Page 11 of Bourbon Girl, Part 3
The clinical tone of his message was a stark reminder of how little enthusiasm he felt about the possibility of being my father. To him, I represented a potential earthquake that would upend his life.
I stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Part of me wondered if Sam Church was right—if walking away might be the kindest choice for everyone involved.
But as the Kentucky countryside rolled past my window, I realized I'd come too far to turn back now. Whatever tomorrow brought, I needed to know the truth. I respondedI'll be there.
September 11, Thursday
headsthe early portion of distillation, containing volatile compounds that are usually removed
THE WORKSHOPfelt different this time—charged with tension that made the air itself seem heavier. Sam Church stood beside his workbench, a small cardboard box in his hands, while a woman I hadn't met before sat rigidly in a folding chair near the door. Her arms were crossed defensively across her chest, and her eyes tracked my every movement with the intensity of a predator evaluating prey.
"Bernadette, this is my wife, Carol," Sam said, his voice strained with obvious discomfort. "Carol, this is the young woman I told you about."
I guessed Carol Church to be in her late forties, with brown hair pulled back in a severe ponytail and sharp features that might've been attractive on another day. Her posture radiated the kind of brittle anger that came from feeling betrayed by circumstances beyond her control.
The cardboard box in Sam's hands contained a home DNA paternity test kit, complete with sterile swabs and collection tubes. The clinical nature of the process felt surreal—thirty years of questions reduced to cheek cells and laboratory analysis.
"Let's just get this over with," Sam muttered, opening the kit with movements that suggested he'd rather be doing anything else. The contents were simple: two sets of swabs in sealed packages, collection envelopes, and instructions for proper sample collection.
The actual process took less than five minutes. Sam went first, scraping the inside of his cheek with the provided swab before sealing it in its designated envelope. His hands shookslightly as he completed the task, and I caught Carol watching him with an expression that mixed hurt with something close to hatred.
When my turn came, I followed the same procedure under Carol's withering stare. The cotton swab felt rough against the inside of my mouth, and I found myself wondering if this simple act would change everything, or nothing at all.
"There," Sam said, placing both sealed envelopes into the prepaid shipping box the kit provided. He held it out to me with obvious reluctance. "You can mail this whenever you're ready. Or... you don't have to mail it at all. Your choice."
The emphasis on those last two words was unmistakable. Sam Church was hoping I would choose not to send the test, hoping I would walk away and leave his life undisturbed.
"Results take seven to ten business days once they receive the samples," he continued, still not meeting my eyes. "If you decide to proceed."
I took the box, feeling its surprisingly light weight in my hands. Such a small thing to hold such enormous potential consequences.
"Thank you," I managed, though the words felt inadequate for the magnitude of what we'd just done.
Carol's voice followed me to the door: "I hope you're proud of yourself, stirring up trouble in other people's lives."
The September afternoon felt blazing hot after the cool shadows of the workshop. I sat in my van for several minutes, staring at the innocuous white box that contained two people's genetic futures. I carefully printed my address at the campground on the return label.
The drive to the Lexington post office took twenty minutes, but I spent most of that time rehearsing arguments with myself. Inside the post office, fluorescent lights hummed overhead while a handful of customers went about their mundane business—buying stamps, mailing packages, conducting the ordinary transactions of daily life. None of them knew they were witnessing what might be the most important decision I'd ever make.
The mail drop slot was mounted in the lobby wall. Next to it, almost mockingly close, sat a large trash receptacle.
I stood there, contemplating. Sam's haunted expression replayed in my mind, along with the raw pain I'd seen in Carol's eyes—the look of a woman watching her world crumble.
I walked to the trash bin and dropped the test kit inside, listening to the soft thud as it hit the bottom. The sound felt final, like a door closing on possibilities I'd never explore.
I walked back to my van and pulled out of the parking lot, telling myself I was being noble. Selfless. Protecting two people from pain they didn't deserve.
But I'd only driven a half block when my foot slammed on the brake pedal so hard that Ginger lurched to a stop with a squeal of protest. Behind me, a car horn blared as traffic swerved around my suddenly stationary van.
What the hell was I doing?
I'd driven two thousand miles to find answers about my father. I'd spent months searching, following dead-end leads, enduring disappointments and false hopes. I'd uprooted my entire life, taken a dreary job, lived in my van.
And now, ten feet from the finish line, I was going to quit because Carol Church didn't like the inconvenience?
"Not happening," I said aloud, then executed a U-turn that made my tires screech against the asphalt.
Back at the post office, I burst through the entrance doors and marched to the trash can. I plunged both arms elbow-deep into the refuse, my fingers scrambling through coffee cups, crumpled papers, and things I didn't want to identify.
