The Barrel House Series: Boxed Set: Bourbon Love Notes, Bourbon on the Rocks, Bourbon Nights, Bourbon Fireball

by Ryan, Shari J.

  I tend to Dave, taking in the listless look in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he mutters through a whisper.

  “Don’t say that,” I tell him, pressing my hand into the wound on his chest.

  “I—” he mutters.

  “Medic!” I shout. “Come on, buddy, stay with me.”

  He can’t. His eyes lose their focus as he struggles to take one last breath, but he had already taken it. Just like that, one more life gone. As I hunch over his body, closing his eyelids with the palm of my hand, I wonder what we’re really fighting for. We’re all people, all sharing one planet, so how did we end up here?

  * * *

  “Dad, I’m okay,” Parker says, shaking my shoulders.

  “Dad. Snap out of it.”

  My eyes refocus on her little face, the face that’s concerned about me rather than herself or the sadness she was feeling. “I’m sorry, Parker.”

  14

  There is no instruction manual on how to desensitize a child, despite my worldly advice to Brody. I don’t know if Parker handles the loss of her mother normally because I have nothing to use in comparison. She was only three when Abby died, and if someone asked me back then about how far back a child could remember, I likely would have said ten or older. Never did I think that a child would retain memories from that far back. I don’t remember anything from that time in my life unless I happen to see a photo which triggers a memory.

  Parker remembers Abby. She recalls the day Abby left for her tour to Afghanistan. There are no photos, and we don’t speak about the day, but she remembers parts that I can’t—things that a grown man didn’t even notice.

  We were in Abby’s SUV, and I was driving her to the departure location on base. She was quiet in the front seat, and Parker was staring out the window from her car seat, positioned directly behind Abby. I know she isn’t okay so asking her would just open the wound already in progress. “We will be okay. We’ll stay up late, eat a package of cookies every night, drink too much soda, and have dance parties at least twice a day,” I tell Abby, trying to ease her nerves.

  “Okay, Mr. Routine,” she responds. “You make my habitual schedule sound like child's play. Plus, you would never buy cookies or soda. Your muscles would be angry at you, and your time at the gym would all be for nothing.”

  Is that what she thinks of me? A strict meathead? I know it isn’t what she thinks. She’s just trying to get under my skin. I don’t make comments about my diet, but I am cautious about what I eat, and it isn’t because of my workout regimen. My stomach and esophagus aren’t up to par and the heartburn from eating crap is unbearable. “We got this. I just want you to keep that in mind.”

  “I don’t doubt you, nor will I ever,” Abby says. It may not be doubt she’s feeling, but whatever it is, I can’t fix it with words. She has gone on week-long training sessions, and I’ve taken care of Parker, so I know she’s comfortable leaving her with me, but heading to a battle zone is different than training. I know what goes through my head when I leave for a tour. I have to tell myself I might not come back, and that it’s okay because I’m doing my duty, serving and protecting my country. If I don’t come back, it will be because I have fought defending those who cannot defend themselves, and there is dignity in dying for a cause. It’s a hard kind of truth to convince myself of but it’s the only way to handle the fear. Abby won’t be on the front lines, but it doesn’t lessen the risk or danger. When a unit deploys, it’s a gamble for everyone involved.

  I pull up along the line of other cars, families saying goodbye to their loved ones as the departing Marines board the bus. Abby doesn’t move even after the ignition goes silent.

  “You’ve done this before,” I remind her.

  “It’s different this time,” she says without taking a minute to think. It is different this time. The stakes are higher. She has a daughter waiting for her to return.

  “I know.” I open the door and tend to the trunk where her pack is, letting Abby gather her thoughts and pull herself together. By the time I’m closing the trunk, she’s taking Parker out of her car seat and hoisting her up on her hip.

  Parker’s dark-blonde, curled pigtails are flying in the wind, and she’s staring at Abby as if she is an unexplored galaxy appearing before her for the first time.

  “I’ll only be gone a few months,” Abby tells Parker. “I’ll be calling you and writing you letters that Brett will read to you, and you know I will think about this little face every single second I’m not here because you are my world.” Abby pinches Parker’s chin and kisses her nose. “I just have to leave you here where it’s safe.”

  “Don’t go,” Parker mumbles softly while running her fingers over the staff sergeant patch on Abby’s arm.

  “It’s my job, sweetie, and I know it makes no sense to you right now, but I don’t want you to think I am leaving by choice. I have to go. It’s my job.”

  Parker rests her head on Abby’s shoulder. I doubt she grasps the concept of time or how long her mom will be gone because it’s too much for a child to understand. It’s hard to know exactly how much Parker comprehends, but I hope more than anything, it isn’t too much.

  Abby presses her hand against the back of Parker’s head and kisses her again. “I love you so much … more than you’ll ever know.”

  I rest Abby’s pack down next to her legs and run my hand over Parker’s back. Abby looks up at me with tears in her eyes, which makes my heart ache. Abby doesn’t cry; she hardly shows emotion at all. I know she’s crashing inside, so I wrap my arms around her and Parker, hugging them both tightly. “Everything will be okay.”

  Abby bites down on her bottom lip and clenches her eyes for a short second. “If things don’t end up okay …” Abby squeezes Parker into her chest as another tear falls from her face. “Will you—”

  “Parker will never leave my side. I will care for her the same way you do, always.” The knot in my throat makes breathing and speaking hard, but these are words Abby already knows. It’s just a reminder.

  “I updated my will,” Abby says.

  “I know.” We talked about it many times over the last couple of years.

  “Brett, I don’t know if I can ever thank you enough for being the person you are in our lives, one without strings attached or a label—one without merit. I didn’t know someone like you existed, so selfless and heroic, and I’m not sure what I did to deserve you in my life, but I thank God for you every night—always have, always will.”

  “A bond between friends is a relationship we choose, Abbs and I don’t see my role as heroic or without merit. I love you two as if you are my family, and even though we’re not related by blood, I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “Thank you,” Abby utters.

  “Hey, we’re going to see you later, okay? No more tears. This isn’t goodbye,” I say. I’m not sure if I’m giving her peace of mind or trying to convince myself nothing will happen to her. I know better.

  Abby breaks our stare and rests her cheek on Parker’s head. “You are a part of me, and I’m a part of you,” she says.

  The other Marines are boarding the bus, and I know our time is up. Abby glances over her shoulder, knowing her job is calling. She pries Parker’s grip from her upper body and hands her over to me. Parker, who is normally the best behaved child I’ve ever seen, breaks into a tantrum, screaming, crying, kicking, and hitting. I’m holding her tightly, trying to soothe her so Abby doesn’t have to leave knowing how upset Parker is, but nothing I do seems to work.

  “It’s okay,” Abby says. “She feels something she doesn’t understand, and the only way to cope is to cry. Don’t worry, she’ll be okay.”

  Abby kisses Parker’s bobbing head once more and swings her pack onto her back, turning away quickly as a hitch bellows from her throat. I turn Parker to face the parking lot rather than the bus. I don’t want her to watch Abby leave. As the bus pulls away, I watch Abby’s hand press against the window above her seat. I wave in return, then
see Parker’s hand wave too. She twisted around just in time to watch the bus leave. “Bye, mama,” Parker says calmly as if her ten-minute tantrum never happened.

  “She’ll be back,” I tell her.

  “No,” Parker says. “No more, Mama.”

  “Talk to me, Parker. What are you feeling?” I ask, staring her straight in the eyes as we remain on the street in front of Melody’s house.

  “I don’t feel anything,” she says. “Are you okay?”

  “I am fine. This isn’t about me, and I know it’s not always true when you say you’re okay.”

  “Do you think Mom knew she wasn’t coming back?”

  I’ve gotten this question from Parker before, but she has asked it in different ways. I sometimes think she wonders if Abby is just lost somewhere and not really gone. “No, I don’t think she thought that way.” Except, when I relive that day, I am certain that something in Abby’s heart knew it was the end and she wasn’t coming back.

  “Do you think if she knew, she would have still left?” Parker continues.

  “Your mom didn’t have a choice. I’ve told you this. When you enlist in the military, you do as you are told, and if you don’t, you can get into a lot of trouble. It’s against the law not to follow orders.”

  “I think she knew,” Parker says. “I could hear it in her voice the day she left. I just didn’t understand why she sounded different.”

  I run my hand down the side of my face, wishing I could take away just a portion of her pain, but without bringing Abby back, there is no way for me to make things better aside from carrying on and being her dad. “I’m sorry you walked in on that conversation between Melody and me,” I tell her.

  “Melody asked,” Parker states. “You answered.”

  “I know it hurts when you hear the answer, though, and I try to keep the explanation to a minimum around you.”

  “You don’t have to, Dad. The more I hear about Mom, the better. She’s a superhero, and I’m proud of her, so it’s good to tell people.”

  “Not when it causes you pain,” I explain.

  Parker looks down at her fingers and intertwines her hands, resting them on her lap. “You aren’t causing me pain. I just miss her.”

  “I understand.” Parker stands up on the passenger seat and climbs into the back, hopping into her booster chair. Miss Independent. She buckles her seatbelt and informs me the discussion is over by staring out the opposite window. Her therapist said it was a coping mechanism, and while everyone has different ways of handling emotions, Parker can apparently walk herself through the steps of pain and grief until she reaches a checkpoint. She then shuts the thoughts off and returns to the current moment, almost as if unscathed. Talking through her feelings isn’t something she enjoys, so I do my best to work around this, letting nothing slip out. By the time we’re home, and she’s settled in bed, Parker appears level-headed and stable. She asks about lunch for tomorrow and requests almond butter and fluff, then reminds me she needs to wear her running shoes instead of boots because she has gym class. I kiss her on the forehead and turn off her bedside lamp. “If you need me, I’ll—”

  “You don’t have to sit in the hallway tonight,” she says.

  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.”