Bourbon Love Notes

by Ryan, Shari J.

  "See you later," I tell him.

  "Oh, Mel," he says, stopping as he has one hand on the back counter. "Ah—I know you’ve been procrastinating about the letter your dad left for you, but tomorrow is your birthday, and I need you to read the letter before I give you your gift. Will you be able to?”

  His question takes me by surprise. Maybe he’s asking me now so we don’t have to have a drawn-out conversation about the pros and cons of reading Dad’s final words, but I know I should open the envelope. I haven’t stopped thinking about the letter, but it’s taken almost three months to wake up, feeling okay in the morning and the thought of tearing my heart back open, makes me wonder if I’ll undo all the healing. "Yeah, I—I’ll read it," I agree.

  "If you want to talk after—"

  "Enjoy Daddy-Daughter Night at Parker’s school. Don’t worry about me," I tell him.

  "Okay," he says. "Tomorrow, though, I will make sure this birthday is good for you."

  Brett has been talking about my birthday for the last few weeks. At first, I told him I’d rather just make it another ordinary day, so I don’t think about the reasons this birthday differs from all my past birthdays. Dad has always been the first one to call me in the morning, or when I was younger, the first to wake me up with the most horrific singing voice. He told me he needed to be the first, because he has always been the first to tell me happy birthday ever since the day I was born. Mom was too busy smiling at my face and introducing herself, but the first words out of Dad’s mouth were: "Happy Birthday, my beautiful girl." Mom has made sure he’s been the first to repeat those words to me each year since. It’s something small and the thought only goes through my mind one day a year, but it’s been on my mind a lot these last few weeks, knowing I won’t get a call or hear the ear-piercing song.

  "Thank you for being this person in my life," I tell him. "Now go!" I press my hand into his back and shove him toward the back door. "Tell Parker, I found the color nail polish she was asking about."

  "Nail polish?" he asks, walking away.

  "A little girl needs to have pretty nails sometimes."

  Brett rolls his eyes and shakes his head as he disappears through the back door.

  I head to the front of the shop to clean up the display from the bourbon samples we were handing out earlier, but the mindless work forces me to think about the letter I’m supposed to read tonight. I know Journey hasn’t read hers either. We’re both having trouble facing the words. I’m sure it’s nothing crazy or some revealing surprise about life we didn’t know, but it will be his words. We’ll hear his voice in our heads, and it will be like he’s with us for those few minutes. Then, he’ll be gone again, and it will be the last thing we ever read from Dad.

  Brett hasn’t brought up the letter in a couple of months, so because he asked me to read, I feel like I should move forward and suck it up. I need Journey to know I’m going to do it, though. We agreed to read our letters on the same day.

  Since I still have my phone in hand, I send her a quick message.

  Me: Brett has requested I read "the letter" tonight because there’s something written inside pertaining to my birthday. I don’t know if I’m ready to see what it says, but I’m going to open it.

  Journey takes a minute to respond; the three little dots flicker and disappear at least three times before her message pops up.

  Journey: I—I kind of already opened it. I didn’t want to tell you because you had said you weren’t ready, but the suspense was killing me.

  Me: What? You didn’t tell me? I thought we would do it together?

  Another pause. Journey stops talking when she’s at a loss for words. She won’t sugar-coat things, and she knows if there’s nothing good to say, why bother.

  Me: It’s fine. I’m not upset. I guess it wasn’t anything crazy, or you would have made me read mine, though.

  A couple of minutes pass before I get another response.

  Journey: I know why Brett wants you to read it tonight. You should.

  Part of me wants to yell at her for being so distant sometimes, but the other part is still reminding myself how differently we both think. Journey does things on her personal timeline, and I can assume she was having a horrible day or night and needed the letter to fix whatever she was going through. I hope the letter did so for her.

  I have paced the house a hundred times, chewed half of my fingernails down to the skin and have consumed four cups of water since Mom decided she was going to bed. I didn’t tell her I was reading it tonight. I need to do it on my own and let the words consume me before I share what’s inside.

  I pad up the wooden stairs, barefoot, in my leggings and an oversized t-shirt, already set for bed. It’s eleven, and I need to stop avoiding my bedroom.

  The door creaks as I walk inside, greeting me as it always has since I was little. My heart pounds so hard I can feel it on the outside of my chest. I settle down on the edge of my bed and pull open the painted wooden drawer of my nightstand. It sometimes sticks because of the old paint, but tonight, it opens with ease. I push aside my purple rabbit’s foot key chain and remove the letter from where it has been sitting since I unpacked my bags after moving home.

  I take the envelope into my hands and turn it over, finding the words: Please do not open until I’m gone. Normally, my patience for surprises is unheard of. If something is sitting in front of me and it’s mine to open, I could never let it sit for longer than necessary. This is the first time in my life I have ignored my sense of impatience.

  I slip my finger into the puckered edge on the side and carefully tear the opening. The letter is on notepaper, handwritten, not typed. Dad was never big on technology, but he preferred to type his letters rather than focus on making his penmanship clear enough to read.

  My hands shake as I unfold the letter. It takes a moment for my eyes to focus on the words because my gaze settles on the smudged blue line at the bottom of the paper—it looks to have been wet before it dried. It’s the size of a teardrop.

  I close my eyes, threatening myself not to cry, telling myself I must be strong like he was while writing this, knowing it was the last letter he would ever write to me.

  After another few short breaths, I open my eyes and focus on the first word:

  My Melody—The sweetest of all notes.

  Dad wanted to name me Melody because of his passion for notes. It wasn’t until I was older and realized he wasn’t referring to music or writing on paper, but instead, the sweetness caused by the ingredients added to the bourbon before the distilling process.

  I found out today that my time has been stolen right out from beneath me. I agreed to any treatment available, but this time, I was too late for any such hope. Everyone on earth has a time of birth and a time of death, and most of us don’t have control over the inevitable. While I don’t know the exact minute I will have to leave, I know I have enough time to say what I want to say. That makes me lucky. Some are not so lucky.

  I thought long and hard, trying to think of a way to stay present in your life even though I can’t physically be there. The idea came to me in my sleep one night shortly after the doc gave me the news, I’m still terrified to tell you.

  While I know you will think of me often, I imagine there will be certain days and times in your life that should be happy occasions, and I don’t want the lack of my presence to shroud those days. There are things a father needs to tell his daughter, and I can’t say them all at once, so I plan to find a messenger … which I am working on.

  Somehow, someway, you will still hear from me when you need to hear from me the most.

  I know your life will be full of amazing moments, and you will create a world of memories you will get to keep and reminisce over. The great times in life will outweigh the sad moments. Whatever choices you make will be the right ones because your mind is stronger than your heart, and your heart is stronger than your fears. Because of this, your dreams are all waiting for you to uncover them, at the right tim
e, over the course of your life.

  I’m proud of the woman you have become, and though I wish I could watch you turn old and gray, I know I have done everything possible to show you the meaning of happiness, so I have no concerns; your life will never be anything less than perfect.

  You know my love for you will never die, Melody. You can feel it, and so can I. I can rest knowing you will never question the father I was to you or how much you mean to me.

  Forever is an infinite amount of time, and that’s how long I will love you, my beautiful daughter.

  —Dad

  Though there are tears, the pain doesn’t resurface as I thought it would. I feel like I can read this over and over whenever I want to hear the gift of his voice, his wisdom, and his love.

  I lay down with the letter and lay it over my chest, pressing it against my heart. My memories of Dad pull me into a deep sleep, one where I don’t move a muscle until the sun pours in through the cracks of my blinds.

  I open my eyes to a new day, my birthday, and to the letter I allowed myself to have as an early gift. My eyes haven’t adjusted to the light when a quiet tap echoes through my door. "I’m awake," I call out to Mom.

  I place the letter back into the envelope quickly and drop it into my drawer to hide the evidence. She may not be ready for those words yet.

  When the door opens, I’m surprised to see Brett standing in the ray of light beaming in through the window. "Your mom said I could be the first to wish you a happy birthday," he says, walking in and plopping down on the side of my bed.

  "I have morning breath and bed head," I groan. "You’re not supposed to see me like this yet."

  "You’ve stayed over at my house," he says, laughing with a look of confusion.

  "Yeah, and I get up before you to make sure I don’t look like a zombie before you wake up."

  "Yeah, I already know this too," he says, smirking.

  "Ugh," I grumble, covering my face, smudging off whatever leftover makeup I have from yesterday and sit up, holding the comforter close to my chest.

  "Before I say anything, there’s something you need to hear." Brett holds his phone up and presses the play button on a blacked-out video.

  The video morphs into Dad sitting on the couch downstairs, looking healthy. His big smile is ever so present, and he’s singing Happy Birthday at the top of his lungs in every off-key note possible.

  Still, no pain.

  Just happiness.

  At the end of the song, Dad pauses. "Like him or not, Brett will be a friend of this family forever, and he’s a trustworthy guy, so I asked him to do me this favor and be my messenger when needed. He told me, no matter what happens in life, he will make sure you hear me somehow. You can give her the present now," Dad says. "Love you, sweetheart. Happy Birthday—and I know I was the first one to say it today." Dad ends the video with a wink and smile. My heart fills with so many emotions, I can’t help the happy tears, the heavy sobs, or the knot forming in my throat.

  "He has never let me down, not once," I tell Brett through hoarse words.

  "He never will," Brett says, "and neither will I." He leans over and kisses me on the cheek. "I know—morning breath rules."

  "Thank you," I laugh through a shuttered breath.

  "Okay, now for the present," Brett says, taking a gift back out from behind his back. He hands it to me, and I look inside before reaching for the contents.

  "A bottle of bourbon?" I question, not feeling a sense of surprise.

  "It’s not just any bottle of bourbon," Brett says. He takes the bottle out of the bag and shows me the font label displaying:

  Bourbon Love Notes

  "I’ve never seen this bottle before.”

  "Your Dad made a batch for you and your sister, these are unique, and you two are the only ones to have the contents from this particular barrel.” Brett turns the bottle around, showing me the back side of the label where the ingredients are usually listed. Instead, the label reads:

  To my little girl on her twenty-eighth birthday. This is your year to shine, find your way, and figure out which path to choose. Your decisions will lead you to your dreams. I write this while remembering the way you looked up at me with those big green eyes and called me Dada on your first birthday. You gave me the world. I love you, Melody. —Dad

  I know this is a gift from Dad, but I throw my arms around Brett and hold him tightly, grateful for caring for these messages. "This means everything to me."

  "My gift won’t quite hold a flame in comparison, but I feel lucky to see the smile—that smile, I thought might have gone away with your dad."

  27

  "What’s with this formal invitation from Journey?" Brett asks as I’m counting cash from the register.

  "I’m not exactly sure. I don’t recall ever receiving any kind of invitation from Journey for anything," I tell him. I wouldn’t call it formal as she sent an e-invitation, but it’s still more of an invitation than Journey would send to anyone. "I think it’s only our two families, though."

  "Maybe it has something to do with the shop?" Brett asks. I shrug because Journey hasn’t mentioned a thing about her share of the business in about six months since Dad died. "Maybe she’s getting married," I say, with a deep rumbling laugh.

  "To who? Satan?" Brett jokes back.

  "Maybe Satan has a six-pack and a clean-shaven face ... I don’t think Journey’s standards are too high for a man with a dark mind."

  "What if Satan knocked her up?" Brett follows.

  The thought makes me pause for a minute, not because I could have the spawn of Satan as a niece or nephew, but the serious thought of Journey being a parent figure isn’t something I ever imagined. It isn’t because she doesn’t have a big heart, it’s because she likes her alone time more than others. "I doubt it. She would have called me, freaking out, if she was knocked up.”

  "I wonder if your mom knows she’s hosting a dinner party at her house tonight," Brett says. Another good point. Surely, Journey would have run the idea by her first. Then again, any mention of a dinner party, and Mom is on board since it means she can make an abundance of food to feed people.

  As I finish writing out the totals of what’s in the cash drawer, I grab my phone and write up a message to Journey.

  Me: What’s the occasion?

  I’m sure she won’t give me an honest answer. If she wanted me to know what she was up to, she would have warned me before sending a rogue e-invite.

  Journey: To eat dinner.

  I figured it’s all I’d get out of her.

  Me: Are you getting married?

  Journey: To who?

  I’ll keep the Satan joke to myself.

  Me: Good point.

  Me: Are you pregnant?

  This is just to irritate her. I can bet on my life, she’s not pregnant.

  Journey: From who?

  Me: Another good point.

  "I didn’t get any answers from her," I tell Brett.

  "I didn’t figure you would."

  The day dragged by, but only because I have been creating lists of potential reasons for Journey to invite Brett’s family over for a "dinner party."

  Brett left an hour before I did to get Parker from school and get her settled with homework before heading over to Mom’s house.

  Journey isn’t at Mom’s house when I get home, however. It’s only Mom in the kitchen, cooking away with steam pouring out of three pots on the stovetop as the microwave beeps in long successions of whiny reminders to remove whatever is inside.

  "Where is Journey?" I ask Mom as I tie my hair up, ready to help her out.

  "She was here helping earlier but went home to take a quick shower and change before dinner," Mom says, circling around as if she forgot what she was in the middle of doing before I interrupted.

  "Do you know why she’s ‘hosting’ a dinner party tonight?"

  "I do," Mom says without stopping to look at me. "But I’m not going to be the one to talk about it because she asked me
not to spoil her dinner party."

  This makes no sense. What could be so important that Brett’s family needs to be here to hear whatever it is Journey needs to say? It has to be about The Barrel House. There is no other logical answer.

  Mom hands me a knife and a bag of tomatoes. "Could you chop these up for the salad?"

  I take the clear plastic bag from her hand and place it down beside the cutting board. "Is this ‘news’ going to make me angry?" I ask Mom.

  "It shouldn’t," she says, stirring the pot—both literally and figuratively.

  Journey busts through the door like a windstorm, tossing her coat against the wall, chucking her boots off one by one as they hit the entryway bench, and then I hear her keys clamber into the glass dish on the entryway table.

  She runs in behind me and begins inspecting the prepared food on the counter. "Everything looks great, Mom. Thanks for helping," she says.

  I fight the urge to roll my eyes. "I’ve already set the table," Mom says. "We’re just about ready." Mom glances over at the time on the microwave. "They should be here any minute now. Perfect."

  "Good," Journey says.

  "Did you invite over the whole Pearson family or only Bill, Elizabeth, and Brett?"

  "All of them," Journey responds.

  "Brody rarely tags along to these dinners," Mom says. "Is he bringing his daughter?"

  "Yes, Hannah will be here, and so will Parker, so you’ll have kids to play with," Journey tells Mom, knowing the desire she yearns for to have grandchildren.