"With this decision being made," the doctor says, "we will be moving him to a hospice center down the block where he will be more comfortable. Is this all right with you?" The doctor is speaking guardedly as if to be gentle with his statements, but each word he speaks is more jarring than any word I’ve heard in my life.
"Yes, that will be fine," Mom says.
"Okay, then. We will have him moved within the next few hours. Once we get him moved, we’ll inform you so you can follow."
The doctor leaves us in our silence, giving us nothing more to look at aside from the back of an old oak door.
"I need to make a few calls," Mom says. "Why don’t you two relax in here for a bit, and I’ll come back to get you when I’m done."
As if our bodies are programmed to obey, we both take a seat and slouch into the chairs.
Journey stares frozenly at the door. She’s not even blinking. I wish she would talk, but I know by the look on her face, she will remain in silence for the next hour, doing nothing but stare at the door.
Me, on the other hand, I feel like I can’t sit still. My heart is racing. I’m hot. My chest hurts. My legs hurt. My arms hurt, and I might as well be in a padded room and restrained because that’s what my mind feels like.
I pull out my phone and stare at the display for a long minute, wishing I had someone to talk to, but the friends I had in South Carolina were only neighbors. I didn’t have children to blend into their groups with. We were the only childless house on the street.
My fingers tap against the letters, and the ridiculous name Brett added to my contacts pop’s up. I send a message, but it has nothing to do with my current state of mind.
Me: I am so sorry if I caused you and Parker any trouble last night.
The message shows it has been read almost immediately, and the three flickering dots are making my stomach hurt as I watch them appear and disappear a dozen times.
Your Teenage Crush: You did nothing wrong. Parker is fine. Please, don’t worry about us.
Me: I wanted to make sure everything was okay.
Your Teenage Crush: Thank you for checking. How are you this morning?
My point of the message was to apologize, not to divulge in my misery. I consider telling him the status—we’re waiting for Dad to be transported to the last location he’ll ever see.
Your Teenage Crush: I assume you’re not okay by your lack of response.
Me: They’re moving him to hospice right now.
As soon as the message is delivered, I wish I could take back the words. I’m feeding the truth. My phone rings right away, showing the name: Your Teenage Crush. I wish these stupid words could make me laugh or cause my cheeks to blush, but all I can do is stare at the incoming call. There’s nothing more to say. My statement shouldn’t have been sent through text in the first place, but now is not the time to discuss the matter out loud, not with Journey here, and not with my heart swelling in my throat.
Me: I can’t talk, I’m sorry.
14
I considered sleeping in this hospice room. I considered climbing into bed with Dad and staying there for as long as I can. "I want you to go home and get some rest," Mom says.
"I want to stay."
"Sweetie, please, you can come back first thing in the morning. You won’t get any sleep sitting in a chair."
I have a feeling Mom wants some time alone with Dad, so as painful as it is, I comply with her wish. "Okay," I whisper, kissing Dad on the cheek. "I love you, daddy. I’ll be back first thing in the morning, okay?"
"I know, baby. I’ll still be here," he mutters, sounding short of breath—short of life. It makes me wonder if he knows for sure. I’ve often wondered if a dying person has an inkling of their time left. "Go home and get some rest. You look tired."
It’s just like him to worry about me getting sleep when he’s lying in a hospice bed. "I love you," I say again.
"I love you more, beautiful," he says.
"I’ll be home in a bit," Mom says.
"You’re not staying," I ask her.
"I want you all to get some sleep," Dad answers for her. "I mean it."
Journey takes her turn to give Dad a kiss goodbye, and he reaches for her shoulder.
"It’s too quiet when you don’t talk," he says.
Dad has always said this to Journey since she shuts down when she’s upset. Journey will be where she needs to be, physically, but mentally, it’s like she’s checked out.
She acknowledges his statement and gives him a hug. "I love you," she whispers.
"There’s my girl," Dad says.
I wait for Journey to walk out of the room, and I follow her, grabbing her hand on the way out. "You don’t have to talk.”
She doesn’t respond, which I expected. "Do you want me to come and stay with you tonight?"
"No," she says.
"Okay."
Her hand is shaking, but so is mine as we walk through the parking lot. I parked beside her car this morning. “It was nice of Erin to stop by and have lunch with us today," I say, making conversation. "I’ve run into her a couple times since I’ve been home. I saw her this morning, and she insisted on meeting for lunch today so we could chat."
"Yes, I lost track of how many times she told us she has been ‘thinking about us.’"
"I think it’s sweet, she’s trying to be supportive.” Journey isn’t a people-person, I get it, but it’s nice to know someone cares in a time of need.
"What will ‘thinking about us’ do?" Journey replies.
"I know—it was nice of her—is all I’m trying to say." It’s not like Journey doesn’t have valid points, she’s the type who doesn’t require empathy, nor does she want any.
"I’m sorry I can’t be a big sister to you right now," Journey says.
"I don’t need a big sister. I need you, and you don’t have to talk to be there. We have each other, okay?"
Journey gives me a quick hug and a sniffle by my ear before she slips into her Jeep.
When Dad got sick the first time, she locked herself in her room for a month, only coming out to eat and work. I know we all handle pain in different ways, but I’m worried about her too.
My lonely headlights on the dark roads near my house are comforting, knowing the couple miles of barren black pavement are the minutes I need to breathe. Though, I can’t find the space in my lungs to take a deep enough breath.
I pull into my driveway, parking the truck in its usual spot, and pull the key from the ignition. As my headlights turn off, I notice a glimmer of light reflecting off the driver’s side mirror. I twist around to see where the light is coming from, and I spot a truck parked alongside the curb. It’s dark, and I can’t make out the details of the truck, but when I look toward the front of the house, I see Brett sitting on the front step beneath the front porch light.
I’m not sure how he knew I would be home now. I haven’t spoken to him since my last text message saying, I couldn’t talk.
I step out of the truck and make my way to the front of the house. I imagine my expression shows the confusion I’m feeling. "How are you doing?"
"Do you want the truth or the response of a passing random person on the street?"
"How about, I know you’re not okay," he says.
"We’ll go with that response.” I pull out my house key. "Why are you here?"
"I wish someone was there for me back when I was going through a time when I needed to talk."
I open the front door, finding Benji wagging his tail with excitement. The poor thing has no clue what’s going on, and Dad is his favorite person. I scratch behind his ears as he nuzzles his head against my side. "Want me to take him out for you?" Brett offers.
"I could use a walk. We can both go?"
"Of course," he says.
I place my bag down and untangle the leash from the hook, but Brett takes the leash from my hand and attaches it to Benji’s collar. "What’s in the bag?" I ask him.
He has a medium size bro
wn paper bag rolled up in his right hand. "Something," he says.
"Something you need to take with you on the walk?" It hurts to smile, but the muscles in my cheeks work on their own accord.
"Yes," he says.
We walk out the front door and down the two steps as Benji makes a run for the lawn. "I’m sorry again about last night.”
Brett tosses his head back and releases a soft groan. "Please do not worry about Parker or me right now. You have more than enough to think about without worrying about us."
"She’s a little girl, and she lost her mother, so I have some understanding—maybe a lot of understanding, in fact."
"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, so I told her she should move in with me, and I’d help her in any way I could."
"Oh wow, I didn’t see this story going there.”
Brett shrugs his shoulders. "It wasn’t in my plans to help raise a child then, especially not my own, but Abby was my best friend, and I truly believe everyone deserves someone to depend on in life."
"You’re a good person, Brett."
"I don’t know if I’d say so, but thank you," he says. "Anyway, when Parker was four, Abby had gotten deployed for a three-month tour. Thankfully, I was between deployments, so I could take care of Parker while she was gone."
"Is that when—?"
"She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. She wasn’t in active combat, but she was being transported to deliver documents to a battalion when her vehicle was hit by a grenade."
"Oh my God," I sigh.
"You know, this might not be a great story for tonight. I wanted to make you feel better, not bring you down more."
"You’re making me realize I’m not alone in this world right now."
Benji pulls us off the road and toward the woods to do his business. We turn our backs to give him a little privacy—not like he cares, but it’s something I’ve done with him for some odd reason.
"Anyway, when Abby made up her will, she asked if I would become Parker’s legal guardian if something were to happen to her. Abby didn’t have siblings, and her parents died at a young age. She had no real family, which was her main reason for enlisting in the Marines. So, I didn’t ponder the answer for even a second. I would do anything to help her and Parker, if something were to happen. I miss Abby like crazy, but Parker is her mother to a T, and it’s incredible to watch."
"I’m so sorry you lost your best friend," I respond. "Does Parker have a tough time?"
We continue walking as Benji tugs on the leash and head onto the dirt path, which leads to a small park. "Sometimes. She remembers Abby, but she was only four, so her memories are a little foggy. She’s sensitive to the subject, though."
"As I can imagine.” The poor little thing.
"I parted ways as soon as my eight years were up, and I brought Parker back to Vermont with me so we could be around my family, which has been the best thing for us both."
I didn’t realize we had walked as far as we have when I see the twinkling lights on the gazebo. I haven’t been down here in years, but this was the place to hang out when I was in high school.
"It’s ironic how much time we spend planning out our lives, only to find out no one can really plan for the future," I tell him.
Benji pulls at the leash, forcing Brett to walk ahead a few feet. "Yeah, I learned this well when I enlisted. You can’t plan on a future when today could be your last day, you know?"
I know now. I’ve been living in a fantasy bubble most of my life, thinking nothing bad could ever happen. I was wrong. "I get it now.”
We step into the gazebo, and Brett ties the leash to a post. Benji is out of breath and plops down to rest, so we take a seat on the inner bench. "Being in the hospice center must be hard," Brett says.
"Yeah. Part of me wants the suffering to be over for him, but the other part of me wants to beg him to hold on as long as he can. There’s no real balance in my head."
"I know it doesn’t help you right now, but there will come a time when you’ll be thankful to have had the chance to tell him what you want to say."
I drop my gaze to the shredded strings on my torn jeans and pull at a loose thread. "I suppose."
"How’s Journey?"
"She doesn’t talk when she’s upset. So—she’s pretty damn upset."
"Coping is different for everyone," he says.
As if Benji is listening, he huffs an exhausted sigh, drawing my attention to his tired eyes. "What’s in the bag?" I ask Brett again.
He takes the bag from between his feet and pulls out a bottle of bourbon and two glasses. "Oh, no, no ... I don’t drink bourbon. I just support it."
Brett chuckles. "You need to know what’s special about bourbon before you cross it off your list," he says.
"I borrowed a book about bourbon today. I plan to learn everything I can, so I can help more in the shop."
Brett breaks the seal on the bottle and twists the top. "You can’t learn everything about bourbon from a book. It would be like understanding the taste of chocolate if you haven’t tried it before."
"Who hasn’t tried chocolate?" I question, tripping up his life-lesson.
"You know what I mean," he says. "And you can’t snarl at this bottle. It’s special."
"It’s bourbon.”
"This is the first bottle of Quinn Pine opened this year, and it’s a 2009."
"Is old good?"
Brett snickers and shakes his head. "Yes, old is good." He pours a small amount into the two glasses and replaces the cap on the bottle, carefully placing it down on the bench beside him.
He places a glass into my hand, and all I can think about is the last time I tried this stuff. Brett was there for the aftermath—something I don’t think he remembers.
"Close your eyes and take a small sip, but hold the liquid in your mouth for a couple of seconds before you swallow." Part of me wants to pretend to take the sip, but my eyes are closed and I’m sure he’s watching. I take in a small pull, letting the liquid settle into my taste buds. I imagine I’m making a horrible face as I force the contents down my throat. Though, it wasn’t as bad as I remember. "Keep your eyes closed, and tell me which flavors you taste?"
I lick my top lip for a reminder. "It’s sweet like vanilla or caramel, maybe a hint of cinnamon too, but it has a dry smoky aftertaste."
"Wow, you’re right on. It has the familiarity of vanilla and caramel notes. The smoky taste comes from the barrel. We char each barrel before pouring the ingredients inside. The cinnamon, though, the Quinn Pine is made with a high rye, which gives it a little touch of spice. It’s the reason why your dad saves it for the holiday season."
He sounds like Dad, gushing about flavors and notes, and hints of spices—statements I never quite understood.
I take another sip, closing my eyes again, trying my best to focus on the rich flavors. "I’m glad you’re sipping it this time," he says.
The statement yanks my attention away from the glass. "What do you mean?"
"The last time you had bourbon was at the holiday party all those years ago, right?"
"Yes …"
"I believe you had been gulping bourbon," he says, his brows angle in toward his nose, looking at me as if my stupid decision was cute rather than mortifying.
"Yes, I had gulped the bourbon. I was not familiar with the art of drinking.” I run my hand down the side of my face, still feeling the embarrassment from all those years ago. "For the longest time, when my dad talked about tasting the notes in the bourbon, I was almost positive he was talking about a written note, and I couldn’t figure out why he would want to taste them."
Brett had just taken a sip of his bourbon, but my comment makes him choke. He tosses his hand in front of his mouth, squeezes his eyes, and shakes his head. "
Wow, well, uh—that’s pretty incredible," he says, clearing his throat. "And adorable."
"Gee, thanks," I huff.
"I don’t mean so, condescendingly," he corrects me.
I take another sip in place of a pause in the conversation. "I guess this isn’t the worst tasting stuff in the world.”
"I know bourbon is an acquired taste, but when you think about what went into producing this one glass, it’s kind of amazing. Your dad began preparing this very bottle ten years ago. It’s crazy to think about."
I reach across Brett and take the bottle within my hands and cling to it, wishing this bottle would offer me comfort. "Ten years ago, our lives were perfect."
"Mine wasn’t," he says.
I switch my gaze from the bottle to Brett’s eyes. "Why not?"
"There was this kiss," he says, his words slow and clear. "It made me want to change my future, but I had already signed papers—signed my life away."
My heart thumps and races, not knowing what kiss he is referencing. "A kiss? What kind of kiss could make you want to change your future plans?" I don’t know how I got the words out, but I don’t think I sounded as nervous as I feel.
"Just one kiss," he says, his gaze lazily falls to my lips, and my body tenses.
"She must have been some girl," I mutter, trying to breathe after the statement.
Brett’s lips curl into a small smile. "You sure are," he says.
"Me?" I question. "You must be confusing me for someone else."
He reaches his hand to my chin then tenderly sweeps the pad of his thumb against my bottom lip. "I wouldn’t forget my first kiss," he says.
A wave of tingles fills my face, then plummet through my body.
"Your first kiss?" I ask. "There’s no way. You were—well, I might have called you Mr. Perfect for a period of time. I was sure you had a gaggle of girlfriends following you around."
He chokes through a quiet laugh. "I went to an all-boys high school, played way too much baseball, and helped my dad out at the warehouse when I wasn’t doing homework or at practice. There wasn’t a lot of time for socializing."
Bourbon Love Notes Page 12