Heart Murmurs

by R. R. Smythe

  My mind lists the possible options. Her infertility. Her miscarriages. Her perpetually absent husband. That insane boy-lunatic she decided to take in.

  “I’m so sorry you have to see this, Mia. After all you’ve been through. Here I am, blubbering at work.”

  “Well, I’m not the only person with problems, you know.” But I’m pretty sure I’m the only one with bizarre, mental voices in my head. “It’s fine. Misery loves company, right?”

  I laugh, a real laugh. My first in months.

  She returns my smile, wiping the tears away with the back of her hand. “It’s so good to have you back. It just wasn’t the same around here without you.”

  Her eyes cast a tentative flick outside to Morgan, and she flushes. She recovers, quickly walking behind the counter. This is my chance.

  “What is his deal, anyway? Why is he so angry all the time?”

  Beth fidgets with a tray of already perfectly aligned chocolate covered cordials, strategically avoiding my gaze. “He’s been through a lot too, Mia. Give him time. I think he’s worth it.”

  Air whistles out between my teeth. “Yea. I don’t know about that—. I’m not feeling the love. Actually, I think he hates me, and I have no clue why.”

  The red on her cheeks deepens, and her eyes shoot to him again and narrow. “I don’t think he does. Quite the opposite.”

  My stomach cartwheels. “What? How could you know—?”

  The silver bell above the door tinkles. My stomach leaps, and so do I. The door opens and Morgan steps inside.

  My draw to him overwhelms me, pounding my heart in odd little throbs.

  A congealed sound-storm of skittering leaves, hushed murmurs and feminine sighs drown out his voice. His lips move, but I only hear the wordless protests from within.

  The whispers invade my head, a verbal platoon, taking it by force.

  A wave of images drowns my brain and I’m transported.

  Beth notices my rigid body. “Mia?”

  I hear them calling. But I give in to the images, allowing myself to step fully inside.

  “Mia? Can you hear me?” Their concerned voices disappear as if from far away.

  Morgan’s lopsided smile, staring at me with intense longing. His hand lifts to tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. Walking with him through a field of wildflowers. The feel of his rough hand in mine makes my heart surge. His blue eyes search mine and speak a thousand sentiments. Love, concern… desire.

  These aren’t my memories. But it doesn’t matter. They feel like my own. An explosion rocks my heart. Love?

  Is this what love is like?

  My heart lifts as if floating — but the sensation is coupled with a sickening fear in my gut.

  That he’ll reject me.

  I’ve never wanted anyone to want me. Not like this.

  I’m back in the shop. The whispers are quieting and on the retreat.

  “Mia, are you ok? You look ill.” Beth’s concerned eyes are on me.

  So are Morgan’s. His gaze is intense.

  An urge, no, a compulsion, to kiss him drives me forward. Inside, mortification and desire do battle, but my feet walk me around the sweets counter. Toward him.

  It’s like sleepwalking. I can’t stop it. Oh. Snap. What am I doing? But I have no say in the matter.

  “Mia?” I hear Beth’s voice, far away.

  Morgan’s face is turned toward the ground as he sets down his reenactment shotgun. His eyes lift toward me and widen in surprise.

  I throw my arms around his neck and press my lips to his. At first, they are unresponsive — dead against my urgent ones.

  “Mia?” Beth’s voice trembles.

  His icy demeanor thaws and the warmth flows through him, heating parts of his body back to life; his arms wrap around my waist, his lips turn frantic, returning my strokes with a heated, perfect fervor.

  No one’s ever kissed me like this before. This feels practiced, sure. And imbedded in every stroke of his lips is a deep, searing desire.

  He tugs me gruffly, pulling my hips to his own. His eyes, though closed, crinkle tightly — as if it’s painful.

  The whispers are exultant. Wild, resounding echoes against my skull.

  “Blast. Morgan, what are you doing?” Beth is freaking out.

  Pictures slip and skim through my head.

  Like thumbing through a mental photo album.

  Someone else’s photo album. I don’t care. I want them to be mine.

  Morgan stands beside a huge black horse in his familiar military uniform. A quiver of light, a wave of nausea, and the picture changes.

  Now clad in a white shirt — he’s walking toward me, holding two buckets, sloshing water all over his boots. His face breaks into a smile — and his eyes belong to a different man. So clear, so free of pain.

  A ripple of color, and now he’s unbuttoning his shirt, letting it slide to the ground. I stare at his hard chest, and my insides quiver in response to the smolder in his eyes.

  Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump. My heart skips and heat floods down my neck, spreading across my ribcage like a warning.

  I break the kiss, clutching my chest.

  The whispers are whimpering, reluctantly fading.

  “I-I—”

  The world tilts and the hardwood floor rushes toward my face.

  Pain explodes through my face as my nose takes the impact. I feel a hot flow, dousing my dress.

  “Bloody — Beth!” Morgan’s voice is close, and his knee hits the ground by my ear.

  Beth’s hands cradle my head in her lap. Blackness presses in, and I fight against it. But it’s a heavy vise, crushing my thoughts. Their conversation slips in and out in time with my battle against the darkness.

  “What have you done?” Beth, her voice catching.

  “I’m sorry, sister. I don’t know what came over me. She — I’m drawn to her. Despite it all. Despite the futility.”

  “Morgan! She is not of your class. She may not even be in the court.”

  “I know.” His voice deepens. “I can no longer fight it, Beth. I’ve tried.”

  What court? What class? What are they talking about?

  My heartbeat surges; sloshing inside like a trapped current, drowning the voices. Only its vibratory hum clogs my ears, and I slip into the darkness.

  I have no idea how long I’ve been unconscious. Their heated conversation pulls me out again.

  I recall their words and it rouses me awake. Sister? I thought she was his aunt? I lay perfectly still, eavesdropping.

  “Beth, what if you were wrong? I’m not a Literati. I can’t find the words for what’s in my head, let alone write them. I cannot protect you or Mia in the tunnels. I have no power over them. I’ve tried. I am not a Literati, or even a Conductor.” Morgan’s voice is sharp, but pleading.

  Beth sighs. “My Conductor abilities have no bearing outside of the tunnel, you know that, brother. So out here, in the real world, I am the one who is helpless.”

  His jaw snaps shut and grinds. “I saw the pig again. You must keep Mia out of the tunnels.”

  “She won’t listen to me, she never does. Sister was convinced about you…”

  “Please! She’s another one,” he seethes. “An independent woman. Why must they plague me?” His tone is desperate. I fight the urge to comfort him.

  “If she doesn’t wake, we’re going to have to call her mother.”

  I decide to ‘wake’ at the invocation of my mother’s name. She will keep me away from work — put me back in solitary confinement.

  My eyelids flutter heavily, like a film of adhesive has stuck them together. Despite my mind being awake, my body is not. I finally manage to blink them open.

  “I’m fine. Please don’t call my mom.”

  ****

  1 Hour Later

  I stare at my reflection in the dressing room mirror. My honey-colored freckles stand out against my pale skin, even though summer is long gone. Not that I saw any of it this year.


  I don’t have many memories of summer; it passed with sunrises and sunsets through my window, as I was chained by breathlessness to my room, barely conscious half the time.

  I turn sideways, staring and scrutinizing my body in the corset. I smooth the dress over my stomach and then over my hips.

  I look better in Civil War attire than in my jeans. The clothing gives me some padding. I’ve gained some weight, and I actually have a singular curve now at my waist. I stare back at my eyes in the mirror, watching them fill.

  Not bad tears, thankful tears. That I may actually look normal again. My eyes flash across my glaring railroad-track scar.

  Well, almost normal.

  I slip on the dress and, after five minutes spent fussing, step out into the shop. Leaving me with a reluctant glance, Morgan had returned to lead yet another tour group, and Beth… I have no idea. After I’d convinced her I was fine, she disappeared again. She’s been so secretive lately.

  My mind returns to Morgan’s words. He’s drawn to me. A blush, which is equal parts embarrassment and pleasure, heats my face.

  I’m drawn to him, too. And not sure I should be. The whispers when he’s near. The fact he flickered before my eyes. Not to mention his wild mood swings… and the tunnel. What is wrong with the tunnel?

  I turn to stare at the trapdoor. I could go down, right now, and find out for myself.

  I check the clock. Its 5:30. Impossible. Time for the last tour.

  As if on cue, a group of ten slides into the shop. They mill about the shop, gawking at my attire.

  “Good evening! I’m Mia, and I’ll be your All-Things-Alcott tour guide for the evening.”

  I glance outside and see the setting sun reflect off the Tour Bus. It’s a senior citizens group. All the blue-haired ladies line up obediently, staring at me.

  I motion to the picture behind me. “Louisa May Alcott had three sisters, just like the March Sisters in Little Women. From oldest to youngest, their names were Anna, then Louisa, Elizabeth, and Abigail May.”

  A tall, elegant woman raises her hand. My eyes take in her high heels—which will be caked in mud after two steps on the battlefield. “Yes?”

  “Is that an original photograph of Louisa?”

  “Yes, Beth — the owner of the tours, is an Alcott descendent, and has collected many artifacts from the family. The original Orchard House homestead in Concord, Massachusetts. Our house here is just a replica.”

  I walk past the queue of Alcott pictures. “Please follow me to the left of the pictures to start at the beginning.” I stop in front of a photo of Bronson Alcott. I take a long look at him, sigh, and spin toward the group.

  All eyes are on me. I have their undivided attention.

  My stomach quivers. This is my first tour since the surgery. A rite of passage.

  I’m back.

  I can’t believe I get a second chance. Just to have a semi-normal life. A flood of relief weakens my knees; but I lock them, and straighten my shoulders.

  My voice is hoarse around the lump in my throat, and I clear it. “Bronson Alcott was many things, wonderful and terrible, depending on who is giving your lecture.”

  Many gray eyebrows rise at this comment. Elegant elderly’s hand shoots up, but she doesn’t wait for permission to speak. “How so, Miss?”

  I tick off on my fingers as I go. “Well, he is well known as a staunch abolitionist — who pioneered the idea of tax resistance to slavery. He also lost all of his pupils for admitting and teaching a black slave child among his wealthy white pupils.”

  “Really? I had no idea.”

  “He was a supporter of Edward Brown and occasionally helped with the Underground Railroad. Our building was a stop on the railroad, and we have another tour, highlighting the tunnels, if you are interested.”

  “Bronson Alcott could not keep his family above the poverty line.”

  I start at the burning in Morgan’s voice. Mercurial, to use one of Louisa’s terms.

  I didn’t hear him come in. He moves slowly through the milling ladies; they part to let him pass, staring.

  “Yes—”

  He cuts across me. “He was a dreamer, some say an adulterer, and others say he was just- plain- mad.”

  His eyes. My stomach flips. I bite my lip. They are searing… with pain and a livid anger. Why? How could this subject make him so terribly angry?

  “Mad? I haven’t heard that theory.”

  I’ve forgotten I’m the tour guide. When he’s near, my focus falters, and all I see is him. “Where have you read that?”

  He laughs out loud. It’s so bitter, I almost taste it myself. He shakes his head infinitesimally. “He would lapse into states of near-catatonia. Where no one could reach him. His family would just wait it out.”

  I cough, redirecting the group’s attention to me. “This is Morgan, our Civil War reenactor, who obviously has some strong opinions about the Alcotts.” I insert a nervous laugh.

  “Not the Alcotts. Just him.”

  “Um, okay. Thank you, Morgan. Ladies, if you will follow me upstairs, I will continue with the tour.”

  He grasps my elbow as I pass, and I shiver under his intense gaze. He shoves a book into my hands, A Long Fatal Love Chase. “Read this. It may explain…”

  As I watch the ladies shuffle up the steps, I glance back at Morgan. He’s standing at the window, staring out into the dusky light. I see his eyes clamp shut and his head bow as I turn to walk up the stairs.

  How could a man, two hundred years in the grave, mean so much to him?

  Chapter Seven

  The Scarlet Letter

  Friday Night

  I flip open my phone and text Claire.

  “Morgan was totally freaky at work.”

  Seconds later my phone vibrates her reply, “Am on the bus, headed to game. Gimme a mo’.”

  Wow. I’ve completely forgotten it’s the weekend. Claire’s on her way to Friday- Night -Lights’-Land.

  Like every other town in Pennsylvania on a football Friday night.

  Like I would’ve been, up till last year.

  I walk over to my closet and peek inside. I reach in, shoving clothes down the rack until I quickly spot its bold colors, even in the dark.

  My old uniform. They gave it to me, a keepsake. A sympathy parting gift before my surgery.

  I shut the door on it and walk back to my bed, staring out the window. The fall breeze rushes through my cracked window, making me shiver. I cross my arms, hugging myself. I shove it closed.

  Mom and Dad are still at the hospital, as usual. I used to fill my nights with every activity on the school roster, just so I didn’t have to come home to this quiet, empty place.

  And then when I did get home… to fill the silence… my eyes flick to the bed. I stroke my fingers lovingly against the laptop. My gateway to another world. A place to house my mind—create my own endings. Only happily-ever-afters for my characters, corny as that may be.

  Real life has enough tragic endings.

  I stroke my scar.

  The phone rings in my other hand.

  It flips into the air and crashes, clattering off the hardwood floor; my heart hammers. I bend and pick it up. Pins and needles fill my head, and I take deep breaths. I push the talk button with my shaking thumb.

  “Hey, you okay?” Claire, of course.

  “Yeah, fine. How’s it there?”

  “Fine…”

  But I hear it in her voice. It’s the ‘not the same without you’ tone. Without all our inside jokes. All our shared memories. Finishing each other’s sentences.

  “I know you won’t believe me — but I don’t even miss it.”

  “Really?”

  I search my feelings. It’s true. It’s like a quiet relief. I was doing it — all of it, for everyone else before.

  For Claire. For my mom, the once homecoming queen of her generation.

  It really wasn’t me.

  I feel better as this me. The writer-geek me. My heart, strong
and steady under my hand, seems to purr at this revelation.

  “Yeah, really. I’m working on my book again.” The phone buzzes against my ear. “Claire, I have a text, can you wait one sec?”

  “Sure.”

  My thumb navigates to the inbox.

  My heart plummets in a straight, burning line — an internal elevator shaft ripping through my chest, crashing at my feet.

  It’s Steve.

  His text glares at me. “Hi, babe. Can I come over tomorrow night?”

  I shoot the phone back to my ear. “It’s Steve. He wants to come over tomorrow.”

  Silence.

  “Claire?”

  “It’s your call, Mia. You know what I think of him.”

  “Yes. You’re known for your subtlety. And tact.”

  Her bawdy laugh shakes my ear. “I gotta go. I will call you later.”

  “See you. Cheer good.”

  “Yeah. I’ll tell the vicious vixens you’re missing them all.”

  “Especially Apple!”

  Click. I don’t know if she caught the last quip. I stare at the phone.

  I sigh. Sure. Talk to you later.

  The phone vibrates with another text. From Steve. I hit delete without reading it.

  I stare at the walls of my room. They’re like a suffocating box. I imagine them shrinking, getting smaller and smaller, till I’m crammed in the center, like Alice in Wonderland. And I don’t have any potion to swallow to make me smaller. To fit inside the room, to fit back into my old life.

  I can see Orchard House from my window, nestled into the bank of Cemetery Hill. I stretch my hand against the cool glass and it wets my palm. An eerie blue light shines out of the shop’s window.

  “Hmm.” I squint, rub my eyes, and reopen them wide. But it’s gone. “Weird. Just like everything else lately.”

  I stare out across the dark fields. Fields raised on blood.

  The battle is ever-present in the town. My eyes flick to my wall, where a stray bullet lost its course, taking a young girl’s life. Probably not much older than me.

  My heart is an uncomfortable stranger in my chest tonight. It feels too large, like it’s blocking my windpipe. I swallow as my eyes dampen.