Waiting for Morning

by Karen Kingsbury

  She studied the stage. Five desks for the five panel members, each sporting a microphone. Hannah felt her hands growing cold, and she thought about Carol’s warning: “Sometimes just before you take the stage, you’re nearly overcome with nerves.” Carol had several suggestions on how to combat this, but only one that Hannah thought applied to her.

  Remember Tom and Alicia.

  She reached up and felt the photo pin and knew she would be all right. She wore the pin anytime she went out, anymore. Jurors were everywhere.

  Hannah approached the stage, greeted the others, and took her seat between one of the MADD representatives and a highway patrol officer. She glanced over her notes and then at her wristwatch. They were scheduled to begin in five minutes.

  The room was filling with giggling teenagers, and Hannah found herself staring anxiously at the entryways. Would Jenny come? Training her eyes on the double doors, Hannah studied the stream of kids still pouring in and spotted her daughter’s class. Her heart raced when she spotted Jenny at last. She was the last one in the group to enter the building, and she sat a ways off from the others, alone.

  Hannah stared at her, willing her to look up. Watch me, Jenny. But the girl kept her eyes downward. Come on, Jenny, I need you up here. Look at me! A chill passed over Hannah’s arms and she shuddered. Her daughter had become little more than a stranger.

  The others had already spoken, and finally it was Hannah’s turn. She introduced herself, and a wave of whispers washed over the teenage crowd. Hannah caught some of what they were saying … “That lady up there is Alicia’s mom.” “Oh, my gosh, this is actually Alicia’s mom!” Hannah waited until the whispers died down, taking the opportunity to glance again at Jenny. Her eyes were still on the floor.

  Hannah cleared her throat and began. Sparing no details, she explained how Brian Wesley had plowed his car into her family’s Explorer, killing both Alicia and her father, Dr. Ryan. The students sat spellbound as Hannah described Alicia’s head injuries and Tom’s internal bleeding.

  “Alicia’s sister Jenny was spared, thankfully.” Hannah hesitated and for a moment she caught Jenny’s gaze across the auditorium. She smiled, hoping Jenny would know it was just for her, but the girl seemed suddenly busy with her shoelaces. Hannah scanned the faces before her. “Even though Jenny lived, she will never, ever be the same again. All because someone made a choice to drink and drive. A choice to kill.”

  Hannah segued into a list of increasing penalties and tougher prosecution where drunk driving was concerned. Jenny’s expression was indifferent as Hannah talked about Matt Bronzan and his quest to reduce the number of drunk driving accidents each year. Hannah explained that if a person chose to drink and drive despite prior convictions and alcohol awareness classes, the stakes were higher than ever before.

  “The man who killed my husband and oldest daughter is being charged with first-degree murder.” She let that sink in a moment. “First-degree murder. That’s usually reserved for people with guns and knives, but now it’s been used a few times across the country to convict drunk drivers. The prosecutor believes he can win a murder-one conviction. He believes the time has come to let people know just how serious this is.”

  Hannah paused then, drawing a breath. This was the hard part. “You know, Alicia should be out there today, sitting with you, joking with you.” She looked at Alicia’s cheerleader friends. “Cheering with you. She should be here. But she’s not, and it’s all because someone chose to drink and drive.”

  She waited, studying the faces in the crowd, some crying, many who had been over to the house to visit Alicia and Jenny in years past. Her eyes narrowed, and she forgot about the television cameras for the moment. “Alicia is gone. Her father is gone. Nothing we say or do here today will bring them back.”

  She shot a glance at Jenny—the girl’s head was bent down nearly to her knees. If only she would listen. “We can’t bring them back, but we can make a difference. We can make it so that their deaths were not in vain.”

  There was silence while the students waited. Hannah had the feeling that at this point they would do whatever they could in Alicia’s memory.

  “If you cared about Alicia, then please, take a stand against drunk driving. Go out from here and say enough, already. No more!” She met the somber gazes directed at her. “Spread the news about what’s going to happen to Brian Wesley. Get the truth out: you choose to drink and drive, knowing the risks involved, then you’re going down for first-degree murder. Murder one! Please. If you loved Alicia, do this one last thing for her. Thank you.”

  The students remained motionless, and the muted sound of crying and sniffling filled the room. Hannah glanced at the cameras and saw one directed at Alicia’s three cheerleader friends who were crying, clinging to each other.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Ryan.” Betty Broderick from MADD nodded in Hannah’s direction, then turned to the students. “Now, if you have any questions …”

  Hannah knew she had reached these kids, and she felt a sense of accomplishment, elation even. She had notched a victory for MADD that day, a victory for Tom and Alicia. The news would broadcast what she’d said, or at least parts of it, and by tomorrow people across Los Angeles would be aware that drunk driving might lead to a first-degree murder conviction.

  Hannah felt a ray of hope for the first time in weeks. She couldn’t help it. Four months of this and Brian Wesley wouldn’t stand a chance.

  She could hardly wait to speak to other groups.

  She looked out at the students and saw a handful of arms raised. As Betty Broderick started responding to their questions, Hannah sighed. She had gotten through it. Jenny must be so proud of her! She glanced to the spot where her daughter had been sitting—and sudden tears welled up in her eyes.

  Jenny was gone.

  Twenty-two

  The visions of your prophets were false and worthless;

  they did not … ward off your captivity.

  LAMENTATIONS 2:14A

  Christmas was fourteen days away, but Brian Wesley wasn’t waiting for December 25. The celebration was now. He’d been forming the plan for days, and he was finally ready to carry it out.

  Brian smiled at himself in the mirror. He had a reason to be excited as he got ready that morning. He had been sober again for three weeks.

  At first he had credited his sobriety to the strange Bible words, as if somehow that code, that Phil. 4:13 or whatever, had made a difference. As if maybe Christ, if there was such a person, really had given him strength. Or in case that lady had prayed for him like she promised, and his staying clean was some kind of answer.

  He knew better now. Staying sober had nothing to do with God or prayer or Bible words. It was merely a matter of deciding not to drink.

  He wasn’t even sure why he’d called the lady in the first place. Probably because he was fairly freaked out about the trial, worried about spending life—or any time, for that matter—behind bars. Maybe it had something to do with that bit about the keys to his prison cell. The trial would be here before long, and prison was looking more and more likely. Freedom was bound to interest him.

  Still, when he thought back to that day at Church on the Way, how he’d poured his heart out to some strange woman, he decided he must have been losing it. Imagine, going to church and talking with some middle-aged religious freak about the Bible. Crazy. He was embarrassed about it now, to think he had actually considered turning religious or seeking some kind of revelation or conversion.

  There was an explanation, of course. The drinking had made him crazy enough to visit her. Finch had told him he didn’t stand a chance in court if he couldn’t lay off the bottle. The woman and her “prison keys” had merely been in the right place at the right time, when he was feeling particularly vulnerable.

  Brian straightened the covers on the bed in the spare room of Jackson’s apartment and considered his heritage. He came from a long line of religious scoffers. He chuckled out loud. Imagine him—Red Wesley’
s son—falling into some Jesus cult or something. Brian shuddered at how close he’d come.

  Christianity was for losers. Being sober helped him see that.

  Brian made breakfast and tossed an empty egg carton in the trash. The can was full of Jackson’s empty beer cans. He and Jackson had finally made a rule: no beer in the common areas. All drinking was to be done in private. That way if Brian wanted to stay clean, he didn’t have to watch Jackson get oiled every night. Jackson had stuck with the rule. Good old Jackson.

  Brian dressed in a clean pair of Levi’s and a knit pullover. Today was the day. He paced about the apartment wondering how best to go about it. He stared at the telephone. His money was almost gone, and he considered calling his old man and asking for more. As stepfathers went, Hank Robbins was good that way. Brian stopped pacing and sat down. He hadn’t thought about his stepfather—or his mother, for that matter—for years. I wonder how they’re doing …? Brian knew now, of course, how his stepfather felt about him. He held none of the illusions he’d had as a young boy, back when a new bicycle or an ATV or a Ford Mustang on his sixteenth birthday felt like love. The man had only put up with him because of his mother.

  He remembered when he first learned the truth.

  He’d been seventeen and out with friends … and he’d come home early. Unlocking the front door he heard Hank talking. The old man never raised his voice. If he had a difference of opinion with someone, he would walk outside, wait a while, and then work things out when he came back inside. He was a cool one, old Hank.

  But that night as Brian entered the house Hank was shouting.…

  “I don’t care what you want! It’s completely unreasonable. I will not have that boy live here a moment longer than necessary!”

  “You wish it were tomorrow, don’t you?” His mother sounded like she was crying, and Brian strained to hear. “He’s my son, Hank. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

  Hank’s voice grew softer. “Yes … but he’s also the son of a no-good, alcoholic loser. You know I’ve done everything in my power to provide for that boy. I promised you that when I married you, and I’ve kept that promise. At least give me that.”

  His mother sniffed. “I know. Brian’s never wanted for anything. I just wish … I wish you loved him.”

  “Caring for Brian has nothing to do with love.” Brian remained frozen as the words ripped at his heart. Hank’s voice became softer, kinder. “It doesn’t matter, really, does it, honey? I love you.… I’ve always loved you. But when that boy turns eighteen, he’s on his own.”

  His mother was quiet, as though considering Hank’s words. Then she sighed loudly. “I guess you’re right. I just hate to think of him out there by himself. He’s still so young.”

  “Sooner he learns the ways of the world, the sooner he’ll become a man.” Hank hesitated. “Don’t worry, dear. I’ll help him out a little.”

  The money. Brian felt a pit form in his stomach.

  His mother spoke again. “You always do, Hank. Brian is lucky he has you.” There was silence for a moment. “I just thought maybe he could stay a few more years …”

  Hank’s voice grew loud again. “No! The subject is closed. Now let’s not have anymore nonsense about this. The boy is trouble, darling. Pure trouble. He’ll be lucky if he graduates from high school. He’s a drinker and a partier. He’s just like his father.”

  “Don’t say that!”

  “It’s true! The writing’s on the wall.”

  “Oh, Hank, I don’t want him to grow up like Red. I want the best for him.” His mother sounded sad again.

  “I can afford to help him. And then we can get on with life and all the …”

  Brian couldn’t listen to any more. He sneaked out the front door and jogged out to his Mustang. Tears blinded his eyes as he drove off, and eventually he wound up at the beach, sitting on the hood of his car, gazing at the cold, stormy-gray surf long after sunset.

  “The boy is trouble, pure trouble.… He’ll be lucky if he graduates from high school.… The writing’s on the wall.… He’s just like his father … just like his father … just like his father.”

  After that Brian stayed away from home as much as possible. Then, right after he graduated, he told Hank he needed his space, wanted freedom. The old man willingly shelled out a thousand dollars so Brian could set up an apartment. Brian was doing mechanic work at a shop a few miles away, and the payments weren’t a problem.

  But late at night, when his party buddies had gone home and the silence was deafening, Brian wondered what his life was worth. His father had left him; his mother had chosen Hank; and Hank … well, the old man had been nothing but a phony from the get-go.

  It was during those long nights, when daylight seemed forever away, that Brian began drinking in earnest. He had always been able to party, but those awful, lonely nights had nothing to do with celebrating. He needed an escape, and Budweiser became his best friend. Constant, reliable, and always able to put him at ease.

  By the time Brian thought twice about his nighttime beer consumption, he was an alcoholic, a willing slave to the demons of drink. That year, with so many hungover mornings, Brian’s work ethic began to slip until he was on the verge of losing his job. He knew what he needed to do, but nothing worked. He and the Buds were, well, buds. There was no separating them. Not until one night a year later.

  The night he met Carla Kimball.

  Carla was a pretty girl with the most beautiful hair Brian had ever seen. Thick and wavy, it shimmered down her back and caught the attention of every man in the place.

  She was oblivious. She sat alone at the end of the bar gazing into a glass of straight orange juice. She was barely five feet tall, no more than a hundred pounds including her hair. She looked like a little girl playing grownup—one without a care in the world.

  The moment Brian saw her he set his beer down and leaned toward his buddy. “Now there’s a catch.”

  Brian wasn’t exactly a lady’s man, but he held his own. When he saw a girl he wanted to know better, he generally approached her and introduced himself. But as he watched Carla from across the bar that night, he couldn’t get up enough courage even to stand.

  Finally, just before closing time, the girl stood up and sauntered toward the juke box. She considered the selections and then seemed to changed her mind.

  “Looks like she’s getting ready to leave,” Brian’s buddy said.

  Brian swallowed and decided he needed to make his move or lose the chance forever. He walked up to her, and, standing nearly a foot taller, he smiled down at her and told her his name. If he lived a hundred years, he would never forget the way she grinned at him that night.

  “Took you long enough.” Her eyes danced playfully.

  “What?”

  “I’ve been watching you. You’ve been trying to get the guts up to talk to me all night.”

  Brian glanced at the stool where she’d been sitting. “Is that right? What? You got eyes in the back of your head?”

  She had giggled again, her laughter ringing like wind chimes on a pleasant summer morning. “Maybe.”

  They sat down, and Brian learned her name and why she was drinking straight orange juice.

  “My mother was an alcoholic. She died last year before I could get her help.”

  Brian digested that information. “Same with my dad.” It had sounded strange to hear himself call Red Dad. “He left when I was a little kid. Died of alcohol poisoning.”

  “I guess we’re kind of like … kindred orphans, then.” The smile disappeared and sadness filled Carla’s face. “Nothing good comes from alcohol.”

  Brian checked their surroundings. “Might be a stupid question, but if you hate the drink, what’re you doing in a bar?”

  Carla’s laughter rang out again. “I like people. And people hang out in bars. Besides, I’m the designated driver. My friend’s counting on me.”

  Brian had been ready to order another Budweiser, but in light of Carla�
�s comments he refrained. Besides, the bar was closing and it was time to make his move.

  “Your friend …” He hesitated. “Is it, uh … you know … is he …”

  “You mean is it a guy?” She laughed. “No. My friend, Shelly.” Carla glanced across the bar at a girl and guy kissing in the corner. “But the way things look, she won’t be needing me after all.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I think she found someone else to go home with.”

  “I see.”

  “There’s just one problem.”

  “What’s that?” Brian drew closer to her, flirting for all he was worth.

  “It’s her car. If she goes with him, I’m stuck.”

  From across the bar, Carla’s roommate approached them. “Hey, Carla, give me the keys.”

  Carla looked at her drunken friend suspiciously. “Who’s driving?”

  “He is. Now come on, give ’em to me.”

  “What about me?” Despite her question, Carla did not look terribly bothered. Was this a common routine with these two?

  Carla’s friend glanced at Brian. “You’ll find some way home. You always do.”

  Well, that answered that.

  As her friend walked away, Carla shook her head. “She’ll be sorry in the morning and I’ll forgive her. Happens all the time.”

  Brian stretched. “It’s getting late …”

  “We have time.” She shrugged, and again Brian thought she looked like a little girl.

  “Hey how old are you, anyway?”

  “You first.”

  “Okay.” He sat up proudly. “Nineteen. Of course you’d never know it by looking at my driver’s license.” He winked.

  Carla’s face fell. “So you’re a big-time drinker? Fake ID. Nights at the bar, the works.”

  “Now wait a minute, I like meeting people, that’s all. Just like you.” Brian hoped his breath didn’t smell too badly of beer. “Besides, you must have a fake ID. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”