Abby's Promise

by Rebekah Dodson

  Evan was dead.

  Oh.

  Oh, shit.

  Coming home had been rocky from the get-go; college had been my first big hurdle. The second? Moving back in with my parents.

  My mother had insisted on it. Besides the obvious reason that I could help with the mortgage, my mother only had one child left at home, my sister, Juney. My brothers, Kelly, Mike, and Randy had all run as far and as fast as they could the day they turned eighteen. My father, Dr. Gary Harrison, was a pushy man who insisted his five children be successful and educated veterans, just like him, but he had a good heart when it came down to it. My mother had agreed to my moving in silently, preparing my youngest brother’s room, but deep down I knew she was excited to have me home from the war. Or, at least I thought I knew, based on her home cooked meals and prepared lunches every day. Often, I felt I was back in the 6th grade.

  The nearly daily fights with my father hadn’t changed, either.

  Dad had been a combat medic in the military, which paid for medical school around the time Mike was born. Along came Kelly after that, who eventually followed in our father’s footsteps, then Randy, his reserves boy. My father was set for retirement in a few years, but that didn’t mean he would actually consider it. He was one of two emergency room doctors at our small-town hospital, a cushy job he’d likely only walk away from when he was too decrepit to lift a scalpel.

  But that didn’t mean he wasn’t the world’s biggest asshole.

  “Skipping on your second day of school?” My father peered over his newspaper from his favorite spot on his recliner.

  “Class was cancelled,” I said, plonking my backpack and myself on the couch across from him. My phone burned a hole in my pocket, but I couldn’t call Abby with an audience. I’d have to wait until my father went to work later that night. Even going to my room, so close to my parents’, wasn’t safe. One word overheard was too much; I couldn’t risk it. I thought about going to my car, but again, I’d have to explain that to my father as well. I decided to just wait.

  “Cancelled? The first week? Who do they have teaching at that school?” he grumbled, going back to his paper.

  “Where’s Mom?” I said, switching directions.

  “Went out to get dinner. Juney’s up in her room. Teenagers.” He rolled his eyes.

  My youngest sibling, June, was two years younger than Lettie, and had just started high school. A social butterfly, she spent most of her days at school, going to basketball practice, choir, or whatever else she did. When she was home, she was always in her room, on her phone, or playing her guitar. She was fifteen, but already knew she wanted to be a sports therapist.

  I got up and wandered into the kitchen, looked in the fridge, but I wasn’t hungry. I grabbed a beer instead and cracked it open, a horrifying sound to my father.

  “Did you pay for that?” My father looked up at me.

  “No, but…”

  He held out his hand and looked over his glasses. I shoved the beer at him reluctantly.

  “Get a job and buy your own beer,” he said with a smirk as he took a sip.

  I bit my tongue. I didn’t want to argue. I knew I’d lose, as I usually did. “I’m in college; we’ve discussed this.”

  He swigged my beer and waved me away. “Part time job, whatever. Aren’t they hiring security on campus?”

  “I—what?” The thought of holding a gun again made my hands shake in my pockets.

  “You heard me. Your mother is pulling up. Go get the groceries.”

  “Dad, I—”

  He just looked at me, and I wilted.

  Jesus, I’ve shot men, heard their death screams, and been shot at. And I was still terrified of my own father. Without another word, I headed out the door to help my mother.

  “Ah, Joey!” She shoved two paper bags at me. “I thought I’d make spaghetti for dinner. Grab the bread, will ya?”

  I nodded and took the bread, but without a spare hand, I tucked it under my chin.

  “Mike is coming for dinner with his new girlfriend,” she said, bustling behind me into the house.

  “He is?” I sat down the groceries and began helping her put them away. Butcher-wrapped meat, cans of crushed tomatoes, and boxes of pasta filled the counter. I wanted to groan, but my father watched us silently.

  “Yes, but he’ll be late. He always stays after the law office closes, you know that.” My quiet and clipped mother offered no other info, as she glanced at Dad.

  My brother, Mike, was a JAG lawyer, and had six years in the Navy; though he was not as great as Kelly, the second-born-doctor-brother who served in the Coast Guard Search and Rescue. Neither of them, however, could hold a candle to my younger brother, Randy, who served in the Air Force reserves and had moved out two years ago to attend a state college up north, and was training to be some kind of computer analyst or something. Then there was me, the failed soldier grunt who didn’t even have a degree—or even knew what he was doing with his life. In his church circles, my father introduced us in precisely that order: Here are my sons: Navy, Coast Guard, Air Force, and the Marines boy.

  My father, the fifteen-year Navy veteran who retired before I was born, prized his youngest boy Randy the most at times. It didn’t matter that I’d stayed in longer, killed more insurgents, and not been injured once. It mattered I never went to college, that I went career Marines and didn’t have a plan for my life. The way my father said it made it sound like I was an Oompa Loompa in a chocolate factory: a whiny, prissy boy who wouldn’t know the trigger from the butt of a gun.

  I didn’t talk about my time in the Marines on principle; no one understood, as none of my brothers had ever seen action – even left the United States – and no one needed to know the horrors of war, anyway.

  So, I sighed and answered my mother, “Mike has a new girlfriend, huh? Is it his receptionist this time?” I tried to joke. I’d never met the last fling, but my mother had told me all about it in her letters while I was overseas. Flighty, confused, and docile. Not my brother’s type at all. Their romance had lasted exactly three months.

  My mother just frowned at me as she took down her stock pot from above the stove.

  I continued to put away the rest of the groceries.

  “No, he met this one at some convention. Another lawyer,” she said.

  “Good, maybe this one will stick around longer,” I chuckled to myself.

  “More job getting and studying, and less talking about girls!” my father grunted from the other room, overhearing our conversation.

  My mother suppressed a smile. “Hand me that ground beef, would you?”

  Dinner went off without a hitch. Even my sister managed to put her phone away. I listened to Mike drone and complain about military law. His girlfriend Stacey or something, some lawyer from a town an hour away, stared quietly and adoringly at him.

  I ate in silence, watching the show. I wanted to make a joke: ‘I want someone who stares at me like I stare at spaghetti’ but my father would have given me a good tongue lashing if I had. So I watched dinner like an observer rather than a participant, and quietly helped my mother clean the kitchen while my father, brother, and girlfriend took their craft beers into the living room.

  When at last I escaped to Randy’s old room—mine having been converted to my father’s sparkling new office while I was away—I lay on the twin bed staring at my phone. I flipped through social media to see what some Marines buddies, states away, were up to. Some had reconnected with girlfriends, one had a new baby, and another was getting married. Everyone had someone but me.

  Did I even want someone? I thought about Stacey; just staring at Mike, nodding, not interrupting. She was more a place holder and less a girlfriend. I wanted someone I connected with, who teased me and never let up on me. Not a place holder, that was for sure.

  And to be honest, I just wanted a friend. I’d tried to hook up with some old high school friends, but they had nine-to-five jobs now and families; no one was left who had
time to grab a beer or go fishing. They chased the dollar and went home to a wife and kids.

  Kids. I thought of Abby as my finger scrolled over the number Lettie had given me a few hours ago. She had a daughter—Evan’s daughter.

  Evan.

  God, I hadn’t thought about him since my mother wrote me and told me what had happened. Why didn’t she tell me the wife and child he’d left behind were Abby and Zoey? Maybe my mother didn’t want me hurt, didn’t want me to dwell on the past? I made a mental note to ask her at some point.

  I took a deep breath and dialed Abby’s number.

  She picked up on the first ring. “Hello? Who is this?”

  I panicked and couldn’t form the words. “Abby,” I said finally, my throat suddenly thick with emotion. There she was at prom, in that ice-blue dress. At the bowling alley, her head in the books, even when I pressed that teddy bear into her hands. At graduation, my valedictorian hero. The day after, when I excitedly told her about joining the Marines. And she slapped me.

  “Joey,” she said, her voice flat, emotionless. “How did you get my number?” Now it was vile, suspicious.

  “Look, don’t kill me, but from Lettie. I didn’t know she worked at the diner. Remember when we used to get shakes there? They haven’t changed since…”

  “What do you want, Joey?” she interrupted me.

  “Missed you in class today,” I blurted. Did I really? Well, I wasn’t one to beat around the bush, and she knew that.

  “Why haven’t you dropped it?”

  In the background, I could hear a tiny cough, ragged and rough. “Is that Zoey?” I asked, ignoring her question.

  “Yeah. Look, Joseph, what is this about?”

  “Why don’t you call me Jo-Jo anymore? You used to. Back in the day. In your letters. Abs -”

  I could almost hear her stiffen from the flatness of her voice.

  “Because I’m not seventeen, and neither are you. I’m Instructor Years now, to you especially.”

  “I’m sorry about Evan.” I winced. This conversation was going downhill, and I was pushing the Radio Flyer at top speed.

  “It’s fine, really.” she trailed off, her voice choking with emotion. Another cough in the background, this time longer. “Yeah, I’m sorry, too.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up about it; it’s not your fault,” I offered quietly.

  The silence dropped between us, filled only with her daughter’s coughing. “Look, Joey, I’m glad you’re back in town with your family. But this is just not going to work.”

  “I know, I know. Screw off,” I supplied.

  “No,” she said forcefully. “My daughter has a fever tonight, and I have to cancel my other class tomorrow, too. Can we talk about this another time?”

  My heart lifted. It wasn’t a no, but a maybe another time. That gave me hope. “Why do you have to cancel class?”

  “I don’t have a sitter for Zoey. Lettie’s in class, and my parents both work. What else can I do?”

  I sensed her frustration, edged with exhaustion. It was a little after eight p.m., but already she was tired. I couldn’t even imagine.

  “I can watch her,” I offered, before I could stop myself. Joey, you idiot. You don’t know the first thing about toddlers. Especially sick ones.

  As if reading my mind, she repeated my sentiment.

  “I guess it would be easier than a fully functioning, running and screaming two-year-old,” I protested.

  She was quiet for a minute. “I guess that could work, if you’re up to it. I don’t have much money right now.”

  “I don’t care where you live, and you don’t have to pay me. Just let me help you out.”

  “Why?”

  We were good once, I wanted to say. Instead, I said: “Come on, an old vet like me, I need something to do. Besides, I don’t have class tomorrow, so I’m free.” Except I need to get a job, apparently, I thought, but didn’t add.

  I sensed her reluctance when she didn’t answer. “You know I used to watch Lettie and June all the time when we were kids,” I added, “I know kids.”

  “Alright,” she said finally, “I have to be on campus at eight a.m. Can you come by seven-thirty?”

  “Yes,” I replied instantly. It was early for me, but I didn’t care. Another thought occurred to me and it almost froze in my throat. I was terrified to admit to her I still lived with my parents, though I wasn’t exactly sure why. “Um, Abby? I need your address. I’m assuming only one of us lives with their parents.”

  To my surprise, she chuckled and gave it to me. I was surprised to find it was on the other side of town, in a much less nice neighborhood than where my parents lived. I couldn’t imagine Evan, with all his family money, leaving his wife and child to live in squalor. The very thought made me angry.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she was saying, dragging me back to the present.

  “Yup, looking forward to it,” I said, and we hung up.

  Looking forward to it? Seriously, Joey? Ugh, I wanted to kick myself. I ran a hand through my hair.

  I didn’t have much time to think about our conversation, thankfully. These days, I tended to over-analyze too much. My brother Randy’s text stared up at me: Dude, major raid on Death Knell. You gotta get on.

  Don’t you have homework? I texted back.

  Screw it. Death Knell, man.

  Alright, logging in now.

  I pulled my laptop onto the bed and punched a few keys. It would feel good to kill things—at least this time, it wasn’t in real life. I was grateful for that.

  Chapter 4

  Abby Girl: Serious question time.

  Jo-Jo: If this is about pineapple and pizza again…

  Abby Girl: No. If Lincoln hadn’t died, do you think America would be a different place?

  Jo-Jo: This U.S. studying has gone on long enough. We should go dancing, instead.

  Abby Girl: Not this time, buddy. I have an essay to write. Compare and contrast Abraham Lincoln and Ulysses S. Grant as presidents.

  Jo-Jo: Grant was a president? The guy on the $50 bill?

  Abby Girl: are you kidding me?

  Jo-Jo: I always fall asleep in history. Mr. Worsham is boring as hell.

  Abby Girl: Answer the question, jerk face.

  Jo-Jo: Okay, boss. No, I think Lincoln would have been a disaster for us.

  Abby Girl: Why?

  Jo-Jo: He liked war.

  Abby Girl: He didn’t have a choice.

  Jo-Jo: That doesn’t change the fact.

  “Are you sure you have the Tylenol?” I asked Joey for the third time. “And her sippy cup!”

  “Yes, and yes,” he responded.

  “There’s more sippy cups in the cupboard. And for lunch make sure she eats what I put on the list.”

  “I know, soup and soft foods, on the divider plate.” He held up the can of peaches and the chicken noodle.

  “Oh! Maybe Pedialyte. I don’t want her to get dehydrated. There’s some in the pantry, just in case. Mix it with apple juice, if she is sick again. Joey? Are you alright?”

  He stood in my living room, noticing the picture above the fireplace. He frowned, his lip trembling slightly. “Evan,” he said finally.

  “Daddy,” Zoey said, pointing from her vantage in the kitchen.

  Joey looked at me.

  “It’s alright,” I said softly. I had done my share of crying—it wouldn’t bring him back, I knew that.

  “You look happy.”

  “We were.” I sighed. “At least, for the most part. Are you sure you’re alright today?”

  He turned toward me, a sad smile on his face. “Yes.”

  “You sure?”

  “Just go to class!” Joey said, pushing me out the door.

  Zoey was still fastened in her high chair, enjoying cereal and munching happily. I blew her a kiss. “Be good for Uncle Joey, ‘kay, sweetie pie?”

  “Bye, Mommy!” She went back to throwing her cereal on the kitchen floor.

  I hu
rried out the door, hoisting my book bag as I slid into the car and headed to campus.

  9am: She okay?

  Joey: She’s fine.

  Meetings plagued me for the first three hours of the day.

  11am: How’s everything there?

  Joey: Gave her Tylenol, she drank some Pedialyte. We watched three hours of some bubble show before she passed out. You owe me, Abster.

  Then some routine attendance to catch up, lunch at my desk, with my phone nearby.

  12pm: How’s Zoey?

  Joey: We just finished lunch. Going down for a nap now. She looks better.

  Finally, my afternoon class. My teaching Zen reappeared, and I calmly worked them through the first day assignments.

  3pm: OMW

  Joey: YOU DIDN’T TELL ME THEY POOP THIS MUCH.

  I sat in my car before leaving class. I stared at his text and started to laugh. I could just imagine the look on his face, changing my daughter. What is this? What is that? Why is there so much? He would be disgusted, amused, and freaking out.

  For the first time in a year, I stopped at the store, shopped for a few minutes blessedly childless, grabbed a coffee, and hurried home, a smile on my face the entire time.

  Joey greeted me in the driveway. “Where were you?”

  “It occurred to me that when we watched our sisters they were fully potty trained,” I said, laughing, as I reached for the groceries in the back seat.

  “You didn’t warn me, at all.” He glared at me from the porch, his arms crossed.

  I shook my head. “I guess you never understand until you’re a parent.”

  He opened the door and I followed him in. “I guess not. You owe me, Abby.”

  I chuckled, ignoring him for the moment. Zoey was playing with a wooden puzzle in the living room but leapt to her feet and rushed into my arms when she saw me. I picked her up and swung her gently. “Do you feel better, honey?”

  “Better!”

  I touched the back of my hand to her forehead. It felt slightly warm, but not as hot and feverish as it had been last night, or even this morning.