"Well, I’m worried about you. That’s all."
"Why? We don’t know each other, not as adults, not after life has had its way with us both."
Brett seems confused by my comment. His brows furrow, and he tilts his head with a look of question. "We’re both humans. You’re going through something horrible and no one deserves to go through this. I don’t have to know what happened to you every day during the last ten years to feel concern."
His response seems thought out as if the idea of me and my life has crossed his mind. "We all have our crap, right?" I ask.
"We do, and I know life can take a toll sometimes."
"Well, I appreciate your concern. I’m sure I’ll get more rest soon." I take the chance to leave the conversation, though I realize my response is uncaring and possibly rude, I don’t have the right words to reciprocate his kindness. I’d rather eat dinner and go to bed without saying another word if possible. I’m almost positive I won’t be lucky enough.
I’m sitting beside Mom and across from Brett. The others are scattered about in no particular order. Most everyone keeps the conversation light and simple about the weather, some talk of construction on the nearby highway, and bourbon. There is always talk of bourbon, but this is the first time this table has been full without the sight of a bourbon bottle.
"How were sales today?" Mom asks Brett. Mom would never even ask Dad this question. No one had to ask, because Dad would have a full report on the daily sales and stories of various conversations he had with local customers.
"Not bad," he says, peering up at me rather than responding directly to Mom. "We had a bunch of customers impatiently waiting for the Quinn Pine."
"They do every year," Mom says, clearing her throat and taking a bite of the lasagna.
As hard as everyone is trying to keep the conversation moving, it seems everyone is running out of words by the time we were taking our final bites. "I’ll clear the dishes," I tell everyone.
"No, no, allow me," Elizabeth says, following in suit.
"Really, I could use the minute to clear my head.” I smile to prove my honesty.
Elizabeth takes her seat and rests her folded hands down on the table. "Of course, sweetie."
I take my time collecting the plates and shuttling them into the kitchen, lining them up by the sink. This will take me some time; time I can avoid the dull conversations that should be distracting me.
We have a dishwasher, but using it wouldn’t take me long enough, so I soap up the first plate with the sponge. I stare out into the night’s sky through the window over the sink—the same kind of window I had to have in the house Ace bought for us. It reminded me of my childhood when I would help Mom dry dishes before we had a dishwasher. I would watch the trees sway in the wind, sometimes wondering if they were waving at me.
Those trees are bare now, anyway. Even if it wasn’t so dark out, they wouldn’t be waving.
I’m three plates in when Brett takes the dishrag from the oven bar and steals the spot beside me to dry the dishes. "Is the dishwasher broken?" he asks.
"No.” My response sounds too abrupt to avoid questions.
From the corner of my eye, I can see him nod with understanding. "Cleaning dishes always calms me down too." Now I’m giving him a side-stink-eye. Cleaning dishes is not fun or calming. I was just trying to get away from the table.
"Oh yeah?"
"No, I hate dishes," he says. “Which is why I use the dishwasher."
"Did you lose your girlfriend—Parker’s mom? Is that why you understand the pain of losing someone?" My question was blunt and inappropriate for the simple conversations we’ve exchanged these past few days, but the question came out on its own.
"Parker’s mom wasn’t my girlfriend," he says. My assumptions are wrong, and any thought I had of what happened to Parker’s mother might void. There are a million other logical explanations, I’m sure, but none I’ve considered.
"Abby, Parker’s mom, was my best friend. We served in the Marines together. Neither of us had many other friends for whatever reasons, so we became close and ended up renting an apartment together off base for a few years."
"Guys and girls can never just be friends, right?" I ask. The next thought of a possible drunken night leading to a surprise baby enters my head.
"No, Abby and I were never more than friends."
Except for friends with benefits?
"Oh," I say, unsure of what else to say, which is another hint I should take.
"A few years after Parker was born, Abby was killed—"
A mild squeak, loud enough to pierce ears, pauses our conversation. Brett and I spin around, finding Parker standing in the kitchen’s entryway. Her eyes fill with tears, and I want to take back every question I’ve asked, every statement I’ve made, every assumption I spoke out loud because this little girl is now in pain—the same pain I’m feeling, but as a grown woman.
"Oh my God, I am so sorry," I tell them both.
"No, no, it’s fine—" Brett says, falling to his knees in front of Park, pulling her into his chest and holding her head against his shoulder. "It’s okay, it’s okay."
"Can I do something?" I offer, my voice shaking, soft, meek. I screwed up.
“Can you let everyone know Parker wasn’t feeling well, and I had to get her home," he says, scooping her up and carrying out of the house without a goodbye to anyone.
My heart is already broken for me, but now, it’s also broken for them.
13
Sleep didn’t come as easily as it did the night before. Even watching the slowly revolving ceiling fan in my room couldn’t bore me to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time.
I may be beyond the point of exhaustion. I didn’t realize there was such a thing.
It doesn’t seem like Mom is doing much better, judging by the sound of pans clanging around in the kitchen. She must be baking another batch of muffins.
I go through the motions of making myself presentable enough to leave the house before ambling down the stairs with the weight of my legs fighting against gravity.
I find Mom whisking, possibly murdering some batter in a metal bowl. "What are you making?" I ask, giving her a kiss on the cheek.
"I don’t even know," she says. "Eggs and sugar right now."
"At least put some vanilla in there too," I say, trying to add a little humor.
"I don’t want to go to sleep, because I don’t want to wake up to a phone call. I don’t want my phone to ring at all, and I’ve considered turning my phone off completely to avoid the inevitable. I have this internal battle tearing me apart, making me debate whether I want to be there when he takes his last breath or if it’s something I shouldn’t have to see. Then I realize how monstrous it would be if I was not there when—"
I take the metal bowl from the tight grip of her hand and the whisk from the other, carefully placing them down on the towel she has laid out on the counter. "We can’t control life or death," I tell her. "It won’t be a decision any of us get to make."
Mom runs her fingers through her messy hair. "Melody, I should have made him go back to the doctor sooner. There would have been time to treat him before his entire body became infected."
I shake my head and place my hands on her frail shoulders. "No, you can’t blame yourself. We all have a last day and it will happen whether or not we try to stop it. This is not something you could have prevented or controlled."
I don’t know where I’m finding the words to comfort her since I haven’t been able to comfort myself, but she needs me, and I must be strong for her.
She's looking me in the eyes, but I don't know if she's digesting my words or picturing her future without Dad like we have all been doing. "I want more time."
"I know.”
Mom takes another dish rag from the counter and wipes her hands off before tossing the rag into the sink. "I need to go shower and get to the hospital," she says.
"I’m going to stop by the shop, check-in, and
head over too."
Mom glances down for a moment, intertwining her fingers to twist her wedding band from side to side. "I don’t want the business to close once he’s gone," she says. "It’s selfish of me, but—"
"I won’t let it, Mom."
"Me neither," she says. "I’ll do whatever I can."
I pull the string of Mom’s apron to loosen the tie, and I lift the material over her head. "I’ll clean this up."
Mom places her hand on my cheek and tries to smile. "I love you," she says.
"I love you," I reply.
As I’m scrubbing the bowl, the memory of last night’s ordeal fills my head. I should have stopped asking questions. Brett’s past is none of my business. I owe him an apology, which is the real reason I want to stop by the shop this morning. It’s not like I’ve been doing anything to help keep the business going. Eventually, I need to figure out how I can step in if I plan to keep the family part of The Barrel House alive.
I don’t even have muffins to bring as an excuse today.
The kitchen is clean when I leave, and the ride is long enough to make me second guess my decision to stop at the shop. I could make things worse with Brett and Parker by apologizing.
I find an empty parking spot across the street from the firehouse and my gaze settles on the bakery sign dangling in the wind. I’m sure they have muffins.
There isn’t a line spilling out the door, which is reason enough to run inside. The small bistro tables are all occupied by local patrons, but I lack the desire to chit chat with old acquaintances, so I hold my sights firm on the lined parchment-paper trays behind the counter—all of them are filled with an assortment of pastries.
"Hey, Mel," I hear from behind.
I can’t avoid people in this small town.
I twist around, finding Erin Daniels seated at a table with another woman who I know, but can’t recall her name. "Oh, hi!" I say, waving, hoping to end the conversation because I know the questions about Dad are coming.
I turn back toward the head of the line but hear the scratching sound of a metal chair moving against the wooden floor. An arm folds around my shoulders. "How are you doing?" Erin asks, her voice so soft no one else hears her question.
I don’t know when the human touch made me want to choke up and cry, but that’s what it seems to do to me now. I pull in a deep breath and release a shuttering exhale. "Not great," I tell her. "It will probably be any day now."
Erin places her hand on her heart. "Oh my God, Mel. I’ve been thinking about you since we ran into each other the other day. I didn’t want to bother you, but I was hoping you were doing okay."
"It’s been tough. I feel like life is spinning out of control at the moment, you know?"
"I don’t know, but I can imagine the pain. I wish I could do something for you."
"I appreciate you asking me how I’m doing. It means a lot," I say, noticing I’m only one person away from the counter.
The person in front of me completes his order, and I’m next, but Erin takes my hand and pulls me to the counter. "Put her order on my tab, Miranda," she tells the cashier.
"No, Erin, it’s fine, really."
"I insist," she says. "Is your dad at home or—"
"He’s in the hospital right now. I don’t think he’ll be going back—"
"I see," she says. "I assume you’re spending the day there—at the hospital?"
I nod with agreement. "I’m going to come meet you for lunch. We can go to the cafeteria there."
“Oh, you don’t have to go out of your way.”
"I know," she says. "But I’m going to." Erin squeezes her arm around me again. "I’ll see you this afternoon."
"I—thank—"
"No thanks needed," she says, walking back to her table.
I place my order, keeping it light with the consideration that Erin asked the cashier to put my order on her tab.
A small wave is all I can offer when I leave the bakery. I can only imagine what the other local chatter will sound like once I’m out of sight. I’m sure the town knows about Dad. He hasn’t been in the shop for weeks.
I jog across the main street between the bakery and The Barrel House, then walk in the front door, expecting to see Brett counting change from the register as he’s been doing the last couple of mornings, but Mr. Crawley is behind the counter instead, wrapping labels around bottles.
"Hey, kiddo. How’s your pops today?"
"Um—" I glance down at the white paper bag in my hand. "I brought muffins."
"You didn’t have to get me anything,” he says, running his thumb across the fresh label.
"Did Brett come in this morning?" I ask.
"He’ll be late today. He had to handle something with his daughter," Mr. Crawley says.
My mind is going to the worst place, and I hope whatever he’s dealing with is unrelated to what happened last night after the talk about Parker’s mother.
"Melody," Mr. Crawley says, his tone firmer this time. "How is your father?"
I nod the other thoughts out of my head to find the right words. There are no right words. "It’s not looking good. We aren’t sure he’ll make it through the week."
Mr. Crawley eases the bottle down and runs the palm of his hand down the side of his white beard. "Where is he now?"
“He’s at the hospital in Tillensdale. I’m heading there in a minute."
Mr. Crawley walks around the counter and offers me a hug. Another human touch, pushing me to the brink of destruction. "Is it okay if I stop by to see him today?"
I shake my head against his chest. "I’m sure he’d love to see you.” If he’s awake. If he’s still alive. If he even knows what’s going on.
As Mr. Crawley is tightening his arms around me, I spot a book sitting on the counter by the register. "Can I borrow it for the day?" I ask him, pointing to the old library-looking book.
"Of course. I was just looking something up earlier. I pulled it out of a dusty box in the back room."
"I’ll read it to my dad today. Maybe it’ll perk him up."
"Kiddo, your dad has this book memorized from page to page."
"I know, but—"
"I gotcha," Mr. Crawley says. He releases his arms from around me and retrieves the book from the counter. "Here is the first edition of ‘Everything You Ever Needed to Know About Bourbon.’" Mr. Crawley smiles and hands the heavy book over. Getting a closer look, it appears like it might have belonged to a library, judging by the crinkling plastic cover. "Your father bought this out of the library about thirty years ago. He didn’t want to bother with the bookstore, I guess."
The statement brings a smile to my face. “Sounds like Dad."
I’m pulling into the parking lot of the hospital when my phone rings; when my phone screams: Dad might have died. It’s Journey.
"Hey," I answer, struggling to form a sound through my greeting.
"How far away are you? The doctors want to talk to us as a family." Journey’s voice sounds as weak as mine.
"I just pulled into the parking lot. I’ll be upstairs in a minute."
What is there to talk about?
"Okay," Journey says, ending the call.
There isn’t another way to tell us Dad is dying. They have already made it quite clear. I can hardly think straight when I open the truck door. A repetitive beep alarms me—something is wrong with the car as I step out, but I check the headlights, confused because I didn’t turn them on. I glance around the truck, looking sound’s source, but even the dash behind the steering wheel doesn’t have an icon-warning lit up. I don’t know what’s wrong. I jump back into the truck and clutch the steering wheel. "What?" I scream at the car. "What is the problem?"
I close my eyes, and the tears fall one by one. I can’t do this.
At the peak of my frustration, I dig my nails into the leather on the wheel, but when I drop my hands, I feel a group of keys scrape against my knuckles. I left the key in the ignition.
I’m losing my mind.<
br />
Once I remove the key, the beeping ceases.
I take another worthless deep breath and step back out of the truck before locking the door. My feet feel as though they are on a moving escalator as I absent-mindedly make my way up to the third floor.
Mom and Journey are waiting in the hallway outside of Dad’s room. "Why do we need a meeting?" I ask them. The veins in their eyes are stained, red.
Journey shrugs. Mom shakes her head. "We don’t know."
A doctor I haven’t seen before approaches us and asks us to join him down the hall. We follow without question as we enter a private waiting room. The three of us stand side by side, staring at the doctor, wishing we could tune out whatever he has to say.
"Your husband and father—his vitals are deteriorating faster than we would like. We’re coming to a time where we might face the choice of having to revive him to offer life support or allow him to pass naturally. This question is the worst part of my job, but I must know what your feelings are on signing a ‘Do Not Resuscitate’ wavier."
"I don’t understand," Mom says, anger filling her voice. "He’s dying. You’ve said so yourself. Would life support keep him alive?"
I’ve watched too many TV hospital dramas and already know the answer to Mom’s question.
"Life support is not a permanent solution. He would not be conscious. It would only give you a little more time to make your peace with the end of his life."
"That’s selfish," Journey says. "He’s already suffering. Why would we keep him alive so we can have longer with his unconscious body?" Journey is also angry, which is obvious by the pink tinge of her cheeks.
"Every medical situation is different, but we need to ask," the doctor says.
Mom looks between Journey and me, and both of us shake our heads. "No, we’d like him to go peacefully."
I don’t know how the words came out of her mouth. I don’t know if I could be as strong as Mom is being—to say what she just said. Is this the meaning of undying love? Loving someone unconditionally until one must decide whether to pull the other’s plug? No one can truly live happily ever after. It’s all I hear right now.
Bourbon Love Notes Page 11