Pieces of a Mending Heart

by Kristina M. Rovison

  “Have I ever told you that you’re beautiful?” he says, his breath tickling my cheek.

  I watch my reflection smile as I gently move my arms around his neck, returning the embrace. “You might’ve mentioned it before. I can’t remember,” I say.

  “I don’t ever want you to forget it. You’re beautiful.”

  The warmth in his tone sends peaceful shivers down my body, and I want nothing more than to freeze time in this moment; to avoid discussing the unknown or the past or the future. But that is a dreamers reality, and mine is much different.

  “Sorren told you, right?” I say, breaking the spell.

  Tristan sighs and stands to his full height, breaking our encirclement. “Yes, but I want to know what you really think. She didn’t mention anything about us… looking for one another. I didn’t tell her, but I was wondering why you didn’t. It’s not important right now, but I’m curious because you told her everything else.”

  I look away from our reflections and turn to face the real thing, and I realize that the last time I saw him in a bathroom, he killed himself. The thought turns my blood to ice and I swallow, hard, to keep the bile from rising. Thinking of that literally makes my stomach churn.

  “Can we go in my room?” I ask, wanting to leave the bathroom as soon as possible.

  “Absolutely,” he says, leading me to the room that was once his.

  I move past him to sit on the bed, my back against the headboard. Tristan looks conflicted; like he isn’t sure I was okay with him sitting.

  “You can sit down, ya know. We’re home alone, and even if we weren’t, we’re just talking,” I say, giggling.

  He immediately complies, sitting at me knees, facing me.

  My giggling turns into a huff of irritation. How I long to be able to sit on my bed with Tristan without all this heavy talk weighing us down.

  “I didn’t tell Sorren about how I was looking for you because I feel… weirdly protective of that information; like I’m not supposed to share it with anyone. Do you feel that way?” I ask, sounding like a therapist asking “And how do you feel about that?”

  He nods, eyes brightening. “I feel that way, too. I felt this weird tugging in my head, when I was about to tell her; like I’m not supposed to let her know. Tell me what you think of that vision, of you and Sorren.”

  My eyebrows knit together, unsure of how to put my feelings into words. “I felt really connected to the body I was in, Tristan; like I was remembering things I’ve forgotten. Almost as if… it was a dream that I could never quite remember. But I couldn’t control the body’s actions. I was myself, though. I saw my reflection in the dirty mirror on the wall. And I called Sorren Cassandra. Your name was mentioned, and some guy named Adrian,” I stop talking when Tristan’s face pales a shade. “What?”

  “Katie, I’ve been having dreams, every night, about a man named Adrian. I always wake up frightened, but nothing ever happens in the dreams. I just know he’s looking for me,” he says, looking genuinely freaked out. I don’t know what to say, and Tristan must know this because he urges me to continue.

  “I was really afraid. Not me me, but the body I was in. Which was mine… it’s hard to explain, but my feelings and thoughts were overlapping with those of the ‘twenties me.’ Do you understand? Am I making sense?” I say, getting frustrated with my lack of couth in my explanation.

  “Yes, it makes sense. But what were you feeling when this was happening?”

  I open my mouth, but then shut it again, because I’m not sure how to answer. I had wanted to be afraid, but I wasn’t. “I thought the only rational reaction was to be afraid. But I wasn’t, I just knew I should’ve been, so I convinced myself that I was scared. I was… relieved; like a burden was lifted off my shoulders upon seeing what I saw.”

  “What did you feel like twenty minutes ago? When you were about to pass out?”

  “I was scared. My vision blurred and my head hurt like hell, but when you kissed my forehead, it all stopped as if a switch was turned off.”

  Tristan takes on his “I’m deep in thought” look, but I don’t think either of us has a perfect explanation for what happened today.

  “Should we just stop trying to figure it out and let it explain itself? Stop speculating and wait until God wants us to know more?” I suggest.

  He nods, eyes meeting mine. “There’s not much more we can do, is there?”

  We sit in unsatisfied silence, the unknown looming over our heads like a dark cloud.

  “Let’s pray over it, tonight. Before we each go to bed, mention it. Not now; let’s just let it rest for now,” he says, moving his hands as he speaks.

  I nod, pulling my knees up to my chest, feeling the soft material of the gray sweatpants I changed into when I arrived home. I don’t like the feeling of mystery on my shoulders, and I’m sure my face is compressed into a frown.

  I move, getting under the covers and laying down as if I were going to sleep.

  “Come on,” I motion for Tristan to join me, so he does. He climbs under the covers, careful not to jostle me, and we lay there, facing one another, eye to eye.

  “What’s your favorite band?” I ask, continuing our game of “truth” from two weeks ago. He chuckles, remembering how we never did get to finish.

  “Band or solo singer?” he asks, smirking.

  “Both.”

  He thinks for a moment before saying, “My favorite band is Young the Giant. My favorite solo artist is Keith Urban. I’m a country fan, you know that, but I listen to practically anything. What’s your worst fear?”

  “Mmm… are we being heavy or light?” I say, referring to the weight of our conversation.

  “Light,” he says immediately.

  “Okay. I’m terrified of heights. Even walking up a staircase makes my heart pound and hands shake.” I’m happy we’re playing the light version, because my worst fear would definitely put another damper on the day.

  What I’m truly afraid of, what I had to write my English essay on, is that I would’ve died the day I tried to kill myself. It’s in the past, but I dread ever feeling that way again. So worthless, so full of self-hatred and guilt over driving my brother away and disappointing my parents and forcing them to lash out at me. That’s what my parents made me feel; guilty. They pinned all their problems on me, and I was so brainwashed by self-loathing that I grew to agree with them. Ultimately, I went to kill myself because I truly believed I was worthless. Irrational, misplaced guilt motivated me, and it clung to me like suction cups.

  “Baby?” I hear a warm voice say, bringing me out of my own thoughts. I blink repeatedly, casting away the memories.

  “Sorry,” I say, and I’m surprised to feel warm tears running down my face.

  Tristan wipes the tears away, giving me the comfort and reassurance I’ve never felt before. His touch is so tender, so light yet so compassionate and kind, I feel the desperate urge to kiss him.

  So I do. I kiss his palm, turning my head to do so. My lips barely touch his skin when I see a figure standing in the doorway. With eyebrows raised, hands on hips, lips curved into an amused smirk, my aunt watches us.

  I screech, a knee-jerk reaction to seeing a looming figure in a place you didn’t expect to see one. Tristan jolts like he’d been stabbed, head banging against the headboard in the process.

  “Aunt Rachel! What are you doing home?” I sputter so fast it’s a miracle she understood me.

  “You told me that you’d be home after fourth period. It’s almost one-thirty, so I came home early to make sure you’re alright,” she says, sounding stern, which is frightening.

  “I’m feeling fine now! It’s been a rough day and Tristan is done with his classes by noon. Did you know he’s so ahead in his school work that he only goes for a half day? Isn’t that inspiring? He’s such a good influence,” I blabber, which would have made Tristan laugh if he didn’t look so afraid.

  “I’m not your mother, Katherine. I trust you. If you wanna lay in bed
talkin’ with your boyfriend, you go right ahead. Just keep it to talkin’ and I won’t bother you about it. Nice to see your face today, Trist. I’m so happy you kids are together; it’s like fate made it so,” she says, leaning against the doorframe.

  The entire situation is kind of funny: I’m in my bed, under the covers with a boy, and my aunt is telling us how happy she is about it. Unexpectedly, I start laughing. Really laughing, which causes my stomach to hurt because it’s sore from all the hysterical heaving I experienced when talking with Sorren in the living room. It isn’t until I start snorting, albeit a dainty, tiny snort, that Tristan starts laughing with me. I throw my head back, hitting the headboard as I do so, which makes me laugh even more.

  Aunt Rachel just stares at us with a peaceful expression and I think I see tears fill her eyes, but I can’t be sure because I’m laughing so hard. Tristan’s laugh is graceful, even for a boy, and it sends a sense of tranquility through my veins. Somehow, we end up under the covers again, his arm under my head, the other slung across my side, keeping me tight against him. And it’s in this moment that I know. This moment, following an absurd laughing fit and an insanely crazy day, means more to me than anything ever has.

  With his breathing in sync with mine, I trace little circles on his soft uniform polo shirt. His eyes are closed, but I know he’s still awake because he’s tracing circles on my back. It’s been barely a month and I trust Tristan more than I’ve ever trusted anyone before. We’re connected like no one else, through our essence and our minds. It is in this moment that I realize what my soul seems to have known since the beginning; I love him.

  I felt like I knew him the moment we met, and like I knew him even more so when he told me his story. But now, here, I feel like I know Tristan for who he is; not an angel the Lord sent to ease my pain, or a boy I saw in a vision… No, right now Tristan is a boy who is my best friend: kind and loyal and respectful and funny. Tristan is a boy who just so happens to be my Divine match, but I don’t have these feelings because I should or am obliged too.

  I have these feelings because I want to. I don’t love him because God told me to. I love him for who he is. And it is in this moment that another piece of my mending heart heals itself.

  That night, as I lie in bed, my thoughts threaten to overtake the calm surrounding me. As Tristan and I agreed, I pick up my phone and call him to let him know I’m turning in for the night. It rings a few times, then a musical voice answers.

  “Hey. You turning in?”

  “Yup. Why’d you want me to call you?” I ask. He made me promise to call him before I went to bed, but never said why.

  “I… just wanted your voice to be the last I hear before I go to bed. Maybe I’ll have more pleasant dreams,” he says meekly, and I can picture him blushing as he catches the double meaning behind his words.

  I laugh, forcing myself to keep it quiet. “Well goodnight, then. I’ll see you tomorrow, Tristan. Sweet dreams.”

  “Goodnight, Katie.”

  And we hang up, a smile still on my face. I can definitely see how others who are unaware of our situation would accuse me and Tristan of being a codependent couple, but with all the facts, you’d see that we’re just happy to be with one another.

  My eyes grow heavy, but a buzzing sensation starts pulsing in the back of my head. At first I think it’s just a headache, but it intensifies. I slowly get out of bed with the intention of getting a Tylenol from the bathroom cupboard. My feet drag, and my head spins, but now I’m standing in the hallway. It was stupid to get up, but I don’t think I would’ve been able to call to Rachel if I hadn’t of.

  “Katherine, honey? Do you need something?” I hear my aunt ask, but the buzzing overtakes my ears just like it did this afternoon. “Katherine!” she exclaims.

  And then I fall to the floor, eyes rolling to the back of my head. But this time, I am not afraid.

  I hear the voices before I’m aware of anything else. It’s like my senses are slowly being brought into focus one at a time. I can feel a cool floor below me, and realize I’m lying on my stomach. My eyes pop open and I find myself in the same speakeasy that I found myself in earlier. Thankfully, I’m not trapped in the body again.

  I stand, taking in my surroundings. I see myself come around a corner of the basement bar, and Sorren strolls out from behind a table, looking perturbed. They exchange words, the conversation I’ve already over heard, before making their way up a small staircase and opening a door. I jog after them, refusing to be left behind. It’s nighttime, but the moon is so full that it illuminates the surrounding area. I can see every line and crevice that sits on the land, and about thirty feet from where I’m standing, “me,” “Sorren/Cassandra,” and Tristan stand, accompanied by… my brother.

  I stop in my tracks, breath hitching and pulse thundering. David looks so… different. His hand reaches out to Sorren/Cassandra and she takes it. Their mouths are moving, so I waste no more time and rush over to where they stand. Tristan, though older looking in this vision, is just as striking as he is today, but instead of blueness in his eyes, they look gray, bleached by the moonlight.

  “We can’t stand around here, out in the open. Not at a place like this. Why in God’s name did you come here, Tristan?” “I” asked, tears flowing from my eyes.

  He walked over to “me,” taking me in his arms as I gripped him fiercely. “I’m innocent, my love. Innocent until proven otherwise. Adrian had to stop by to speak to a colleague, so I tagged along. The better question is what on Earth were you thinkin’ followin’ me to a place like this?” he asks, his southern accent not as pronounced as mine was.

  “If you thought I was jus’ gonna sit by while you went and got yourself killed, you’ve lost your mind,” my doppelganger replied vehemently. “I know you didn’t kill that man, but someone went through an awful lot of trouble blamin’ it on you. This is the mob we’re dealing with, Tristan! Use your head!”

  Tristan sighed before kissing “me” and placing a hand on my stomach. “You know you shouldn’t act so foolish, love. You’re carryin’ precious cargo, angel.”

  I just stand here during this entire exchange, watching the expressions on everyone’s faces. Sorren/Cassandra looks pained, but smiles at the mention of a baby. My brother stood there with an indifferent look on his face, but alternated between staring at the ground and at Sorren.

  “Let’s get home, Tristan. Please,” I had said to him, touching his cheek with my left hand. A ring glinted off my ring finger and off Tristan’s as well.

  “Adrian, take us home will you? Do your business another night, friend. My wife is frightened,” Tristan said, not taking his eyes off me.

  Sorren/Cassandra entered the very early looking car first, and Adrian motioned for “me” to enter as well. Just as I was climbing into the car, his arm shot out, hand wrapping around my neck. Present-day “me” gasped, and I walked even closer to the group, heart pounding but still feeling unafraid.

  “Adrian! What are you doing?” Tristan yelled, moving to grab me, but Adrian had pressed a knife to my throat, stopping Tristan in his tracks. “You dirty traitor. It’s been you all along, hasn’t it! You framed me for Callie’s murder!”

  My brother/Adrian just laughed a brutal, unfeeling cackle that transformed his face into that of a madman. It was an expression I had only seen once on his face: when I witnessed one of his lapses in reality, before he was sent away.

  “You gave me no choice, Tristan! You think I don’t know what you say about me? The whole county thinks I’m crazy! You’ve always had it all, been so sure of yourself all the time, well who’s in control now?!” the madman screams, lacking the southern accent the other three possessed, pressing the knife further into the throat of the mom-to-be.

  Sorren started crying from inside the car, curling into a ball. I see bruises on her legs as the skirt of her dress rides up, and I’m at a loss of words. Something clicks in my head, divine intervention probably, and I know that this Adrian, this madman wh
o I know is my present-day brother, beats Cassandra, his wife, to a pulp weekly. Watching this unfold, detached from my emotions so I can comprehend everything, I feel like I’m resurfacing from a dream. But the scene stays put, and I continue to watch.

  “Adrian, Katherine doesn’t deserve your rage. I understand that I do, but you don’t need to punish her, to punish our child, for my mistakes,” Tristan said firmly.

  “I loved her! You took her from me, like you took everything else! It would hurt you more if I killed her and left you a cripple,” Adrian growled.

  By then, the struggling Katherine in Adrian’s arms had started sobbing, growing limp and screaming when he pressed the knife in further, drawing blood. Tristan looked conflicted, debating whether or not to tackle Adrian to the ground and risk his wife getting injured, or to keep trying to talk some sense into him. One look in his friends’ eyes told him that he was beyond saving, so Tristan lunged.

  A strangled sob came from someone on the ground, and I continued to stand and watch the vision play out. Adrian scrambled to his feet, Tristan lying on the ground, bleeding from the stomach. Adrian dragged his wife out of the car before plunging the knife into her stomach repeatedly, then hopped in the car and drove off as fast as the tiny little engine could go.

  My eyes followed the car until it was out of sight, and then fell on the clump of limps on the ground. The past-tense me had sat up, shoulder bleeding and neck injured, and cradled her dying husband in her arms. His intestines had been punctured and blood was pouring out of him fast. Even modern doctors wouldn’t have been able to save the dying young man on the ground.

  The wails coming from his wife’s mouth were inhuman, and through her grief, she didn’t see that Tristan had whispered his final words to her. The “I love you” fell on deaf ears, and his soul could not rest until he knew she heard his proclamation.

  Cassandra was lying dead on the ground a few feet away; I had been the only one spared. For the second time in my life, I watch Tristan die. And for the second time in my life, I watch myself pick up the knife from the ground, and kill myself.