Bourbon Nights - Shari J. Ryan Page 0,27

so helpless.

On base, when someone was sick or if someone passed away, we would all join forces and help the surviving family, spouses, and children. We knew what they needed. Most of us were good at offering emotional support even when not wanted. But, no matter how much effort is put into helping someone in their time of need, it’s never enough to take away the inevitable pain of grief.

9

Brody picked up Parker from school today and brought her to Mom and Pop’s for her Tuesday night taco party. We carpool a couple days a week to lessen the load since we’re both playing double duty in the parenting game. I’m not sure if I’d call our situation irony, but I never expected the two of us to end up as single dads. Brody’s story is a little different and a bit more conventional than mine, but those details don’t matter during the shuffle every day. It’s nice to have each other to talk to, complain, and question what higher power decided we would make good single dads of girls. Brody seems to be at his wits end most days, but his fuse is an eighth of the size of mine and Hannah is twice as difficult as Parker, for now at least. Hannah is always well behaved for me, so I don’t see a lot of what he talks about with her attitude, but Brody knows all about attitudes and the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. Hannah is a mini version of Brody and it’s funny watching him parent her sometimes.

I was about to head to our family fiesta night when Mom called me as I was locking up The Barrel House.

The questions about Melody and Journey are endless and she’s hardly taking a breath to allow me a minute to answer. Mrs. Quinn must have told Mom what was going on with Mr. Quinn.

“Are they all at the hospital now?” Mom asks.

“I assume so. They left the shop a few hours ago and I haven’t heard anything, but I’m not exactly expecting to hear anything either.”

“Those poor girls,” Mom says, gasping for the air she needs. “I should bring them some food.”

The thought crossed my mind, but I don’t want to be intrusive at such a sensitive time. “I can do that. I just didn’t want to overstep my bounds.”

“I don’t think you’re overstepping,” Mom says. “Leave it with the nurse’s station if nothing else. They should know we’re all thinking about them.”

I have been. It’s all I’ve been thinking about.

“Yeah, I’ll do that. Save me a taco and tell Parker to start her homework.”

“Her homework is already complete. I’ve done this a time or two, Brett. You don’t give me much credit.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll call you when I’m on my way back from dropping off food at the hospital.”

“Take your time. If they need help with anything at home or whatever, please lend them a hand.”

“I was planning on offering.”

“I know you were, my unsung hero.”

“Mom,” I stop her.

“You are. You can be my hero even if you don’t want to be anyone else’s.”

“I’m not a hero. It’s not something I want to be called.” I tell her this every time she toys with the word.

“Well, we can all think what we want, but my heart is full, watching the kind of man you have become. I don’t think I tell you often enough.”

Her words come from a place of love, but it’s like nails on a chalkboard with how frequently she feels the need to tell me how wonderful I am. She sees me much differently than I see myself and that will never change. I don’t think she understands the guilt associated with the word hero.

I grab some subs at the pizza shop near the hospital, hoping none of them are gluten-free or vegetarians. Otherwise, I’ll just be a shitty, nice person. I wonder if food is allowed in the hospital. I should have looked up the restrictions, but no one seems to be giving me a weird look as I walk by with a large white paper bag that smells like pickles and onions.

I haven’t been to a hospital since Parker was born. Seeing the hospital from that point of view is much different than being sick, hurt, or watching someone suffer. Suffering. I can’t cope with the thought and understanding of what it means to suffer because I know the truth. I’m not nervous to see Harold, but it’s the feeling