The Still of Night

by Kristen Heitzmann

She stooped down beside him. “I don’t think you should have more with the medicine you’ve taken.”

  He drew a breath in through his nose, caught it at the top, and expelled it with a slight moan. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  “How about some cold water or juice?”

  His eyelids drooped and rose. “Either get me the ice or find Juan.”

  She dumped the water from the glass. “You wanted a nurse. Now my orders are—”

  He caught her wrist. “Stop playing games.”

  “I’m—”

  “We both know it’s irrelevant. I did what I needed to for Kelsey.

  Now let me live my life.” He released her.

  She picked up the bottle. “This is your life?”

  He swallowed, then glared. “Who do you think you are?”

  “Someone who cares.”

  He snorted. “Man, you make me want to drink.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear that. But you’re in no condition for more.” She took the bourbon into the house and set it on the bar, then opened the refrigerator and took out a can of pineapple juice. She shook it, filled a tall skinny glass, and brought it out to him. “Here.”

  He eyed the juice like poison. “Listen, woman—”

  “No, you listen. You asked me here, and I intend to do my job.”

  “I never said nursemaid.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “If the situation warrants it …”

  “What are you going to do, slap my hand next?”

  “I am trained in disciplinary measures.”

  He leaned his head back and studied her.

  “Ready for your juice?”

  He took the glass and drank it all, then handed it back. “Satisfied?”

  “A little less lip next time.”

  He stared at her, then his yard, then back. “All right, Nurse Ratched. All these healthful fluids have created a rather pressing need. Suppose you help me up.” He walked fairly well to the bathroom, though she stayed beside him just in case. He paused in the doorway. “I might faint.”

  “I’ll call Juan if you do.” She closed the door.

  Leaning at the sink, Morgan washed his hands. There probably was some chemical interaction happening in his blood. He hadn’t drunk enough to make him drool. Oh well. He rubbed his wet hands over his face, then dried it all. Hanging the towel, he leaned another moment on the wall. It seemed he’d enlisted a nag—and one with no vested interest. Smart, Morgan. He sighed and left the bathroom.

  Jill waited by the French doors, turned when he came out. “Need a hand?”

  “No.”

  She approached. “Want one?”

  “You already turned me down.”

  She caught his elbow and helped support him. “I’m here for a few days at least.”

  Definitely a two-edged sword. He settled into the soft leather chair.

  She folded her hands and hung them at her waist. “Would you like to watch a movie or something?”

  “Or something.”

  “What would you like?” Her forced cheerfulness was like ants under his skin.

  He cracked a wry smile. “Why don’t you kneel at my feet again.”

  She frowned. “I reserve that for moments of heroism.”

  He shook his head. “Nothing heroic in surrendering my posterior to an elephant-sized needle.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Not at the moment.” He patted the arm of the chair next to his. “Sit down.”

  She did.

  “Have a nice run?”

  “Yes. I got in sight of the marina.” She flipped her bangs back with her fingers.

  “Want to take my boat out?”

  “One of those is yours?” Before he could answer she threw up her hands. “What am I saying? Of course, one of those is yours. Probably the biggest one.”

  “The biggest ones belong to companies. Mine is nice, though. Do you mind?”

  She stood up and paced the room. “Why should I mind? It’s just not …”

  He carefully stretched out his legs. “Not what?”

  “Real.”

  “Well, I do pay a docking fee, maintenance, fuel …”

  “Do you even notice?” She spun on him.

  “What?”

  “The expenses.”

  Interesting question, especially on the heels of his detrimental financial decision on Kelsey’s behalf. Oh yes, he would notice every expense for some time to come. He might in fact be selling that boat. “You want me to apologize?”

  She pressed her index and middle finger between her eyebrows. “Can I ask you something?”

  He spread his hands in permission.

  “Is there anything you want? No, think a minute. Do you ever just want?”

  Way too loaded a question.

  “Look at this place.” She waved her arm. “Is there one thing missing?”

  “They’re just things.”

  “Then why do you have them?”

  “Why not?”

  She flounced back down in the chair, clearly frustrated. “And your cars? One man needs three cars?”

  What on earth got her on this tangent? “The SUV is for camping and to pull the boat when I take it to Tahoe. The Corvette is my status car. I admit the Thunderbird was redundant, but fun.” He captured her gaze and held it. “What’s the matter, Jill?”

  She actually blinked back tears. “It’s no wonder you don’t need the Lord. You don’t need anything.”

  He swallowed the automatic rejoinder. He had bared himself enough. “Is need some sort of aphrodisiac? You can only get it on with someone in debt?”

  Her eyes flashed as she jolted up from the chair. “I don’t ‘get it on’ with anyone, in debt or not.”

  “I am a hard act to follow.”

  Her face went like stone. He’d gone too far, revealed his mean side. Her spine was steel as she climbed the stairs and left him sitting alone. Well, that was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? To drink in peace?

  It was the alcohol speaking; she knew that. This was the third time he’d shown his fangs, either under the influence or after the fact, and she did not have to stand there and take it. He wasn’t loud or abusive, just melancholy and mean. But when had he turned to booze? And why? Then she realized with a sinking thud that she did not want to know, nor even guess.

  Jill paced the room, its elegant muted reds and greens and mustard walls closing in as the thought persisted. No, she would not take that on. She had not driven him to drink. When she knew him he didn’t drink, had never taken a drink. Why should she think she had in any way contributed to his choice? Don’t I have enough guilt, Lord?

  She stopped at the window and stared out. Morgan made his own choices, always had. If he cared to spend an afternoon in his own home anesthetized by his beverage of choice, what was it to her? Yet … What is it you want, Lord? I’ve done what I came for. I held them up in prayer, and heaven prayed with me, as the old woman said. The morning had been powerful. She’d felt close to God, grateful to serve in the way He allowed. Not what she had wanted, but what He had allotted for her. She had prayed for Kelsey, prayed for Morgan …

  A jolt. She paced again. What is it Lord; what am I missing? She had prayed for the process, for Kelsey’s healing, for Morgan’s quick recovery. What else? She circled the room slowly. Something had agitated her spirit while she ran; aggravation with Morgan certainly, but something else, as well. Something that made her look at his environment, see it differently, critically. A hollow opened up inside. He was empty, so empty.

  Jill pressed a hand to her chest. She had criticized the symptom but ignored the disease. She closed her eyes and his wound opened before her. He had lived with her lie, with the belief she had destroyed the fruit of their love, rejecting him as she rejected the infant from her womb. She had stricken a mortal blow, and he had not healed after fifteen years. Even now with the truth of Kelsey’s existence revealed, the wound festered.

  My God. She clutched h
er hands at her throat, where sobs built and shuddered, and tears burned behind her eyelids. What can I do? I’ve spoken more boldly than ever before. I’ve shown him his need. She wished she had brought her Bible. She went out to the library off the great room. Many of the shelves were decorated with items to match the room décor, but the others held books. She scanned them, mildly hopeful but without expectation of finding anything religious. On the lowest shelf, she noticed a photo album and pulled it out. There were very few photographs anywhere in Morgan’s house. Art on the walls that reflected his personality, but nothing personal.

  She sank cross-legged to the floor with the album. Okay, so it was snooping. Then again, it was in a public area, not like going through his dresser drawers or something. Albums were meant to be perused. And she needed something to go on. She opened the cover. Morgan’s family smiled out at her: the little girls and Rick, Morgan in his letter jacket perched on the white rail fence, his arm hooked over the top in the nonchalant posture she remembered so well.

  He couldn’t be much older than eighteen in that shot. And when she turned the page, she saw herself. Morgan in his tux, his hand on her waist. She looked like a baby, wide-eyed and dazzled. Her heart thumped in her breast at the sight of a dried white rose, pressed flat, lying in the crease. She picked it up and brought it to her lips, remembering her fingers pinning it to his lapel. Men kept such things? Men like Morgan. She looked again at the picture.

  Her pictures of him had been lost. Burned most likely or torn to a million pieces when she was gone. No doubt for her own good. She had none but the yearbook snapshot, and in the same book the photo of them together on the football field, all pompons and shoulder pads.

  This picture had been taken at the dance when they were crowned, all the envious and adoring peers looking on. She had thought that night was the beginning of her life. Had Morgan felt the same? They’d been bantering three years, competing and challenging each other, laughing and crying over every event in the hypersensitive way of teens. She had dreamed of more, but that night opened his eyes and something changed between them, subtle yet intoxicating. That night he kissed her. She touched his face in the photo.

  How do I help him, Lord?

  The memories were painful. Why keep them fresh? Especially now that it was obvious they could not reconstruct what had been damaged beyond repair. The thought hurt, but she forced herself to face it. This interlude would last only until Kelsey recovered. Then she and Morgan would return to their lives and stagger forward. An aching loss gripped her.

  Why? If she was fulfilling God’s purpose for her life, why was there so little joy? Wasn’t joy a fruit of the Holy Spirit? The Lord never promised constant happiness. But He did say He came to give life abundantly. Was her life abundant?

  If she still had a job to go back to, she would throw her energy into it, though in fact all of that had scarcely entered her mind these last days—amazing, given her previous obsession. That was peace, wasn’t it? Trust, that the Lord would look out for her, safeguard her job, her livelihood, the kids who mattered so much when her mind wasn’t too full of personal crisis.

  She had good friends—Shelly and Brett, and, she hoped, even Dan. Maybe Cinda would allow her to keep some contact with Kelsey. She could get more involved at her church, volunteer somewhere, and somehow, find the joy she had lost along the way. Daddy’s little sunshine had hidden behind the clouds long enough.

  Hadn’t the apostle Paul been content in all circumstances? Okay, so he hadn’t given his only child away and lost the love of his life—if he even had one, which she doubted, since he wasn’t too keen on women by the sound of some of his writings. Still, he’d had troubles of his own and learned to be content in the midst of them. That was the element her faith was missing. That was her challenge.

  Morgan had his own. Why did she even think she could help him? She turned the page of the album. Morgan’s achievement awards, graduation photos. She was there as well, in her cap and gown, his arm around her. That was before she told them. One week before they all knew. Oh, Lord, if I could turn back time and change it all … but you know I can’t.

  She turned page after page, looking at the moments Morgan had frozen and mounted, the people who mattered most. Not another picture of her. She was gone, and the smiles in the photos looked fragile, except for Morgan. His grew larger and more confident, his prosperity evident in the champagne christening of his boat amid an entourage of beautiful people. Morgan had done what she couldn’t—found contentment.

  But that didn’t make sense. The pictures lied. He had turned his back on God, lost faith in his Savior. And turned to drink. That was not the abundant life Christ brought to the world. It was not the joy Kelsey found in Jesus. It was … desperation. Again the conviction of her complicity stung.

  Lord? She fought the sting of tears. Have I done this to him?

  He had borne the blame, the vitriolic rancor from her parents. But it was her lie that had toppled all of them into the abyss. “It’s okay, Morgan. I’m on the pill.” She had not simply allowed his advance, she’d encouraged, urged. She had wanted so badly to prove her love.

  Jill closed the album and slid it back into the shelf. She could not undo any of it. Only God could. But that would be her prayer, that the Lord would repair what she had destroyed. Wasn’t there something in the Bible about the year of locusts? Restoring what the locusts had destroyed? She wished now she had her concordance, as well. But she was getting the picture. She had to pray for Morgan’s restoration. The conviction grew. Not prayer alone. She had to act, to repair the harm she had done him—whatever it took.

  Morgan drained the glass and set it aside. Strange how different the result could be. No euphoria, no energizing party mania. The same liquor, drunk alone, slid him down the path of no return. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes, but there was no sleep behind his lids. It was the middle of the afternoon, on the day he rescued his daughter, and he was wiping his mind clear of sentient thought.

  He should have kept Denise on the clock and sloughed off Jill. But then he had sloughed her off, with all the finesse of a dragon torching his damsel. He drew a slow breath and released it. Why couldn’t he remain cordial with her? He faked it all the time, with people he disliked. Why fail with the person he loved?

  Now, there was a root thought. But why not? He was to the point of honesty in this downward slope. I love Jill Runyan. I’ve always loved Jill Runyan. I will always love Jill Runyan. So what do you think of that, Lord?

  It must be bad if he was praying. That was not a prayer. What was it, then? His own thoughts were betraying him, turning toward God as though He might answer, might care. This would not do. He should have planned a party, a night on the town.

  The only thing getting in his way was Jill. “This is not about you, Jill. It’s all about Kelsey, remember?” At the sound of his own voice, he opened his eyes, raised an unsteady hand and pointed across the room. “It’s not about you.”

  “I know that.” She spoke and it startled him.

  He squinted at the chair across from him, realized she actually did sit there. Wonderful. At least he could pretend he had meant to talk to her.

  She crossed and squatted down at his knee, her hand warm on his flesh. “You’re going to be ill, Morgan.”

  “I am ill.”

  She took his hand. “What can I do?”

  Laughing, he raised a knowing finger. “You don’t do that, remember?”

  “I doubt you could now, either.”

  Her response caught him short. No blushing, no rushing from the room. Actual repartee. What was with that? “I want to.”

  “Do you?”

  He swallowed. Of course he did. Then he let his hand drop.

  She gathered it with his other. “Do you want to lie down?”

  “I will not … walk … very well.”

  She lowered herself to her knees. “How can I help you?”

  Oh, this was rich—on her knees begging t
o help. Pain rose up and gripped the back of his throat. “Go … away.”

  Lifting his hand to her cheek, she shook her head. “I did that once. I won’t leave you again.”

  Shards in the fibers of his heart. She wouldn’t accept his sober invitation, but she’d stay out of pity? No, thanks. He slid his hand free. “I told you I have everything I need.” He reached for the glass, dumped it onto the carpet, swung for it and missed, then left it lying.

  She sat back on her heels. “I don’t know if you can understand me right now, or if you’ll remember anything I say.”

  “Probably not.”

  “I want to ask your forgiveness, Morgan. I lied and forced the issue between us. I was responsible for what happened, but I let you take the blame. I wanted to prove how much I loved you, but when it came to it, I loved myself more. I’m so sorry.”

  His throat worked over words that would not come. He couldn’t understand. “What are you talking about?”

  “I told you I was on the pill so you would make love to me. I didn’t plan it exactly, but I knew very well what I was doing.”

  He hung his arm over the side, searching her face and wishing now his vision was clear. “So?”

  She moistened her lips. “I let everyone, even you, believe I was led astray, a naïve child misguided. But I wasn’t.”

  Did she think she was saying something he didn’t know?

  She expelled her breath, her voice rising a notch. “I knew without birth control what could happen. Maybe I even wanted it.”

  Now he was catching the thrust, straight in the abdomen.

  “But when everything got so crazy, I couldn’t admit it. I let Dad think you’d practically forced yourself on me, that I hadn’t known what was happening.”

  Memories rushed. Words, names, his own dad weeping outside. He gripped her arm. “Do you think I care?”

  She covered his grip with her palm. “I care, Morgan.”

  He dropped his chin and closed his eyes, his hand slipping from her arm. “I am way too drunk to deal with this.”

  She sniffed back tears. “Do you want me to tell you again later?”

  He expelled a silent laugh. “Spare us both.”

  “I can’t. We’ve lived with my lies too long.”