book and places her hands to the sides of her cup of ice cream. “There’s a real secret?”
“One, you’ll be the first to know about,” Melody says.
Parker grins and taps her finger against her chin. “Am I getting a puppy?”
“No,” I answer. “I think this is better than a puppy.”
Parker seems confused by my statement, as if nothing could be better than a puppy. Melody reaches into her purse and pulls out a small wrapped gift to hand her. “What’s this?”
“Open it, silly,” I say.
Parker tears the paper off and flips the gift over to see it’s a journal, labeled: “My life as a big sister.” Parker’s eyes grow wide, and her mouth falls open as she glances up at us slowly.
“You said you want to be a writer someday,” Melody says. “I think you might have a lot to write about soon.”
Tears fall from Parker’s eyes, and I don’t think I’ve witnessed happy tears with her before. She’s growing up so quickly it’s hard to keep track of her emotions sometimes, but I know she’s never reacted like this before. “I’m going to be a big sister?” she confirms.
“The world’s greatest big sister,” I tell her.
Parker looks back and forth between the two of us with a smile from ear to ear. “This is the best secret ever,” she shrieks and jumps up from her seat to hug us both. “I need to start getting books for the baby, so I can read him or her all the stories.”
“You know you’re always our number-one, right?” Melody asks.
Parker shrugs. “I know neither of you are the ones who put me in this world, bu
t it doesn’t matter to me because you’re my family, and I know things wouldn’t be this good if you weren’t.”
Parker has asked a lot of questions over the years, some I wondered if she was old enough to to hear the answers to, but over time, she has learned and accepted some sad truths about life. However, it’s clear Parker has an appreciation for our family situation, one neither Melody nor I could ever understand. “The baby won’t see me any differently. I’ll be there from the start, and we have the same parents. It’s simple.” I hope it always feels this way for her.
“You’re going to be a big part of this baby’s life, maybe even the biggest,” Melody tells her.
My heart feels full, and a little overwhelmed at the same time. I adopted Parker without a second thought. I would have fought for her if I had to because I needed her as much as she needed me.
She needs this loving family and a strong unit.
She needs to feel like everything is normal.
She needs me to be okay.
Melody needs me to be okay.
Our baby needs me to be okay.
I have to figure out how to make all of this happen before I make a mess out of our lives.
It’s all on me.
“Oh, how was your doctor’s appointment today, Dad?” Parker asks, staring at me as if she knows what I’m thinking. She spoons the soupy ice cream into her mouth, waiting for an answer.
“Good. It went well,” I say.
“Can he fix you?” No filter on this kid.
“I have to fix myself, but I will.”
Melody places her hand on my leg and squeezes to tell me everything's okay. “There’s no way for me to respond and tell her how scared I am that everything may never be okay.”
27
The officers and ranks above us said writing letters home would ground us and give us some comfort, as well as peace of mind to our families. Though Melody never responded to any of the letters I wrote, I still took comfort in putting my thoughts and feelings on paper and envisioning her reading them. I felt more comfort in writing to her than my own family. I know Mom and Pops constantly worried, and Brody was probably bottling it all up inside or cracking jokes about me getting blown up because that’s how he dealt with “crap,” but Melody felt like my listener, mostly because she didn’t respond, but it was easier to write to a silent audience, even if it was only one person.
Bourbon Nights (The Barrel House Series Book 3) Page 20
