I hit the power button on my phone and drop it back into my pocket. “No one,” I tell her.
“Dad, who is she?”
“Parker,” I say with a laugh.
“She’s pretty. That’s all I wanted to say.” And with that, Parker twists around and heads for the kitchen with her nose in the air. At least I know my daughter is back to feeling like herself again.
6
I’m notsure if people plan their life out, assuming everything will happen in certain increments of time. If I had done that, I would have been better prepared when I had to take on responsibilities for another person. Then again, if I had planned out my life, I’m not sure I would have intended on becoming a father to a three-year-old at the age of twenty-four. I should have learned to take life’s unexpected twists and turns while being called for deployments with brief notice, but I’m not sure anyone isever ready to be a parent, regardless of how it happens.
Yet, here I am, four years later, sitting in the hallway outside of Parker’s bedroom, waiting for her to fall asleep. God knows, I’m probably doing part of this wrong, but I hope I’m doing most of it right.
When I moved back home to Vermont, Parker was almost six. She understood enough to realize how drastically her life would change for the second time in two years. My eight years in the Marine Corps were up, and I needed family around to help me navigate this parenting life.
Parker has had a fear of the dark since she was four, old enough to imagine shadows moving across the walls at night, or dolls shifting around. I would lie in bed with her until she fell asleep each night, knowing I would have to stop before the habit became too hard for her to break.
I tried many times to leave a nightlight or the hall light on, but Parker would panic if I wasn’t nearby. Over the last year, I’ve moved one foot farther away from her bed every month, and hearing no complaints when I took a seat against the wall in the hallway where she can still see me, but I’m not so sure she needs me at my post anymore. For myself, I find comfort in the half-hour of sitting here, watching her fall asleep, knowing I’m doing everything possible to give her a peaceful night of sleep. There’s nowhere else to move now except away from her bedroom.
I’ll sit here until she closes the door in my face. After watching Brody with my niece, Hannah, his pre-teen daughter, I’m sure the day will come.
I pull my phone out of my pocket, finding the friend notification sitting right where I left it a few hours ago. I click accept and place the phone down onto my lap. I wonder what Melody will think when she finds out I have a daughter, or what she’ll assume. She might not care at all because I’m nothing more than a stranger passing through her life, but I have an inkling that might not be the case.
Then again, the last time I thought I was headed for more with Melody, I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Seven Years Ago
She asked me to hold her hand when it was time. Abby wasn’t afraid of much, but the idea of an epidural and labor scared her more than the thought of a deployment to a combat zone. I can’t imagine how someone could go through childbirth alone without a hand to hold, so I agreed without a second thought.
Abby was in the most compromising, vulnerable position she would ever be in, and her hand was in mine. All I wanted to do was take the pain away. I was numb to the sights of blood and gore after the battles in Afghanistan, but watching someone I love in pain is a unique kind of experience. “You can do this, Abbs. They said one more push. Come on,” I tell her, holding her hand between both of mine. Tears are running down her red cheeks, her teeth grit, and her eyes clenched. The pressure changes within her grip and the minute seemed like an eternity of silence between my last guiding words and the sound of a baby’s cry. Tears of pain became tears of happiness for Abby as the doctor placed her baby into her arms.
“Parker,” Abby says. “Her name is Parker. Happy birthday, beautiful girl.”
Parker. It was a name Abby hadn’t mentioned in the hours she spent searching through lists of names. “A perfect name,” I tell her. Parker’s eyes open and she takes in the world around her with wonder and a glimmer of confusion which is obvious by the little frown on her forehead. I want to know what she’s thinking. I’ll never know, but will forever imagine.
It wasn’t long until they moved Abby to the recovery unit down the hall from the nursery. It was as if the fifteen hours of pain never happened. She’s beaming with happiness and pride.
The nurses help her find a comfortable position in bed, but I’m not sure Abby has any clue someone is touching her. Parker’s perfect pink face draws in Abby’s gaze as she strokes the side of her face, whispering sweet nothings into her ear.
Once alone in the room, Abby finds me sitting in the chair next to her bed. “You can have a turn now,” she says.
I wasn’t expecting her to offer or ask. I’ve never held a baby. In fact, I’m positive I’m the last person who should hold a baby. I don’t have a clue and I don’t want to hurt her. She’s so tiny. “It’s okay. You need this time,” I tell her.
“Brett, I want you to hold her.” I don’t understand why, but I can only assume it must be lonely taking part in this happiness alone. I always chalk up Abby’s feelings to loneliness because of the life she had while growing up. Not only is she an only child, but her parents passed away in a car accident when she was twelve, and there were no relatives present in her life. From age twelve to eighteen, the state tossed her around from one foster home to another. Abby didn’t have a desire for children or marriage. She couldn’t imagine putting a child through what she lived through, but she has also come to believe that everything in life happens for a reason and that includes giving birth to Parker. It may not be pure joy that I see written across Abby’s face, but Parker is definitely meant to be here.
Abby isn’t giving up on handing Parker over. I don’t want to offend her either. I was there next to her in the final pre-labor classes when they spoke about the heightened emotions following birth. It isn’t necessary to push the envelope there. I stand up from my seat and walk toward her with slow steps as if the floor might move this entire room if I step down too hard. I’m wearing camouflage pants and combat boots, a green tee-shirt and dog tags; hardly appropriate to welcome a new baby into the world.
I scoop my arms around all six pounds and five ounces of little Parker, wrapped up like a small burrito in a pink, cotton blanket. Her knit-cap rests on my arm. My heart is beating so hard I wonder if Parker can feel it beating against my chest. If she does, it doesn’t bother her. Her eyelids struggle to part; she blinks a couple times and falls back asleep.
I turn around to find the chair. I should sit while holding her. “I’m going to close my eyes for a minute,” Abby says. “I’m exhausted.”
“Gee, I can’t imagine why?” I jest in a whisper. Abby leans her back into her pillow and the second her eyes close, I realize I’m now responsible for taking care of Parker until she wakes up or a nurse comes into the room.
Abby’s quick nap became two hours.
My arms are numb, but I’m comfortable holding onto Parker. I could stare at her for hours, wishing she could talk to me about everything she has experienced during her short three hours of life. However, I’m guessing she might only tell me she’s hungry by the sound of the scream wailing from her lungs. How can something so small make so much noise?
A nurse comes jogging into the room with a smile. “Well, at least Mom got a couple hours of sleep,” she says.
