“No, I hate dishes, which is the reason why I opt for the dishwasher.”
Melody continues scrubbing at the hand-painted plate, and I consider warning her about scraping the China too hard as it could damage the finish but I don’t think it would end well for me if I said anything like that.
“Did you lose your girlfriend—Parker’s mom? Is that why you understand the pain of losing someone?”
We hadn’t talked too much about pain, but I suppose the few things I said might have been more on the lines of advice than empathy. I’ve seen more death than anyone should see in a lifetime, but I can’t compare any of that to losing a parent. It’s still unimaginable to me, even after everything I’ve lost.
“Parker’s mom wasn’t my girlfriend. Abby, she was my best friend. We served in the Marines together. Neither of us had many other friends, so we became close and ended up renting an apartment together off base for a few years.” Our story is not so simple, but the details leading up to us living together are not appropriate for tonight, or anytime soon most likely.
Melody continues her effort of cleaning the paint off the white plate and tilts her head to the side. “Guys and girls can never just be friends, right?” She’s really pressing for information, but yet, seems so completely unavailable at the same time. I have never been so thrown off by a woman in my life compared to the way Melody manages to toy with my head.
“No, Abby and I were never more than friends.”
“Oh,” she says, finally placing the dish down on the drying rack.
I take a hand towel from the counter and dry the dish. “A few years after Parker was born, Abby was killed—”
I knew I shouldn’t have said what I did the second the words left my mouth. It was too soon for Melody, and Parker still suffers deeply from the loss of Abby. The emotions never get old for my litle girl and the pain never ceases. The wound is as fresh today as it was when she was almost too young to understand what forever meant.
Her squeak from the doorway feels like a slap of cold air, reminding me of why I don’t talk about what happened to Abby, not with Parker in the same house or within a mile radius for that matter.
“Oh my God, I am so sorry,” Melody says, covering her hands over her mouth.
“No, no, it’s fine.” I run to Parker and fall to my knees in front of her, trying my hardest to stop the tears I assume are threatening to pour out of her big blue eyes. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” I whisper in Parker’s ear. I lift her into my arms, and she places her head down on my shoulder.
“Can I do something?” Melody offers, sounding distraught and broken from what she witnessed. I screwed up big time on so many levels tonight.
“Will you let everyone know Parker isn’t feeling well, and I have to get her home?”
I don’t wait for Melody to respond. I run toward the front door, stepping into my boots and grabbing our coats and Parker’s boots on the way out. I don’t want her to break down, not now, not here. It’s not the time.
We make it outside when the tears start to fall one by one. “I’m sorry, daddy. I can’t stop it—” she says, breathlessly.
“Let it out, Park. It’s okay. It’s always okay to cry.”
“I’m sorry we have to leave,” she says, breathing heavily.
“Look at me,” I tell her, pulling her away so she can see my face. “You have nothing to be sorry about, but I need you to calm down a little. You’re breathing too fast.” There’s no turning back once we get to this point. It’s out of Parker’s control. When she becomes upset, she hyperventilates. She was diagnosed with asthma last year, mostly just stressed induced, but Parker gets stressed out easily. I get the truck door open and sit her down on the passenger side seat, reaching into my pocket for her inhaler. “Try to take a deep breath.”
She can’t so I do my best to guide her through the attacks, trying to help her stay calm and talk her through something I can’t control. Every single time this happens, she stares at me with wide eyes, terrified as she clutches her chest, and I want to die because this look—the look of unrelentless fear has scarred me for life.
Five months into my tour in Afghanistan and our umpteenth ambush, I was poaching an abandoned alley with one of my guys, Dave. He was one of our communications guys we pulled into the current mission of clearing the area because of the amount of men we had lost over the previous days. I was seconds away from calling the scene “clear,” when the ping of a bullet zinged through the air. One shot, one hit, and Dave hit the ground clutching the upper left region of his chest. My instincts tell me to drop to Dave’s side and press my hand into the gunshot wound before he bleeds out. It would have allowed the enemy free range to continue shooting his weapon. I hold my rifle up, spotting the guy hiding behind a corroded stone wall that looks to have been hit by a recent explosion. It’s about fifty yards ahead. I steady my breaths, trying to put aside the thought that one of my guys is likely dying beside me. I locate the enemy in my sights just as he is reloading his weapon. I fire and hit him with my first shot. He’s gone.
I tend to Dave, taking in the listless look in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he mutters through a whisper.
“Don’t say that,” I tell him, pressing my hand into the wound on his chest.
“I—” he mutters.
“Medic!” I shout. “Come on, buddy, stay with me.”
He can’t. His eyes lose their focus as he struggles to take one last breath, but he had already taken it. Just like that, one more life gone. As I hunch over his body, closing his eyelids with the palm of my hand, I wonder what we’re really fighting for. We’re all people, all sharing one planet, so how did we end up here?
“Dad, I’m okay,” Parker says, shaking my shoulders.
“Dad. Snap out of it.”
My eyes refocus on her little face, the face that’s concerned about me rather than herself or the sadness she was feeling. “I’m sorry, Parker.”
