Pieces of My Heart (29 page)

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From Author Cindy C. Bennett

Heart on a Chain

Wham!

The back-handed blow knocks me to the floor. I look up at her, determining in a nano-second whether I should stay down or get back up. I scramble to my feet, cringing slightly in anticipation of the next strike, guaranteed to come if I read her wrong.

I didn’t. She turns away from me with familiar disgust.

“Clean up this mess you made, Kate,” she grumbles, kicking at the plate filled with the remnants of her lunch that had been knocked to the floor from her side table as I fell.

“Okay, Mom.”

She turns back, threat in her pose.

“You sassing me?”

“No, Mom, I’m sorry.” I hate the wheedling in my voice, but I am as helpless against that as I am in changing the tide of my life.

I scoop up the food scraps with my hands, piling them back on the plate and set it aside. I wipe a couple of the prescription bottles that had tumbled into the mess with the front of my shirt. I set the fallen bottles back on the table in their precise spot within the cluster of small brown bottles. She knows just what is in each one by their location.

Unbidden, the picture I have hidden under my mattress slides into my mind. In it, my mother stands in the backyard with me and my father, laughing and loving and looking young and beautiful—and very pregnant.

I was nine-years-old at the time, getting ready to start fourth grade, which was exciting because it meant that I was on the up-slide to being what I thought was the coolest of the cool—a
sixth
grader, oldest class in the school.

The day the photo was taken my father had brought home an early birthday surprise for me. My birthday isn’t until February, but Dad couldn’t wait. He wanted me to have it early so I could enjoy it before the snow fell.

As I carry my mother’s dirty plate into the kitchen, I glance out the window at the long-ago birthday surprise. It’s a swing-set, one of the sturdy, steel, A-frame kinds that you normally don’t find in a backyard, but rather at a public playground. It was made to last for a very long time—even now it looks nearly the same. Only the dulled shine gives away its age. Three swings hang from long thick chains. The burly men who delivered it made sure to cement the poles deep into the ground so that it wouldn’t tip over. I was told I had to wait three days to swing on it to give the cement a chance to harden.

Three days is an eternity to a nine-year-old.

In three days, I learned, an eternity of changes can occur.

I quickly and as quietly as possible wash the plate—the dishwasher long ago quit working, and the idea of paying a repairman or buying a new one is as foreign as a trip to the Taj Mahal. As soon as I’m finished I silently slip out the back door.

I’m well aware of how pathetic it is to have your only escape, your best friend, be an inanimate object—and a child’s play toy at that—for someone who is seventeen years old and getting ready to begin her final year of high school. But it’s all I have, so I hurry over, ignoring the light rain that begins to fall as I plant my feet into the well-worn dirt, and shove off as hard as I can with a slight jump. The wind blows past me from both the speed as well as the storm kicking up. It cools the raw spot on my jaw that will leave me with a bruise to start the school year tomorrow.

Not that it matters. A pre-bruised punching bag doesn’t make a difference to most of my tormentors.

As I sail higher, I feel the release of tension, the world fading away. I’m eased by the rush that comes as I push myself higher and higher. My mind empties as I give myself over to sensation. The only interruption comes when I hear my father stumble into the house—early tonight—and the yelling starts. Even that I can push away with little effort; I’ve had years of practice.

Luckily, there is no telltale sound of fist against skin when the yelling stops. My mind registers this in relief because it also means there’s a good chance I won’t have to be on the receiving end of her anger anymore tonight.

Sometime later, I become aware of lights being turned off in the house. It doesn’t occur to either of them to wonder where I am, or to even check my room to see if I’m there. I don’t have a problem with that—their lack of concern and attention long ago stopped being painful and became a positive thing if it means being invisible.

I continue to swing in the cool night air, hair damp now from the light rain. I wait for the peace to settle completely before letting the swing slow and then stop.

A deep breath, gathering courage, then I slip into the house as quietly as possible, not wanting to call attention to my existence.

I pull open my bedroom closet, and blow out an exasperated breath at the lack of options before me. Tomorrow I’m officially a senior—seems like that should qualify maybe just one new outfit, one thing that isn’t a thrift store second that’s worn out and ill fitting. I allow myself a two minute pity-party then pull out the least worn items to put on in the morning.

Senior year.

Ugh.

>*<>*<>*<

I run through the halls, pushing and shoving through the thick throng of teenagers until I reach the safety of the doorway. I leap down the steps, running toward my escape. I’m not sure if my feet tangle up as I reach the sidewalk or whether someone trips me, but suddenly I’m sprawled on the sidewalk, my books and papers scattering.

“Kate!”

I hear him call my name and look back to see him coming out of the door. I scramble up, leaving my books and papers where they lay. Taking the time to gather them will only give him the chance to catch up. I run faster without the hindrance of them anyway, ignoring the mocking laughter from behind, not knowing if part of that laughter is his.

I don’t stop running until I’m halfway home, until my lungs are screaming and I have a stitch in my side, forcing me to stop. I lean over, hands on knees trying to catch my breath. It’s only then I realize I’m crying. I stand up, putting my hands on my cheeks, feeling the wetness there.
Ow!

I pull my stinging hands down, seeing that they’re scraped and bleeding, peppered with small pieces of cement and rocks from when I had fallen. That stops my tears.

“
Idiot
!” I curse myself. Luckily, I’m near a small stream that runs along the side of the road. I take a step and nearly fall again, my throbbing knees buckling, adrenaline no longer carrying me. I look down and see that my left pant leg is shredded midway. “
Great!”
I mutter. I roll my right pant leg up above the knee. No scrape but a bright red mark that means a bruise tomorrow. I lift my left pant leg and see this knee is in much the same condition, only with an angry slice just below my kneecap which oozes a small amount of blood.

I limp along the road until I find part of the bank that looks safe enough to climb down to the water’s edge. I half-slide sideways down the bank to the edge of the stream, knees screaming in protest. I sit on a flat rock and lean over to rinse my hands. I wash them as best I can, trying to dig the little rocks out, scrubbing the blood off. I splash water on my face, drowning the tears in the cool water.

A car drives by slowly above me, which wouldn’t have caught more than my passing attention except that I hear the brakes, then the car backing up to stop directly above me. I look at the stream and the bank on the other side, gauging how hard it might be to make a run for it.

“There you are!” I freeze, stunned that
he
has found me here. Henry Jamison. “I have been looking for you
everywhere.
”

I force my legs into action, ignoring the pain from my knees as I stand. I crawl back up the bank toward the road, pretending it isn’t hurting me at all. I have to use my hands to help me up the steep slope, grinding dirt back into my newly clean hands. As I come to the top he reaches for me, but I dart to the side, hurrying away, trying not to limp, failing miserably.

“Please, Kate, will you just stop for a minute? Wait—are you hurt?” He almost sounds genuine. I growl silently. “Kate, please, stop. I want to talk to you, to ask you—”

I round on him.

“What!” I demand angrily. “What do you want from me?” I limp-stride back over to where he stands, mouth agape at my outburst. “You’ve been gone for so many years . . . why now? Why can’t you just leave me alone? Why do you have to be just like them, but worse because you were
better
!” I’m yelling now. I shove him on the solid wall of his chest with both palms, leaving muddy, bloody smears.

“Go away!” I command, as tears begin to fall.

He’s staring at me, that odd expression in his eyes again. It makes me furious and with a yell I slam my hands flat against his chest again. He catches them and holds them there when I would have pulled back, and then suddenly his arms are around me, pulling me tight against him as I sob. Unthinkingly, I bunch his shirt front in my fists which are trapped between us as he holds me. His hands sooth down my back, chin resting lightly on the top of my head. 

The feel of arms around me, in comfort rather than as restraint or in harmful intent, undoes me. I cry for all the years of mocking and teasing received at the hands of my peers, for having been born to hateful, careless parents. I cry for the fact that this one good, kind boy has joined the game. And
that
makes me think it’s hopeless to find any good in anyone, which only makes me cry harder.

Gradually I become aware of where I am and whose chest I’m buried in. Mortification floods me. Still, I stay where I am for just one second longer, for one second reveling in the feeling of being held, touched with tenderness, even if it isn’t real.

I push away, and he loosens his hold but keeps his hands on my shoulders. He ducks his head to look into my face and shame rises in my cheeks. I keep my eyes downcast, not wanting to see his expression which is likely disgust.

“Hold on a sec,” Henry says, letting go of me, hurrying towards his car. I immediately miss the pressure and warmth of his hands, sure he’s leaving now. Suddenly, he’s thrusting a napkin at me. I take it cautiously, still unsure of his motives. I use it to wipe my face and nose with mumbled thanks.

I look, horrified, at the mess I’ve made of his shirt with my hands.  I nod toward it. “Sorry about that,” I concede, sure that this story will make the rounds tomorrow.

He smiles, and my heart skids to a halt before lurching into a staccato drumming. The smile actually looks genuine.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, kindness in his voice, throwing me further off kilter. Then he looks down and sees the blood smears. He looks back at me, horrified. “You’re hurt,” he accuses.

I ball my hands into fists and shrug, taking a step backward in case he’s angry now that he’s seen his ruined shirt.

“I’m okay.”

And I am, compared to some of the other injuries I’ve had in my lifetime. He steps forward, pulling my hands towards him, gently uncurling my fists, ignoring my flinch at his touch.

“Come on,” he tells me, leading me gently back down the embankment. It’s an easier descent with him steadying me, though definitely more terrifying. I still don’t know what he wants from me.

He sits me back down on the rock I’d been sitting on before, then tears a strip of his shirt off. At my shocked gasp he grins and shrugs, causing my heart to speed up again. He dips the cloth strip into the water, and begins wiping my hands clean. Though he’s surprisingly gentle, it stings and I suck my breath in through my teeth.

“Sorry,” he says, leaning over to blow gently on my palms. It relieves the stinging there, but causes a burning to begin in the pit of my stomach—it’s unlike anything I’ve experienced before. He continues the wiping and blowing with both my hands, until I feel like I’m on fire. I think I even groan because he suddenly looks up at me, eyes unreadable. I duck my head in shame. He then cleans my knee, which is still exposed by my rolled-up pants.

He tears two fresh strips from the back of his shirt, which is still clean, and uses those to bandage my hands, tying knots like a professional. When I raise my eyebrow at the knots, he grins again and says, “Eagle Scout. First Aid merit badge is required, you know.”

I look at my hands, clean and bandaged, then back up at Henry.

“Why are you being nice to me?” I ask, bewildered by his attention.

His puzzlement matches my own as he says, “I don’t really know.”

My heart sinks at his answer. He must see that on my face, because he holds his hands up, palms facing me.

“That didn’t sound right.” He stands, pacing away, running his hand through his hair, causing his hair to spike up again. “When we were in elementary, we were friends, right?” He turns back, looking at me, but doesn’t wait for an answer. “I can’t really explain it, but I always felt, I don’t know,
protective
of you.”

He glances at me to see what I think of that. When I only sit, watching him warily, he continues, “When we moved, I missed you.” This is said matter-of-factly, as if he’s telling me the sky is blue, but his words rock me. Someone
missed
me? Not just anyone, but
him
? “I thought about you sometimes. Wondered what you were doing, if you were still here. Then I found out we were moving back. I was hoping you’d still be here, that I’d get to see you.”