The Girl of my Dreams:Thank you. I needed that in more ways than I can explain.
The light returns to green, and I place the phone down, feeling a bout of relief. I think it’s safe to assume I didn’t cross a line or push too hard. At least that’s what her message sounds like. What a relief.
My string of thoughts lessen as I continue the half-hour drive to Mom and Pops. I need to clear my head of Melody’s sadness so I can perk up for Parker. The last thing she needs is to go through any more feelings of loss, even if it’s just by hearing or watching it happen to someone else. If I could keep her in a bubble of happiness, I would. At some point, I’ll have to allow more of life’s realities into her world, but I feel it’s my responsibility to keep as much despair from her as possible so she can experience how wonderful life can be.
I walk into the house, inhaling the scent of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies and nail polish remover--the norm when I leave Mom and Parker alone for more than an hour. The woman who never had daughters takes every chance possible to have girl time with her granddaughters. Even Pops has joined in on the fun from time to time, but we’re not supposed to talk about the times I’ve found him with mascara or lipstick smudged across his cheeks from one of the girls using him as a model.
Pops is in the living room watching TV, ready to fall asleep when I interrupt his crime show coma. “Brett,” he says, checking his watch. “Oh, it’s only eight. God, it feels like ten.”
“It’s that time of year again,” I tell him. We just hit daylight savings, and no one has adjusted yet, including myself, who evidently doesn’t need the extra hour of sleep.
“Take a load off. Your mom is painting Parker’s nails, and it’s the crucial-no-interrupting-part. Whatever that means.”
“That process is the drying time. If Parker moves, the nail-polish will scrape off,” I inform him.
“Listen to you, speaking girl. I never thought I’d see the day.”
“Yeah, me neither, but here we are,” I say, taking a seat next to him on the couch.
“How’s Miss Melody holding up?” I didn’t expect Mom to tell Pops what I was up to tonight, since he rarely brings up the topic of women with her or me. It’s not in his nature to pry.
“It’s hard to say. I don’t know who or how she was before she found out about Harold, at least not since she was seventeen. Maybe she’s been quiet since then. I don’t know. She’s obviously not in a great place, but I offered to be there in case she needs someone, you know?”
“That was a nice thing to do,” Pops says, grabbing the remote and turning the TV off. “I assume she’s going through more than she’s letting on.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, leaning forward to rest my elbows on my knees.
“I spoke to Harold for a bit this afternoon. I was asking about both of the girls because I wanted him to know I’d be there for them. It doesn’t matter what age you are when you lose a parent. It’s tough and I felt like I needed to know what concerns he’s leaving behind so he would rest easy knowing that I’ll keep an eye on them from afar.”
“That was nice of you,” I say.
“He appreciated it. I told him if either of the girls ever need anything, they can count on me.”
“I know this isn’t easy for you, Pops.”
“No. God, Harold and I have been friends since we were kids. I know our families didn’t do a lot together over the years, but Harold and I always spoke and saw each other at least once a week. It’ll never be the same without him now.”
“I know you’ve always been close. Losing a friend—”
“Son, I didn’t know Abby very well aside from the couple of times we met her during our visits, but friendship is friendship, and when you lose it, the pain—it’s pain. I know you understand.”
“Yeah,” is all I can say because I don’t want to compare my six-year friendship to a lifelong friendship.
“How did you cope?” Pops asks. It’s a weird question for me to hear. Pops doesn’t usually ask me for advice or look at me as if I’m more worldly than he has. He has made comments many times that I’m more of a man than he’ll ever be because of what I went through in the war, because when he was enlisted, he never deployed. It doesn’t make him less of a man, and I hate that he thinks that way.
“I don’t even know how I made it through all that without losing my mind,” I tell him.
A Wednesday night was nothing out of the ordinary for Parker and me. We always stick to a good schedule of dinner, bath time, story time, and bed and at no point throughout the day did I think anything would throw our schedule off, but the doorbell ringing at six-thirty would be the one thing to change everything.
I take the pot of boiling water off the stove to answer the door, leaving Parker to the puzzle she is working on in the middle of the kitchen floor. “Stay here; I’m going to see who’s at the door.”
The kitchen is open enough that Parker can see out to the main living area and the front door, which isn’t an issue until I open it to see a Chief Warrant Officer and a Staff Sergeant, both in dress Alphas.
I don’t recognize either of them but out of instinct I bring my heels together. “Sir, Staff Sergeant. What can I do for you?”
“Good evening, sir. We’re wondering if we could speak to Staff Sergeant Lane’s next of kin,” the Chief Warrant Officer asks. “Would you be able to please confirm if the person is home and her full name?”
“Sir,” I say, peeking back at Parker. Her focus is on us rather than the puzzle. “Parker Lane is Staff Sergeant Lane’s next in kin, but she’s four. I’m her caretaker while Staff Sergeant Lane is deployed. I’m Sergeant Brett Peterson.” I offer my hand, trying to remain calm until I know the reason for the visit. Although, I am fearing the worst because I’m not new to procedures or notifications.
