A Sobering Night

   The draft brushed through the tiny hairs which had escaped Lucy’s ponytail, tickling the back of her neck. It sent a chill through her and raised goosebumps on her forearms. She had been numb for so long that the prickling of her skin was a strange sensation like skeletal fingers reaching through the earth, suddenly brought to life by some dark magic. Agitated and reluctant, she spun around, kneeling on the couch to pull the drapes shut. Through the window, she caught the sight of leaves whipping around like tiny tornadoes in the yellow glow of her porch light as the shadowy trees bowed gracefully to the power of the wind.

    With no real thought or intent, she scooped up the remote, clicked the television off, and snatched up the pack of cigarettes and ash tray from the end table. As she opened the front door, a gust of wind tore it from her grip, slamming it loudly against the wall. Lucy glared at the perfect imprint of the doorknob and locking mechanism for only a moment before deciding it simply wasn’t worth her care.

    She stepped outside into disappointing stillness. While awaiting the next gust, Lucy lit her cigarette, and took a long draw. She puckered her lips out, like a child trying to learn how to whistle, and exhaled the smoke slowly. She watched as the thin, compact gray stream pierced through the air. As it traveled, it widened and created swirls and spirals all intertwining until it dissipated completely. The gray spread too thin and became one with average transparent air. Then the wind came.

    It was sobering. Lucy had read enough to see the word play its role as an adjective connected to countless abstract nouns. John Doe had a sobering thought. The news had a sobering effect on Jane Doe. The hair raising on Joe Shmoe’s neck were a sobering warning. Lucy had come to cringe at the use of the word. Yet, tonight, her own mind could think of no better description.

    The night was sobering. The wind was like an angry sea, tossing dreams about in slow, strong waves. It sounded like a thousand massive beasts trampling and roaring through the trees. It grew louder as it drew closer until the beasts’ breath swirled around her, cool and sweet, ruffling her very existence. As quickly as it rolled in, it was gone, and the stillness was smothering. The roars grew faint and it felt like a part of her had drifted off with them.

    Loneliness dug a deep well in Lucy’s chest. Being reacquainted with the wind after neglecting it for so long created some strange nostalgia that made her crave another gust. It had an addictive effect. She felt the nagging void in the pit of her stomach, the tightness in her lungs, begging for just one more whiff of that warm-fire scented, skin-prickling winter air as it danced around her.

    When the next wave came, snarling even louder than the monsters it followed, Lucy wanted to float away with it. She wanted to join the invisible icy stampede and follow it wherever it might lead her, anywhere away from here. It swooped in, whirled around her, and vanished. Lucy’s feet stayed planted in place. She was rooted where she stood like a great oak, longing for an eagle’s wings, as another piece of herself disintegrated into the breeze.

    All the typical existential-crisis-type questions began flooding Lucy’s mind. You know the sort: Who am I, and who do I want to be? Why am I here? Blah, blah, blah. She shook those demons off as quickly as they came. No way would she allow those creatures to latch onto her consciousness with their filthy talons. She had fallen down that rabbit hole too many times. Those tunnels had no lights at either end. They were mazes she would be lost in forever. She didn’t want that. She was already lost enough, held captive by the pain and exhaustion of living this life. What she wanted, needed, was escape.

    The thunderous growling surged again in the distance. Lucy was determined to surf the next wave, to let whatever dream it carried seize her psyche and offer her freedom. With her feet still bolted to the porch, her mind rode the wind.

***

    The breeze slalomed through a dense forest, ruffling the feathers of a great horned owl who focused, unblinking, on a young possum scavenging at the base of the same tree he’d chosen for a perch. It seemed the swift, winged hunter would have an effortless dinner tonight. The breeze continued past the edge of the forest and rolled gracefully over a sprawling meadow. The long grass leaned and swayed with the wind as if they were two lost lovers dancing to a tune only they could hear as they softly whispered their hellos and secret, sweet nothings. As the breeze moved on, the next song could be heard by all, loud and clear, in the form of croaking frogs and trickling water ahead. In a quick glance behind, the grass reached toward the sky again, still, lost, and lonely without its dance partner. Passing over the river, the wind blew a fuzzy white moth off balance in its flight. It toppled end over end toward the water for a moment before righting itself, not a moment too soon. The moth barely avoided the tongue of a frog, lightning quick, which would have been aimed perfectly if the moth had continued falling. It seemed the predator here would need to keep working to fill his stomach.

    Then, the wind broke against the stone walls of houses. It split and flowed on, whipping around the sides of the buildings to rush through the streets of the medieval riverside village. On one street, brilliant songs of kings and knights and wild battles floated out from the open door of the tavern. Old men sat outside, drinks in hand, telling tall tales of dwarves, elves, and dragons. Inside, young men bragged of their most recent successful hunt. Sometimes, their prey was an animal, other times a woman, but no matter the topic, their stories became more exaggerated the longer they talked and the more they drank.

    On another street, a collection of old women scolded a group of rowdy youngsters, offering up frightful descriptions of trolls and what they did to children who refused to listen to their elders. Meanwhile, a group of young women turned the corner carrying baskets of laundry toward the river. They alternated between sharing gossip and talking about their home lives.

    So many stories flitter up into the air to be captured by the wind. So many people of varying shapes, sizes, color, and ages all experiencing the same breeze. So many different lives connected by this majestic force of nature.

    Each street offered a different experience, new people, new stories. On one street, the wind halted as it came upon a little girl. From behind, the girl's wavy red hair reminded Lucy of her own. The girl let out a warm giggle. This tiny tinkling laugh sounded familiar. It filled Lucy's heart with joy, and at the same time, shattered it. The girl turned around, smiling ear to ear. She had the bluest eyes Lucy had ever seen.

***

    The tremor began somewhere deep within, deeper than bones, and worked its way outward, finally shaking Lucy out of her trance. She wrapped her sweater tight around her and turned away from the wind as it lashed her back, clawing at her hair and clothing, begging for her attention again. Lucy refused.

    It had been so long since she had appreciated anything. For a moment, she had reveled in the wind's embrace once again, like she had every weekend in the summers of childhood, when her father took her sailing. He had taught her of the workings of large ships as he let her steer their tiny sailboat, the misty ocean air kissing her cheeks. For a moment, she was lost in a dream, at peace, like she had been that summer day on the beach when she looked up into the bluest eyes she had ever seen as she said her vows. For a moment, the wind had charmed her the way it did as she walked from the hospital to the car that autumn morning when it collected warm colored leaves, dropping them ever so gently on the beautiful baby girl in the car seat. The leaves were like a gift to welcome the sweet girl to the world. For a moment, her heart was warmed by the majesty of the breeze, just like that cool spring day when the wind ruffled her daughter’s wavy red hair, as she called out from the highest branch of the maple tree “Mommy, look how high up I am, I’m on top of the world!” That day, and so many days before and after, Lucy, too, was high up, on top of the world.

    Then, at the drop of a dime, the wind had shifted, betrayed her. It had twisted the dream into a nightmare. It turned into the same tyrannical god that brought that blizzard into town. It became the same evil trickster who, in the blink of any eye, made both halves of her heart disappear, stole everything from her with that wintery storm. The wind was nothing but the cruel tormentor that blew her hair across her face, sticking it to her tears like glue, as she squinted through the snowy air at the overturned car, and again later, as she watched their caskets lower into the cold dark earth one after the other.

    She walked back inside, but the house didn’t bring her warmth. It didn’t know how to do that anymore. In the six years since the love and laughter vanished from within its walls, the house had only gotten colder.

    Lucy clicked the tv back on because, frankly, silence sucked. Then, she went to the kitchen and grabbed a glass and the bottle. She tipped the bottle and watched the last of the bronze liquor fill the glass. She lifted the edge of the glass to her lips and began to tilt the bottom toward the ceiling.

    Maybe, it was time to stop drifting carelessly and aimlessly on the sea, letting the waves beat the sides of her boat from all angles, chipping pieces away in jagged splinters while she merely waited to sink, to drown. Maybe she was already drowning herself.

    Lucy paused like a statue trying to imagine what she looks like to passersby. She could smell the whiskey. The cool smooth glass felt like a security blanket she could wrap herself in. She could feel the faintest trickle passing over her lower lip, could almost taste it. Spectators couldn’t see the safety that liquid offered though. They couldn’t see the way it healed her from the inside, at least for as long as its effects held. Without that knowledge, was she a sculpture of something mediocre and mundane, a pitiable piece of work, unworthy of being called art? She sat the glass back on the counter and eyed it as her mind continued to wander.

    Maybe, the time had come to fight for her survival. How long had she endured the harsh, unyielding heat of the sun and never sought shade? How long had she suckled from the unforgiving sea, even as it focused all its strength into capsizing her, knowing it’s salty green fluid did nothing to quell her thirst. How long had she eyed her rations, longing for them, but too tired to reach for them and satisfy her own hunger.

    Maybe, it was time to make a choice, to choose to unfurl her sails. She could go anywhere the wind could carry her, just by choosing a point in the distance and keeping a firm grip on the tiller. But the ocean is strong, winds unpredictable. Could she manage to stay on course even through the thick of a storm?

    It all seemed too scary to take on alone. She lifted the glass again, ready to silence her thoughts.

    Maybe, that was the problem all along. She felt like she had lost her entire crew, but some still remained. And no decent Captain would ignore her crew. She would rely on their help to manage throughout the voyage. A caring crew would work together with all their might to keep the vessel on course.

    She had experienced great loss in her journey, that was true. It hurt in a way that time could never heal. She would never be the same person she was when her heart was whole. But even still, she had always had a crew trying to keep her on course. In her despair, she had ignored them for quite some time.

    She pulled her phone from her pocket, biting her lip nervously. He might not even answer. She didn’t deserve for him to answer, not anymore. When the third ring sounded, she nearly hung up, but the click of the person on the other end answering was quicker than she. She spoke before he even had the chance to say hello.

    “Hey, Dad, it’s Lucy… Yeah, everything’s fine—No, please don’t wake Mom, I’m okay…” Lucy eyed the clock on the microwave. It was after midnight. No wonder he answered in such a panic. “Yeah, I know, it’s been a really long time. I'm sorry...” Despite the late hour, he may not have been so worried by her call if she hadn’t ignored every single one of his for nearly six years. She hung her head shamefully, as tears welled in her eyes. “Really, everything’s all right. Honest. I just thought, maybe, I should reach out. So, I don’t know, um, how are things?” There was a pause on the other end of the line. Lucy held her breath.

    “Well, it’s about damn time, Skipper. I missed ya.”

    “Sorry,” her voice cracked as she tried to hold back the tears. “Missed you too, Dad”

    “Listen, Skipper, we lost enough time already. I don’t want a second more of it wasted on apologies.”

    Then, as if no time had passed at all, he started talking to her just like he always had. He told her he was getting sick of having to tell those smelly surfer boys to clean up after themselves at the beach. He told her how Mom went and got him roped into going fishing with that old sorry sack o’ bones, Jimbo, next week. As he spoke, the weight on Lucy’s chest lifted.

    “Woah, can you hear this wind on your end?” He didn’t wait for her answer before he started raving about the strong winds they were seeing on the coast, and how beautiful it was. “Beautiful,” he said, “and terrifying.” He told her about the damage the wind had caused over the last couple days. Then he reminded her, as he had many times when she was young, “Wind’s unpredictable, Skipper. And ol’ mother nature, wonderful as she is, can be a cruel mistress.”

    Her old sailing partner’s fascination with the wind tugged at the corners of Lucy’s lips. I guess I know where I got it from, and I guess I really do still have a crew. It seems it’s time to get this ship back on course, she thought.

    “Hey Skipper, did ya fall asleep on me? I asked if you’re getting these same crazy winds inland too.”

    “Yeah, the wind is really crazy here too,” she smiled lightly, dumped the whiskey, and left the glass upside down in the sink. She muttered to herself “it’s a sobering night.”

***

    “Oh, shut it! Quit acting like you’re some sorta expert. You're a damned ol’ fool, Jimbo. I taught Skipper, here, everything she knows. She can handle any beast.”

    The wind whipped through Lucy’s hair as she calmly readjusted the fishing rod, making the line taut as she continued to reel.

    “Bring ‘er in,” Dad cooed gently, resting a reassuring hand on her shoulder, “nice an’ easy, Skipper. You got this.”