Francine Rivers - Her Daughter’s Dream

“Nice.”

“I put a roast on. Dad will be home in an hour. It’ll be a while before we can eat. Do you want anything now?”

“A glass of milk?”

“Help yourself.”

Carolyn poured a full glass and drank it without stopping. She felt Mom watching her.

“You look exhausted.” Mom bit her lip. She peeled another potato and then made a sound of disgust. Tossing the peeler aside, she scooped up the potato peels and dumped them in her compost bucket under the sink. “I don’t know what I’m thinking. Well, we’ll have leftover potatoes for a few days, I guess.” She gripped the edge of the sink and stared out the kitchen window. “Where have you been all this time?”

“San Francisco.” Light-headed, Carolyn swayed.

Mom had hold of her before she knew her mother had even moved. “Why don’t you lie down and take a nap? I’ll wake you when it’s time.”

Time for what? To face her father? Time for Mom to get over the initial shock of having her daughter show up on the front doorstep like a filthy stray cat?

“Come on.” Mom kept her arm firmly around Carolyn’s waist. When they went into Carolyn’s old bedroom, Mom let go of her and yanked back the covers. “Lie down before you fall down!” She pulled the covers up over Carolyn’s shoulders. Carolyn felt her mother’s cool hand on her forehead. “Sleep for a while.”

She heard the sound of voices, but couldn’t quite rouse herself. Someone kissed her forehead. She thought she smelled her father’s Old Spice. More whispered voices. Then she sank into a dark pit and stayed there.

Carolyn saw sunlight streaming in the bedroom window. How long had she slept? Her heart stopped when she heard Dad’s voice. She wanted to cover her head with the blankets and go back to sleep. But she couldn’t hide forever.

She opened her door carefully and slipped into the bathroom while her parents talked in the kitchen. When she came out, she opened the door to Charlie’s bedroom and stepped inside.

His bed still had the same blue spread. The red blaze roses bloomed around his window. His Monopoly game had been laid out on his desk, money neatly stacked on both sides of the board, as though he and a friend had just left the game. There were hotels on Boardwalk and Park Place.

A USC banner hung on the wall. The bookshelf Dad had built still held Charlie’s favorite sci-fi novels. She opened his closet. His shirts and slacks still hung there. She stepped inside and held a shirt to her face, breathing in the fading scent of her brother. She took it off the hanger and sat on his bed, holding the shirt to her face. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend he still lived in this room, had just gone out for a drive in his red Impala.

Gulping down a sob, she bunched the shirt against her mouth to stifle the sound. If she’d been anywhere else, out of sight, alone, she might have keened and wailed and screamed the way she had the day she learned her brother had been killed. She might have torn her clothes and ripped at her hair, might have slashed herself with a knife, anything to release the balled-up, tight-fisted, raging grief inside her.

Jesus. Jesus! Why Charlie? Why not me? He had so much going for him. And I’m nothing.

She thought of all the things she’d done in the last three years and wondered if a person could die of shame.

“Carolyn?” Mom stood in the doorway, her face pale and strained.

“I’m sorry.” Carolyn stood, legs shaky. She held Charlie’s shirt clenched in one hand. If Mom tried to take it from her, she’d hang on and fight for it.

“Breakfast is ready.”

Breakfast? Hadn’t she been peeling potatoes for dinner?

Dad sat at the kitchen table. Charlie’s death had aged him. His hair had turned gray at the temples, and he had new lines across his forehead, around his eyes, and in his cheeks, lines carved by sorrow. She met his eyes briefly and bowed her head. He started to rise and seemed to change his mind. He put his hand flat on the table. “Sit down.”

Mom set two plates on the table, one in front of Dad, one in front of Carolyn. Carolyn stared at the mound of scrambled eggs, four strips of bacon, a blueberry muffin. Mom filled her glass with orange juice. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had juice.

Setting her own plate on the table, Mom sat. Dad said grace.

“You slept thirty-six hours.”

Carolyn raised her head and looked at her father.

“You must’ve needed it.” He forked eggs into his mouth, not looking at her.

“You need to eat, too.” Mom waved at the plate.

Carolyn’s hand shook when she picked up the fork, and her teeth hurt when she chewed. Her throat felt so dry she had to swallow orange juice to wash down the muffin. Though they didn’t stare, she felt her parents’ attention fixed on her. What thoughts ran through their heads? What names did they want to call her? Druggie. Boozer. Hippy. Worthless slut.

All true.

They didn’t ask questions; the silence became excruciating. She’d prepared herself for anger, accusations, fury, fingers pointed at the door, but not this watchful tension, this nervous caution.

She’d been sent home by Jesus, bus fare paid by one of His saints. Now what? What could she say? What excuses could she offer?

She couldn’t eat any more. She put her fork down carefully, head still bowed. She put her hands on the table, meaning to push the chair back. Dad grabbed her hand, pinning her at the table. “We’re glad you came home, Carolyn.” His voice sounded rough and hoarse. “You know that, don’t you?”

She raised her head and looked at him.

“We’re glad you’re home,” he repeated.

She pulled her hand away and covered her face. She gulped down a sob.

How long had she been running on empty? Since she’d run from Berkeley… or long before that? She’d tried to fill the void, but nothing had worked-not alcohol, not drugs, not sex. All of it emptied her even more.

She had one miraculous moment to cling to in all that mess. One single minute at dawn, the May flowers blooming like stars in the grass, and Jesus laying His hand on her head. Telling her it was time to go home.

Jesus. They’d never believe it, not in a thousand years. They’d think she’d had some kind of drug-induced hallucination.

A sound came out of Dad, ripped out.

“Trip.” Mom spoke, frightened.

He pulled Carolyn’s chair back. When she almost fell, he swept her up and sat down again with her in his lap. Hugging her tight against him, he wept.

Mom and Dad stayed home from work. She knew they wanted to ask why she had disappeared, but didn’t, perhaps waiting for her to volunteer the information. She hadn’t been thinking about them, the grief they must have suffered, and the further grief she might cause. She hadn’t thought about anything at all. How could she tell them that she simply couldn’t bear seeing Charlie in a coffin?

“Oma’s visiting Rikka back in New York. Your aunt is having another showing. We called them last night to let them know you’d come home.”

What would Oma say when she returned?

“I went to San Francisco a half-dozen times,” Dad told her. “I thought you might be in Haight-Ashbury.”

She’d been drunk or stoned most of the time. She hadn’t even stepped outside the house that first month. They left shortly after that. “Chel and I lived on Clement Street.”

“Is she still there?” Dad sounded worried. Maybe he thought she’d change her mind and go back.

“She died of an overdose.”

“What a waste.” Mom’s words summed up everything.

They gave up trying to make conversation and did chores around the house. Carolyn felt at loose ends, not knowing what to do. When she tried to help with the dishes, Mom told her to go into the living room and relax, but Dad had the TV on and Carolyn didn’t want to hear the news. The Vietnam War was still going strong, more unpopular than ever.