The Color of Joy (8 page)

It was not where I’d imagined we’d be today, but I was glad for it.

Rain pelted the windshield as I drove home from the hospital. I kept the wipers pumping at full speed across the glass and ran the defrost fan on high, which made it impossible to hear the radio. Nevertheless—hungry for local news—I tried station after station and cranked up the volume. Eventually I shut off the radio and told myself that my phone would ring if there were any developments in the case. Surely, Miller would call.

Continuing to drive through the stormy city which was congested with rush hour traffic, I glanced in the rearview mirror at the empty car seat in the back. Lois had asked me to install it weeks ago so we’d be ready to take our baby home after we were discharged.

Oddly, there was something sinister and disturbing about the sight of it over my shoulder. I felt as if the seat itself were judging me with its emptiness.

My guilt and frustrations mounted. Sure enough, like some sort of magnet, my eyes were drawn to a sleazy-looking tavern I passed along the way. How long had it been since I set foot in a place like that? Who would I see there? Anyone who knew me?

Stopping at a red light, I found myself actually contemplating the idea of sneaking into a corner liquor store in a distant neighborhood to pick up a bottle of vodka. If I did that, I’d have to hide it somewhere in the house.

But no, I couldn’t let myself fall into that trap. If I purchased a bottle, I’d drink it until it was gone.

Just
one
drink. That was all I wanted. Something to take the edge off.

The light turned green and I drove on, checking my rearview mirror constantly, tapping my thumb on the steering wheel. My stomach muscles clenched tight with tension and I shouted a few obscenities at the car ahead of me.

When the hell would I hear from Miller again? What was happening? Were they doing anything? Anything at all?

The traffic seemed to be moving as slow as molasses. I laid on the horn, checked my mirrors again and swerved into the next lane. Someone honked at me but I didn’t care. I cut in front of an SUV and turned sharply into a small parking lot. I pulled to a halt, shut off the engine and looked up at the sign on the building.

JOE’S TAVERN

For a long moment I sat there with the keys in my hand, my heart pounding like a hammer while I worked out the logistics of this. One drink. Just one. A cheap whisky I didn’t even like. I’d down it in a single gulp and walk out, and that would be the end of it.

I could do it. Just one and no more after that—just for today because this was the worst day in the history of my life, and that was saying a lot because I’d experienced some pretty bad days.

Letting my eyes fall closed, I searched through all the dark and shadowy alcoves of my mind, working to summon up a few of those old memories—the worst of the bunch—things I’d worked hard to purge over the past ten years.

Why did I want to think of them now? Was I hoping to drown out the noise of the hell I was in today, or was this some quietly heroic attempt to remind myself of the hell I would revisit if I inched any closer to that slippery, whiskey-flooded slope?

Eyes still closed, I recalled the night I broke into my father’s house after he’d kicked me out for the umpteenth time. My loser buddies and I—three stoners who all had abusive drunks for fathers and nowhere else to go—were searching for liquor or money or anything else we could get our hands on to sell—so that we could buy more liquor or drugs, or maybe just pay for a pizza.

My
father wasn’t a drunk, however. He was a brilliant and highly regarded surgeon in Boston who’d saved hundreds of lives. My sisters and I had been raised in a beautifully restored Victorian mansion in a high-end neighborhood with old money and fancy cars. We had the privilege of attending private school and flying south for the holidays every year.

Unfortunately, however—with all those privileges came the highest of expectations, and sadly I could never quite live up to them. Oddly enough it was my two sisters who turned out to be “chips off the old block.” They both aspired to careers in medicine while all I ever wanted to do was scramble out from under his thumb and escape my life in that house.

I squeezed my eyes shut tighter as I relived the moment he came down the stairs in the darkness and found us rifling through his liquor cabinet. The next thing I knew I was ducking under the swing of a baseball bat, only to rise again and feel it connect with the left side of my skull. The world spun circles in front of my eyes and the pain reverberated like thunder in my head. We fought like animals and I punched him in the head. He knocked me to the floor, sat on top of me and punched me across the jaw, numerous times. My head bled like a gushing geyser onto his luxurious Persian carpet which I later learned my mother had to replace.

Later, in court, my father claimed he didn’t know it was me—that he thought I was some dangerous, anonymous hoodlum. I’ll never know for sure if that was the truth, because I remember looking straight into his fiery eyes as he punched me.

What followed was my painful recovery in jail, unaware of the fact that I’d soon be wearing ankle irons and standing before a judge to receive a five-year prison sentence. The funny thing was…
I couldn’t care less
. I was glad, in fact. I was immensely pleased with myself for disappointing my father so profoundly. So magnificently…

No, I said to myself as my eyes flew open.
This is a mistake. Seven years. Don’t screw it up now.

I inserted the key into the ignition and started the car, looked over my shoulder to back out. I was about to press on the gas when something stopped me.

The empty car seat in the back.

All my blood rushed to my head. Suddenly, in a flash of movement, I shut off the engine again, unbuckled my seatbelt as if it had caught fire, and left the car.

The next thing I knew I was breathing in the foul scent of musty carpets and stale beer. Quickly, I approached the bar and slid onto a stool.

“What can I get ya’?” the barkeep asked.

“Jack Daniels,” I replied. “Two ounces. No ice.”

“Coming right up.” He set a short tumbler on the bar and poured the amber liquid. I stared, entranced, as it gushed, glistening, into the glass.

My breaths came fast and short as I relived the nightmare of that morning, when panicked, I’d chased after the nurse, followed her onto the elevator and searched all the cribs and incubators in the nursery, hunting for my daughter.

Our newborn was not to be found.
Where was she? What was happening to her at this very moment? Was she even alive?

My heart beat thunderously as I picked up the glass, swirled the liquid around for a long, slow moment, then closed my eyes and breathed in the familiar intoxicating aroma.

I jumped when my cell phone rang in my pocket. It was my sister, Holly.

I reached for it, swiped the screen and raised the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

“Hi, it’s me. Any news?”

“None since Trudy told us about the tattoo,” I replied as I set the glass down on the bar and swiveled around on the stool to face the opposite direction.

“That’s too bad. Listen, Mom, Josh and I got a flight out of Boston earlier today. We’re in Denver right now for a quick layover and are about to board. We should be there in a couple of hours. I don’t know how much help we can be. We just want to be there for you.”

“Thanks, Sis,” I replied, pinching the bridge of my nose and feeling more grateful than she could ever know. “I’ll fix up the basement for you and Josh, and Mom can have Trudy’s room. I’ll move her in with Danny. It’ll be good to have you all here. I could definitely use your support.”

“You’ll have it,” Holly replied. “Oh, I gotta go. They’re calling for us to board.”

I hung up, took a deep breath and swiveled back around on my stool. For a few shaky seconds I stared down at the drink in front of me. The need for it seemed less urgent suddenly. I didn’t want to go backwards—
not back there
—so I took advantage of that brief window of resistance and fished in my pocket for my wallet and a few bills to pay for the drink. I tossed them onto the bar, gave the bartender an apologetic shrug and walked out.

On my way home—still needing to do
something
to take the edge off—I stopped off at the hardware store to purchase extra locks for the house and battery-operated alarms for the doors and windows. I assembled and affixed everything as soon as I arrived home—all the while thanking God for that well-timed phone call from my sister.

Jenn

Three Months Pregnant

Jenn Nichols

I must be honest here. I can’t neglect to admit that when I was swimming around in the depths of despair—suffering from an endless, incapacitating case of morning sickness—I felt horribly guilty for assuming that I would be the one carrying my sister Sylvie on an emotional level.

Maybe it was hormones. Or the fact that my husband was in a faraway country fighting a war against an enemy I couldn’t even comprehend. Days would sometimes go by where I wouldn’t hear a word from him. He wouldn’t answer my emails or comment on a photo I posted. Terror would bubble up inside me and I would fear the worst.

Or maybe it was the simple fact that rising a few inches from my horizontal position on the bed at 6:30 in the morning was enough to make me hurl. Unfortunately I had no choice in the matter. I had to get up and go to work. As soon as my feet hit the floor, I’d sprint to the bathroom so I could make it to the toilet in time.

Through all of this, Sylvie was there…bringing me crackers, water, or a bucket, if necessary. She held my hair back when I bent over a garbage can in public; she did my laundry, cleaned the floors and took my car in to have the oil changed.

Sylvie did all these things while starting classes at the local community college where she was studying to become a dental hygienist.

Yes, she was finally getting her act together.

Though I felt sick to my stomach most of the time, I was grateful for that and incredibly proud of my sister. At least for a while. I only wish life could have cooperated. I wish everything
had
unfolded like a fairy tale.

I can’t help but wonder why bad things happen the way they do.

September 16

“Hey, baby,” Jake said, talking to me from my laptop’s screen.

At the sound of his voice, my heart leapt.

“How’s the belly?”

“Belly’s doing great,” I replied with enthusiasm. “I’m still puking my guts out, unfortunately, but everyone keeps telling me it’s a
good
sign. It means all the pregnancy hormones are in proper working order. But I also have a bad case of what they call pregnancy brain.”

“What’s that?”

“Basically, in layman’s terms, it makes you stupid. Seriously Jake, I can’t believe how absentminded I’ve been lately. Yesterday I locked the keys in the car, and I just can’t seem to multi-task at work like I could before. I get distracted so easily.”

“Did you get back into the car?” he asked with concern. “Where were you when it happened?”

“I was at work. Sylvie picked me up and I took the spare set in the next day. It wasn’t a problem, just a minor inconvenience.”

“That’s good to hear. I wish I was there with you.”

“Me, too,” I replied. “I really miss you.”

We gazed at each other in silence for a few seconds, and I felt a wave of melancholy as I considered how far apart we were, but I didn’t want to focus on the negative. I didn’t want to waste this precious time grumbling about what couldn’t be changed.

“So what happened this week?” I asked with a forced smile. “I didn’t hear from you.”

He shook his head. “I can’t talk about that, babe. Sorry. We were safe though. I can promise you that, at least.”

I hated feeling so disconnected from him, so out of reach. All I wanted to do was climb into the computer screen and wrap myself in his arms.

“You look tanned,” I mentioned, working hard to keep the mood light and positive. The last thing I wanted was for him to feel guilty or worried about me, when
he
was the one in danger every day.

“We’ve been outside a lot,” he replied, rubbing the top of his head. “Good thing we wear helmets or I’d have a really bad burn.”

I smiled. “You’re staying away from the Pina Coladas, I hope?”

He laughed. “Don’t worry about that. I’d never hear the end of it if I started sipping umbrella drinks around the base.”

Though we were both laughing and joking, I knew we were avoiding the real truth—that we were desperate for each other, and his return seemed light-years away.

Of course he knew I was struggling to get through each day, worrying about whether or not he was going to get shot or blown up. All this, while I was throwing up half the time. The stress was ever-present, but at least I was rational enough to accept that I’d signed up for this. I knew he was a soldier when I married him, so I had to accept this as part of my life.

“Is the neighbor’s dog still pooping on our lawn?” Jake’s question jerked me out of my thoughts. I realized I’d been staring at the wall.