Heart Shaped Rock

by Roppe, Laura

  I want to jump his bones.

  I press my body into his and his lips continue their now voracious entreaty.

  My cup runneth over, I suddenly think. And over and over and over.

  I’m not sure I can continue kissing Dean like this without tackling him or bursting into tears. Or flames. Or screaming hysterically. Or flailing my arms and legs. Or passing out. Or doing all of the above. All at once.

  Right on cue, as if he’s able to read my maniacal thoughts, Dean pulls back from our kiss. My entire body tingles like I’ve got fireworks going off in my nerve endings. My knees are weak.

  Dean takes a small step back and cups my cheeks with his hands. “Shaynee,” he whispers.

  I let out a long, audible, swooning sigh. “Dean.”

  He smiles.

  We laugh.

  I want to kiss him again. I want to kiss him forever and ever and ever. I don’t want this night to end. What I want to do is lean toward him and demand that he kiss me again and never stop. What I want to do is leap into his arms. What I want to do is grab him by the hand and pull him to some far away place where we can sit together, forever and ever, and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss. What I want to do is scream, “I’m all yours!” at the top of my lungs. What I want to do is jump up and down. And on top of him.

  But, of course, I don’t do any of those things.

  “It’s after ten,” Dean says softly. “You’d better get going. We don’t want to start things off on the wrong foot with your dad.”

  I don’t speak. I’m afraid I’ll say, “Screw my dad. Forget about my curfew. To hell with everything and everyone except you and me.” Since I know I shouldn’t say any of those things, I don’t say anything at all.

  “Thanks for coming here tonight,” Dean says.

  “Thanks for inviting me here,” I reply, finally able to muster a coherent sentence that doesn’t involve defying my father or hysterically professing my undying love to this beautiful boy. “Actually, thanks for wishing me here.”

  He grins. “Yeah, that worked out pretty damned well, if I do say so myself.”

  I nod in agreement. “Pretty damned well, indeed. Even though you cheated.”

  Dean laughs. “I didn’t cheat.”

  Reluctantly, I open my car door and settle into my seat. The scent of Dean’s leather jacket instantly fills my car. When I look back at Dean through my car window, he holds up his palm into a farewell wave and shoots me one last, ice-cap-melting smile.

  Oh hell. I want to hurl my body out of my car and kiss him some more. I want to lean out my window and yell, “Get in!” and then haul ass across the Mexican border to some little fishing village where no one could ever find us, a place where we’d sit on the beach all day and night, laughing and writing songs together and eating rice and beans and handmade tortillas. And kissing.

  But I don’t.

  I want to slap my own face out of pure exhilaration.

  But I don’t. Because only someone certifiable would do that, right?

  Instead, I blow him a quick kiss, trying to make it seem like a casual “see ya later, whatevs” gesture, rather than the last sane act of a girl about to lose her mind to an all-consuming obsession. Then, even though it literally pains me to do it, I turn the key in my ignition and drive away.

  Dad’s on his laptop at the kitchen table when I arrive home just before 10:30. When he sees me, he leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. “It’s a school night, Shay.” His tone is stern.

  “I’m sorry, Dad. It won’t happen again. I was having so much fun, I just lost track of time.”

  When I say the word “fun,” I see the beginnings of a smile flicker across his mouth, but he stifles it. “Okay, honey, but it’s a school night. I can let things slide a bit on weekends, but not on school nights.”

  “I know, Dad. You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  He looks surprised. “Say that again.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No the other thing.”

  I roll my eyes. “You’re right.”

  “I was worried sick.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  “Good. Okay, then. So how was the show?”

  “Good.”

  “You had fun?”

  “Yep. Well, good night, Pops.” I kiss him on the cheek, then turn toward the hallway.

  “Where’d you get the jacket?”

  I turn back, blushing.

  Now he can’t stifle his smile. “It looks good on you.”

  Before going into my room, I decide to peek in on Lennox. He’s fast asleep, a dragon comic book open on his chest and ear buds in his ears. Dad must have bought him a new iPod after my Shaynee-Smash-Meltdown the other night. I look down at the iPod display. Mom’s song, “My Boy” is playing on repeat. That figures, since she wrote it for him. I gently remove the earphones from Lenn’s ears, and as I do, the compressed sound of Mom’s voice through the buds wafts through the air:

  “Boy, my boy,

  My pride, my joy

  I’d lay down my life for you,

  Stand up and fight for you,

  Carry you right through a fire

  At the end of the day

  You will make your own way

  All I ask is that you kiss me goodbye

  Oh boy, you better kiss me goodbye”

  I listen to the flattened sound of Mom’s voice through the earphones in the palm of my hand all the way through to the end of the song, and then I turn off the iPod and put it on Lenn’s nightstand.

  Back in my own room, I lay Dean’s jacket on my bed with care, put on my pajamas, and set my alarm. I’m about to climb into bed, but instead, at the last second, I walk over to my desk and pick up Mom’s DVD. “Watch this, Shaynee-Bug. Happy Birthday,” her handwriting says. I touch the face of the DVD with my finger, imagining Mom writing that message to me.

  It’s time.

  With a sigh, I put Dean’s jacket on over my pajamas and sneak quietly down the hall to the family room.

  Chapter 10

  My heart’s beating out of my chest.

  I press play on the DVD remote and hold my breath. The television screen flickers to life in response to my command, and Mom appears in front of me on the screen.

  Tears instantly prick my eyes at the sight of her. She’s gaunt and wearing a headscarf. By the look of her, I’m guessing this was about a month before she went into the hospital for the last time. Where were all of us when she made this video?

  She reaches toward me, a look of befuddlement on her face, clearly fiddling with some button on her video camera. I smile. Mom never was the greatest with technology; I bet she was proud of herself for making this video all by herself. “Shaynee,” she used to yell from her computer hutch in the corner of her bedroom. “How do I crop pictures, again?” I’d go in there, exasperated, patronizing her with, “Poor Mom, how do you get anything accomplished without me?”

  “It’s a miracle I can even tie my shoes,” she’d retort. “The older you get, the dumber I get.” Then she’d laugh her full-throated laugh. Of course, in a matter of minutes, if not seconds, I’d manage whatever computer- or photography-related problem she might have had. “Ah,” she’d say every time, “you’re a genius, Shaynee-bug.”

  Mom backs away from the television screen and settles herself into the blue chair in our family room. I glance at the blue chair to my right—sitting empty now—and Mom’s hologram flickers in and out of it.

  Back onscreen, Mom smiles at me. “Hi, Shaynee-bug.” It’s a shock to hear her voice. “Happy Sweet Sixteen, my darling baby girl. I’m so sorry I’m not there to celebrate it with you—in my body, anyway. I hope you know I’m there in spirit, and that’s not a figure of speech.”

  I smile, and the rounded tops of my cheeks push tears out
of my eyes.

  “Honey, I’ve got so much to tell you. Unfortunately, all the stuff I want to say would take three lifetimes, and I’ve barely got one. So, I’m going to have to hit the highlights and hope it’s enough—although, of course, I know it’ll never, ever be enough. I’m so sorry about that, my love. You deserve so much more than a mom in a video. You deserve hugs and kisses and touches. You deserve a mom who gives you advice. And babysits your future babies.” She chokes up at this last sentence and puts her hands over her face. Her shoulders rack with sobs.

  Water pours out of my eyes in a steady stream.

  Mom recovers herself, but my tears continue.

  “I’m sorry about that, Shay,” she says, wiping her eyes. “I promised myself I wouldn’t do that. That’s the last thing you need right now. Wooh! ” She blows out a gust of air and shakes out her hands in an apparent effort to gain control of herself. “Okay. I don’t have that much time.” She laughs. “I mean to make this video, although, clearly, I don’t have much time, period. So I’d better get to it.”

  Her awareness that time was so limited is news to me. Up until the very end, she always assured me she was “gonna beat this thing, just you wait.” Her two favorite phrases through it all were, “What do doctors know?” and “I’m not a damned statistic.” And up until her very last days, until there was absolutely no denying her irreversible deterioration, I had believed her. I swallow hard in anticipation of her next words. My crying has turned ugly.

  “Happy birthday, Bug. Sweet sixteen. Wow. And sweet you are—as sweet as any little girl could ever be. Thank you for making me a mother. Being a mommy was the best thing I ever did in my whole life. And even though my life is turning out to be quite a bit shorter than I’d have liked, it’s most definitely complete, because I have you—and Lennox and your beautiful daddy, too, of course. I’ve had everything a girl could ever hope to have in life, no matter how short or long.”

  I take a deep breath, trying to thwart my gushing tears. No luck.

  “I’m gonna talk about you in a minute, lovebug, don’t you worry. But first off, I need to talk about your dad for a second. I expect he’s not handling my departure too well. He could barely survive my spa weekends away with Aunt Leslie. I’m sorry to put this on you, but the only way that man is going to start healing is thanks to three things: the grace of God, the passage of time—neither of which you can do anything about, and unconditional love from you and your brother. When he’s sad, your daddy shuts down and doesn’t talk about his feelings—gee, does that sound like someone else we know, Shaynee-bug?” She laughs. “But, like I said, I’ll get to you later.” She looks up to the sky as if she’s trying to recapture her train of thought. “Oh yes, okay, so be patient with him, and just let him know you love him. Let him be there for you, too, whenever he can. He wants so much to help you, to say all the right things. Just know that those wishes are in his heart, even if he doesn’t always know how to express himself. All three of you just need to love each other, more than ever. Okay?”

  I try to wipe my tears with my hands, but the volume of salty wetness is just too much. I pause the video and walk to the kitchen to grab a tissue box off the counter.

  I return to my perch on the couch and press play.

  “Now, honey, you’re the kid here, not the parent, and it’s not your job to make your dad all better. But there’s something fairly easy you can do for him that might make a real difference. For his birthday this year, I want you to make him his two favorites—chicken enchiladas and chocolate-fudge double chocolate chip Bundt cake. The cake is easy, just follow the recipe exactly. But the enchiladas, wooh! That’s a different story. I never follow that recipe exactly, baby, so it’s hard to tell you what to do. One thing, though, is that I always use twice as much chicken and green chiles as the recipe calls for.” I tilt my head back, smiling. I knew my enchiladas tasted different than Mom’s. “Those enchiladas might fill only one out of a million holes in your daddy’s heart right now, but filling one hole at a time is all we can do. And I’m betting that filling some of your dad’s heart-holes will make you feel just a little bit better, too.”

  I dab my eyes with a tissue.

  “So, that brings me to you, Shaynee-bug, my sweet baby girl.” Mom leans toward me, her face intense. “I. Love. You. And I’ll never, ever stop, even when I’m no longer flesh and bones. You are not alone. I will never leave you. Do you hear me? I’m still right here with you. In fact, I’m sitting in this same blue chair, right now, watching you watch this video.”

  I look over at the blue chair. Goosebumps.

  “Remember when Pierre died?” Pierre was the sky-blue parakeet my parents got me in fourth grade after I’d begged and pleaded for months. Initially, they’d refused adamantly, mostly because Mom said birds were “flying rodents.” But Mom ultimately relented and got me the bird after I sang her my heartfelt original ballad, “A Parakeet Would Be So Sweet” (which I performed while wearing homemade wings and a paper beak).

  I loved that little blue bird with all my heart. He actually cuddled me. I’d take him out of his cage and perch him on my finger, and he’d sidestep across my hand and right up my arm, trying to get as close to me as possible. One morning, about four months after we’d first picked him out of a huge cage at the pet shop, I woke to find him lying stiffly at the bottom of his cage, his eyes frozen open. I flung open his cage door and scooped him up into my hand, but Pierre was already ice-cold. When Mom heard my hysterical shrieks, she bolted into my room, still in her pajamas, her eyes bulging with panic. The moment she saw the dead bird in my hand and the heartbreak on my face, she burst into tears.

  We held a solemn funeral for Pierre in our backyard, his grave marked by a small blue pebble we’d found at the beach. I was too grief-stricken to speak at Pierre’s funeral, so Mom told the story of how I picked him out among at least thirty other birds at the pet store; he was just that special. She talked about how he always made my face light up and my heart go pitter-pat. She said Pierre and I had experienced true love, and that everyone should cherish love wherever they find it in life—even if it’s with a little, blue bird. She said Pierre had been a loyal and true friend to me all of his days, and for that, we all loved him very much and wished him peace in Bird Heaven.

  For about a month after Pierre’s funeral, I didn’t sing or play my guitar even once. Every time I looked over at my guitar, I felt a blackness, a blankness, an emptiness I couldn’t understand or shake. I felt... dead inside. At first, Mom left me alone. But a couple weeks into my mourning, she began pestering me to play my guitar. “You’ve got to practice, Shaynee,” she nagged me. “Guitar’s all muscle-memory. Use it or lose it.” And when that didn’t work, she said, “You can’t move on until you let the feelings out. Keeping feelings bottled up inside makes them fester and grow like an infected wound. When you let the sad feelings out, they lose their power, and the wound can heal.” Finally, one day, she grabbed my guitar in one hand and my arm in the other, and she sat me down on the couch. “Play,” she said simply, pushing my guitar onto my lap. I looked at her, contemplating defiance. But then, wordlessly, I did what I was told.

  And she was right. It helped.

  After that, I never stopped playing again.

  That is, until Mom died.

  “Well, Shaynee, I’m here to tell you, again,” Mom is saying on the screen, “you’ve got to let the sad feelings out. They’ll poison you from the inside out if you don’t. I’ve given you plenty of time to work through your feelings, honey, but now it’s time to pick up that guitar and write a song about what’s inside you, whatever it is—good, bad, or ugly. Shaynee, just play. Sing. Let me hear your angelic voice again. Because I promise, I’m listening.”

  I pick up a throw pillow that’s lying next to me on the couch and hug it to my chest.

  “One last thing, Bug. Your whole life, even when you were itty bitty, you’ve always been good at being you. Do you know why? Because you know who you
are. Trust in that now. As you go through life, when you have decisions to make, when you stop and wonder what I might’ve thought, or what I might’ve said to help you decide something... Just know I think what you think. As long as you follow your heart’s true desire, then I’ll always agree with whatever you decide. Because I believe in you.”

  She lets out a big breath, and so do I.

  “Well, that’s everything I wanted to tell you. Except, of course, that I love you. I can never say that enough. And, oh yeah, wear yellow, Shaynee-bug. Would you do that for me? You look so pretty in yellow. Oh, and happy birthday, which I guess I already said. And, I love you.” Mom blows me a kiss. She reaches toward the screen, touching a button on the camera. The screen goes black.

  Chapter 11

  The alarm blares. Sixty thirty again. Good God, I stayed up way too late last night watching Mom’s video.

  I sit up in bed. I’m clutching Dean’s jacket like a teddy bear.

  Dean.

  I shuffle into the bathroom, take two Tylenol, and look closely at myself in the mirror. My eyes are puffy from all the crying I did last night, but I don’t care a lick about my stinkin’ eyes. All I see are the tiny freckles dotting my nose, the ones Dean said were “killing” him last night. And for the first time in my whole life, I’m glad I have them. Your freckles are killing me right now. I close my eyes, remembering the tingling sensation those words evoked in me when he said them. Or, rather, the ting-a-ling-a-ling-ling sensation.

  I smile.

  I lean forward and kiss my own reflection in the mirror, re-enacting my kiss to end all kisses with Dean from last night. I’m the biggest dork on the planet, but I don’t care. Somehow, I feel lighter than yesterday. Like I can breathe for the first time in forever. Hell, when my alarm went off a minute ago, I didn’t even feel like smashing the clock against the wall.