An original (if conceptually similar) work by Nicola Holmes, ©2018
A Christmas Daryl
Daryl woke up Sunday morning with a headache.
"Probably too much late night Fox News," he thought. "Damned carolers were out late. So distracting!"
He punched the snooze button on his phone, gritting his teeth at the sound of Suicide Solution, his usually-favorite Ozzy Osborn song that he nearly always used as his alarm in the morning. He found it titillatingly ironic, as he wasn't a drinker.
His forever-perky wife, Anna, was already up, and he could hear the blender whining in the kitchen as she whipped up her morning smoothie. Grrr. Wives. You can't live with 'em; you can't kill 'em. He smiled at this. It gave him a little giggle every time, in spite of Anna's hundreds of pleas not to say such things.
This morning was a really good example of why he would just as soon be done with her. He had plenty of things he'd love to be doing, but she was insisting that he get up on the roof of their one-story home and put up the Christmas lights she'd brought home. He'd argued it would attract merry-makers like chum in ocean attracts sharks. She hadn't found that funny either. But, Daryl really didn't want people bothering him at home, regardless of whether or not they were singing Christmas carols or handing out persimmon bread (which he despised anyway).
As he scrolled through peoples inane FaceBook posts and enjoyed his first-thing-in-the-morning throne-sit, Anna popped her head into the bedroom to let him know she was taking the dogs for a walk and then meeting a friend for coffee nearby. "And don't forget to light a match!" she admonished him. "Yeah, yeah, yeah..." "Bitch," he spat under his breath.
Carefully rolling his socks over his delicate feet, and pulling them up to his knees, (where they belonged), he shuffled to the kitchen. He never really noticed his shuffling. He'd been shuffling for so many years, it was hard to remember when or why he'd started. Anna occasionally nagged him about it, warning him he really wouldn't be able to straighten up one day. She had once told him her theory that his role models in his life having been his grandparents, he'd adopted their habits. Whatever, he didn't give a crap. She was such a damn nag.
He whipped up his favorite breakfast; three strips of bacon, slow-cooked for 30 minutes to be perfect, and an egg, over hard, with a bagel. He also drank the half pot of coffee Anna had left for him.
Shuffling back to the bedroom to don his work clothes, he contemplated what he needed to round up to get the lights done post-haste. He figured he could be back in his recliner with a Soduku and a cold beverage and some corn nuts by noon. He started out the door and then at the last second grabbed his phone and tucked it in his front pocket, where he always kept it when he was up on a ladder or the roof, in case he had a fall and nobody was nearby. "Can't be too careful, I always say."
Up on the roof, Daryl could see all the neighbors' homes and the lights and decorations they'd added for the holidays. He had a broad competitive streak, and he figured he'd better make the place look better than all the others, if he was going to spend his precious time doing this in the first place. As he worked, he stopped every ten feet or so to check alignment, and make sure no lights were obscured by leaves. He was nearing the corner of the house to wrap things up, and he stopped to straighten his sore back maybe Anna is right about my shuffling. He looked to the west, over the ridge of the roof, and thought about the job he was wrapping up. She really got the wrong lights. They should have been LEDs and I would have picked multiple colors. The lights he'd just affixed were the small white ones that Anna loved so much; she said they made the homes look 'magical.' Jeez. I can really improve on this. She should really listen to me more often. Wives, you can't live with 'em, you can't -- "WHOA!"
With no warning, Daryl's feet suddenly simply slipped from underneath him, slamming his chin on the roof, biting his tongue; face down on the roof with his feet hanging off the edge. "Owwwwwwwww! Shiiit!! Goddammit!" He shrieked in pain and irritation. He raised himself on his elbows, about to place a foot on the roof, just as he realized his foot was caught in the string of lights.
In slow motion, he rolled towards the edge, fighting to untangle and brace himself at the same time. He saw the front yard dirt below, only perhaps fourteen feet down, but far enough. And, then, he went. Off the edge of the roof, flailing at the light string with his left hand, his right hand splayed open wide in advance of his body, unconsciously already attempting to break or slow his fall.
Daryl didn't know how long he'd lain there. It seemed like just minutes, or even moments. But, suddenly, he was very aware of a screaming pain in his right arm. He tried wiggling his fingers, and couldn't even see them, he realized, as he was on top of his arm. The phone! he thought and realized in the same instant he couldn't get the phone with his right hand. He looked left, and saw that he was actually just hanging by his left wrist, which was wound with the string of lights that had yanked tight as he fell. It may have kept him from injuring himself worse, he also guessed.
His arm was really killing him now, and he was sure it was broken. He felt a bit cold, and suddenly worried that he might have a compound fracture that was bleeding. He felt scared. For a moment. Then, he felt really, really, pissed off. "Those GODDAMN lights! I shouldn't have had to do these DAMN LIGHTS in the first place! Bitch." His anger and his pain pulled a dark blanket of unconsciousness over him...
Opening his eyes, small whispers seemed to swirl around him. Those damn kids! "Get away! Get outta my yard!" Then, realizing he might need some help, he demanded in a slightly smaller voice, "No, wait! Call 911. I think I broke my arm." The whispers dissipated into nothing but the chittering sounds of the fall leaves, now in the gutters; at the mercy of the winds.
"Daryl," a voice whispered in his ear. He cranked his head as far as it would go, but he was immobilized. The voice seemed to be behind; underneath; all around.
"Where are you! Who is it?"
"Daryl, I'm here to help you," he heard whispered in his ear.
"Then call 911, I'm HURT!" he demanded.
"I'm here to help you remember...." and Daryl felt himself fading out of consciousness. He was dreaming, he thought, but yet, he was present, and reasoning, and trying to explain his circumstances, so how could he be asleep? Suddenly he was in a back yard.. his back yard...but it was warm and sunny. He was at his outdoor grill, and there were hot dogs on the grill. He could see them, they had a funny look to them.... He remembered. This was a dream, because this was a 4th of July party, years ago. The voice was back, though.
"You remember... you know you do. You were the host for all those people, and you turned your back and the dogs got all the hot dogs. But, only you saw... remember? You fed those poor people hot dogs that had been dragged through the dirt, and covered with dog slobber.... yeeessssss, now I can see you remember."
"So what. Nobody got sick. Nobody knew a thing. Who cares? What's your point?"
The whispering voice answered, "I am the ghost of your holidays past. I am here to help you remember."
Daryl felt himself drifting off again. Waking, he was in his own living room. He unconsciously rubbed his right arm, and looked around at the Christmas decorations. "This was years ago, too. What's this all about?" Suddenly, an Anna from eight years ago walked right past him, to the tree and knealt. "This one, Daryl?" she called, but not to him--or, not to dream Daryl. She was clearly talking to a Daryl from eight years before. She was pointing to a small package under the tree; she was gleeful.
"Open it," he heard his eight-years ago self say. Anna tore the package open. "It's that new thing, that FitBit I've been telling you about, isn't it! I'm so excited!" The package was revealed soon enough, and Anna's expression of excitement slumped off her face. In it's place was clear and unveiled pain. Had he seen that expression eight years ago? He didn't think he had.
"Really?" In her hand was a gift card for Jenny Craig. Tears were welling in the corner of her eyes.
"Sugar cakes," the eight-years-ago himself began. "The fit bit is a really new thing, and they haven't worked all the bugs out is what I have heard on YouTube. This way, you can eat everything in sight all through the week, and then you can still go get all beautiful again."
If he really admitted it, dream Daryl could, in this moment, see how hurt she was. Not that it was his fault, of course, but, you know. She was always getting her feelings hurt.
Whispery sounds began swirling around his head again, and he nodded off. When he awoke, he was back on the ground, looking up at the roof of his house.
He realized he was smelling all sorts of smells he didn't really like. Cinnamon, and then what he imagined smelled like persimmon, and then pumpkin pie. He detested these smells, and the flavors as well. He knew they were the smell of the Christmas holiday, and yet, what he preferred was smelling roasting ham and melting butter.
A deep voice came again from somewhere; its owner unseen. "Are you ready for me?" it asked.
"Now what?" Daryl demanded, clearly annoyed.
"I am the ghost of your holidays present. I am here to help you... seeeeeeee," and Daryl did not at all like the way the invisible speaker drew out the last word. "Off we go then," and Daryl felt himself slipping back into darkness.
They were standing in a corner at his bank. Anna was at the teller. It was a sunny day outside. "What day is this?" he asked the voice.
"It's the week of your birthday, this year," came the answer.
"What does that have to do with anything?" Daryl felt completely lost.
"Listen," was the only answer.
Anna was apologizing to the teller, something he knew she didn't need to do, but she did it anyway. Really, he mused, she did it enough for the both of them. Daryl prided himself on not apologizing. It meant he was saying he was wrong, as far as he was concerned.
"We just ran a bit short this month," Anna was saying to the teller. "I meant to make that transfer, but forgot. It was Daryl's birthday, and it just slipped my mind. Just take it out of my personal savings," she thanked the teller again, and left.
"I don't get it," Daryl looked at the ceiling, wondering if the voice was above him.
"Did you have money that you could have contributed to help pay your bills?" the voice asked.
"What? MY money? Did I have money? No. Just birthday money."
The voice laughed. Actually laughed. The damn voice was laughing at him, and Daryl didn't really know why, but it pissed him off. "YOUR birthday money?" the voice boomed at him. "YOUR BIRTHDAY MONEY?"
Daryl shrank, in spite of the fact that he wasn't sure where the voice was. "What did you tell her about this birthday money?"
"I told her I was keeping it," he said, in a diminished voice.
"And, exactly WHEN did you tell her you were keeping it?"
"When she asked me if I got any birthday money," Daryl was nearly whispering now.
"LIAR!" the voice boomed at him. "What did you REALLY tell her when you were asked if you got money?"
"I told her I didn't. But then I told her I DID!" Daryl was hoping this would appease the voice.
"LIAR!" Daryl was physically cowering, holding his injured arm, though it was oddly painless at the moment. "DID YOU HIDE THE CHECK FROM HER WHEN YOU RECEIVED IT?"
"Yes."
"AND WHEN SHE ASKED YOU, DID YOU TELL HER THE TRUTH ABOUT HOW MUCH YOU GOT?"
"No." His chin dropped. "No. I wasn't going to put in my birthday money for bills. I figured she had her own money, and she would cover things if we needed to. I didn't tell her about the money, and when she finally remembered to ask about it, I lied to her about how much it was." Daryl now thrust his chin out in defiance, as if to assert that was all he was going to admit to.
The voice remained silent. In the next moment, the bank lobby dissolved before his eyes, and Daryl was standing in a corner of the coffee house where his wife was meeting her friend. In fact, he was so close to their table he could hear their words.
"I was so glad to see you out on a Sunday morning! I thought you and Daryl would be out doing holiday stuff," the friend commented.
"No, I just can't get him to do most of the things I feel like doing. Besides, when we do, all I hear are under-his-breath comments about passers-by, and servers, and everybody he meets. I feel as though we travel around under a black cloud when we are together. I'm sorry, I shouldn't say such things."
"It's fine. I'm glad you can spend time with friends."
"Oh, so am I! I am literally taking stock of the love that is around me when I see my friends. I feel blessed"
Daryl listened, but not with a great deal of interest. "Really," Anna went on, "I feel loyal to him, because I made a promise, or I'd probably leave. I guess that part of my life might begin again someday when he dies."
At this, Daryl did perk up. Had Anna been able to hear or see him, she would have seen one of his gestures that she was quite familiar with. He waved his hand, and said, out loud, "Pshaw."
The next moment, Daryl was again in his front yard. He hardly had time to notice that the pain in his arm had returned, in full force. The trees on the street, and the leaves dancing in the street, and the distant noise of a train whistle, and everything, suddenly, stopped. His surroundings became perfectly still; not a sound could he hear. It was almost as if he were in a black hole that was sucking the sound from the street.
A gravely, rheumy, voice crept into his head. Unlike previously, this voice simply seemed to be in his head. "Do you ... seeee?"
Daryl was beginning to feel, at least, respectful of these voices, even though he felt he was really just experiencing some sort of fever relating to the fall and his arm injury, or, perhaps, even, his bacon hadn't been properly cured. Nonetheless, he answered.
"It's dark now. It's not even noon. What gives?" He knew he sounded cocky.
"I am the ghost of your holidays future."
Daryl gave a nervous giggle. "Where are we going?"
"This is your choice," the voice answered. In a moment, he was whisked away, to a hospital room, and he, himself, was in the bed. His injured arm was in a framework of plaster and fiberglass and trapeze-looking things, and it also appeared as though he had some sort of halo around his head. He noted the fingers on his broker arm were purple.
"Wow, I didn't realize my arm was so bad. And, what's the deal with my head?" He picked up his chart, and began reading in hopes of understanding why he was stuck here, in this bed. "My fingers are gangrenous? My neck.... I ... what?" He dropped the clipboard and turned away. "What the hell?"
In a moment, he was whisked from the hospital room, over rooftops and across woods and roads. When his magical flight stopped, he was in a basement room of an art studio or perhaps a gallery. Certainly he could smell the smells of paint and see the canvasses. He could hear traffic outside, near a flight of stairs, and the brick walls had no windows, thus, he confirmed to himself, a basement it must be.
Anna was seated at a table with a large lump of clay in front of her. He'd never heard her express any interest in sculpting before. Her friend from her coffee date this morning was there with her, also creating something in clay.
"Anna, I'm so glad you suggested this! I've always wanted to try it, but I wanted somebody to go with."
"Yeah. Me too. I used to love sculpting little things and making jewelry. I think I just felt as though I lost myself there for a while."
"I've been there. I know it's a long road, but you're heading the right way, Anna. Being on your own again isn't as scary as it seems when you haven't taken the first step."
"I know. It's sad that Daryl just didn't want it anymore. I always thought I would be the one to pull the plug on our marriage. It hurt. It really hurt. But, he just doesn't want to have anything to do with anybody anymore. Ever since he spent all that time in the hospital, he's just angrier than ever."
Daryl's face changed as he listened to the conversation. He left? Had he never recovered? Maybe she was making him miserable because he was incapacitated. But, no, something about that idea just didn't feel possible, even to him.
He lifted is head and asked the voice, "So, I'm really lying in my front yard, my body broken, and my life about to completely fall apart?" There was only silence. "What can I do?" Daryl thought of his shuffling, and how it seemed as though Anna's premonition might actually be true, though not for the reasons she had supposed.
Again, his questions were met with only silence.
In this moment, he really didn't know whether he was more afraid that he was permanently injured, or whether he was going to lose Anna. You can't live with 'em....
As he awoke again, the sounds of the neighborhood had returned. There was a distant train whistle, and, the sun... the sun! The sun was just coming up! He could hear Anna making her smoothie, and his arm--there was no pain!
Daryl jumped out of bed. He threw on his slippers and walked, upright, with his arms swinging, into the kitchen. Their dogs, Max and McGoo, jumped up in excitement. He greeted Anna with a huge hug, and he whispered in her ear, "I love you, Anna."
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