With a break in the conversation, Melody stands, announcing: “I’ll clear the dishes,” but Mom argues with her to sit down, insisting on doing the dirty work.
“Really, I could use a minute to clear my head,” Melody continues.
Mom seems taken back by Melody, pushing back and concedes. “Of course, sweetie.”
Melody scurries around the table, grabbing as many empty plates as she can manage to stack up on top of each other.
I should stay here and mind my own business. I should. But I’d be rude if I didn’t offer to help in the kitchen, especially after my bathroom jokes earlier.
I excuse myself from the table, trying to be inconspicuous to avoid any looks or chit chat behind my back from our mothers. They have been eyeballing both Melody and me all night as if they’re trying to trap us into their secret plan of matchmaking. I’m no stranger to flattery, and the way Mrs. Quinn was talking to me in the hospital last night; it was clear she and Mom had discussed a future unbeknownst to Melody and me.
When I make my way into the kitchen, I find Melody elbow deep in the sink full of water and suds, but I also see a newer-looking dishwasher right beside her. “Is the dishwasher broken?”
“No,” she says, quickly responding.
“Cleaning dishes always calms me down too,” I tell her. It’s a lie, but I’m waiting for a look to call me out on my fib because I don’t think any person in the world enjoys washing dishes.
“Oh, yeah?” she asks, squinting an eye at me.
“No, I hate dishes, which is the reason why I opt for the dishwasher.”
Melody continues scrubbing at the hand-painted plate, and I consider warning her about scraping the China too hard as it could damage the finish but I don’t think it would end well for me if I said anything like that.
“Did you lose your girlfriend—Parker’s mom? Is that why you understand the pain of losing someone?”
We hadn’t talked too much about pain, but I suppose the few things I said might have been more on the lines of advice than empathy. I’ve seen more death than anyone should see in a lifetime, but I can’t compare any of that to losing a parent. It’s still unimaginable to me, even after everything I’ve lost.
“Parker’s mom wasn’t my girlfriend. Abby, she was my best friend. We served in the Marines together. Neither of us had many other friends, so we became close and ended up renting an apartment together off base for a few years.” Our story is not so simple, but the details leading up to us living together are not appropriate for tonight, or anytime soon most likely.
Melody continues her effort of cleaning the paint off the white plate and tilts her head to the side. “Guys and girls can never just be friends, right?” She’s really pressing for information, but yet, seems so completely unavailable at the same time. I have never been so thrown off by a woman in my life compared to the way Melody manages to toy with my head.
“No, Abby and I were never more than friends.”
“Oh,” she says, finally placing the dish down on the drying rack.
I take a hand towel from the counter and dry the dish. “A few years after Parker was born, Abby was killed—”
I knew I shouldn’t have said what I did the second the words left my mouth. It was too soon for Melody, and Parker still suffers deeply from the loss of Abby. The emotions never get old for my litle girl and the pain never ceases. The wound is as fresh today as it was when she was almost too young to understand what forever meant.
Her squeak from the doorway feels like a slap of cold air, reminding me of why I don’t talk about what happened to Abby, not with Parker in the same house or within a mile radius for that matter.
“Oh my God, I am so sorry,” Melody says, covering her hands over her mouth.
“No, no, it’s fine.” I run to Parker and fall to my knees in front of her, trying my hardest to stop the tears I assume are threatening to pour out of her big blue eyes. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” I whisper in Parker’s ear. I lift her into my arms, and she places her head down on my shoulder.
“Can I do something?” Melody offers, sounding distraught and broken from what she witnessed. I screwed up big time on so many levels tonight.
“Will you let everyone know Parker isn’t feeling well, and I have to get her home?”
I don’t wait for Melody to respond. I run toward the front door, stepping into my boots and grabbing our coats and Parker’s boots on the way out. I don’t want her to break down, not now, not here. It’s not the time.
We make it outside when the tears start to fall one by one. “I’m sorry, daddy. I can’t stop it—” she says, breathlessly.
“Let it out, Park. It’s okay. It’s always okay to cry.”
“I’m sorry we have to leave,” she says, breathing heavily.
“Look at me,” I tell her, pulling her away so she can see my face. “You have nothing to be sorry about, but I need you to calm down a little. You’re breathing too fast.” There’s no turning back once we get to this point. It’s out of Parker’s control. When she becomes upset, she hyperventilates. She was diagnosed with asthma last year, mostly just stressed induced, but Parker gets stressed out easily. I get the truck door open and sit her down on the passenger side seat, reaching into my pocket for her inhaler. “Try to take a deep breath.”
She can’t so I do my best to guide her through the attacks, trying to help her stay calm and talk her through something I can’t control. Every single time this happens, she stares at me with wide eyes, terrified as she clutches her chest, and I want to die because this look—the look of unrelentless fear has scarred me for life.
* * *
Five months into my tour in Afghanistan and our umpteenth ambush, I was poaching an abandoned alley with one of my guys, Dave. He was one of our communications guys we pulled into the current mission of clearing the area because of the amount of men we had lost over the previous days. I was seconds away from calling the scene “clear,” when the ping of a bullet zinged through the air. One shot, one hit, and Dave hit the ground clutching the upper left region of his chest. My instincts tell me to drop to Dave’s side and press my hand into the gunshot wound before he bleeds out. It would have allowed the enemy free range to continue shooting his weapon. I hold my rifle up, spotting the guy hiding behind a corroded stone wall that looks to have been hit by a recent explosion. It’s about fifty yards ahead. I steady my breaths, trying to put aside the thought that one of my guys is likely dying beside me. I locate the enemy in my sights just as he is reloading his weapon. I fire and hit him with my first shot. He’s gone.
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 tri
ggers 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.
Bourbon Nights (The Barrel House Series Book 3) Page 11