I grab some subs at the pizza shop near the hospital, hoping none of them are gluten-free or vegetarians. Otherwise, I’ll just be a shitty, nice person. I wonder if food is allowed in the hospital. I should have looked up the restrictions, but no one seems to be giving me a weird look as I walk by with a large white paper bag that smells like pickles and onions.
I haven’t been to a hospital since Parker was born. Seeing the hospital from that point of view is much different than being sick, hurt, or watching someone suffer. Suffering. I can’t cope with the thought and understanding of what it means to suffer because I know the truth. I’m not nervous to see Harold, but it’s the feeling of helplessness I’m dreadful of. It’s like seeing a guy on the side of the road, wanting to help him up, but there’s a barrier and all I can do is watch him lay there alone, slowly dying.
Mom sent me a text message with the room number Harold is in. It’s just a few feet away and my heart feels like it’s in my throat. I pause before approaching the door; I turn off my emotions and feelings, press my shoulders back and lift my chin, just as I’ve been molded to do. If no one else can sense my fear and angst, they will not feel the same.
As imagined, Harold is hooked up to monitors and has tubes running across his body and pale face. I knock on the door, waiting for the invitation to join them. Melody, Journey, and Mrs. Quinn are all sitting around Harold—Mr. Quinn. I guess I stopped calling him Mr. Quinn last year when he demanded so. He said if I was going to be helping out here and there in the shop, I’d need to call him Harold rather than making him sound like an old man. However, I was raised to address my elders by mister, misses, or miss.
They all look surprised to see me. So surprised, they don’t actually tell me it’s okay to come in. I assume it’s all right, though. “I thought you ladies might be hungry,” I say, walking in closer to Harold’s bed.
I place the food down on the rolling tray and reach my hand out to shake Mrs. Quinn’s hand. I’ve been home for two years now but haven’t run into her once. The times I was working at the shop were when they were on vacation or Harold was giving me the rundown. I haven’t seen her since the last time I saw Melody; I guess. She looks much the same as I remember; her coffee-brown hair is short and cut sharply around her chin. Her eyes look a bit tired, the hue a dull blue compared to the vibrancy I recall. Mrs. Quinn was always a ray of sunlight, happy and outgoing—full of life. She and Mom are a lot alike in that way, which is why they’ve always gotten along so well. Mom has aged gracefully, but Mrs. Quinn appears a bit older than she is with a few extra worry lines on her forehead and creases forking out from the sides of her eyes. She looks worn down, as if life has taken its toll on her. I can’t imagine it has.
She takes my hand and smiles, reminding me of the warmness she emits with just a friendly gesture. “It’s been a while, but I’m Brett Pearson,” I tell her, worried she might not recognize me like one of her daughters who is currently pretending not to notice me.
“You look just like your father,” Mrs. Quinn says. “Goodness. You’re all grown up now. It’s been years since I’ve seen you. I’m not sure I would have recognized you if we passed by on the street. It’s amazing what a decade can do.”
I’ve been told the military can change a person’s appearance. It’s hard to recognize it in myself but seeing as neither Melody nor Mrs. Quinn found the resemblance of the eighteen-year-old they saw last; I must have changed. I have a jawline now, I guess. Then there’s the stubble I prefer not to shave and the short hair. My hair was always hanging over my forehead and ears as a kid. I’m also closer to two-hundred pounds versus the one-fifty I was when I left for boot camp. Thankfully, it’s muscle rather than beer, but it could have easily gone the other way, especially since I do look just like Pops.
“Age does that I guess,” I say, running my hand down the side of my face. I have yet to look over at Melody because I feel like we’re back in high school pretending neither of us exist. I wish I understood why she is so uncomfortable around me.
“Brett is that you?” Harold mutters through his partially closed lips. I didn’t realize he was awake. It’s nice to hear his voice. I’m glad he’s awake.
“Yes, sir. Just closed up the shop and wanted to check in to see how you are doing.”
I can sense Journey’s glare burning down my side. I can only imagine what she thinks of me since Melody won’t look up.
“I’m doing great,” Harold says, trying to shrug his shoulders. “They said I can try running a few miles tomorrow if I’m up to it.” Harold releases a phlegm-filled laugh before settling himself down. “Tell me, did the water shipment arrive today?”
“Yes, sir. I have everything settled.” I offer a smile, hoping to ease his worry about the shop. It’s the last thing he should be concerned about right now, but I can understand him trying to keep his focus on something other than his illness.
“Thank you, son.”
Son.
Maybe that’s his subtle reminder to stop calling him sir. “If these two give you any trouble, you need to let me know, okay?”
Oh, boy. They might as well just throw me out of the room. Both of the girls are going to have daggers out for me if Harold doesn’t stop talking to me this way. I can sense the fury they aren’t doing a great job at hiding.
“Oh, we’ll all be just fine.” I take the opportunity to glance over at Melody, catching her gaze. “Right?”
She chokes and clears her throat before sitting up straighter in her chair. “Yeah, everything is under control,” she says, sounding as if she’s questioning me, or maybe Harold.
“Thanks for bringing us food,” Journey says.
“Yes, thank you,” Mrs. Quinn follows.
They both sound sincere, easing my concern that Journey might hate me too. “Of course. Is there anything else I can do to help you guys out right now?” I’m sure this is the time where they say thank you for offering but there’s not much else I can do for them. I can move it along and leave them to their privacy. God, I haven’t been this uncomfortable in a long while.
“Where’s your daughter?” Melody speaks up. Her question surprises me, not so much because of the context, but because it sounds accusatory, like I left Parker on the side of the road somewhere so I could bring them dinner.
“You have a daughter?” Mrs. Quinn questions.
There’s no way Mom didn’t tell her about Parker. My mom can’t keep much to herself, let alone the mention of a grandchild.
“I told you about this incredible guy right here,” Harold follows. I guess he knows. Maybe Mom and Mrs. Quinn haven’t spoken as much as I thought they might have over the years. That’s too bad. They used to talk daily.
“Yes, ma’am. She’s seven, but my mom is probably feeding her millions of cookies as we speak, so she’s perfectly fine. I just won’t get her to fall asleep tonight, but help is help, right?”
Mrs. Quinn looks partially enamored by what I’m saying and somewhat confused at the same time. I feel very out of place, as if ten years have definitely passed without a fleeting thought of each other.
