Heart Murmurs (21 page)

Beth eyes me. “Mia, what did you want to tell me?”

I grab Morgan's hand and squeeze it. “It can wait. We have time.”

Or we'll make time.

 

 

Bronson Alcott: All information regarding Bronson Alcott was derived from the reference or various internet articles. The only fictional information was obviously the affair with Morgan's mother. He was a vibrant, creative, principled, and extreme man.

Heart transplants: It's estimated that twenty percent of heart transplant patients experience some form of cellular memory exchange. The hypothesis being that the heart's D.N.A. begins to transcribe R.N.A., and somehow memories are transmitted through these cells. Many amazing stories have arisen from this phenomenon.

One involved a murder case, where the heart recipient was able to eventually identify the donor's murderer. Through dreams.

The Battlefield Pigs: In my Gettysburg research, I did read of Battlefield pigs scavenging dead soldier's corpses. Some call it an urban legend. Who knows?

Edgar Allen Poe: Did indeed marry a 13 year old and have her portrait painted after her death.

The Literati: Are fictitious.

Or are they?

If you find the mysterious L on your shelves, drop me a line.

 

 

*Reissen, Harriet. 2009 Louisa May Alcott, The Woman Behind Little Women

*Sylvia, Claire 1997, Change of Heart, a Memoir

 

 

Born and raised in western Pennsylvania, RR Smythe is the daughter of two teachers. Her writing reflects her passions: science, history and love—not necessarily in that order. In real life, the geek gene runs strong in her family, as does the Asperger's syndrome. Her writing reflects her experience as a pediatric therapist and her interactions with society's downtrodden. In fiction, she's a strong believer in underdogs and happily-ever-afters. She also writes non-fiction and lectures on the subjects of autism and sensory integration.

 

 

 

Chapter One

 

The cold November air burned Sloan's lungs as she ran down the secluded dirt driveway. Looking over her shoulder at the brightly lit farmhouse swarming with people, she wished she had grabbed her coat from the living room before escaping. Her legs protested with each additional step she forced them to take, and quite frankly, she felt like an idiot. In four days, she would be eighteen, an adult; why should she care what others thought of her? Or, more specifically, what Darcy Perry thought of her?

After nearly a quarter of a mile, the driveway sloped down at a steep angle and met Brown Hollow Road. Sloan stopped at the bottom, doubled over, and put her hands on her knees to catch her breath. The harder her lungs extended, the sillier she felt for running away like that. Sure, Darcy was mean, exceptionally so when she drank, but Sloan shouldn't have let her words hurt her like they did. And that's all they were, words. Words and cold beer thrown in her face. She ran her fingers through her damp hair and wondered how she would explain it to her mother.

When her breathing came easier, she stood up and looked back toward the house. From her vantage point behind the short hill, she could see all of the lights burning in the second story windows and hear the music blasting throughout the isolated farmland. The glow from the floodlights surrounding the house made it appear to float in the sky. No doubt about it, Boyd knew how to throw a party. Sloan couldn't help feeling a little satisfied thinking of how Mr. Lawrence, Boyd's father, would react when he found out his biology students were getting drunk at his house without his knowledge.

She leaned on the standard-issue black mailbox and frowned. It wouldn't be fun to walk all the way back to get her coat and beg Mackenzie to take her home. Everyone would stare at her, mock her, and call her ‘Saint Sloan', Darcy's pet name for her. The thought of Darcy's smug face rising inevitably from Boyd's muscular neck made Sloan's stomach knot harder, and she slumped farther down against the mailbox, causing the metal to creak. Sometimes Sloan wondered why she ever went anywhere. She didn't drink, do drugs, or make fun of others, and she wasn't into sleeping around anymore. She was the “reformed bad girl,” and everyone loved to taunt her about it, especially her former best friend, Darcy.

Blinding lights coming toward her right side caught her attention. Turning toward them, she put her hand over her eyes to block the brightness of the passing car. Instead of speeding by, the car slowed down and stopped across the yellow line from her.

Goose bumps, not from the cold, formed under her long sleeves. Meeting a strange person in a strange car at night in the middle of an old country road didn't appeal to her. Bloody flashes from every horror movie she'd ever watched swarmed in her mind. Suddenly, being made fun of and harassed at the party didn't seem so bad. She wished she had been able to control her temper better and never have run out of that house. Nervous, she grabbed the little golden cross that had fallen under her dark teal shirt collar and prayed whoever was in the car wasn't a homicidal manic.

The driver's side window rolled down, and Sloan squinted through the dark to see inside. “You okay?” an unfamiliar male voice said. Whoever it was didn't sound much older than her.

“Yeah, I'm fine.” She rocked on the balls of her feet so she could be ready to run if the situation escalated beyond friendly chatter. “Just out for a walk.”

“In the dark?”

“Seemed like a good idea at the time,” she said truthfully.

Sloan heard a hint of laughter coming from the car. At least, it didn't sound menacing. “Like I said, are you okay?”

“Fine,” she said with an undercurrent of defiance. She wished he'd just go on his merry way.

“In my experience, people don't go for walks in the dark when everything is fine.”

“I'm… I will be fine. Thanks for stopping. You must be in a hurry.” She tucked her hands under her elbows and walked back up the little hill. Seeing the lights and hearing the annoying music coming from the farmhouse filled her with dread. Between the house and conversing with a stranger alone in the dark, she figured the house would be safer, but not by much.

“I don't have to be at work until eleven,” he yelled. “I can give you a lift to your house if you want.”

Sloan spun around, half expecting him to be standing behind her with a rag full of chloroform. “Thanks. That's sweet, but it's not necessary. I can get my friend to take me home.” Lord, please don't let her be drunk.

She started to turn back around when he yelled again. “You don't know who I am, do you?”

Of course she didn't. It wasn't like she could see him in the shadows. “Should I?”

“Guess not. I've not been back in town all that long, but I know you.”

The tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Who was this guy?

“You're Sloan Bridges. You used to date, and I use that term loosely, my brother back in the day.”

That didn't help much. “Could you be more specific?”

His laugh filled the space between them. “Had a lot of boyfriends, have you?”

“More than my fair share,” she admitted regretfully.

“We all have a past, Sloan. Don't let it get you down.”

Easier said than done. “So, who is your brother?”

“I'm not surprised you don't remember. You were both eating paste in Kindergarten back then. Ray Hunter.”

Ray Hunter! Her face lit up when she recognized the name. When she was six years old, Ray had been her first official school boyfriend. He was also her first kiss. Unfortunately, that kiss on the cheek during nap time landed him in time out next to Mrs. Dobson's desk. Sloan had always felt bad about that. “I remember Ray! Wow, so you're Adam or Aidan… I'm sorry. I don't remember your name.”

“Aaron.”

“Aaron Hunter! Yeah. I remember you now! You and Ray and your mom moved after Christmas that year. Broke my heart.”

“I'm sure you bounced back quickly.”

She couldn't deny that. “I didn't know you were back. Are Ray and your mom here, too?”

There was a pause, and Sloan wondered for a second if he had heard her. “Ray is. My mom's not.” The way he said it let Sloan know he'd rather have his teeth pulled out than talk about her. “Anyway, I'm going back to town to get ready for work. If you still live next to Donna Robinson, it's on my way.”

“I do, but Donna doesn't live there anymore. She's in Evening Oak Nursing Home.” She found herself walking toward him as she spoke.

“I hate that.”

“She's been in there about a month. I visit her now and then. She's doing as well as you'd expect, but she can't take care of herself anymore. Her house has been on the market ever since she went in.”

“They don't think she'll come back home?”

“Doesn't look like it.” Thinking about Donna always made her sad. A few months before, the woman had been full of life. Then a stroke nearly killed her. It did take away her ability to walk and care for herself, but not her mind. Though slow to talk, Donna was as spry as ever. “How do you even remember where I live?”

“Good memory,” he said. “Donna was always nice to me and Ray. She took care of us when my mom wouldn't… couldn't,” he corrected quickly. “And she used to make us cookies. She took us to church a few times.”

Sloan heard the genuine sadness in his voice. Something about it made her not as apprehensive as she had been a few moments before. Anyone who held on to such sweet memories that long wouldn't hurt her. She hoped not anyway. “Yeah, she was. I always liked her. She took me to church, too. I still go to her church, but it's not the same without her.”

A few seconds went by before he spoke again. “So, it's obvious you're freezing and something or someone ran you out of that house.” He motioned toward the lights on the hill. ”You don't want to go there, for whatever reason. I can help. Last chance. Let me drive you home. I promise I won't hurt you.”

“Says the guy sitting in a strange car talking to an innocent girl in the middle of the night.”

“A Mustang isn't strange.”

“No, but the rest of this is.” Torn, she looked back toward Boyd's house filled with mostly judgmental classmates; then she shifted to Aaron's car and bit her lip. “Okay. Look, I'll text my friend, Mackenzie, and tell her I have a ride home.”

“Good.”

“I'll also tell her that if she doesn't hear from me in one hour to call the police.”

“Ouch,” he laughed. “You think that little of me?”

“I don't know you well enough to think anything about you. That's the point.” She pulled her cell from her side pocket.

Got a ride home. Aaron Hunter. If you don't hear from me in 1 hr, call police.

When she reached the passenger door, he leaned over and opened it for her. “Sticks sometimes,” he said.

She thanked him and slid into the leather seat, all the while praying she wasn't making a very stupid mistake.

“Ready?” he asked with his hand perched on the gear shift.

“Sure.” Sloan buckled her seat belt and held on to her cell phone tightly. When it vibrated, she jumped.

Aaron Hunter? U Okay?

Long story. Will tell you tom.

Then a thought hit her, and she could have smacked herself for not asking sooner. Have u been drinking? I can go back if u have.

No, MOM. I haven't.

The last text stung. Sloan didn't want to be her friend's conscience or moral compass, and most definitely not her mom. Part of her missed how it used to be. At least back then, she didn't run out of parties and end up in unknown cars.

“So,” he said, bringing her back to uncomfortable reality. “What happened?”

“Excuse me?”

He turned the heater up to full blast. The warmth felt so good that she laid her phone in her lap and placed her hands on the vents. “What happened to you? You were standing in the dark. It's freezing, and you don't have on a coat. That tells me you ran pretty fast from something pretty terrible. Plus, your hair's soaked and you smell like a frat house. No offense.”

Sloan sniffed her hair. He wasn't wrong.

“Are you hurt?”

She shook her head.

“You sure? No guy tried to—hurt you or something?”

“Oh no, nothing like that.” That hadn't even crossed her mind. “No physical harm except for the beer smell which you've already pointed out. My mom's gonna kill me.”

“And what about the other stuff? The emotional and whatever else there is. Did you get into a fight with your boyfriend?”

“I don't have a boyfriend.”

“That a fact?”

She could swear she saw him smirk. “Boyd Lawrence, the guy who lives there, used to be my boyfriend until about three months ago. Now he loves to flaunt his new ‘love' Darcy.” Just saying her name put a bad taste in Sloan's mouth.