The Barrel House Series: Boxed Set: Bourbon Love Notes, Bourbon on the Rocks, Bourbon Nights, Bourbon Fireball
Page 59
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 before 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.
“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 that 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.
The nights aren’t filled with potential enemies anymore, but the fear is forever burned into my brain, and my mind isn’t capable of handling the necessary reassurance that I'm safe, not when I can’t see beyond a wall of darkness.
It’s human instinct to close our eyes when afraid, but since lowering my lids means that I’m not aware of what’s going on around me, it always seems like a problem. I take my phone out of the cup holder and brighten the screen, offering myself a false sense of safety.
Then the heart attack comes.
Blinding lights flash through my window, I drop the phone as my eyes widen toward the speeding vehicle heading toward me at me at what looks like a hundred miles per hour. Just as quickly as the onset of panic hits me, abrupt darkness returns. My heart pounds, my hands clench the wheel, and sweat beads on the back of my neck as I watch one of Melody’s neighbors pull into their driveway down the street.
I shake my head as if I can toss away the thoughts that just tore my insides apart, but I have to pull it together and man up. The mild orange glow of the sconce hanging from the front overhang is bright enough to light up the front steps and might be a better place to wait out the half-hour I’ve allotted myself.
Once situated on the cement stairs, less than a minute passes when another vehicle turns down the street. The panic doesn’t hit me as bad this time since I’m beneath the porch light. I’m relieved to see Melody pull into the driveway, but I’m not sure she has noticed me sitting here yet.
After all this, I’ll end up scaring the shit out of her, which is the last thing I want to do.
I wonder about her thoughts as she steps out of her father’s truck she’s been driving around. With a glance over at my truck, then to me on the front steps, she finds me waiting and walks in my direction, or the direction of her front door. Maybe she’ll walk right by me. If I was her, I might be tempted to do so at this point of the day.
“Hey,” she says. She doesn’t sound unhappy to see me, but maybe she’s good at being nice.
As she approaches, I stand up and drop my phone into my pocket. “How are you doing?”
Melody stops before the front steps, and her gaze falls to her shaking hands as she scratches at her knuckle. “Do you want the truth or the answer I’d give a random, passing person on the street?” Her question is filled with a darkness I wasn’t expecting.
“How about, I know you’re not okay,” I reply.
Melody’s jaw grinds back and forth; her cheeks shift from side to side before looking up at me. “We’ll go with that response.” She pulls a key out of her pocket, then drops her hands down to her side. “Why are you here?”
Why am I here? To check on you. To talk to you. Is it selfish or selfless? I don’t even know. I want to help, but is it helping me more than her? No. No one was there for me when I lost Abby. No one. Unfortunately, it was common to lose people we knew who were on deployment, but Abby and I weren’t married or in a relationship, so the typical empathy and spousal check-ins weren’t a thing for me. Plus, I told everyone I was fine, and why shouldn’t they have believed me? I was good at lying. In reality, I was a mess and broken in every way from losing my best friend. It didn’t matter if I was in love with her or if she was a girlfriend, or what sounds like less, just a friend; I loved her like family, and losing her hurt like hell. What was worse was being able to imagine exactly what she went through in the moments leading up to her death because I had witnessed it before.
“I wish someone had been there for me back when I was going through a rough time and could have used a shoulder to cry on,” I explain. Melody doesn’t respond to my comment. Instead, she climbs up the steps, passes me, and unlocks the door where Benji greets her. “Want me to take him out for you?” I offer because it would be the only real selfless thing I could do at the moment.
She scratches behind Benji’s ears and mutters a slew of gibberish to him. “I could use a walk. We can both go.”
I’m surprised to hear her response, but grateful at the same time. “Of course.” I step into the house, basically uninvited to wait for Melody as she places down the bags she carried into the house. While hanging up her purse, she spots the bag I’ve been holding in my hand.
“What’s in the bag?”
“Something,” I say, smirking to lighten the mood a touch.
“Something you need to take with you on the walk?” When she asks the question in that way, I real
ize she might think I have something ridiculous in the bag, but I’m going to go out on a limb and assume she knows me better than that, even though some might say, she hardly knows me at all now.
“Yes,” I say.
Melody attaches the leash to Benji’s red collar and takes a couple of steps toward me, hinting that I should exit the house. I open the door for her and wait until she’s down the front steps before closing the storm door behind me.
Benji heads right for the front lawn, forcing us to pause and wait. I’d rather she speaks first so I don’t ask something that could make her day worse, but silence lingers for a long minute before she starts to talk.
“I’m sorry again about last night,” she says.
I throw my head back, distraught that thoughts of last night are still tormenting her overloaded mind. “Please, do not worry about Parker or me right now. You have more than enough to think about.”
“She’s a little girl,” Melody responds, “and she lost her mother, so I have some understanding—maybe a lot of understanding.”
The last thing I want to do is get into detail about my misery with someone who is already going through enough pain, but she’s staring at me with more than just a question swimming through her mind. Her eyes are demanding more, and it’s enough to make me talk. “To make a long story short,” I begin. “Parker’s mom got pregnant, found out two months later, and had no clue who the father was. She wasn’t the type to hang around the men who disappear after a couple of dates, but it happened. Abby was terrified, had no clue how she would raise a baby while enlisted in the Marines, so I told her she should move in with me, and I’d help her in any way I could.”