Whiskey Lullaby

by Stevie J. Cole

  I will forever hate that I was so weak for you, but I was only weak because I loved you. Despite it all.

  I’ll always love you.

  Hannah

  Guilt tugged at my conscience. Taking a seat, I placed her letters face down on the table. I scrubbed my hand over my jaw, remembering… what sucked was the memory of our last kiss. How her eyes filled with tears, and she looked at me like I was everything she ever wanted and hated all at the same time.

  I promised her I’d never hurt her, but I did.

  Didn’t say goodbye. We didn’t say goodbye.

  3

  Hannah

  Summer 2015

  The ER in that little hospital was crazy that night. A chainsaw accident. A stab wound. Two wrecks and more cardiac arrests than I wanted to count. Influxes like that were the norm in Fort Lauderdale where I’d done my preceptorship—big city, lots of patients. Rockford’s population barely tipped over four hundred, so it was unexpected, to say the least. Rockford, Alabama. I’m back in Rockford… I never expected to come back home. At least not to live, but sometimes, well, life throws you curveballs. I’ll admit, there was a certain comfort in being home. I just wished I’d come home under different circumstances—any other circumstances.

  I finished up Ms. Thompson’s discharge sheet and stepped into the hall just as a gurney with a man covered in blood and gasping for breath whizzed toward the OR. Although I didn’t know him, my stomach knotted because that man was someone’s world, and I doubted he’d make it. Losing your world couldn’t be easy.

  At the time, I’d only been a nurse for a little over a month, but I thought the emotions of it all would wane over time. They hadn’t. Not in the slightest.

  “Hannah.” Meg grabbed my elbow and yanked me around the corner. She swatted her platinum blonde hair away from her eyes but didn’t say anything. Just attempted to drag me down the hall.

  “What are you doing?” I asked. The doors from the ambulance bay swung open. Medics pushed another gurney through the doorway, and she tugged on my arm again, but it was too late. I had already seen Max’s bloodied face. Max Summers, my ex, the boy that taught me how pretty lies could be, was laid out on the stretcher. His eyes swollen, and he clutched at his side, groaning with each breath. He didn’t notice me, and that was probably best.

  “Shit,” Meg huffed, dragging me to the side of the corridor. “I was trying to keep you away from that shitshow.”

  Shrugging, I pretended to pull at an imaginary string on my scrubs. “It’s fine.”

  “You never get over your first love, no matter how much of a dick he was.”

  “I didn’t love him.” How could you love a guy that texted you saying you were his world while he literally had his dick in another girl?

  One of Meg’s perfectly sculpted brows arched. Her lips kicked up on one side. “Mmhmm.”

  “What did he do this time? Get in a fight?” I asked, already fully aware that was the only logical answer.

  “Of course, but this time, he got his ass kicked.” There was an upbeat vibrato to her voice, like she wanted to pat the back of whoever tore into Max. “I’m sure he deserved it.”

  “Oh, I’m sure.”

  We walked down the hall, past Miss Smith sitting in a wheelchair by the nurses’ station. Miss Smith grinned. “Good to see you home, Hannah.”

  “It’s good to be home.” I lied. It wasn’t good.

  “See, it’s not so bad being back home, right?” Meg nudged me. “I mean, I’m sure you’ve spent half the night catching up with people that have come in.”

  “I’ve known every patient I’ve treated, that has to be a HIPPA violation or something.”

  “Nah, now, going out and blabbing that Britney Swinson shuffled in with a case of the clap for the third time this year— that’s a HIPPA violation.”

  I swiped a hand down my face. “Meg…”

  “I’m joking.” She laughed. “Maybe…” She flashed that Miss America smile that has gotten her out of more tickets than I can count. And let me just say, that smile was deceiving. Meg McKinney was anything but a pageant queen. Momma always called her rough around the edges. She was the girl in high school that hiked her skirt up and bent at the waist when she dropped her pencil so the boys could get a nice view of her Victoria Secret panties. She considered boys a pastime while I considered them a nuisance, which is why people never understood why she and the preacher’s daughter were friends. But there’s a lot more to people than the things they disagree on…

  One of the residents walked by with his shoulders back and head held high in that “I got a chip on my shoulder” way. Meg jerked her chin in his direction. “Look at his ass, Hannah.”

  I took a fleeting glance before grabbing my badge and walking to one of the time clocks by the restrooms. “Not that impressive.”

  “Are you kidding me? How many doctors have you seen with a butt like that?”

  “I don’t really keep track.”

  “That’s a shame.” She was still busy watching the man walk down the hall.

  “Alright, well, my shift ended ten minutes ago, so. . .” I swiped my ID card through the slot, watching the little green light blink.

  “You at work tomorrow?” Meg asked.

  “Yep. Three twelves this week.”

  “See you tomorrow then.” She waved before grabbing a chart and disappearing into one of the rooms.

  I stopped outside the doors to the waiting room, squirting hand sanitizer into my hand while the automatic doors slowly open. Mr. Brenner, my old high school teacher, waved from one of the plastic waiting room chairs. I waved back before I slipped outside into the muggy night air. Alabama heat has a habit of wrapping around you like a wool blanket. Uncomfortable and unbearably stuffy.

  Very little had changed in that little town since I’d left two years ago. Unfortunately, it seemed the only thing that had changed was the reason I was home.

  ______

  The light to the front porch was on when I pulled down the gravel drive and parked next to Daddy’s F-150. After I cut the engine, I sat in the dark with my heart hammering against my ribs.

  All day, I had been with sick people. I watched three people die, but all that meant was that I was used to death—not immune to it. It’s hard to watch someone suffer, but watching your mother suffer…

  You can’t avoid this, Hannah. Taking a breath, I pushed open the car door to the distinct hum of cicadas. Sampson, my brother’s hound dog, came bolting off the porch, his ears waving behind him like a tattered flag, barking.

  “It’s just me, shhh!” I told him before he jumped up, placed his paws against my legs, and licked my hand. “Why are you outside, anyway?”

  He followed me up the old wooden steps of the wrap around porch. I swatted the moths away from the porch light before I opened the screen door. Momma always hated when those things flew inside. The door was barely opened before Sampson wriggled between my legs and the doorjamb and scurried inside.

  It was past midnight, so I tried to be quiet as I tiptoed up the stairs, but that farmhouse was built in the 1800s and half of the steps creaked and groaned under my weight. The door to my parents’ bedroom was still cracked. Out of habit, I glanced in on my way down the hall. Daddy had Momma’s old, wooden rocker pulled up beside the bed. One of his weathered hands clasped Momma’s hand while the other swiped away his tears. His head was bowed, and I was certain he was praying for a miracle, but I unfortunately knew what the results of the tests she’d had the week before meant. And it was not good. After I passed my brother’s door, I slipped into mine.

  When I flipped the light on, the bright pink walls nearly blinded me. I thought this was the most awesome color when I was fifteen, not so much at the age of twenty. Daddy offered to redo my room when I moved back to help out, but I didn’t see the point. He had better things to do than tone down this abysmal color.

  I dropped my purse to the floor and flopped down on the bed, still in my scrubs as I stare
d up at the tiny glow in the dark stars stuck to the ceiling.

  Mother was only fifty-one. Bo was only sixteen. I choked on a sob before I gave into it all and let go.

  I didn’t know how to lose her.

  4

  Noah

  The paint on the cinder block wall behind the counter was peeling. You’d think Rockford’s finest would have taken a little more pride in their jail.

  Buzz. I glanced over my shoulder at the automatic doors sliding open. An officer escorted a woman in nothing but a thin, white t-shirt inside the jail. No bra. Possibly no underwear... Jesus, I’m ready to get the hell out of here.

  The scrawny policeman behind the counter snatched a piece of paper from the printer. “Court date’s set for August ninth,” he said, jotting something on the bottom of the page before sliding it across the counter. “This says you’ve been charged with domestic violence, class one.” He tapped the pen over a line. “Sign here.”

  I took the pen and scrawled my name. He tore off the top sheet and handed the yellow copy to me. “Go on now,” he said.

  Another buzzer sounded and the metal door beside his desk slid open with a loud click. Exactly what I needed, a domestic violence charge. That charge was a load of shit. Max Summers deserved every bruise, every broken rib I gave him. There was no respect for vigilante justice these days.

  The second I stepped into the lobby of the station, someone clapped. I glanced around, and my dumbass friend, Trevor, was leaning against the far wall by a vending machine, grinning like an idiot and still clapping. His blonde hair looked like it hadn’t seen a brush in days, and from the state of the circles under his eyes, I assumed he’d stayed out drinking after I’d gotten arrested. The few clerks in the room stared at him. I just shook my head, punching him on the shoulder when I passed by. “Come on,” I said, walking toward the exit.

  “You’re welcome, asswipe,” he said as we stepped outside.

  “Thanks.”

  The thick summer heat clung to my skin like cellophane, and I squinted against the early morning sun.

  “How was it?” he asked.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah,” he laughed. “I’ve never actually been booked. You’re legit as it gets now, all you need is a shitty prison tattoo.”

  The alarm to his BMW chirped, the taillights blinked, and the locks clicked. I wish I could say he wasn’t serious, but he was. “You should have been in jail at least four times by now,” I reminded him.

  Trevor is what most people would call a shithead, and I guess that was why I was friends with him. His dad was the DA of Montgomery County, hence why he’d never actually gone to jail. He still lived with his parents. He had no aim in life—not that I did, but I came from a less than desirable background. No one expected me to do anything worthwhile with my life. Trevor was actually smart, had a scholarship to some school in Tennessee, but he just basically pissed his talent away. Said he couldn’t be “fucked” with college.

  “Nah, now I can just say my friend’s an ex-con.” He grinned. “Gives me all the street cred I need.”

  “Yes, because you need as much street cred as you can get in Sylacauga?” I climbed into his car and dragged my hand down my face. I was tired, hungover, and my jaw still swollen from where Max had gotten a few good shots in on me.

  Trevor opened his console, grabbed my phone and truck keys, and tossed them to me. “Oh, they impounded your truck.”

  “Aw, that’s bullshit!” I glanced at my watch. It’s already eight-thirty. God, Grandma’s going to beat me if I make her late to church. “Can I borrow your truck?” I asked, switching my phone on.

  “Sure.” The deep rumble of the suped-up engine vibrated through the seat when Trevor cranked the engine.

  We pulled out of the parking lot while my phone loaded. The distinct ping, ping, ping of texts fired off back to back. I clicked on the string of messages from my boss:

  Where are you?

  Late again?

  Call me. Now!

  Don’t worry about coming in tomorrow. You’re fired.

  I’ll admit, I may have been late a time or two to a paint job, but I always did a good job and finished it at least half a day earlier than quoted, so I felt like that was bullshit. Dickey had been looking for a reason to cut me loose for months because his ex-girlfriend had a thing for me. She told me they’d broken up; she was five-ten and blonde. Fake tits. The whole lot. A guy doesn’t pass that up, especially not after half a case of beer. “Great,” I mumbled, tossing my head against the headrest.

  “What?”

  “Dickey fired me.”

  “Of course he did. Dickey’s a dick.” Trevor chuckled, but I couldn’t seem to find the humor in it. Not that morning.

  ______

  Blue skies. Bright sun. It may only be nine in the morning, but the heat was already radiating up from the asphalt. I cranked the AC to full blast when I turned beside the mailbox with the wooden cross nailed to the post. Halfway up the drive Grandma’s prized chickens stood pecking at the gravel. I blew the horn, and they ran off into the yard with their wings flapping, feathers going everywhere. I hated those damn chickens.

  When I pulled in front of the house, Grandma was waiting on the porch with a fan and her Bible, scowling at me. Yep, she’s going to kill me. I put the truck in park and left the engine running while I hopped out.

  “You’re late,” she said, eyeing me as she shoved her fan into her purse. I knew she saw the bruises on my face.

  “I know, I know.” I stepped onto the porch and held her elbow to help her down.

  Her eyes narrowed accusingly. “Where’s your truck?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Mmhmm. I don’t like to be late to church, Noah. I raised you better than that.”

  She raised me better than that and better than spending a night in the county jail…

  “I had to borrow Trevor’s truck.” I was sure as shit not telling her the real reason I was late. She may have been old and frail looking, but she was mean when she wanted to be. The one thing I didn’t want to do was let her down.

  She swatted at me when I tried to help her into the truck, telling me she could manage on her own.

  When we got to the end of the drive, I put my blinker on to turn left.

  “Turn right,” she said.

  “Your church is left, Grandma.”

  “I know. I said turn right, boy.” She shot a stern look at me. “Turn right!”

  Shrugging, I did as told and she settled back into her seat, clutching her purse and Bible. “I told you I don’t like being late to church…” she grumbled, turning the radio to some Gospel station.

  I came to a four-way stop across from Robert Murdey’s cornfield, the engine idling. She tapped on the window. “Now, take another right.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To Rockford.”

  “Why in the—”

  She whacked the back of my head. “Boy, don’t you swear around me on God’s Day.” She huffed. “When you get into town take a left at the red light and go on down a ways until you see the rock church. Their service starts at ten. I told you, I ain’t gonna be late.” She cocked one of her drawn-on eyebrows. There was no arguing when she cocked her eyebrow. None!

  I drove along the road deep in thought. I’d lost my job and that shitty town afforded little opportunity. That assault charge sure was going to be a nice little blemish on my already less than impressive resume.

  The truck sputtered when I slowed down for the only red light in town and took another right.

  Grandma shifted next to me, an unsettled tension bristling from her. “Now, you wanna confess your sins to me or to Jesus?”

  The tiny rock church came into view, and I cleared my throat before I pulled into the gravel parking lot. “What sins?”

  “You tell me. Going to jail…” I glanced at her and she frowned. “Just like your daddy. Mm-mm-mm.” She shook her head.

  A sho
rt jolt of adrenaline jumped through me right before guilt. Guilt that I let her down, that she’d compared me to my worthless father. “Grandma, I—”

  “Dickey called me this morning. Apologized to me that he was gonna have to fire you.”

  “It’s fine, Grandma.” I cut the engine. “I’ll find another job.”

  “Hrmph.” She stiffened a little before opening her door. “I’m gettin’ too old for this mess. I tell you, between your parents and you, I’m surprised the good Lord ain’t seen fit to carry me home yet.” She reached over and fiddled with the collar of my shirt. “But I love you, regardless if you’re a hoodlum or not.”

  Before I could get out of the truck, she was already halfway across the small parking lot. A man in a plaid dress shirt and overalls held the door open for her and she bustled right on in. I thanked him when I stepped inside to find she’d already taken a seat in one of the pews at the back. I tried to block out the creepy-ass electric organ music that was way too loud for the little chapel. At least at Grandma’s church, they just stuck to an upright grand.

  Church… I came every Sunday, but only because Grandma refused to drive, and she insisted that I stay. I guess she thought the words would sink in eventually. It wasn’t likely, but hey, it did force me to pray once a week. Every time I walked through the doors, I prayed the church wouldn’t go up in flames.

  The small congregation shuffled to their seats. People coughed and asked how everyone’s momma was doing. I just leaned back in the pew and rolled my eyes. A group of girls passed by, their eyes trained on me. See, that was the thing about small towns. Everyone noticed when there was someone new in their mix. I smiled. Three of them blushed and giggled, the fourth one gave me a once over. Oh, she must be one of Rockford’s Elite. The Gucci slung over her shoulder, her tailored dress and manicured nails screamed little rich girl. With practiced ease, she stuck her nose in the air and rolled her eyes at me, so I winked at her just to be a dick. Her cheeks flushed before she turned around and strutted off to her pew. Gucci Girl looked at me like I was beneath her, but the irony was: I could most definitely have had her beneath me if I’d wanted, and I took great satisfaction in that.