Parker’s eyes grow wide,and a smile forms across her dimpled cheeks. “I know what that means.”
When Parker has a moment, one that she deserves more of, we do our “thing” to realign our lives. Abby had an obsession with doughnuts. A gross, unhealthy obsession, which I found utterly bizarre seeing as she was a petite woman. Her overachieving metabolism was responsible for her high-energy level and ability to consume more food than a large, hungry man. There were days where she would eat more than me,and it was embarrassing considering I had at least five inches and probably seventy pounds on her. Doughnuts, though, those were her favorite. We would split a dozen,and it’s disgusting to think about it now because I definitely can’t eat like that anymore, but Parker has the same desire for doughnuts as Abby. The sweet pastry fixes everything, so the legacy lives on.
“Is it doughnut time?” Parker asks.
“You know it, peanut. Get dressed and let’s get to the doughnut shop before the powdered Bavarians disappear.”
Parker knows how to move her butt when doughnuts are waiting. She even tore the braids out of her hair and dragged a brush through the snarls enough to make a lopsided ponytail. Rather than torture her this morning, I fix her hair a little when she finishes, pulling up the fallen strands to loop around the spun knot on the top of her head … “Ballerina Style” as she calls it.
We’re in the truck and moving within ten minutes, much faster than our typical morning routine, which means we’ll have some time to sit and talk. I think a talk is necessary.
Parker releases a loud sigh from her booster seat as we pull out onto the main road. “Dad, why were we at Mr. and Mrs. Quinn’s house last night, and why wasn’t Mr. Quinn there?”
I know I’ve mentioned Harold being sick, but I didn’t go into detail. Parker could think he has a cold for all I know. Lying to her won’t do much good, not with the expected outcome. “Well, I think I told you he was sick, right? That’s why I’m helping out at The Barrel House.”
“Yes,” Parker responds with an inquisitive tone.
“Melody seemed upset last night, and it made me wonder what Mr. Quinn is sick with? Is it like the flu or something?”
To the child who knows too much grief at a young age, how will she comprehend another person losing their parent too? I’m scared she’ll think it’s more common than it is, and it will once again reinforce the fact that life doesn’t always have a happy outcome. She has never known the comfort of innocence.
“Not exactly. He has nothing like the flu.”
I’m thankful we pull into the parking lot of the doughnut shop before it warrants further explanation. Maybe the break in getting doughnuts will make her forget the question. Although, the answer to her question can only be put off for so long.
There isn’t a line inside, so we have our breakfast within minutes, not long enough for a seven-year-old to forget about her question though. Parker folds her hands over the table, staring me down as if she’s waiting for me to continue the conversation that was paused ten minutes ago. Her doughnut is sitting on a napkin in front of her, which is her weakness, and yet, she is waiting for me to talk before she takes a bite.
“Eat your doughnut,” I tell her.
“Tell me what Mr. Quinn is sick with.”
I unintentionally shake my head, wishing she would change the subject, but I’m not getting away from this table without at least an ounce of the truth. “Have you heard the word, cancer, before?”
I don’t know where she would have heard about cancer, but the kids at school seem to talk about the unthinkable at a much younger age than I remember being able to comprehend most of what comes out of her mouth.
“Yes, Mrs. Joy had cancer last year, remember?” Parker responds immediately with a glimmer of hope swimming through her big eyes.
“That’s right, your art teacher was out for a few months last year because she was receiving treatments for cancer. You have a good memory.”
“She’s all good now and better than ever,” she says.
This is where things will get tricky. “Yes, she was so lucky to get better. I remember the party you had at the end of the year when she returned.”
“We should have a party for Mr. Quinn when he gets better, too,” Parker says, finally lifting up her doughnut between her pink polished fingers.
I run my finger over my bottom lip, lost in thought, wishing I could see the world like she does, even after knowing so much sadness. “So, sometimes, when people have cancer, it can make them sick faster than others, and if that happens, there isn’t always enough time to treat the person with the medication that can help them get well.” I feel like I’m speaking gibberish to her, but she stops chewing and places the doughnut back down on her napkin.
“Mr. Quinn is going to die?” Her voice doesn’t falter; she just stares into my eyes as if I should be able to change my answer from what she’s already expecting to hear.
“I would rather give you hope and tell you he might not die, Park, but from what we’ve been told, he doesn’t have much time left.”
Parker lifts her doughnut back up and takes a giant bite, her eyes crossing as she focuses on the powdered pastry. She takes a minute to digest both my words and the food in her mouth. “We should help Melody. She needs help.”
I’m not sure why Parker seems so fixated on Melody, especially since she’s met Journey and Mrs. Quinn too, but maybe she has a sixth sense of some sort. “She has her mom and sister. I don’t know if we should be in the way right now,” I try to explain.
The work is piling up at The Barrel House because Mr. Crawley has been out for a couple of days with a stomach bug, and Melody or Journey haven’t had much time to help. I don’t expect them to be here at all, in fact, so I need to get a lot done in a short period of time today.
The new barrels are ready to fill, and there’s about an hour’s worth of inventory, another hour of shipping, and the place needs to be straightened and dusted. I’ve accomplished twice as much as these tasks in less than a workday before, but I was a few years younger and had way more energy. Nevertheless, I can handle things.
