14
There isno instruction manual on how to desensitize a child, despite my worldly advice to Brody. I don’t know if Parker handles the loss of her mother normally because I have nothing to use in comparison. She was only three when Abby died, and if someone asked me back then about how far back a child could remember, I likely would have said ten or older. Never did I think that a child would retain memories from that far back. I don’t remember anything from that time in my life unless I happen to see a photo which triggers a memory.
Parker remembers Abby. She recalls the day Abby left for her tour to Afghanistan. There are no photos, and we don’t speak about the day, but she remembers parts that I can’t—things that a grown man didn’t even notice.
We were in Abby’s SUV, and I was driving her to the departure location on base. She was quiet in the front seat, and Parker was staring out the window from her car seat, positioned directly behind Abby. I know she isn’t okay so asking her would just open the wound already in progress. “We will be okay. We’ll stay up late, eat a package of cookies every night, drink too much soda, and have dance parties at least twice a day,” I tell Abby, trying to ease her nerves.
“Okay, Mr. Routine,” she responds. “You make my habitual schedule sound like child's play. Plus, you would never buy cookies or soda. Your muscles would be angry at you, and your time at the gym would all be for nothing.”
Is that what she thinks of me? A strict meathead? I know it isn’t what she thinks. She’s just trying to get under my skin. I don’t make comments about my diet, but I am cautious about what I eat, and it isn’t because of my workout regimen. My stomach and esophagus aren’t up to par and the heartburn from eating crap is unbearable. “We got this. I just want you to keep that in mind.”
“I don’t doubt you, nor will I ever,” Abby says. It may not be doubt she’s feeling, but whatever it is, I can’t fix it with words. She has gone on week-long training sessions, and I’ve taken care of Parker, so I know she’s comfortable leaving her with me, but heading to a battle zone is different than training. I know what goes through my head when I leave for a tour. I have to tell myself I might not come back, and that it’s okay because I’m doing my duty, serving and protecting my country. If I don’t come back, it will be because I have fought defending those who cannot defend themselves, and there is dignity in dying for a cause. It’s a hard kind of truth to convince myself of but it’s the only way to handle the fear. Abby won’t be on the front lines, but it doesn’t lessen the risk or danger. When a unit deploys, it’s a gamble for everyone involved.
I pull up along the line of other cars, families saying goodbye to their loved ones as the departing Marines board the bus. Abby doesn’t move even after the ignition goes silent.
“You’ve done this before,” I remind her.
“It’s different this time,” she says without taking a minute to think. It is different this time. The stakes are higher. She has a daughter waiting for her to return.
“I know.” I open the door and tend to the trunk where her pack is, letting Abby gather her thoughts and pull herself together. By the time I’m closing the trunk, she’s taking Parker out of her car seat and hoisting her up on her hip.
Parker’s dark-blonde, curled pigtails are flying in the wind, and she’s staring at Abby as if she is an unexplored galaxy appearing before her for the first time.
“I’ll only be gone a few months,” Abby tells Parker. “I’ll be calling you and writing you letters that Brett will read to you, and you know I will think about this little face every single second I’m not here because you are my world.” Abby pinches Parker’s chin and kisses her nose. “I just have to leave you here where it’s safe.”
“Don’t go,” Parker mumbles softly while running her fingers over the staff sergeant patch on Abby’s arm.
“It’s my job, sweetie, and I know it makes no sense to you right now, but I don’t want you to think I am leaving by choice. I have to go. It’s my job.”
Parker rests her head on Abby’s shoulder. I doubt she grasps the concept of time or how long her mom will be gone because it’s too much for a child to understand. It’s hard to know exactly how much Parker comprehends, but I hope more than anything, it isn’t too much.
Abby presses her hand against the back of Parker’s head and kisses her again. “I love you so much … more than you’ll ever know.”
I rest Abby’s pack down next to her legs and run my hand over Parker’s back. Abby looks up at me with tears in her eyes, which makes my heart ache. Abby doesn’t cry; she hardly shows emotion at all. I know she’s crashing inside, so I wrap my arms around her and Parker, hugging them both tightly. “Everything will be okay.”
Abby bites down on her bottom lip and clenches her eyes for a short second. “If things don’t end up okay …” Abby squeezes Parker into her chest as another tear falls from her face. “Will you—”
“Parker will never leave my side. I will care for her the same way you do, always.” The knot in my throat makes breathing and speaking hard, but these are words Abby already knows. It’s just a reminder.
“I updated my will,” Abby says.
“I know.” We talked about it many times over the last couple of years.
“Brett, I don’t know if I can ever thank you enough for being the person you are in our lives, one without strings attached or a label—one without merit. I didn’t know someone like you existed, so selfless and heroic, and I’m not sure what I did to deserve you in my life, but I thank God for you every night—always have, always will.”
“A bond between friends is a relationship we choose, Abbs and I don’t see my role as heroic or without merit. I love you two as if you are my family,and even though we’re not related by blood,I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Thank you,” Abby utters.
“Hey, we’re going to see you later, okay? No more tears. This isn’t goodbye,” I say. I’m not sure if I’m giving her peace of mind or trying to convince myself nothing will happen to her. I know better.
Abby breaks our stare and rests her cheek on Parker’s head. “You are a part of me,and I’m a part of you,” she says.
The other Marines are boarding the bus, and I know our time is up. Abby glances over her shoulder, knowing her job is calling. She pries Parker’s grip from her upper body and hands her over to me. Parker, who is normally the best behaved child I’ve ever seen, breaks into a tantrum, screaming, crying, kicking, and hitting. I’m holding her tightly, trying to soothe her so Abby doesn’t have to leave knowing how upset Parker is, but nothing I do seems to work.
“It’s okay,” Abby says. “She feels something she doesn’t understand,and the only way to cope is to cry. Don’t worry, she’ll be okay.”
Abby kisses Parker’s bobbing head once more and swings her pack onto her back, turning away quickly as a hitch bellows from her throat. I turn Parker to face the parking lot rather than the bus. I don’t want her to watch Abby leave. As the bus pulls away, I watch Abby’s hand press against the window above her seat. I wave in return, then see Parker’s hand wave too. She twisted around just in time to watch the bus leave. “Bye, mama,” Parker says calmly as if her ten-minute tantrum never happened.
