The sentence plays through my head in fast-forward. Please, God. Show me if this is right. I need you to show me if this is him. I silently say that prayer twice in my mind, sending it, filled with hope, to Him.
Not a second later do I see the image of a blonde haired boy in my mind; combing through the medicine cabinet, sobbing. Just like in my dream from the previous night, I watch as he swallows the handful of pills before sinking to the floor, clutching a picture frame close to his chest. However, this time I can see his face perfectly. No longer shrouded with a hazy cloud, I can see that it is Tristan, cowering on the floor, tears soaking his hair- which was shaggy and much blonder. This time, the room doesn’t fade to black. Instead, I watch a ghostly image of myself kneel down beside him, stroking his hair back from his face as three onlookers watch me sob with him.
I gasp, coming back to the present. Tristan is still sitting before me, not having shifted an inch from his position on the bench. Looking at me, still smirking, his eyes dance. “Expect the unexpected, Miss. Prince. Isn’t that what Mr. Morrison told us today? Or where you too busy daydreaming during his lecture,” he teases, voice refreshingly light.
I gape at him, mouth open like an imbecile. Well, if I asked for a sign, I guess that was it. It felt like I was in the bathroom with him for hours, watching him sob on the floor. But it must have actually been mere seconds…
Was that the future? Is that what I’m seeing? No, I looked like my sixteen-year-old self in the vision, and it felt like I was watching something from the past, as if my internal clock registered a change in time. He looked slightly younger in the vision, but not by much. Seconds trickle by and I continue to stare at him, trying to comprehend the confusion swirling inside me. I don’t want to be confused. I want to understand, to make it better. But what do I know about rebuilding? If anyone needs help, it’s me. My mental state is not at its peak, and if my vision was from Tristan’s past, then he needs stable people in his life.
Best solution to a problem you don’t understand- ignore it and deal with it later, something my parents have taught me well over the years. So, I close my mouth, look away from Tristan, and sit on the pebble-filled ground.
“Don’t sit on the ground, Katherine. Here, I’ll move over,” Tristan says, making room for me on the bench. When my name came from his lips, my body tingled, sending a surprising shiver up my spine.
Wordlessly, I move to sit beside him on the warm concrete, heated by the sun. Its rays hit me in the face, blinding my eyes until I turn my head and the uncomfortable brightness is diminished, thanks to Tristan’s head blocking the sun, shielding me.
“Thanks,” I say quietly.
“Anytime,” he replies. “So, what did Mr. Morrison have to say to you? He’s usually the in-your-face type of guy.”
“What did you mean? When you said it was your first day back?” I asked, avoiding his question while asking one of my own.
He shifts farther away from me and the blinding sun struck me with its ferocity. Again, he moves, blocking it once more.
“I transferred schools for a while, trying something new,” he says with a wave of his hand. “I didn’t seem to fit in at the other place, so I came back here,” an almost nonexistent chuckle escapes him as he goes quiet again, and I feel reluctance soak through the suddenly thick air.
It is in that moment that I feel his insecurity, his distrust; obviously he’s hiding something. Not telling the whole truth and flat-out lying are just about the same thing in my book, and I loathe liars. My entire family has been a lie: the perfect suburban couple, daughter ivy-league bound, the son “away" at a prestigious prep-school.
The façade tires me just thinking about it; that “perfect suburban couple” rarely spent more than an hour with each other a day and they never slept in the same room, let alone the same bed. Their son was not at some swanky prep-school, but rather residing at a boarding school for mentally unstable/troubled youth in Canada. Recently, he got out of that “hell hole,” which David liked to call it. His life was on a steep incline as he moved to Los Angeles and began to rebuild himself. His parents, my parents, deserted him when they couldn’t deal with his weakness. “His selfishness is unacceptable,” I once heard my mother say.
David was anything but selfish. One may argue that suicide is the ultimate act of selfishness, but I beg to differ. Suicide is the easiest way to spare those around you from the heartache of having to live with a person like you in their lives; at least, that’s what I once thought about it. The discussion I had with God gave me a drastically changed opinion.
“I’m assuming you dislike your parents,” I say boldly. His sarcastic smirk is my answer. “Well, we have that in common.”
“Parent, not plural,” he states, emotionless.
He looks down at me, blue eyes shining, radiating a type of sunshine of their own. Who needs the sun when his eyes emit such a powerful light? My vision couldn’t have been true; this boy in front of me was so strong. His eyes speak a thousand words his mouth does not say; they speak of tumbles and triumphs and sparkle with acumen. These are not the eyes of a rambunctious teenage boy. These are the eyes of an old man, their wisdom adding depth to eyes you felt like you could drown in.
“But, really? You dislike your parents?” he asks, tone sounding genuinely surprised. His emotions, however, gave him away. I knew he already knew this about me- the animosity I felt towards my parents. He was humoring me with his polite questioning and a part of me wonders why he bothers with the pretenses.
“Hey, look! The psycho found himself a new friend,” a dark skinned girl called towards us from across the garden, having just walked out the back door. At first, I thought she was talking about me, but then heard the girl say “himself” and realized she must be talking about Tristan. I look at him, confusion knitting my brows together. His face is blank, and other than the slight hardening of his eyes, I would have thought he didn’t even hear the girl’s harsh words.
She giggles, suddenly surrounded by three other girls and two boys. “Hey, Tristan! Who let you back in town?” a redheaded girl called out, laughing along with the others. I shot them daggers, warning them with my expression to leave immediately.
They all looked at me like I spouted three heads, a subtle expression of shock crossing their faces. “Looks like she’s not interesting in making friends,” says the dark skinned girl. “Let’s go,” she turns, the other girls and boys following her back inside the school.
I feel the tingles again and turn my head back to Tristan, wondering what he’s thinking. His expression now seems afraid, eyes dull but still reflecting silent panic. “Sorry about them, they’re-” he cuts himself off and brushes his hand along his neck.
“I get it,” I say, looking for a way to ease him of his weariness. His eyes flash to mine, suddenly filled with unmistakable dread. I feel it invade me, like an unwelcome sickness, drowning me in its syrupy bubble. “There are people like them everywhere, Tristan. The cliché pretty-girl-gone-bad types are easy to spot a mile away,” I say in an attempt at lightening the mood, but the words come out heavy and forced.
“It’s not that simple,” is his reply.
He looks down, playing with a string on the cuff of his leather jacket. Looking at him now, he looks like a bad-boy, the kind preacher men warn their daughters to stay away from. The kind big brothers pummel for even looking at their baby sister. The kind mothers pray their daughter won’t show a liking to. Thank goodness none of those people are around me, because there is no way I’m giving up Tristan now.
* * *
Later that night, I’m sitting at the kitchen table, watching Aunt Rachel cook/dance around the kitchen while singing AC-DC terribly off key. The radio is blasting, her feet bare and jeans too tight. What’s funny is that I’m actually doing my homework; I haven’t done homework in months. I smile at myself and nod my head to the beat of “Highway to Hell,” which really isn’t a pleasant song if you listen to the lyrics.
I
had changed out of my long-sleeve shirt into an oversized t-shirt as soon as I got back to Aunt Rachel’s house- another new development. I never wear t-shirts, for fear people might see the thick scars that wrap around my wrists like permanent bracelets, screaming LOOK AT ME, I’M CRAZY.
What I love about Aunt Rachel is her ability to make me feel so at ease. Her carefree spirit makes it easy to forget the troubles surrounding me; she is a complete foil to my mother. How they are sisters is beyond me, with one being so uptight and harsh and the other so spirited and easygoing. It proves blood is nothing more than a human necessity; it holds no real bond between the people it links.
You discover who your family is when they take care of you when you need it. When they look you in the eye and tell you that you’re important. Real families don’t feel the need to hide their shameful children from the public eye. Real parents don’t send their children away because they can’t, or don’t want to, deal with their child’s troubles.
Aunt Rachel would be the perfect mother, if there was such a thing. She is kindhearted, generous in forgiveness, and easy to talk to. She is very young, though; barely thirty-three with her navel pierced and hair bleached blonde. She is beautiful nonetheless.
“Did you meet any cute boys at school?” she asks me as she serves our dinner, a strange concoction of brown rice and various vegetables. It smells delicious, almost like I was suddenly transported to Mexico City.
I smile, thinking of Tristan. I stayed by his side as we conveniently shared every class together except after lunch. Tristan skipped a year in math and had already completed his necessary credits, leaving him with several free periods to do as he pleased after noon. At the end of the day, we parted and my heart fell a little with every step we took away from each other.
“I’ll take that as a big fat YES!” Aunt Rachel practically squealed, sounding more like one of the immature teenagers that have surrounded me all day than my temporary legal guardian.
I blush a deep red, embarrassed at being caught. I feel like Tristan should be my own personal secret, but I can’t imagine not telling someone about how perfect he is. But that’s the thing… I feel like, if I tell people about him, he’ll disappear and I’ll wake up.
It’s like I was born knowing Tristan, and maybe, in some way, I was. If God wills it to be, then it will be. I trust His judgment; trust that He willed Tristan and me to meet. But I wonder if He overestimated my supposed goodness.
A boy like Tristan is much too wonderful to be tempted by a nobody like me, but maybe this proves he is my angel. God said I wouldn’t expect him to be meant for me. He was right; if it weren’t for the prickles and visions, I would never have thought such a beautiful boy could be mine. The fact that I get to see him tomorrow sends a smile to my face, and Aunt Rachel laughs, this time sounding her age.
“Well, when you’re ready to talk to me about him, you talk, you understand?” she says, only half-joking. “Gosh, look at you; first day at school and already blushin’ over some boy.”
I wonder if she’s happy I’m not acting like a crazy person. I can only imagine the stories my mother told her about how unstable I am or how disobedient and entitled I act. Props to my aunt for being so unbiased towards me.
What she doesn’t know is that Tristan is not just some boy. He is my angel. The insane urge to correct her is almost unstoppable, but I miraculously succeed.
Chapter 5
Three weeks later, I find myself sitting in the garden with Tristan during our free period. He laughs as I tell a story of me and David from happier days. His laughter is light, natural and comforting. The smile on his face makes me feel at ease, and somewhat proud. I, the unlovable nobody, made this beautiful boy laugh. Pride and cockiness swells in my heart, feelings I am a stranger to.
“Who knew you were a rebel?” he jokes, nudging my shoulder with his own, sending prickles up my entire side.
I laugh a sound so unfamiliar it almost scares me. I’m not used to being so open with those around me, but Tristan is undoubtedly my angel. Every night since I met him, I’ve had flashes of him in my dreams. Some more detailed than others, some make me blush just thinking about, and others were more cryptic. Nevertheless, I am now enraptured with the young man sitting beside me. After three weeks of knowing him, I already feel myself unraveling, but in a good way.
It’s been so many years since I’ve allowed myself to trust. Untying the knots of suspicion does not come easy, but it’s much better to face your fears head on. Tristan brings out the old me; the girl that was not afraid of letting others see who she wants to be. The feeling of being completely vulnerable is new to me; I’ve let myself be impervious for far too long, never knowing what I was missing out on.
In three weeks, I have discovered my ability to forgive. Tristan’s unfathomable kindness disarms me frequently, but he is helping me forgive my parents. The best part about this is that he doesn’t even realize that he’s helping me.
Not complete forgiveness, no; the scars are too deep to forgive anyone completely, especially myself. The wounds run deeper than I have ever thought they would. Not the physical scars of course, although I have plenty of those, too. No, these scars are the ones left carved into my bones, forcing me to cover them with ignorance and avoidance. No more; there will be no more hiding from my demons. It is time I met my fears head-on, and I know just where to start.
The next day, Sunday, I write a letter to my father. In less than a page of my cursive script, I tell him everything I have bottled up since the day he sent David away. Every last hateful thought, every loathsome word mumbled under my breath as he welcomed guests into our home. Everything is written in this letter. I never intended to send it, but I do. It’s easy, plopping the letter into the cold metal box. It’s like discarding a handful of regrets into a fire, never having to feel their sting again. It feels nice, the brief weightlessness I’m given.
Sitting at the tiny round kitchen table, I’m struggling with my Calculus homework when Aunt Rachel walks into the room. “Hey, Katherine, what are you up to?” she says, tone a little too light to sound natural. I wonder what she’s up to.
Aunt Rachel and I are closer than I have ever been with my mother. More than anything, she reminds me of an irresponsible big sister I’ve been forced to stay with while my parents are on some dream vacation. Sometimes, I try to convince myself that that is actually the situation; my daydreaming works most of the time, until I see the thick scars on my wrists, proof that this is reality.
“Calculus,” is all I respond, not in the mood for conversation. Keeping my head down, I fumble with the tiny keys of my calculator, threatening to throw it across the room and sending it a mentally silent warning to start cooperating.
Aunt Rachel sits down next to me, brushing her long bangs away from her green eyes. This is one thing her and I have in common; our eyes are the exact same shade of emerald green. I once had a boy tell me they were the most beautiful color eyes he’d ever seen, but my inner-critic told me to shut him out and think the opposite, so that’s what I did. That is what I did with everyone, but I’m working on my self-confidence.
“Oh my, I’ve always hated math, especially calculus!” Aunt Rachel gushed, pushing her cuticles back from her perfectly manicured fingers. I never understood why she acted the way she did in her free time; so flippant and carefree. In reality, Aunt Rachel’s job is to be serious. She is the town’s only attorney, which shocked me when I came here. It did explain a lot though, like her ability to buy me the newest gadgets and a new wardrobe. I get the feeling that she is extremely modest with her money, which she must have a lot of.
Not saying anything, I nod my head, silently wishing she would leave me alone. Instead, she speaks again. “Why don’t you go for a ride today? I’m going to work in a little bit and have a date tonight, so I won’t be home until late,” I look up, startled she said “date.” She winks.
“Go to the barn! You haven’t been down there yet to meet the horses. The b
lack one- Dino- is the softest one to ride. Do you remember riding a horse when you were little?” She gushed again, grasping at her chest as if she was in physical pain. If she wasn’t smiling, I would’ve thought she was having a heart attack, the way her nails dug into her shirt.
“I don’t think so. And no,” was all I said. The silence got suddenly awkward so she patted my shoulder, ignoring my flinch, and left. Moments later, I heard the crappy old car groan to life. When I asked her why she didn’t get rid of the POC (which stood for ‘piece of crap,’) she said it was a classic that belonged to my grandfather and she could never part with it. I had laughed internally, wondering what it would take to make her sell that hunk of junk for parts.
Instantly, a thought flashes through my mind. Tristan gave me his phone number, and while I have a cell phone, I never use it. There is one person in my contact list, and it’s Aunt Rachel because she plugged it in for me. I’ve never been one to embrace technology, preferring books to the internet and television.
Before I lost my nerve, I went into my room and got the phone from the drawer beside my bed. Flipping it open and pressing what I remembered to be the “on” key, I waited for the chiming music to signal me its’ powering up. Ding, the phone chimed to life.
I opened it and dialed Tristan’s phone number, which I had written in sharpie on my hand still. In less than ten seconds, I heard his voice.
“Hello?” he said, sounding annoyed.
My confidence faltered at the frustration in his tone, but I take a steadying breath and force my mouth to open. “Hi, Tristan, this is Katherine,” I say shyly.
There is a brief silence on the other end, then a slamming of a door. “Katherine! Hi, uh, sorry about that… How are you?” he said, much kinder and the flutters in my stomach take off.
“It’s ok. I’m good, but I’m calling to see if… maybe… you could, I mean, if you want to, come to my aunt’s house today and go hiking with me? I’ve had enough calculus to last a lifetime,” I say, trying to sound uninterested.
Pieces of a Mending Heart Page 4