Bourbon Nights - Shari J. Ryan Page 0,16

there’s no place for humor in the world.

It takes just a few minutes to reach the loading zone. Parker isn’t paying attention as usual. She has her nose stuck in a book until a teacher taps her shoulder to let her know I’m here.

I unlock the doors and Parker climbs into the back, securing the seatbelt over her booster seat. “Hey sweetie, how was your day?” I ask, looking back at her. She hasn’t picked her head up to look at me yet, but I give her a minute to buckle before asking the next question of: What’s wrong?

“It was fine,” she says, picking her book up off her lap.

I squeeze her pink legging covered knee and turn back to the front before the obnoxious parent behind me honks again. “What did you do today?” I continue.

“Nothing really,” she says.

“You had gym class. What did you do there?”

“We played capture-the-flag.”

“Park, what’s going on? Did something happen today?”

Seven-year-old girls, something I didn’t know much about until this year, but I’ve learned a couple of facts. Most of them don’t stop talking, and very few have their noses stuck in a book as often as Parker does. I try not to be concerned, but I will always wonder what is going on in that little head of hers. Sometimes it appears she’s depressed and I’m not sure that’s common for a child her age. She was a loud toddler, always singing at the top of her lungs, making up words to every song she’d hear on the radio. Sleeping wasn’t her thing, so she’d be up at the crack of dawn then rarely fall asleep before ten o’clock. Her giggle—it was infectious, and I would do just about anything to put her into a fit of that infectious laughter.

I don’t remember the last time I’ve heard her happy like that though. I miss the sound, and I would do anything to bring it back. “I’m making you Cheez-it chicken fingers and tater-tots tonight,” I tell her. It’s her favorite meal besides pizza.

“Thank you,” she says without a hint of excitement.

“Parker, put the book down for a minute.” I should wait until we get home before continuing to dig for the reason of today’s quietness, but it kills me when I think something is bothering her.

“Why?” she asks.

“I want to know what’s putting you in the mood you’re in.”

I glance into the rearview mirror in search of her expression. She shrugs rather than answer. “Did someone or something upset you today?”

“I don’t know,” she mutters.

“Tell me what’s on your mind. I can’t help if you don’t talk, you know how that goes.”

“We were learning about family trees today,” she affirms.

Shit. “Oh yeah? Like what about them?” I’m sure she was taught that there are two biological parents to a child and then each biological parent has their set of biological parents, but Parker—her tree was cut down and replanted somewhere else.

“Well, I knew about Mom, but—never mind.”

I’m thankful we’re pulling into the driveway so we can continue this conversation face to face, inside. I’ve done my best to be upfront with Parker about everything in her life. Some facts need to be retold from year to year as she grows and has a broader understanding of her reality, but it doesn’t become any less painful for me to talk to her.

I help her out of the truck, her neon green tutu blowing into her face as she hops down from the truck. I snag her backpack from the floor mat as she continues toward the front door with the book held up in front of her face.

“Park, you’re going to trip. We’ve talked about this.”

She releases one hand from the book, letting it fall by her side, her head following in suit. I’m sure she is rolling her eyes at me, which has become one of the newest joys of raising a seven-year-old girl.

Once we’re inside, it’s clear she has plans to leave our conversation where it was, and close herself into her bedroom. “Hold it,” I tell her.

“I just want to finish this chapter, Dad,” she whines.

“Sit down on the couch first.”

She huffs and puffs, stomps her high-top black chucks over to the couch and plops down, keeping her book clenched between her grip.

I sit on the coffee table, facing her, and rest my arms on my legs. “What happened with the family tree at school?”

She won’t look at me. Her long-curled pigtails are hanging in front of her face as she