Famous last words.
It’s hardly noon when I need a break, finding two wooden crates to set up in the corner for a few minutes. I didn’t get a call from the school, which I was partially expecting, so I know Parker is hanging in there, and I suppose silence from every other direction is a good sign. But, as always, I think these thoughts too soon. My phone buzzes on the counter, and I polish off the bottle of water I had been chugging before seeing who is sending me a message. The school would call, so panic isn’t a thing unless the phone rings during the hours between nine and three.
There’s a text from Melody, one I wasn’t expecting.
The Girl of My Dreams:I’m so sorry if I caused you and Parker any trouble last night.
Jesus. The poor thing is most likely at the hospital right now, and this is what she’s concerned about. I hope she hasn’t been worried about this.
Me:You did nothing wrong. Parker is fine. Please, don’t worry about us.
This was the reason I left so quickly last night. They are in no position to take us on as a concern, and my situation with Parker is permanent, not temporary. It can be handled and dealt with accordingly. We don’t need open arms and empathy. It's a normal life for us.
The Girl of My Dreams:I wanted to make sure everything was okay.
Me:Thank you for checking. How are you doing this morning?
The three dots flicker a few times before disappearing, and I torture myself with wonder if I shouldn’t have asked how she is, but it would be a shitty thing not to ask too. I stare at the screen on my phone for several minutes, wishing I knew what was going on now that I’ve gotten no response. Things might be bad, bad enough that she has nothing to respond with, but if so, why would she be concerned about Parker and me?
Me:I assume you’re not okay by the lack of response.
I’m going out on a limb with my message, but she is harder to read than the fine print on a jackpot-winning lottery ticket.
The Girl of my Dreams:They’re moving him to hospice right now.
With all the honesty in the world squeezed into seven words, my heart throbs as I re-read her message to make sure I understand correctly, though, there isn’t much to be confused about. I know what hospice is and the purpose. It’s either a place or a service to ease the comfort of one’s final days. When Pops called me earlier in the week to tell me about Harold, I didn’t think we were talking about days. I figured maybe weeks or at least months, but this is a lot at once, especially since I believe the Quinn’s are fairly new to this information, as well.
What do I say? Sorry is just a filler of a word. It won’t help. What can I do? Food isn’t comforting when waiting for someone to die. I don’t know what it feels like to wait for a moment like that. I only know what it feels like to have the ground torn out from beneath me.
The Girl of my Dreams:I can’t talk, I’m sorry.
I’m the one who gets the “sorry.” She has nothing to be sorry about, and I’d tell her that if responding wouldn’t be an over-the-top move after her simple statement.
This isn’t right. I have to do something, aside from cleaning up the shop. I have to help. After I was discharged from the Marines, I often get this uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach when I just sit around. There is always someone in need, and something I can be doing. It’s all I knew for eight years—it’s all I cared about. I signed my life away to protect and serve others, and now I’m a dad but I’m not sure how great of one I am. Melody isn’t just a hand reaching out for help, she’s the silent sufferer, holding in her pain, to be strong for her loved ones. Being the person who takes care of everybody can be rewarding but can also be the most difficult job in the world.
With a glance around the shop, torturing myself for an idea of what I can do, I grab a couple of bottles from the shelf and place them in a paper bag, then set them off to the side.
I grab my phone from the crate beneath me and dial Mom’s phone.
“Hi, sweetheart. Is everything okay?”
We spoke this morning after I dropped Parker off at school so I could fill her in on what happened last night. Mom knows if we disappear without saying goodbye, there’s a reason, and though she was concerned, she knows well enough I’d call if there is an emergency. If she doesn’t hear from me, it’s because I’m handling everything until I can fill her in on the situation. It wasn’t always like this with Mom, but we both learned to accept this way of life when I was deployed and even when I was just working on the base. I think it was harder for her to accept this way of life than it was for me but she adapted over time and trusts that if something is serious, she’ll know. During our conversation, we were both wondering if I would get a call from the school today, letting me know that Parker isn’t acting like herself or she’s upset and not speaking, but I think we’re moving past those days, slowly.
“Yeah, no call from the school thankfully, so she must be doing okay,” I say.
“Thank goodness. I started to think back on the last few times she broke down. She seems to be handling her emotions a little better now. I think she stayed at school the last time too, didn’t she?”
I think back for a moment, trying to recall the last time Parker had an emotional breakdown, and it was on Abby’s birthday. We went to the therapist and to Church, before stopping to get a cake to celebrate Abby’s birthday. We did everything we could do to make the day survivable, and Parker was so strong all day, almost too strong, and I should have seen it coming, but she went from being a smiling seven-year-old to a traumatized little girl in a matter of seconds, and it took me a good hour to calm her down. I was sure she would even make it to school the next day, but she did.
“Yeah, she’s getting tougher, which I don’t want for her, but it’s better off that she learns how to cope now rather than when she’s older.” I’m speaking out loud for the sake of hearing my voice. Mom and I have had this conversation so many times. My family has been by my side since the second Parker and I moved home and have done everything to make our lives feel normal, which is something the two of us had never felt before.
“Is everything else okay?”
I sigh and clear my throat because I’m not sure I want to bring this topic up to Mom, but I need her help, so I have to be honest. “You know how I told you Melody was the one who asked about Abby last night?”
“Yes,” Mom says, drawing out the word, so I know she’s asking for more details.
“She texted me earlier to apologize for hurting Parker, and then I found out they’re moving Harold to hospice today.”
