Bourbon Love Notes

by Ryan, Shari J.

  I swallow hard, trying not to let my emotions seep through the cracks of my breaking heart.

  "And to the man who has taught us how to balance life, love, and passion. Harold is the man we all wish to become; may we all find our way to the level of exceptional humanity as he," Bill follows.

  Glasses clink, sips are taken, tears are choked back.

  "Everyone, please help yourself to the food. There is plenty for everyone," Mom announces as the caterers reveal the metal covers to the small buffet of requested entrees and sides.

  Journey pulls me from the crowd, off to the side of the room. "Am I the only one who feels weird about this?" she asks

  "We’re not allowed to feel weird about this," I tell her.

  Journey runs her hand through her dark waves. "I can’t get myself to feel or look happy right now."

  I turn Journey to face Dad, who is having what appears to be a having a humorous conversation with Brett. They’re probably making fun of my description of the Quinn Pine circa 2009, but I’ll happily be the butt of this joke if it offers him comic relief at the moment.

  "He’s having a good time," I tell Journey. "He doesn’t appear to be suffering right this second, and—"

  "This feels like the last meal or something," Journey says, huffing through her words.

  "What if it’s not? What if Dad had a chest cold these last few days, and the cancer didn’t get a hold of him as fast as we thought? Maybe he has more time left in him. We can hope.”

  Journey refocuses her attention to my eyes. "Mel, the nurse earlier—the one we were talking to in the hallway—they’re making him comfortable, and she said they often see patients have a ‘good’ day before—"

  “Well, it doesn’t mean that’s what this is," I snap back at her. "Let’s not close the casket while he’s still breathing. My God, Journey." The pain within me surfaces as a new emotion each time, but this time, it’s pure disgust.

  Journey yanks me out of the room and pushes me against the wall in the hallway. "Listen to me," she says. "He didn’t have some kind of cold these past few days. I don’t want to steal your hope, but I don’t want to give you more, either. I realize you live for miracles—rainbows and unicorns, but right now, you have to face the truth."

  I feel hollow inside, staring back at the reflective green eyes that match Dad’s and my own. "Miracles happen.” After hearing the words out loud, I feel less confident than she sounded. "You’ll see tomorrow, he’ll be the same way he is today. He has more time in him."

  Journey lowers her head and wraps her hands behind her neck. "I hope you’re right, Mel. I do."

  I follow my sister back into the room, filled with people who have yet to falter on their fake happiness. Bill is kneeling in front of Dad’s chair, the two having what looks like a heart to heart conversation. I can only imagine the words being exchanged between the two people in this room who have known each other longer than anyone else here. They were neighbors as kids; his father started the barrel business because of my grandfather. Their history is hard to comprehend.

  "How are you both holding up?" Brett says, approaching us from behind.

  "Melody is in la-la land, and I’m trying to figure out how to walk out of this room tonight in one piece," Journey responds on behalf of both of us before walking away.

  I’m still holding my glass of bourbon, and there is still some liquid swishing around on the bottom of my glass. It catches my attention, though I know Brett’s focus is on my face. "Everyone handles pain in different ways," he says.

  "She thinks today is his last day, but look at him?" I glance over, seeing the two men share another laugh.

  "It might be easier for her to digest this thought and be pleasantly surprised tomorrow if she’s wrong," Brett explains.

  "You seem to have a good response to everything.” I steal a small sip from my glass. I close my eyes to focus on the flavors, but my mind is too foggy, and I only feel the burn in the back of my throat.

  "I wouldn’t say so,” he replies. "I told you, it’s the mindset I had to live with for a long time."

  "How do you move forward after?" I can’t see past the inevitable. It’s like I have built a brick wall in front of a future I could once see so clearly.

  "Life continues on and takes you with it. There isn’t a choice in the matter of moving forward. Our hearts are designed to take the pain, but the scars will shield us from the weakness, and eventually, we become stronger beings."

  As Brett is filling my head with wise words, I spot our mothers chatting a few feet away. I catch them gazing at Brett and I before they notice me watching. Rather than looking away, they wave with a giddy smile as if they’re admitting to talking about the two of us.

  I want to remind them why we’re here, but I guess it’s not necessary.

  Nine o’clock rolls around faster than I would have liked, and Dad looks exhausted, slouching more in his chair than he was a couple of hours earlier. He waves Journey, Mom, and me over to his side. "I don’t think I can pull an all-nighter like I used to," he says.

  "We were waiting for you to kick us out," Mom says, lightly pinching his chin.

  "I better get some rest. Tomorrow will be a big day," he says.

  "What are you talking about?" I ask, wanting to laugh at his remark, but hoping there’s something good I don’t know.

  "I’m running away from this joint and getting back to work," he says. "The shop needs me."

  "Oh, Harold," Mom says, waving her hand at him.

  "Dad," Journey says. "You’re not really planning to make a run for it, are you?"

  Dad shrugs. "I guess we’ll see. If I feel like I did today, I’m not wasting time laying in a bed, right?"

  The three of us are quiet, unknowing of what we should respond with. "Well, if this is the case tomorrow, I will break you out of this place," Mom agrees to his request.

  It isn’t like Mom to say something like this. She’s conscientious about following medical protocol.

  "Perfect," Dad says. "You’ll be hearing from me bright and early in the morning, then."

  I take a step back as Mom gathers the guests to let them know it’s time to call it a night. Everyone takes their moment to wish Dad well, telling him to get better, which makes little sense, but I suppose there isn’t much else to say. Some hugs last longer than others, and some guests leave with a tissue in their hand, hiding the tears they held in all night.

  Brett places his hand on my shoulder. "As usual, if you need anything—"

  I nod and press my trembling lips together. "I know.” He squeezes my shoulder and follows his parents out the door.

  It’s just the four of us now. Each night this week, we’ve said goodbye as if it’s the last goodbye. We say I love you as if it’s the last time he’ll hear it from us; as if it’s the last time we’ll say it to the head of our family.

  "Let’s not do goodbyes tonight," Dad says. "It feels too final."

  Journey is biting her lip; her cheeks are red and look raw. Mom appears to be staring through Dad.

  "I love you, Dad," I say, kissing him on the cheek. "I’ll see you later."

  "Yes, you will, my sweetheart. I love you too," he says, kissing my forehead. "You are stronger than you will ever think." His eyes narrow in on me, clarifying that I hear his words. "I am proud of you."

  He told us not to say goodbye, but—those words sound like a goodbye to me.

  I leave first because I can’t bear to watch Mom and Journey find other words to replace a goodbye.

  It only took a few minutes until the three of us ended up in the hallway. There are no words to exchange, no tears left to cry, no advice to offer as help. It’s like we’re soulless bodies walking in a trance through the halls responsible for comforting death.

  "He said he’ll see us tomorrow after I told him I would stay. He wants us to go home and sleep," Mom says.

  Neither Journey nor I respond. We gather into one car, sitting with only the light hum of the engine and t
he tiny pops of rocks crunching beneath the tires.

  I expected Journey to get into her car when we got home, but instead, she came inside.

  The three of us climbed into one bed, willing ourselves to sleep with the fear of a phone’s ringtone delivering the news without the need of a spoken word.

  I tell myself everything will be all right. He can have good days without it leading to what we all fear. Maybe tomorrow will be another good day. Maybe he’ll have thirty more or even ninety.

  Maybe life will spare him of an early expiration date.

  Maybe this is all a nightmare.

  Maybe the phone is ringing on the quiet TV show rather than the nightstand we’re all staring at with wide eyes.

  We all have a time, some before others, some long after everyone else is gone. Is it better to be the first and lead the way, or the last after watching the world fade? It’s a question without a known answer.

  But, there is a life to celebrate, a man worth remembering, and a legacy to carry on.

  He asked us not to say goodbye.

  We didn’t.

  Therefore, until it’s our time, he will be the wind in the sky, the sun peeking over the clouds, the rain after a dry spell, and the bourbon in our glasses. Dad will be our happiness and our reason to enjoy the simple things—most importantly, the reason we continue to smile.

  I clutch my written note to my chest and steady myself before walking down the few steps to the rows of chairs, filled with people cloaked in black dress-attire, all staring at me with tear-stained faces.

  17

  It has been three weeks and one day since Dad left this world in his ideal fashion. A peaceful night after celebrating his life with the people he cares about the most.

  The heaviness in my chest feels a little lighter each day while carrying around the memories we are left with. Though the pain will become a part of me, we are learning to adjust.

  For the three of us, moments of tears come at different times and sometimes all at once, but Mom, Journey, and me, we have stuck by each other’s side these last three weeks, picking up the broken pieces as we learn to live this new life. There is a seat for Dad at the dinner table, welcoming his presence as we share our memories. The one hour at dinner each night has been the most therapeutic time for us all.

  Three weeks ago, we felt like life had ended for us, as well, and it has been hard to see through the thick fog, wondering if we will see a clear, bright day again. But, little by little, each day, we spot hints of light poking through the clouds, reminding us, our worlds will continue forward.

  "I’m plugging back in today," I announce as we sip coffee from our matching mugs.

  "I did the same the other day for a bit," Journey says. "It felt like a little piece of normal. The guilt only lasted for a few minutes."

  We had shut off our phones, needing space to clear our minds and thoughts. We weren’t ready for the empathetic calls and visits after the funeral. The three of us needed to heal together. No one else could fill that role during this time.

  Daily arrangements of flowers and fruit baskets appeared on our doorstep, and cards expressing condolences. We took walks. We drove away from town just to sit in the car and watch the world as we passed by. We watched old movies and thumbed through photo albums, and we celebrated Thanksgiving on a blanket in front of Dad’s headstone at the cemetery as we shared memories of all prior Thanksgivings. We laughed, we smiled, we began to heal.

  "I think it will be a good thing for you to get back into your work," Mom says.

  "I’m also going down to The Barrel House to pitch in wherever needed. I know it’s been a few weeks, but I’m still planning to find my place there."

  Journey places her mug down on the table. "I think we need to talk about this," she says.

  "What is there to talk about?" I ask.

  Journey and Mom share a look, one telling me they have had prior conversations about The Barrel House without me. "Dad left the business to us, fifty-fifty, but as hard as this is for me to say—my dream does not entail spending all of my time inside of The Barrel House, Melody."

  I knew this conversation was coming. I knew I’d have to tell her it wasn’t my dream either, but it’s something I feel strongly about doing. "So, what now? If you don’t want to continue the business, I’m forced to give up my fifty percent?"

  "No, of course not," Mom says. "It means Journey can sell her fifty percent, though."

  "How can you think about doing this? Dad has been gone only three weeks, and you’re ready to throw away everything he spent his life working for? Do you need the money or something?” I know my comment is unwarranted but, I don’t understand how she can think this way with how much pain we’ve been suffering through.

  "This is not about the money, Melody. God, I don’t want the money. It doesn’t belong to me. I’ll put it in a trust for this family or something, I don’t know ... I only know I can’t walk in the path of Dad’s shoes every day and somehow figure out how to continue with my life."

  I’m trying to understand, but everything she is saying will be a comfort to me when it’s a painful feeling for her. "I would buy your share if I had the money," I mutter.

  "And do what? Run a bourbon shop after tasting the stuff two or three times?"

  "Okay, okay," Mom says, waving her hands at us both to settle down. "This isn’t getting resolved by arguing. Melody, you are welcome to do whatever it is your heart desires with your share, but it’s only fair if Journey has the same option."

  I push away from the table, bring my coffee mug to the sink, rinse the contents, and leave without a goodbye. Goodbyes are not necessary anymore, anyway.

  It’s been just over two weeks since I spoke to Brett briefly at the funeral. He promised to keep things running at the shop while I took the time I needed. I’m not the type to shut the world out when I’m suffering, but the type of grief I had made me disconnect the power of all sources to the outside world. It was the way I needed to come to terms with life and death.

  The comfort of being in Dad’s truck makes me feel like he’s here, watching over me, sitting in the passenger seat. There is a worn indentation from his body in the chair and it holds me like a glove. Why wouldn’t Journey want to hold on to this feeling? His presence isn’t dead—just his body.

  After keeping a distance from The Barrel House these last few weeks, I’m surprised to see twinkling Christmas lights framing the front firehouse garage doors—the doors will remain closed until summer. Dad would always spend the day after Thanksgiving, bringing the shop to life with lights and holiday decor. It was one of his favorite times of the year.

  Inside, there’s a light hum of Christmas music, and scents of pine fill the shop. Dad always placed live pine trees in each corner of the shop to bring in the natural scent until he sold out of Quinn Pine every winter season.

  Brett is behind the counter, adhering labels to a box of bottles. Judging by the look on his face, he seems surprised to see me, which I can understand. There is no set rule on how long it takes a person to grieve enough to be able to face the public again.

  He places the bottle he’s holding down and walks around the counter to greet me. "I’m not going to ask how you’re doing, but I’m glad to see you," he says.

  "You made the shop look like he decorated," I tell him, still taking in my surroundings.

  "I hope that’s okay," Brett says, holding his arms crossed over his chest. He seems nervous or uneasy, maybe. He’s probably looking at me like I’m a fragile piece of glass, ready to shatter with one slight jolt.

  "It’s more than okay.” It’s comforting and I sigh with a sound of relief.

  "Phew," he says. "I didn’t want to—"

  "It’s perfect," I cut him off.

  "What can I do? I need to get my feet wet," I tell him. "I’m past the point of sitting around staring at a wall. I need to keep busy now."

  "Good. That’s good," he says, spinning around. "You can—um ..."

&n
bsp; "I can finish the labels if you want?"

  "Yeah, that would be perfect."

  Brett jogs back around the counter to grab the labels. "My mom and sister are doing a little better now, too," I say. "Well, they were until a conversation about the shop came up."

  Brett places the stack of labels down, making sure the pile is even. "Maybe it’s too soon to be talking about business," he says.

  "Maybe, but at the current moment, Journey and I own this shop, and neither of us has been here, nor had we spoken about being here."

  "I told you I had everything under control. You didn’t need to worry about anything here," Brett says.

  I take a stack of labels from the opposite side of the counter and admire how the bold print stands out on the white background. "It’s not that. I knew Journey would not feel the same way about keeping the business as I do. It was a conversation waiting to happen."

  Brett takes one bottle at a time from a crate settled on the counter and places them each down in a row. "Oh, I didn’t realize she felt this way," Brett says. "Although, I know your dad asked my dad if he would be interested in the opportunity of purchasing if it were to be an option."

  "Yeah, he didn’t want to burden either of us with the remnants of his dream, which seems ridiculous to me. This shop is him. How could I give it up?"

  "I get it," he says. "I’m just not sure I have any advice to give."

  I place the first label on the bottle, lining the print up with markings on the glass as Dad taught me when I was younger. It was the only real task he allowed me to take part in here.

  Brett’s phone rings in his back pocket, and he checks the display, notates whoever is calling, and silences the call before placing the phone down on the counter. "I can give you some privacy if you want?" I offer.

  "Oh, no, it’s just a telemarketer."

  "Unplugging your phone for a couple of weeks makes you forget about those annoying calls.”