Waiting for Morning

by Karen Kingsbury

  Carla huffed. “I’ll have you know I’m twenty-one, a very sophisticated and mature woman by your standards.”

  The bartender had finished cleaning. “Let’s go you two, last ones out.”

  They stood and strolled toward the door, and Brian grinned down at her. “You may be sophisticated and mature, and I may be little more than a school boy, but you, my dear, are without a ride. And this immature guy with the fake ID would like to give you a lift home.”

  Carla studied him closely, her face inches from his. “All right.” She paused. “But let’s get one thing straight before we start something here.”

  Brian waited anxiously. He was already making plans for Carla to spend the night. If not now, then next week or the week after that. It would happen, he was sure.

  Carla’s eyes grew serious, the laughter gone. “I don’t date drinkers, Brian. You drink, I’m outta here.”

  He raised a solemn hand and struggled to appear as serious as she did. Whatever it took. This was one girl he didn’t want to lose. “You have my word on it, Miss Carla Kimball.”

  Brian couldn’t remember how long he kept his promise. He and Carla went home together that night and never looked back. She had shared an apartment with an aunt and had been looking to get out. A week later, Brian helped her move in with him, and they grew deeply attached, more so than anything Brian had ever experienced. For a while he didn’t even miss the beer.

  “I love you, Brian,” Carla would tell him.

  He’d respond with a nuzzle or a kiss, anything to avoid saying the words. Brian didn’t want to love anyone, not after what his mother and Hank had done to him. Need was something he could relate to. Love … well, that was something altogether different. Carla had told him if he ever became a drinker, she’d leave him. Brian wasn’t sure, but he thought there was a chance that at some point he might drink again. Just one or two beers, nothing serious. But if Carla left because of that, there was no point loving her now.

  Two years later Brian did start drinking again. One or two beers quickly became a sixer, and then half a case. He’d come home late and lie about where he’d been. It took Carla a month to learn the truth, and when she did, she stared at him sadly.

  “I loved you, Brian.” The expression in her little-girl eyes tore at Brian’s heart. “But I can’t stay with you if you keep drinking.”

  He apologized and made a handful of lofty promises. Twenty-four hours later he was drinking again, and a month after that, Carla packed her things and said good-bye. She moved in with a friend and refused his phone calls.

  That’s when Brian knew the truth. He loved Carla more than life itself.

  He found her at her friend’s apartment a week after she moved out, and he confessed his feelings. “I should have told you sooner.” There were tears in his eyes as he spoke. “I love you. I’ve never loved anyone like you, and I’ll never love anyone this way again. Please … work with me. Help me get past this thing.”

  Despite her strong convictions, Carla had loved Brian too much to stay away. She moved back in and agreed to help him. They got married in a simple civil ceremony, and he stayed sober for nearly a year.

  The next time Brian began drinking, Carla didn’t threaten to leave. There was no point. She was in for the long haul, and the certainty of her commitment gave him no reason to let up. Not long after, he had his first drunk driving arrest, and then another, and three more after that. There were the accidents and alcohol-training courses. When little Brian Jr. came along, Brian renewed his determination to stop drinking. But that, too, had been short-lived.

  Carla stayed, but her laughter stopped sounding like wind chimes on a summer morning. Instead it sounded hollow, as though she were only pretending to be happy. Worst of all, she didn’t look like a little girl anymore.

  She looked like a woman who’d been through a war.

  Brian glanced at the clock on the wall and saw that an hour had passed. He didn’t like remembering Carla that way. It was nicer to think of her as she’d been the night they first met, when she sat alone drinking orange juice at the end of the bar. Before she cared whether he drank or not.

  He sighed and stood up, tugging his stiff jeans into place. He was through drinking now, through for good. And it was time Carla knew about it.

  He sorted through a pile of rumpled one-dollar bills and two folded tens. Thirty-two dollars. All the money he had left at this point. He thought about the gift. Thirty-two dollars should be enough for what he had in mind.

  He went downstairs and waited at the bus stop. He was getting used to buses now. They were cheap. On the ride to the mall he wondered how Carla was doing, whether she missed him or not. They hadn’t talked since the preliminary hearing. Brian had started drinking pretty much nonstop after that—right up until the day he’d met that lady at church.

  He shook his head. He didn’t want to think about the lady or the booze. Drinking was in the past now. He got off the bus and strode into the side entrance of the mall. Frenzied shoppers crowded the aisles, searching for the perfect Christmas present.

  Brian moved quickly in and out of the crowd until he saw the store he was looking for. Spencer’s Gifts. They had the best jewelry, and they didn’t charge a month’s wages for something simple.

  Brian had bought Carla’s wedding band here.

  He walked in and found the jewelry case. There they were: gold-plated hoop earrings. Brian could picture the look on Carla’s face when she opened them. He pointed at the pair, nestled in a cardboard box.

  “Can you giftwrap ’em, man?”

  The clerk—a teenage boy with blue hair and a tiny hoop that pierced his lower lip—stared at him blankly. “You mean, like, with Christmas paper?”

  “Yeah. Giftwrap.”

  The kid laughed. “Dude, that’s for, like, the big-time jewelry stores. But hey, I’ll give you the box.”

  “Right. Okay. How much is it?”

  The blue-haired boy rang up the sale. “Eighteen twenty-five.”

  Brian gulped. He counted out the ten-dollar bill and eight ones. Then he fished in his pocket for a quarter and took the package. He darted across the corridor, found a giftbag for two dollars, then took a piece of scrap paper from the cashier and began writing.

  “Carla, I know I’ve said it before. But this time I’m serious. I’m done drinking for good. I bought you two hoops because I’m twice as sorry, twice as serious. My promise, like these earrings, will go on and on. True as gold. I need you, babe. Help me through this trial. Stay by me. Merry Christmas. I love you. Brian.”

  He left the mall, boarded the bus, and half an hour later he stood outside the apartment where Carla and Brian Jr. lived without him. He was almost as nervous as he’d been that first night in the bar, but finally, clutching the small gift in his left hand, he made his way to the front door and knocked.

  Seconds passed, and Brian wondered where she could be. It was the middle of the day, and Brian Jr. should have been napping. Carla was always home for Brian Jr.’s nap.

  He knocked again and waited. Finally he heard the click of the lock and the door opened a few inches. Carla stepped out, closing the door behind her.

  “Brian …” She looked nervous and he felt a wave of fear. Carla never looked nervous. Angry, sad, frustrated. But not nervous.

  “Carla, honey, I have good news …” He stood straighter and smiled tentatively. “I stopped drinking. For good this time.”

  With one hand still on the door handle, she sighed. “Really, Brian … you came all the way here to tell me that?”

  He felt another wave of fear. “I need you, baby. I brought you something for—”

  “No, Brian. I don’t want anything from you. We’re finished.” She glanced back at the door, clearly anxious.

  Brian sucked in a deep breath. “Carla, I know I’ve let you down before. The kid, too. But—”

  “Brian, stop! This is crazy. You’re … you’re on trial for murder. First-degree murder. You’re g
oing to spend the rest of your life in prison. We’re finished, Brian. Now go home.”

  He tried to move past her but she held her ground. “Come on, Carla, let me in. I have a present I want to give you. Then you can see for yourself that I’m serious this time.”

  “Brian,” Carla hissed. “Go home! I don’t want your—”

  At that instant, the door behind her opened and a man appeared. He was wearing boxer shorts and a T-shirt. His hair was wet … he looked as though he’d just taken a shower.

  “What the—” Brian took a step toward the man, but Carla put her hand on his chest and stopped him.

  “Brian … don’t. I’m … I’m seeing someone else now.”

  The stranger put his arm protectively around Carla and glared at Brian. “I believe the lady asked you to leave.”

  He stared at Carla, and then at the strange man beside her. He felt lightheaded, sick to his stomach. For one horrible moment he thought he would faint there on the doorstep—or possibly die of a heart attack.

  Once more he looked at Carla, and he could see the pain in her eyes. She spoke in a voice that was little more than a whisper. “I’m sorry …”

  Without saying another word, Brian turned and walked away. At the end of the row of apartments, he passed a smelly dumpster. He stopped and stared at the package in his hand, then tossed it angrily over the side of the bin and kept walking.

  He wandered out onto Ventura Boulevard and headed east, away from the intersection where everything in life had changed four months earlier. A block away he saw a liquor store. Before he knew it, he was inside. He found their least expensive bottle of whiskey and handed over what was left of his money.

  He gave a sick chuckle. “You gift wrap?”

  The old man behind the counter twisted his face. “What’s that, boy?”

  “Aww, never mind. Private joke.” Brian took the bag and twisted it tightly around the neck of the bottle. Then he boarded the bus and went back to Jackson’s apartment. Drinking had to be done in private, those were the rules. Brian took his bottle to his room, tore off the cap, and began swallowing fast.

  “It’s finished, Brian.… It’s finished. I’m dating someone else now.”

  He hadn’t even gotten to see Brian Jr. He’d been gone only a few months and already he’d been replaced. Brian was too shocked to be angry. Anger would come later.

  He raised the bottle, and the liquid burned his throat as he took three long gulps. The walls were flexing, in and out, back and forth. He looked around and the entire room was in motion. He sank slowly to the floor. Suddenly they were all staring at him, crowding the room so that it was hard to breathe.

  There was Red Wesley, laid out flat on a sofa while his mother sobbed at the kitchen table. Hank announced in a loud voice, “He’s just like his father … can’t you see it? He’s just like his father.” Carla was there, too, and the stranger with his arm around her shoulder. “It’s over, Brian. I’m dating someone new … someone new … someone new.”

  He took another long swig from the bottle and closed his eyes. He didn’t care anymore. He only wanted to be alone. Forget about Carla and promises and gold hoop earrings.

  The bottle was more than half gone, and Brian felt himself losing consciousness. The room was spinning faster, and he closed his eyes. Suddenly a loud noise pulled him from his stupor. This time when he opened his eyes, he saw something that sent a surge of bile into his throat.

  Right in front of him was the blond girl and her father, their car wrapped around the utility pole. Only now the girl was crying, and Carla was standing over her, trying to help her breathe. Suddenly they all turned on him, glaring at him, hating him. “Go away!” Carla shouted and she ripped the gold hoops from her ears. “You’re a murderer and a liar and a loser! I hope you rot in prison.”

  As quickly as they’d come, they faded away, and he could see more clearly. There was still something left in the bottle. He raised it to his mouth, missing wildly at first and then finally finding the mark. Nausea welled up, but still he drank, swigging down what was left until the bottle was empty. There was a strange noise, like air leaking from a rubber tire. He tossed the bottle aside and looked up.

  Demons filled the room before him.

  Dripping blood and spewing venomous taunts and accusations, they crowded in around his face. He swung at them, shouted at them to stay away, but they drew nearer still, hissing and smelling of death and sulfur. They were carrying something, and Brian saw that it was a rusted, black chain. Before he could get up or run away or close his eyes, the demons bound his wrists and wrapped his arms tightly against his body.

  He was utterly trapped, and the demons began hissing one word, over and over. Brian’s heart beat wildly and he struggled to break free. What was the word? What were they saying? The noise grew louder, each word a hate-filled hiss.

  Finally Brian understood.

  Forever. Forever, forever, forever.

  He was trapped. The demons had him and they would hold him forever.

  He wanted to break free, to scream for help and chase the demons away before they killed him. But instead he felt his insides heave. Once, twice, and then a third time, until it seemed his stomach was in a state of permanent convulsion.

  And then all he wanted was to die.

  Brian woke up, face down in a puddle of pasty vomit, his entire body shaking violently from fear and alcohol poisoning. The room smelled like rotten, undigested food and urine. He noticed his pants were wet, and he realized he must have soiled them. His head throbbed, and he recoiled as he touched his hand to his hair. It was matted with crusted vomit. Suddenly he remembered the hissing creatures. Using only his eyes, he glanced from side to side.

  The demons were gone.

  But this brought no relief. They would be back. He knew with every fiber in his being that it was so. He struggled to his feet, wiped the vomit from his eyes and nose so he could breathe better, and staggered toward the phone.

  It was time to call the Bible lady.

  Twenty-three

  The hearts of the people cry out to the Lord.

  O wall of the Daughter of Zion, let your tears flow like a river

  day and night; give yourself no relief, your eyes no rest.

  LAMENTATIONS 2:18

  In the end, they skipped the tree and presents and agreed to go out to dinner on Christmas Eve. Hannah thought that even that was a stretch since neither she nor Jenny wanted to be reminded that the rest of the world was celebrating Christmas. The “Silent Night”s and “O Come, All Ye Faithful”s were not a reminder to fall and worship at baby Jesus’ manger—they were a reminder of his broken promises.

  Jenny might still believe, but Hannah knew better.

  December 25 would be merely another day to prepare for the trial, another chance to work on victim impact panel information and clip newspaper articles dealing with drunk driving.

  The restaurant was packed, and their Christmas Eve dinner was filled with long periods of silence and uncomfortable conversation. Hannah set her napkin down and leaned her forearms on the table.

  “Jenny, what do I have to do?”

  Jenny stared at her, her eyes listless and empty. “What?”

  “To make things right again. Between us.”

  Jenny doodled a circular design in the Alfredo sauce on her dinner plate and said nothing.

  Hannah hung her head for a moment. What would it take to reach the girl? She looked up again. “See? You don’t talk to me … you won’t even look at me.”

  “There’s nothing to say, Mother.”

  Jenny sounded so tired that it pierced Hannah’s heart. But she pushed the feeling away. If Jenny was tired, it was her own fault. Hannah had tried everything she knew to help her daughter! “That’s great, Jenny. We’ve lost everything that matters to us; our lives have changed forever, and you tell me there’s nothing to say? Well, here are some suggestions. Tell me how you’re doing, how you’re feeling … ask me how we’re goin
g to make it. How about that, huh?” Hannah knew she didn’t sound sympathetic, but she didn’t care. She’d had it with Jenny’s self-pity. “Maybe then we’d find something to talk about.”

  Jenny leveled her gaze at Hannah. “I think it’s a little late to be asking.”

  Late for what? Jenny wasn’t making sense. “Meaning …?”

  Jenny stared at her plate and resumed doodling. “Meaning maybe you should have asked me those questions when … when … oh, never mind.”

  A cord of concern rang on the keyboard of Hannah’s mind. Jenny was no longer angry, and that was a relief. But now she wasn’t speaking or making eye contact, either. She wasn’t anything—except completely detached.

  Hannah closed her eyes briefly. All I want is my family back … the way it used to be! Is that so terrible? When she spoke once more, it was with the weight of more burdens than she thought she could carry. “I love you, Jenny. I’m sorry if I’ve been busy.”

  Jenny shrugged. “It’s okay.”

  The conversation stalled again as the waitress cleared their plates. The silence as Hannah paid the check and they walked to the car was oppressive.

  Back at home, Jenny immediately excused herself and disappeared to her room. Hannah watched her go and felt like an utter failure. Jenny was free-falling away from her, and Hannah was helpless to do anything about it. Don’t look too deeply at this. It’ll all be okay after the trial. She wandered through the quiet house and sighed, studying the framed photographs. They had smiled so easily back then. She couldn’t remember Jenny smiling even once since they’d lost Tom and Alicia. Maybe this was how it was going to be from now on. No holidays. No smiles. No communication.

  Tomorrow there would be a garden of golden memories to be walked through, but Hannah didn’t want to go there now, not yet. She didn’t want to stroll through yesterday and savor the fragrance of all they had once been. She would rather work on her drunk driving speeches. She didn’t want to think about any of it, and she certainly didn’t want to think about Jenny, alone in her room, besieged with her own thoughts of Christmases past, probably crying herself to sleep.