I hold up my hand and step away from the car so she can leave, feeling heartbroken for a woman I tried so hard to forget about. I failed miserably. She’s unforgettable in every way.
I spot her eyes in the rearview mirror, another undecipherable look as she pulls away from the parking spot. Her eyes can tell an entire story between two blinks, and yet, I feel blind and deaf to whatever it is she’s trying to tell me.
5
Pops askedme to help with The Barrel House. I would never ask questions about how long they might need the help, but the more I think about the outcome of this unfortunate situation, I’m realizing the help I’m offering could become more permanent as Harold’s illness progresses. I don’t know if Melody and Journey plan to keep the business running or what anyone’s wishes are, but I’m sure I’ll find out in due time.
Mr. Crawley is understanding of the flexibility issues I have with Parker, which makes everything less stressful on my end. So, as long as I have her to school before nine and pick her up at three, things will work out. I’m just not sure how long Mr. Crawley can manage the shop and distillery at the same time while I’m out.
The looping line at the elementary school is spilling onto the street earlier than usual today. I try to time my arrival ten minutes before the hour to avoid this line, but it looks like I’m out of luck today.
I take the few minutes my car is parked along the curb to check my news feeds on social media—a habit I gained years ago but only for the purpose of spectating. I don’t think I’ve posted anything in over three years. Plus, I locked my profiles down to the highest level of privacy because I don’t like the thought of people having an inside view to my life. I wonder if Melody prefers privacy or being an open book. I tap her name into the search bar, finding her profile image pop up first on a list full of other Melody Quinn’s. I select her name, finding her profile to be open to the public. Her photo is candid, a beach photo from the neck up with the sand, water, and sky behind her. Her rosy locks are blowing wildly around her face and her freckles are more prominent than what I saw today. It’s clear the photos were taken in the summertime. The only thing I find odd is that she isn’t smiling. Melody was always smiling when we were younger. Maybe the candid photo was taken without her knowledge, but even still, there’s a look of sadness on her face.
Scrolling down the stream takes me to other photos, ones of a pale-yellow colonial house with shutters that’s surrounded by a picket fence. She captioned the photo, “Home is where I am.” I wonder if she purposely misconstrued the quote. I scroll further, finding a photo of her with a man, dark hair, gym buff, cocky looking; all the qualities I wouldn’t expect Melody to be looking for in a man. Maybe they’re just friends. Another quick scroll proves my assumption to be wrong. Her arms are around his neck, she’s kissing his cheek, and has a leg up behind her in a cute pre-planned pose. They’re standing in front of the beautiful house she was calling home. I heard she was married, but it was through gossip, and from what I could see earlier, she wasn’t wearing a ring.
Melody’s love life shouldn’t be a concern of mine. She came home to be with her dad. I swoosh the screen back to the top, clicking the “About” section of her profile, finding her relationship status marked as: single.
Bizarre. In a good way.
A car horn blares, informing me I haven’t pulled up fast enough. I wave at the obnoxious parent behind me, drop my phone into the cup holder and pull up the few allotted feet.
Happy now? I’d like to shout out my window. If I was on base, it would be the normal thing to do, but civilian life doesn’t come with the same understanding values for freedom of speech. We’d laugh it off if someone yelled at us to move, but people get so serious about petty things these days, there’s no place for humor in the world.
It takes just a few minutes to reach the loading zone. Parker isn’t paying attention as usual. She has her nose stuck in a book until a teacher taps her shoulder to let her know I’m here.
I unlock the doors and Parker climbs into the back, securing the seatbelt over her booster seat. “Hey sweetie, how was your day?” I ask, looking back at her. She hasn’t picked her head up to look at me yet, but I give her a minute to buckle before asking the next question of: What’s wrong?
“It was fine,” she says, picking her book up off her lap.
I squeeze her pink legging covered knee and turn back to the front before the obnoxious parent behind me honks again. “What did you do today?” I continue.
“Nothing really,” she says.
“You had gym class. What did you do there?”
“We played capture-the-flag.”
“Park, what’s going on? Did something happen today?”
Seven-year-old girls, something I didn’t know much about until this year, but I’ve learned a couple of facts. Most of them don’t stop talking, and very few have their noses stuck in a book as often as Parker does. I try not to be concerned, but I will always wonder what is going on in that little head of hers. Sometimes it appears she’s depressed and I’m not sure that’s common for a child her age. She was a loud toddler, always singing at the top of her lungs, making up words to every song she’d hear on the radio. Sleeping wasn’t her thing, so she’d be up at the crack of dawn then rarely fall asleep before ten o’clock. Her giggle—it was infectious, and I would do just about anything to put her into a fit of that infectious laughter.
I don’t remember the last time I’ve heard her happy like that though. I miss the sound, and I would do anything to bring it back. “I’m making you Cheez-it chicken fingers and tater-tots tonight,” I tell her. It’s her favorite meal besides pizza.
“Thank you,” she says without a hint of excitement.
“Parker, put the book down for a minute.” I should wait until we get home before continuing to dig for the reason of today’s quietness, but it kills me when I think something is bothering her.
“Why?” she asks.
“I want to know what’s putting you in the mood you’re in.”
I glance into the rearview mirror in search of her expression. She shrugs rather than answer. “Did someone or something upset you today?”
“I don’t know,” she mutters.
“Tell me what’s on your mind. I can’t help if you don’t talk, you know how that goes.”
“We were learning about family trees today,” she affirms.
