Sleeping Brides

by fallensea

  Sleeping Brides

  A. E. Scholer

  Fallen Sea

  Sleeping Brides

  Copyright © 2016 by Andrea Elizabeth Scholer

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Fallen Sea

  www.fallensea.com

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Digital Edition

  ISBN: 978-0-9930993-5-9

  Cover Design by Fallen Sea

  Cover Photos Licensed through Deposit Photos, Free Wallpapers, and Free Images:

  Levitating Woman © thug1747, Vintage Clouds © pinkquilldesign, Shore © Rachel Gilmore

  In memory of Theresa.

  Forever my best friend. Forever my sister.

  Also in memory of the other important people I lost during the course of writing and releasing this book including:

  Grandma Evelyn

  Uncle Lail

  Grandpa Harold

  And more

  Dedicated to my mother, grandmothers, and foremothers.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue: Ghost-Angel

  Chapter One: A Brother’s Fury

  Chapter Two: Disappearance

  Chapter Three: Goodbyes

  Chapter Four: The Refusal

  Chapter Five: Hope

  Chapter Six: Her Death

  Chapter Seven: Heaven’s Lair

  Chapter Eight: Be Still

  Chapter Nine: Bird Songs

  Chapter Ten: Empty Tables

  Chapter Eleven: While Grandpa Sleeps

  Chapter Twelve: Happiness Amongst Beasts

  Chapter Thirteen: Skin Breaks

  Chapter Fourteen: Almost

  Chapter Fifteen: The Parasol

  Chapter Sixteen: Suspicions

  Chapter Seventeen: The Call

  Chapter Eighteen: Good Friends

  Chapter Nineteen: Malaise

  Chapter Twenty: Wool and Leather

  Chapter Twenty-One: Breaking Cars

  Chapter Twenty-Two: The Last Day

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Hold Me Down

  Chapter Twenty-Four: The Festival

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Screams

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Expectations

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Stolen Pastures

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Ghost-Angels

  Epilogue: Seagulls

  The Sea Bride

  The Sea Bride: Chapter One: The Darkness

  The Sea Bride: Chapter Two: Sticks

  The Sea Bride: Chapter Three: The Mountains

  The Sea Bride: Chapter Four: The Sea

  Next Book Free

  About A. E. Scholer

  Prologue

  Ghost-Angel

  Ronnie

  Death was a frightening thing. It confronted us like a boarded window, hiding the truth of what it was. Perhaps it had to. Perhaps if we were to see beyond the boards, we would disregard everything sacred in our life, either out of anticipation or out of worry of what was to come. As we aged, we would see only the window out, and never the window in.

  My experience with death was limited, I was still not quite sure what lay beyond, but from what I had seen through the boards, there was only beauty. It didn’t make dying any easier. Even that which is beautiful can frighten and break the heart.

  Gabriela Murphy learned so one inconceivable evening as she stood out in the autumn cold and watched the apartment complex in which she lived burn down. I was not there when it happened, but I heard about it... later.

  As the flames ate away at the old brick of the buildings within the complex and spat out its haggard ash, Gabriela did not care about her Miss Latina tiara that melted on top of her dresser or her small diamond earrings next to it—the only real pair of diamonds she had ever owned, a prize for winning Miss Latina. Watching the flames destroy her home, diamonds meant nothing to her. Her husband and little twin girls were the only jewels she sought to save.

  “Where’s my family?” she begged a firefighter as he ran past her, the ash clinging to the sweat on his face.

  He ignored her, refusing to stop, not when there were still people inside, held hostage by the midnight flames.

  The apartment complex was on a quiet street in the suburbs, a street where children could safely walk to school underneath the maple leaves, but though quiet, its residents were many. As they poured out of the scorched buildings, clinging to each other in fear, crying out in anguish, Gabriela was surrounded by her neighbors. There were many near, and yet no one would talk to her, as if she weren’t there.

  She tried addressing Mama Ramirez as the hunched elderly woman guided her grandson away. “Por favor, mi familia?” she pleaded, touching the woman on the shoulder.

  Flinching, Mama Ramirez scurried on, her grandson tucked beneath her arm.

  An explosion from a nearby building sounded, casting smoke upon the street like a black fog, obscuring the night, making even the ash invisible. The firefighters responded, fading in and out of the fog like soldiers in a battlefield. Instinctually, Gabriela covered her mouth with the sleeve of her knitted sweater and searched amongst the fog for her family.

  “Henry!” she called out from behind her sleeve, trying not to choke. “Ashley! Emma!”

  The night was a broken reflection of what it had been earlier. Gabriela was attractive and loyal, but she wasn’t a happy woman, not while her family was living in the two-bedroom apartment. She tolerated the apartment only because the cheap rent allowed her family to save for a down payment on a house, but she looked forward to the day they could move out, when she could unpack her clothes and her shoes from storage and invite her girlfriends over for dinner.

  Gabriela wasn’t happy, but she managed to hide her displeasure with a pageant smile, which she had shown brightly on her twin girls when she tucked them into bed earlier that evening, and again on her husband when they had sat down to relax in front of the television, his hand strong on her knee from his labors as a carpenter. Gabriela had sacrificed her happiness for her family, but they offered her something so much better than happiness, and for that she was grateful.

  Now, Gabriela was terrified. After her husband had gone to bed for the evening, she’d filled a glass with wine and fallen asleep on the couch to a black and white movie. She didn’t remember being saved by the firefighters. All she knew was that she was here, out in the street, and her family was nowhere.

  “Henry!” she cried again.

  Her husband did not answer, but from somewhere in the black fog, Gabriela was certain she heard her daughter Emma cry out for her.

  “Emma! Mommy’s here!” she coaxed desperately, reaching her hand out into the unknown. “Don’t be scared.”

  Don’t be scared, she said silently to herself, not knowing which direction to turn.

  Gabriela again thought of her girls, of kissing their foreheads goodnight and running her hand through the curls of their hair. They were only four, but already they were showing their different personalities. Emma liked pretty little things and had a sharp wit, like her, but Ashley was much shyer, sticking to her model clay and puzzles, staring silently at the world as if it were a thing that intrigued her. Before leaving their room that night, Gabriela had folded a pink wand under Emma’s arms, an
d a dinosaur under Ashley’s.

  The image of her girls sleeping kept Gabriela lucid. She had to focus, to keep a clear head until she found them, but she could not shake her dread, not even as someone grabbed her shoulders and rescued her from the fog, back into an evening haunted by ash and sorrow.

  It was a firefighter. The woman was tall, much taller than Gabriela, and much taller than most of the firefighters at the scene. Her height set her apart, but so did her serenity. Gabriela did not understand how the woman could be so calm and accepting with everything happening around them.

  “Come with me,” the woman instructed with a needed gentleness. “I’ll guide you to safety.”

  Gabriela heard her, but she wasn’t willing to go. “What’s happening?” she demanded, tears falling down her cheeks, washing away the dirt of the flames. “Where is my family?”

  “This isn’t the place. It’s not safe. If you’ll follow me, then we’ll—”

  “No,” Gabriela refused. “I’m not going anywhere.” She took the woman’s hand. It was warm, like a hearth—a heat that healed, not destroyed. “Please, listen to me. My name is Gabriela Murphy. My husband is Henry Murphy. He’s tall and strong with kind blue eyes and hair as dark as mine. I know he wouldn’t leave without our girls. He’d save them. We live in apartment 4B. So please, tell me where they are.”

  The serenity within the woman faltered. “Gabriela Murphy,” she repeated with recognition.

  “That’s right,” Gabriela said eagerly. “Please, tell me why I can’t find them.”

  “It’s difficult,” the woman claimed, reluctant.

  “I don’t care.”

  The woman took off her helmet. Firefighters never took off their helmets, not unless they had something awful to say. The fire continued its path of destruction behind her, but Gabriela no longer noticed. Before the woman spoke, Gabriela understood everything—why Mama Ramirez wouldn’t look at her. Why she was outside all alone. The night burned, but it was drenched with a cold despair.

  “Because they’re not here,” the firefighter told her. “Not anymore. You were the only one saved from your apartment. Your family did not survive.”

  ***

  For Henry Murphy, the scene outside the apartment complex was peaceful. There was no fire, no panic. He stood in the middle of the street, which was empty and silent, the leaves of the maples turned and ready to fall. Rain would soon come. He could smell it upon the earth, stronger than he ever could before.

  “Mommy!” Emma called out beside him. “Where are you?”

  Henry lifted Emma up into his arms while making sure Ashley held on tightly to his flannel pajama bottoms. They were alone, but on this night of sad wonders, he was afraid of losing them. He didn’t know what was to come, but he understood what had already happened.

  Emma nestled her head against his dark blue T-shirt. Her hair smelled buttery, like her mother’s. It made Henry want to weep, but he held back, for his girls, forcing his smile much like he had seen his wife do at her pageants.

  “We have to leave,” he explained softly. “We must go, but Mommy has to stay.”

  Emma’s lips trembled. “Why?” she asked.

  Henry couldn’t reply. He didn’t have the words to, but Ashley did. “Because we’re ghost-angels,” she said with the acceptance of someone beyond her years. “And Mommy isn’t. But she will be, one day.”

  “Were we always ghost-angels?” Emma asked, her eyes wide and curious.

  In his grief, Henry laughed. “Yeah. I guess we were.” He tapped Emma on the nose. “You ready to go?”

  “I trust you, Daddy.”

  Steadying Emma in one arm, he took Ashley’s hand. “And you?”

  “No, not without my mommy, but I know we have to.”

  Henry nodded and squeezed her hand. Inhaling the approaching rain one last time, he turned and walked down the middle of the dark street, ready to take his daughters home.

  ***

  That which is beautiful can still frighten and break the heart. The Murphy family learned so the tragic evening of the fire, and again many years later when Gabriela ran a stoplight, her mind wandering to times past.

  Everyone rips the boards from the window sooner or later. Death embraces us all. It was a bright, sunny afternoon the day I, Ronnie Whitmore, saw what lay beyond the boards, an afternoon when children jumped through sprinklers with crumbs of bread pudding stuck to their lips, when the mellow vocals of June Christy filled the streets, and when pecan trees provided shelter.

  I was happy leading up to the moment I died. At least I could say that.

  I should have been. It was my wedding day.

  Sleeping Brides

  Part I

  The Rebel Bride

  Chapter One

  A Brother’s Fury

  Ronnie

  “You!” a boy shouted indignantly from beneath the stone bridge I stood upon. “Stop launch’n arrows at me!”

  “They’re foam!” I hollered down at him, my foot firmly planted as I raised another shot in warning. “Get over it!”

  Annoyed, he ran away, his legs pumping fast across the green. I had no remorse. He’d been hassling the smaller kids in the park all morning. I’d watched from the bridge the way an owl watches the night—silent and observant and ready to strike. Only it wasn’t night; it was a fresh Louisiana afternoon. Beneath me, the park was wide awake with color and people, the dawn of spring, but it felt like night. Most days felt like night to me.

  My arrow remained taut, like my troubles. With its high walls, the bridge—an arch that connected two narrow stairwells, separating the green from the woods—was an ideal place to shoot, unleashing my frustrations. I rarely aimed at people. I wasn’t savage. I mostly bounced the arrows, bought in a toy section of a discount store, off of the loose trees within the park.

  I aimed for a tree now, until a man with khaki pants and an expensive looking sweater strolled into the park, a phone to his ear. I hated khaki and everything it represented. Changing my aim, I released the arrow and watched it bounce off the man’s wide rump before it fell harmlessly to the grass. He barely noticed, looking behind him as if the arrow was nothing more bothersome than a fly, and he kept walking.

  The man reminded me of my boyfriend Kyle, which was bad because Kyle was the reason I was on the bridge. He was the cause of my frustrations. My backbone suddenly gone, I let my bow drop, and I slid against the wall, shrinking away from the world as I zipped up my black hoodie.

  I’d been with Kyle since my last year of high school. That was six years ago. In those six years, he’d evolved from an awkward teen to a sturdy, dependable man who was loyal to everything he cared about. His law firm. His family. Me. I was probably at the top of his list.

  I wasn’t so sturdy. I’d evolved from an awkward teen to someone much more unruly. There was a weight upon my soul, forcing me to perceive the world in all of its extremes: The obscurity of the night. The anticipation of the day. The ache of happiness. The joy of loneliness. My aunt called it depression. I called it living wholly. Either way, it was pulling me away from Kyle and the life I knew he wanted to share with me.

  Plucking at the string of the bow, I wished there was a way I could tell Kyle everything I was feeling. It wasn’t that I didn’t love him. He was one of few people in the world I trusted. Generally, I didn’t trust people. Only the elderly. The elderly were much more genuine than most people I knew. But I trusted Kyle. Loyal and kind, he was everything a man should be. But he wanted a wife and a mother for his future children, and I was neither of those.

  ***

  The bus smelt of citric shoe polish. It was Mr. Glenn. The face of his loafers was torn and chipped, but he wore them with the pride of a man who had survived two wars and the death of his beloved wife. Every time I saw him, he wore the same aged three piece suit, his shoes polished, his tie tight against his collar. I didn’t know where he traveled to on the bus, coming and going at random intervals. Mr. Glenn didn’t speak. He o
nly nodded at me when I got on, grim despite the pleasantry of his greeting. But Mrs. Fischer knew a bit about him. She had given me his history.

  Mr. Glenn did not speak, but Mrs. Fischer never stopped. With her glassy yellow eyes and the heavy reek of cigarette smoke wafting off of her, the woman rambled on like clay pouring down a mountainside, choking everyone with its dust. Most of the time, she was coherent, but when there was nothing worthy of gossip, she would look out the window and mumble to herself, “Give the man hell.” Those were the moments I tolerated Mrs. Fischer the most.

  Mrs. Fischer wasn’t on the bus now. I was off my normal schedule. I’d been called in early for my nightshift at the women’s shelter where I worked. It was a relief not to have to deal with Mrs. Fischer. Slumping into my seat with the dark blonde tangles of my hair, more rust than gold, pressed against the green plastic, I wanted to enjoy the end of my journey without having to entertain the woman. In that way, I was a lot like Mr. Glenn. I preferred the peace of my own company.

  The commuter bus, which journeyed between the smaller towns within reach of Lafayette, passing through open fields and patches of woodland, was where I felt my most independent. Neither here nor there, I could be myself on the bus, wistful and silently ferocious, without the influence of others. There were no colleagues to make small talk with. No neighbors who watched with judgement as I crept into my studio apartment after my shift. Because I didn’t make it a habit to get to know my neighbors, I could only guess what kind of work they thought brought a young woman home long after sunrise. But most of all, on the bus, there was no Kyle.