2009 Sobriety Rocks Winner – Best Writing
The Longest Vigil
by Elizabeth Kraushar
The house was silent and dark. Occasionally, heat lightning would flicker through the blinds and create momentary patterns of shadow and light over the ceiling.
The woman sitting at the window did not blink at the flashes of lightning, nor did she start at the faint rumbles of thunder rolling to her from a distant storm. The chair she had dragged to the window was the oldest, hardest chair in the house; she deliberately kept herself uncomfortable so as not to be tempted into sleep. This was an unnecessary precaution, however—the woman had been sitting in that pose for hours, legs crossed, arms folded, mouth pressed into a grim line, and not once had she so much as considered sleep. Her whole being was focused on the road outside her house.
Every sound seemed muffled and sluggish as it made its way to her through the soupy summer humidity. At one point she heard the unmistakable wail of sirens, growing louder and louder as they careered down an unseen street. The sirens reached a shrieking crescendo, and the woman moved for the first time in hours: She leaned forward, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the armrests of her chair as though they were the only things anchoring her to the ground.
Gradually, her shoulders relaxed as the piercing scream faded into the distance. A low sigh escaping her lips, she sank back into the chair.
More time passed. The grandfather clock in the hall chimed halfheartedly, and all the while the summer storm crept closer. Irregular gusts of wind ruffled the branches of trees; lightning tore the sky into pieces one moment and blackness consumed it the next. But still, the storm did not break. Then—
The woman’s heart leapt into her throat as she was momentarily blinded by the sudden blaze of headlights at the end of the street. The car they belonged to sped closer and closer, its speakers thumping dully as it coasted down the otherwise silent lane. The car made a sharp swerve and then slowed to a halt outside the house long enough to expel a small, unsteady form. Then the car and the loud, laughing voices emanating from within sped off and vanished into the night once more.
The lone figure began its tottering journey up the driveway.
The woman watched through the window. Her expression was quite blank. She still had not moved.
There was a scratching at the door as a key missed its mark once, twice, three times. Finally, the door opened and a slightly disheveled form appeared in the threshold. The teenage girl looked up and down the corridor stealthily, not noticing the bathrobed figure sitting in a chair just off to the right.
Outside, it began to rain in earnest as the storm broke at last.
The girl closed the door and took a few light, padding steps down the hall. For several seconds, it seemed she thought she’d gotten away with it. Then—
“Where were you?”
The question was not accusing. It was spoken quietly, even gently, but the girl wheeled around as though accosted in public.
“M-Mom? What are you doing up?”
“I’ve been up. Waiting.”
The girl’s face flushed. “I’m not a child, you don’t have to—”
“Your curfew is midnight.”
“Yeah, but we—we were watching a movie at Lucy’s house and we just lost track of time. Is it okay if—?”
“Don’t lie to me. I know what you’ve been doing.”
Rain battered the house, growing steadily in intensity as the woman stood and walked the short distance to her daughter.
“You’ve been drinking, haven’t you?” the woman said calmly. Fury simmered just beneath the cool directness of her tone.
Several emotions flickered across the girl’s face at once—fear, guilt, indignation, anger. Finally, she took a wobbly step back and straightened up with a scowl. “It’s not a big deal, Mom, I’m fine. I’m a big girl now and I can make my own decisions, and if I want—”
The girl blanched. “That’s not the same—”
“Your father died because a drunk driver hit him head-on while he was coming home from work. That doesn’t bother you at all?”
“But it’s not—”
“It is the same. It’s exactly the same. How could you do this to me, Kate? How could you do this to yourself?”
Tears were welling up in the mother’s eyes now.
“I didn’t do anything wrong!” Kate burst out, throwing down her purse in anger. “A bunch of people drink at my high school, Mom. It’s just for fun, it’s not like we—”
“You don’t understand, Kate. Teenagers tend to think in the here and now; they hardly ever consider the long-term effects of what they do. But sometimes, you have to think of the future if you want to have a future.”
Kate rolled her eyes. “You don’t understand, Mom. You never do. You’re making way too big a deal out of this, and I—”
“Please stop, Kate. Please don’t do it again.”
Kate’s eyes narrowed. “Mom . . .”
“Please, Kate. I’m begging you. It’s not worth it. Please, promise me you’ll never do it again.”
There was a long, painful silence. The storm blasted around them; the house creaked and seemed ready to give way under its onslaught.
“All right, Mom,” Kate said at last, not quite meeting her mother’s gaze. “I won’t do it again, if it worries you so much. I’m sorry.”
Her mother took her by the shoulders and hugged her, but Kate knew—and her mother knew—that words and actions were two very different things.
From that point matters proceeded in a fairly predictable fashion. Kate was punished, and soundly, both for drinking and for climbing into a car with others who had been doing the same. She was extremely unhappy about this, convinced she’d been unjustly treated. Her mother was extremely unhappy as well, terrified it would happen again.
Time passed. The summer waned. The mother watched. The girl waited for her next opportunity.
The house was silent and dark. Enfolded in her white bathrobe, the mother waited by the window.
The driveway was empty.
The street outside was dead.
Hours passed. The mother tried repeatedly to call.
No answer.
A grandfather clock ticked unconcernedly in the hall, counting down the seconds until the mother received her answer.
At last, the phone rang.
A burst of hope in her chest as she dove for the phone and held it shakily to one ear—
“Hello?”
But the voice that replied was not the voice she had been praying to hear. It was a man she didn’t know, and his voice was distantly polite and respectful as he told her what had happened. An accident, he said. Four teenagers . . . coming back from a party . . .
A collision.
No survivors.
The phone clattered to the floor.
The mother did not move. She kept her vigil at the window, although she knew now.
There was nothing, no one to wait for.
Eventually, narrow bands of sunlight crept into the house, washing over the chair and its occupant, over the walls and ceiling and the grandfather clock. The mother still sat, patiently waiting, for a daughter who would never return.