Ghosts of Christmas Past

by Laura Briggs

  It was Christmas time—although no one would have guessed it from the balmy atmosphere, the faint breeze of the ceiling fans that stirred the customer’s paper napkins. But there was evidence elsewhere, in the colored lights strung across the bar and in the cluster of mistletoe hung above the doorway. Boughs of greenery were twined around the rafters, as well as the singers’ microphones.

  And there, in the performers’ circle, was teenaged Libby, black hair curled and piled high and a Spanish-style red party dress on. She stood at a microphone across from Ricky Miller, in his Western shirt and bolo tie, an acoustic guitar slung before him. They were singing a duet, a Spanish love song. He had taught her the words on one of the long van rides between gigs.

  “When I look on your eyes, I no longer care for the starlight,” she sang in Spanish. Her gaze went to his face, a look exchanged between them that was nothing like the timid glance in the bar near Libby’s hometown, when Ricky first asked her to come away with the band.

  “No cloud can obscure the allure of your wonderful charms,” sang Ricky. His fingers picked the strings in careful imitation of Spanish-style players. Behind them, two fiddlers and a bassist followed along.

  At the close of the song, wild applause followed. Ricky took Libby’s hand as they bowed before their audience. He was still holding her hand when they moved away from the stage a few moments later.

  The young version of Libby caught her breath. “They liked us,” she whispered, nudging Ricky in the shoulder as they sat at the bar. “What do you think? Think there’s a record producer sitting out there, waiting to sign us?”

  “Always thinking about being a star, aren’t you?” He reached up as if to ruffle her hair, the gesture becoming a tender caress instead.

  “Libby,” he whispered. “You look beautiful tonight, Libby. You know that?”

  She gazed into his blue eyes, reading a mixture of emotions that took her breath away.

  “Why did you say that?” she asked. “Do you…do you mean you love me?” There was curiosity in her voice, feeling her lips tug upwards in a half-smile.

  “I think you’re the prettiest girl in this room tonight,” he said. Reaching down, he cupped her face, his lips brushing against hers. Something in his solemn tone, the intensity of his eyes, swept her closer to him as if carried by a tide.

  “Are you staying for the next band?” she asked. “The one after us?” Her gaze wandered over his features, following the curve of his jaw, his cheekbones.

  “No,” he answered. “And neither are you.” Sliding his arm around her, he steered her away from the bar and towards the door.

  ****

  Laughter rippled on the wind as young Libby tore barefoot across the sands, dark hair streaming behind her. Her fingers reached to intertwine with Ricky’s stronger ones, their playful race ending with a tumble against the water’s edge. Still laughing between breaths, they slipped their bare feet in the waves, the rays of early sunlight catching a glint of tarnished gold on Libby’s ring finger.

  “So how does it feel to be Mrs. Ricky Miller?” he teased, one hand cradling her face, the other smoothing her tresses, the curl nearly vanished from their evening performance at the bar. A moment that seemed eons ago, as they sat on the beach in a town just miles inside the Mexican border.

  “It’s nice,” she giggled. “Better than us singing, even.”

  Anyone would have guessed them to be a pair of runaways or perhaps teenage lovers meeting in secret, having slipped from their parents’ lodgings in the early hours. And wasn’t it close enough to the truth?

  After all, Libby’s youth made any legal union between them impossible without her parents’ approval. Their marriage would be no marriage at all in the eyes of the U.S. government, or her own family and friends.

  Maybe God would see it as such, she thought—though His approval was consulted so little in her new life that she pushed this aside with only a fraction of the pain she expected.

  No official license, no documents bearing legal permission or legal names. Nothing at all besides the small band on her finger, a secondhand good purchased from a street vendor in the late night hours after they said their vows.

  “It’s the best way,” Ricky had said as they drove to the church that one musician friend had used the summer before in a secret elopement from home. No questions asked, just a simple matter of flashing some fake identification and passing some cash.

  “We don’t want to be apart,” he continued, his dark eyes locking her gaze. “This way it’ll be the two of us together all the time. We can do…anything. Anything we want.”

  She nodded, a shiver traveling along her spine. The combination of excitement and fear, had her eyes closing as she felt the touch of his hand, the urgency of his breath. Their chemistry couldn’t be denied, the connection between them more than that of two voices blending to form a single song.

  “We’ll do it right after we’ve made it big. No one’ll stand in our way, then.” His voice dropped to a soft croon as he stroked her face, his own bending closer until their lips met in a long, soft kiss.

  Weeks later, they were still inseparable—at least, they were in Libby’s mind. But she began to crave something more than those hasty promises made without the blessing of anyone but themselves; she wanted something concrete to seal their bond forever.

  Promises, however, were all Ricky had. The band was still struggling, scheduling no more than a handful of gigs every month. In between, they lived off cheap groceries and nearly-empty tanks of gas, Libby loving the sense of adventure so long as she had Ricky close by.

  Their dreams, she believed, were intertwined, their futures linked forever, hinged on a star that seemed ready to shoot across the sky at any moment.

  Something else happened first, however. Libby felt the first twinge of fear when a mild case of the stomach flu lasted longer than usual. She forced herself to smile and laugh in response to the usual jokes and roughhousing by the band, but something was wrong. Something was dreadfully wrong.

  “Last night I dreamed of our love, dear,” sang Ricky. “We hadn’t a care in the world...” He winked at Libby as he strummed his guitar from the bar’s narrow stage.

  She watched from a table below, along with the other patrons and drinkers in the building. Libby had told them she didn’t feel like performing that evening. Instead, she sipped a ginger ale and tried to pretend that nothing was about to change.

  Lately, Ricky had seemed further away despite the vows they exchanged only months before at Christmas. She couldn’t explain it, since nothing had changed outwardly. The difference was something only her heart noticed.

  They weren’t growing apart. They had every reason to grow closer together. They were both young and happy. They shared the same dreams and goals.

  A sickness washed over her momentarily as she sat there. Stumbling up, she escaped from the crowded barroom, feeling for the ladies’ restroom door. Pushing it open, she entered, reeling towards the sink.

  A few retches later she felt better. Glancing into the mirror, she saw the faint trace of dark circles beneath her eyes, a pallor to her skin instead of a glow. Her hair seemed lank and dull, without its usual luster.

  Outside, the band had finished their set.

  Pushing her way through the crowd, she found their drummer Eddie chugging a beer at the foot of the stage.

  “Eddie, where’s Rick?” she asked, shouting over the noise.

  He jerked his head towards the booths. “Somewhere over there.”

  She moved through the patrons, couples swaying to a jukebox and groups of customers chatting and arguing.

  When she emerged on the other side, she saw Ricky’s profile, his weight resting on one hand leaning against the wall as he talked. In the space between was a young woman, her deep tan showing above her low-cut blouse. Ricky’s gaze was traveling from the lacey neckline to the face above.

  Libby froze, staring with dismay. After a moment, he turned towards her, the plea
sure in his face dimming slightly as he caught her eye. He eased his body away from the woman’s, his posture suddenly uncomfortable as they went on talking.

  He didn’t seem to notice the pain in Libby’s face as she turned away, a perfect mirror to the pain of the grown-up version of herself, watching from the far corner of the bar.

  ****

  “But I’m pregnant,” Libby begged, tears streaming down her face. “How can you say that, Ricky?” Her voice disappeared in a choking sound as she braced herself on the bar.

  Ricky was hovering beside her, clearly uncomfortable. He glanced around, as if to make sure none of the bar’s employees were watching.

  “Look, Libby, let’s not do this here,” he hissed. “I’m sorry, OK? Sorry my feelings have changed. I just…I think we should find another way.” He didn’t say what way he had in mind. He didn’t have to.

  The promises they had made on the beach mere months ago had already crumbled. The ring on her finger was still a cheap token from a tourist booth instead of a symbol of eternal love.

  “It’s our baby, Rick,” she sobbed. “Don’t do this, please. Please don’t.”

  He touched her shoulder. “You’ll be all right,” he said. “I’ll give you the money. You can go wherever you want, do whatever—maybe start a new band.” His voice hinted for her to take the money and go away. He had found someone else. Someone who was probably equally as pretty, but not pregnant.

  “You’ll be all right, Libby,” he repeated. Then he backed away from her, joining the rest of the band rather than standing there and watching her shake uncontrollably with her sobs.

  She was four months pregnant. Two months later, the money Ricky gave her had run out. The motel in which she was staying asked her to leave. With her suitcase, she sat on a bus bench, counting the change left in her purse.

  She knew Ricky had intended for her to abort the baby. There would have been enough money for that, but not for her to survive until it was born. Between rent and food, clothes that would fit her expanding belly, and bus fare to the unemployment agency, in a matter of weeks there was nothing left.

  There would be nothing for diapers, much less baby clothes. There wasn’t even enough for her to buy a can of soup. As she curled up on a cot in the homeless shelter, she felt her body tense with fear at the sobbing noises and voices whispering around her.

  Even the snores of the band aboard their makeshift bus had been less difficult to adjust to than the presence of complete strangers in this lonely place.

  When the baby was born, this would be her life. A part-time job as a waitress, a babysitter who could be trusted in proportion to the meager pay she was willing to part with for childcare. No more dreams, no more music, no more tomorrow. Going home was out of the question, a blow her pride would never bear after the bitterness and arguments that had passed there.

  “So you’re interested in putting your baby up for adoption?” The agent at God’s Little Angels beamed at her.

  “Yes.” Libby’s tone was decisive despite the tremor in her voice, her hands smoothing the maternity skirt she had purchased from a charity shop. “I think it’s for the best. I…I can’t care for a baby myself. I mean, the father won’t ever be in the picture.” She imagined Ricky somewhere on the road, seducing one of the women who ogled him during the performance.

  “I see.” The agent’s voice was soft. “Well, we do everything we can to make the transition easier for both the mother and the parents-to-be.” She reached across to take Libby’s hand. “We have an open adoption policy that allows the two parties to stay connected during the child’s life. That way, when the time comes, the parents can introduce the birth parents into the picture.”

  Libby shook her head, tears forming in her eyes. “It doesn’t matter,” she answered, thickly. “Just so long as the baby has a good home.”

  The agent patted her hand. “It will,” she promised. “We believe that God wants the best for everybody involved. That something positive can come from a painful decision. When both parties are ready, the moment to reach out to each other will be there. That’s all we do—pave the way for His timing.”

  Libby swallowed her sob, raising her face to meet the agent’s eyes. “Then just tell me how to give my baby up, please.” She forced a smile, even as her mouth trembled. “That’s all I want to know.”

  11

  The grownup Libby clutched something in her hand as the memories of that moment flooded her consciousness. The words on paper from the adoption agency, a bloodstain now on the crumpled letter bearing the final adoption notice for her son.

  “Why did you want me to see that?” she sobbed. “Why? Don’t you think tonight was hard enough for me?” Her chilled fingers lost their grip on the letter; it drifted to the floor of the car, resting against her boots. She blinked back tears, the stinging sensation of hot salt pooled beneath her eyes.

  “Because you can’t seem to let go of it.” Alecia answered. “You don’t realize that your life is changed. This isn’t a phase, Libby. This is it. You can change who you are in the outcome, but you can’t change the choices.”

  Libby closed her eyes. “Who said anything about changing them?” Her lips struggled to form the words, her features growing numb. “I want to fix them. I want to make things right—”

  Alecia laughed. “You don’t want to make things right. You want to make things work out the way you want them. You don’t seem to have a clue that God’s plan might not be what you have in mind.”

  “It’s my son,” Libby murmured. “It’s for the best...” Lifting her gaze, she discovered an empty seat beside her.

  “You knew what was for the best.” Alecia’s voice was still in Libby’s head, the hollow tones almost accusing in Libby’s thoughts.

  In the silence, she could hear the harsh rasp of her breathing. The air was frigid in her lungs, as if her breath was turning to ice. She sank against the seat as weakness weighed her limbs with lead.

  Through the windshield, she could see the faint outline of the fir tree heavy with snow, a thick layer spread across the crumpled front end formed into a pyramid of twisted metal—as if nature was burying her in this metal coffin beneath the snow and ice.

  If this was God’s plan for her, there was nothing she could do about it. As for the remonstration of the imaginary Alecia, it was just the faint doubts lingering when Libby was on the verge of having everything she wanted. Her career, her son, a life away from the harsh realities of the road. Everything she dreamed of was in sight until the moment her car became wedged in this tree on one of the coldest nights of the year.

  If only she hadn’t given in to the impulse to see Nathaniel. If only she had spent the weekend doing what she had planned originally, packing up her things and telling the band that she was through with the road. She told herself it would be easier to do it later, by phone after the holidays were over. That way she wouldn’t have to face Jake when she fired him, for the same reasons she couldn’t bring herself to do it all those years ago in the cafe.

  Her eyes closed again, a sleepiness creeping through her veins like a welcome warmth. Maybe if she got some rest, the pain in her head would go away and leave her in peace.

  ****

  The letter Libby kept concealed in the drawer wasn’t the only piece of mail she received during her life on the road. There were others, cards and envelopes that arrived at bars and clubs where she played regularly. Remnants of her past life tucked inside crisp envelopes with her mother’s handwriting on the outside.

  Except for one—a slender package stamped with an address somewhere in Mexico. Inside, a series of legal documents meant to dissolve her long-ago marriage to Ricky Miller. A cruel sort of irony, considering the rules and regulations they had ignored when they slipped across the border to be married. Her family believed that marriage went hand in hand with love. She imagined their disappointment if they knew what it meant to the boy who had tossed it aside long ago.

  Libby’s pen had h
overed above the signature blank for a long time, not from hesitation, but genuine pain at seeing their relationship in writing. It had always been more like a dream, or maybe a lie, since the day he left her behind. That Ricky had broken his vow seemed strange to think of now. Even the gold band he bought her was lost beyond reach, pawned away for a meager sum while she still carried the child he chose to abandon.

  Scratching off her name in the same jerky fashion she used for autographs, Libby consigned another mistake to the past. The faint twinge of regret was not for Ricky, but for the choices she was forced to make in the aftermath of their relationship.

  All her correspondence was equally unwelcome, if not as unpleasant. Whenever a bartender or manager would give her an envelope addressed to her, mailed to a place where she was a regular performer, Libby tossed it into the trash without opening it. She didn’t even bother to check the address to see if it had changed.

  “Why do you do that?” Jake asked her once. He was tuning his guitar as he sat on the edge of the performance platform.

  “Do what?” she asked, innocently. “You mean, keep my private business to myself?”

  “Yeah, that’s it,” he answered, with a grin that faded into seriousness a moment later. “Seriously. If they took the trouble to write you, don’t you want to know what they said?”

  “Trust me, it’s just more blame for not being perfect,” she answered. “If I wanted that, I could walk into any recording studio and taste some of it.”

  He was still watching her. “Do you know what my parents said to me when I went on the road?” he asked. “They said, ‘Don’t bother to call us until you come home for good, son.’ They told me they didn’t want to be part of a life that would only hurt me. So for the first year, I kept that word.” His fingers picked a light melody, part of a Christmas carol.

  “So how long has it been since you talked to them?” Libby asked, after a long pause in which she resisted the urge to follow up his story.