“Parker will finally have a baby sister or brother just like she’s been begging for since before we got married,” Melody says, giggling.
“The perfect family,” I say. Perfect. I’m not perfect, but hopefully I’m capable of contributing to the part of my life that is.
“I threw the word perfect out the window before I met you, Brett. I told you about my silly white-picket-fence dreams, how shallow they were in comparison to what life is really about. If we never had a baby together, I still have the perfect family; you, me, and Parker. Now, it will be even more perfect.”“Lucky,” I repeat.
“Tonight, a mistake was made, but we’re not going to remember this day for a mistake. We’re going to remember tonight for the good news, for the new adventure, and for a wish coming true. Tomorrow, we’ll look for help, and the day after that, we’ll start working together to get better. We’re in this life as a unit, and we’re going to stay this way no matter what.”
There is more I have to tell her. There’s more I have to say, but it can wait. There are other parts of me that tick when she’s not watching, and I owe her that honesty. I owe her the truth. The monster inside of me needs to be killed so I can be what she needs, what Parker needs, and what our unborn child will need.
Tonight wasn't a breaking point like Melody might think. I just slipped and acted on an urge I couldn’t control. I’m not sure I can be fixed with therapy or any medical interventions, but I have to find a way out of my head before I fall too far and fail my entire family. It’s all on me. I have to fix this.
25
When I wake up from a nightmare, I can shake it off most of the time. When I wake up from a stupid mistake, I know it will stick to me like humidity on a hot Carolina day.
“I was thinking,” Melody says, turning over in bed. Our mornings typically start with Melody thinking out loud. I tease her about it, but I wonder if her brain ever stops.
“No way?” It’s my usual response, followed by pinching her cute nose.
“You remember the letters … ” she says.
The letters—our first real argument—the elephant in our corner closet. I’m not sure how I’d forget about “the letters.”
“Did you think I forgot?” I ask sweetly.
Melody wraps her hair around her ears and gives me her knowing grin. “No, I just—”
“Let’s leave the letters where they are,” I suggest.
I sometimes wonder if she’s gone into the shoebox to sneak a peek at the letters, but I don’t think she would be able to keep her thoughts to herself.
“Brett, I had no idea about them, and I don’t want to live with the guilt forever.”
This isn’t about her guilt.
“I believe you. I have never doubted the truth, but those letters were meant to be read then, not now. I can’t even remember what I wrote.”
Melody doesn’t realize she’s chewing her lip or glancing up at me with her sad puppy-dog eyes. It’s just the look she gives me when she feels bad about something. “Maybe remembering will help you come to terms with what happened then as opposed to what you’re thinking about now.”
“No, I don’t want to. Honestly, if I were going to do anything with those letters, I’d like to shove them up Ace’s ass. I was in combat, writing what could have been my last words and he had the goddamn nerve to hide them in a box so you wouldn’t find them.”
And there it is. My uncontrollable enragement about the stupid letters. She knows this conversation never ends the way she wants it to. I don’t understand why she continues to bring it up.
Melody tosses her head back into her pillow and groans. “He apologized. What else should I do?”
He apologized. My ass. He sent the box to us a week after we got married, with a note saying: “Sorry I never gave these to you.” That was it.
I wanted to call him myself and read him the riot act. Who does something like that? I didn’t know who the hell Ace was until Melody moved home. They weren’t even dating when I first started sending the letters. They were roommates or something.
The way our conversation is going is more or less the way our original argument started. Of course, I was far more heated when I found out this guy was stealing her mail for more than two years. He owes me an apology, a real one, not just to Melody. I know it’s a petty thing, but I want to ask the guy if he read all my letters before burying them somewhere. My heart was scattered in words throughout each page I wrote to her. I never expected a response since I didn’t get one after the first letter, but I at least thought she might be reading them
“Nothing,” I say.
“I’m sorry I brought it up,” she replies.
“I want to burn the letters and never think about them again,” I tell her. Through the heat of my anger, I remember the news she gave me last night about our baby, and I shouldn’t be upsetting her. I should be pampering her. Shit.
“Okay, let’s just put this conversation about the letters on hold. When I find a therapist, I’ll see what they think about re-reading them. Is that fair?”
“That’s fair,” she says, holding up her pinky. I wrap my pinky around hers. “Everything is going to be okay.”
“So, you don’t know how far along you are? I think it took a minute for everything to sink in last night, and by the time I came up with a million questions, you had already fallen asleep.”
“No, I just took the test yesterday while you were picking up Parker from school. I need to call and make an appointment today.”
“I can’t wait for every part of this—to do this with you.”
“Do you think Parker can keep this a secret until we know more?” Melody asks. I think she’s asking because she knows Parker can’t keep secrets, but she was planning to tell us last night, so I’m not sure if she’s rethinking things now.
I squint one eye closed. “I think we both know the answer to that question.”
“I think that’s why I put it off for so long during dinner last night. I was worried about telling her and having something happen, or—you know, if it doesn’t work out this time. I don’t want to hurt her.”
Those thoughts didn’t cross my mind. I didn’t have to think about this stuff when Abby was pregnant with Parker because I didn’t find out until I returned from my deployment, and Abby was already eight months pregnant.
“This is all new for me, despite what you think. I was gone during most of Abby’s pregnancy and didn’t see a whole lot, and I don’t think I paid attention in health class, so I might be a little ignorant about some of this,” I admit.
“It’s not like I have instructions either. I guess we’ll just go with the flow,” Melody says, clambering out of bed.
“Okay, so let’s see what the doctor says, then we’ll tell Parker.”
“Yes, that sounds like a plan,” Melody agrees.
Before Melody can take her next breath, there is a pounding on the door. “Tell me what?” Parker shouts.
“To get ready for school,” I reply in the same shouting tone.
“I have this weird feeling Parker sits outside our door to hear our secrets,” I whisper to Melody.
“You know, this could be hard on her too since neither of us are biological to her. I think we should try to do some special activities for Parker overt the next few months, so we make sure she knows this baby,” she whispers the word, “won’t change how much we love her.”
“How did I end up with you?” I ask, dragging myself out of bed.
“I believe it was some weird twist of fate,” she says, tying her robe together at her waist.
“We have four shipments going out today. There’s a water delivery, and the latter tun is making a weird noise, so I have someone coming in to check out the pressure sensor,” Melody spouts off.
“I love when you talk dirty to me,” I tell her.
Melody makes her way over to me, wrapping her arms around my waist, her hands slide down my backside. “Oh yeah? Wait until I tell you abou
t the color of the current mash in the vessel.”
I jerk my head back. “Okay, too much,” I say with laughter.
She smiles up at me, and I lean down to share in her happiness, selfishly wanting all of her smiles on my lips.
“Ew!” We hear from outside the door. “Please stop. I need to leave in ten minutes.” Parker was my biggest cheerleader when it came to bringing Melody into our lives. I wanted to be cautious and slow with the way our relationship fell together during Harold’s passing, but Parker saw life a little differently. She continuously reminded me that Melody needed us, and we could bring her some happiness. It was always a “we.” Parker was looking at engagement rings before I was. It’s almost as if Parker chose Melody just as much as Melody and I chose each other.
Parker has only recently taken up an early tween attitude of making sure there is no visual affection happening in front of her. Naturally, we do it just to push her buttons, but she isn’t quiet about her feelings on the subject.
“I’m getting into the shower. I’ll see you at the shop,” Melody says, pressing up on her toes to give me one last kiss before I have to throw some clothes on to take Parker to school. I’ll shower after, then head down to the shop.
When I walk out of the bedroom, I hear Parker talking to Melody. “Tell me. Tell me. Tell me. Come on; you know you want to tell me.”
“Hey,” I call out to Parker. “What’s going on.”
“I want to know what the secret is.”
“There’s no secret.” I’m lying, and Parker knows it. I can’t lie to her.
“Later,” Melody tells her. “You’re going to be late for school.”
Parker grunts and throws her arms around Melody. “Fine. Love you, have a good day,” she mutters.
“You too, Park. Love you!” Melody says, closing herself into the bathroom. She gets to walk away from the conversation, but I’m standing here with a set of eyes staring me down.
“Tell me,” she says.
“You don’t scare me, princess. Sorry.”
Parker narrows her eyes a little more and takes a step closer. “Oh, yeah?”
God, she looks like Abby, right down to the way she scrunches her nose. “Yeah.”
In any case, I’ll take the good with the bad at this age. She’s able to get herself ready for school in the morning. She gave up the tutu obsession just over a year ago, so as long as she has an array of neon-colored leggings and ten pairs of shoes to choose from, she’s happy. I just have to check her backpack to make sure she has her homework and the right shoes on her feet for whatever special class she has today.
By the time I get into the truck, Parker is settled with her book out on her lap. “How’s Harry Potter?” I ask, peeking in the rearview mirror before backing out of the driveway.
“How's your secret?” she responds.
“Parker.”
“Dad.” The conversation ends, and if I knew what the next one would consist of; I would have happily teased her with the secret I’m not sharing just yet. “Why did you attack that man last night?”
How can I answer her? My brain tricked me.
“I don’t think I have a good answer to your question, Park.”
“Did he do something to you?” she continues.
“No.”
“You told me I should always keep my hands to myself,” she says.
I thought she might have understood more than she did last night, but I think she recognizes a look on my face and associates it with the “daytime nightmares” I sometimes have. I’m not sure she understands the reason behind any of it.
“I was confused, and what I did was wrong.”
“Obviously, the police came.”
I pull the truck over to the side of the road, suddenly fearful of what Parker might say in school today. “It was just a misunderstanding. Adult stuff.”
“Oh,” she says.
I twist around in my seat to face her. “Look, Park, I need you to do me a favor and keep what happened last night between us. Can you do that?”
“Like a secret?” she asks.
Okay, I get it. She’s mad at me. I turn back around to face the steering wheel, frustrated and having no idea how to handle any of this. I pull away from the side of the road and continue toward the school, keeping silent, which I rarely do.
Parker knows there’s a reason I’m not speaking because the second we turn into the looping line at the school, she says, “I’m sorry. I won’t tell anyone about last night.”
I hate that I have to ask her to hide something. It doesn’t feel right, but at the same time, God knows what will happen if she tells anyone I attacked a man wearing a scarf over his head.
“Thank you,” I say, pulling up to the line where the parking lot volunteer is waiting. “I love you, Park.”
“Love you, Dad.” My heart breaks when she steps out of the truck and clutches the book to her chest as she slowly walks into school. I’m hurting her.
It’s hard to focus when I leave the school area. I feel like I’ve screwed up a hundred times in the past day, and I don’t know how to fix it. How can I take care of two kids and a wife if I can’t handle myself?
I pick up my phone and hit Brody’s number. We used to carpool the girls together, but Hannah is in middle school now, so the schedule doesn’t work out anymore. “What’s up, bro?”
“Do you have a few?” I ask. “Can you meet me for coffee or something?”
“Are you okay?” Brody asks. He’s asking because I don’t usually call him out of the blue to have coffee.
“No, I need to talk to you. Nothing is wrong, I just—”
“Meet me at Dunkin’ at ten,” he says.
“I’ll be there.”
I’m only a few minutes away from Dunkin’. I pull in before he does and grab a couple of coffees and snatch up the last table in the corner. He walks in, looking like he didn’t sleep last night.
I lift my hand, so he sees me, and he nods with acknowledgement as he walks over. He fixes his backward hat, so the rim is sitting lower at the base of his neck. “You look like hell,” I tell him.
“Thanks,” he says. “I’ve had a stupid head cold all week. I’m fine.”
I hand him his coffee. “Well, don’t breathe near me then.”
“I won’t breathe at all. How about that?”
The banter never ends between the two of us. It’s easier to have a conversation about nothing than a real conversation about something I never talk about. “Sounds good,” I continue.
“What’s going on? You—look like hell too, and I don’t think you’re sick.”
I take a sip from my steaming cup before speaking. “I almost got arrested last night.”
Brody nearly spits a mouthful of coffee out. He squeezes his eyes shut to swallow the hot liquid; then, his mouth falls open. “Say what? You? What the hell could you have done?” Brody is the typical older brother who enjoys making me feel like a weak nerd in his presence. Maybe it was the case when we were younger, but I think I’ve proven myself since then. Although, not in the sense that I would get myself nearly arrested.
“I—ah—saw a man wearing a shemagh over his face in a restaurant last night.”
“A shemagh?” Brody questions.
“The patterned scarves people from the Middle East often wear.”
“Shit,” Brody says, releasing a heavy sigh. “What happened?”
“I guess I had a flashback and thought he was pulling a weapon out. I don’t really know. It all happened so fast. I was sitting at the table with Melody and Parker one minute and nearly strangling the guy in the next.”
Brody is quiet, which is unusual for him. He scratches his eyebrow. “Brett, that’s not okay, man.”
“I know.”
“Did Parker see this?”
“Yeah.”
Brody’s head falls back with frustration. “Is she okay?”
“I think so. Maybe not. I don’t know.”
“And Mel?”<
br />
“She’s fine.” Besides the fact that I ruined a dinner where she was going to tell me we’re having a baby that I can’t tell you about yet.
“Has this happened before?”
Another sip of coffee is the pause I need. “Not like that, but I’ve played the situation out in my head too many times. I hadn’t acted on it until last night.”
“Why haven’t you said anything about this? You obviously have PTSD from the war. It’s common, you know this, right?”
Sure, it’s common, except I don’t have anyone that has been through the same thing that I have. That’s who I could talk to. Somebody who would understand. I can pour my heart out to a therapist who will nod their head a million times and tell me they understand, but do they really? “Thankfully, the guy didn’t press charges, so they let me go.”
“Maybe it was just a one-time thing,” Brody suggests, “But, you need to talk to someone, like, as soon as possible. You can’t let that happen again.”
“I don’t know if I’m ready to talk about any of this with anyone,” I say honestly.
“It doesn’t matter, bro. And I’m sure you already know that when you start therapy, it will get worse before it gets better.”
I didn’t know that. “Why is that?”
“Well, as I know too well, when you start therapy, you have to talk. They go at your pace, but it digs up a lot of old scars because it’s like reopening a wound that didn’t heal correctly in the first place. They teach you coping mechanisms to get through difficult moments. Don’t get me wrong, it isn’t a cure, but it guides you through pain and discomfort, and desensitizes you with the hope that the wound will heal enough so that your quality of life will be good.” I’m not sure when Brody became so philosophical with his metaphors, but it makes sense, and he’s definitely been in more therapy than the rest of us so I can take some truth from what he’s saying.
The Barrel House Series: Boxed Set: Bourbon Love Notes, Bourbon on the Rocks, Bourbon Nights, Bourbon Fireball Page 66