Heart Murmurs

by R. R. Smythe

  Tears seep out the corner of my eyes in a long continuous trickle, and I sob. That’s when I notice her — Beth. Across the room, fiddling with something in the hospital closet.

  “Oh, Mia.”

  She spins around. Her face looks as crumpled as mine feels. She rushes to sit on the bed, grabs my hand and nestles it between hers.

  “I’m so sorry you had to find out. You were never supposed to find out.”

  “You — you’re—”

  “Old.” Beth’s eyes are so, so sad. And they indeed look as if they’ve seen and absorbed over one hundred years of hurting.

  “W-where are my mom and dad?” I stifle my hiccup.

  “They’re down at the cafeteria; we’ve been doing shifts, waiting for you to come back to us.”

  “How long have I been out?”

  “Two days.”

  My door opens. Morgan’s face twists in… agony. That’s the only word that’ll fit.

  I spit out a new torrent of catching sobs. I can’t help it. It hurts to look at him. My chest is killing me. It hurts to cry.

  He crosses the room in two seconds, grasping my other hand without permission. He tries to put it against his lips.

  I wrench it out of his grasp. “Get out of here. I can’t stand to look at you. You’re a liar. How could you make me… make me—”

  “Mia, please. Just listen to me.”

  He presses his lips together and squeezes his eyes shut.

  He keeps them closed as a vein pulses on his forehead. “Please, please, Beth. Leave us. Before her parents return. Go fetch them — might you take the long way?”

  He finally opens them and they bore into me. My gut contracts as if I’ve been kicked. His bright blue eyes sparkle with tears.

  Beth gives him a sad smile, and his hand a quick squeeze. “Of course, brother.”

  She walks backwards toward the door. “I love you, Mia.”

  I swallow. “I know. I do too, Bethy.”

  I slowly allow my eyes to drag up to meet Morgan’s gaze. I wince. Staring at him is like staring into the sunrise. It’s bright, beautiful, and acutely painful.

  “Mia, let me explain.”

  I nod, not trusting my voice. I force out the words, and they break with the catch in my throat. “I — I shouldn’t let you. You don’t deserve it.”

  “I probably don’t. But I’m not leaving without a fight. I found out awhile ago. All the clues, your newfound talents, liking foods you once hated… And, I’ll admit — it’s why I was so rude to you in the beginning.”

  I nod, trying not to like the warmth of his hand. His fingers stroke mine in hard, soothing circles.

  “But once I got to know you…” His mouth opens, struggling. “You’re brave and honest and beautiful and — I love you, Milady, I can’t help myself. And I hate myself for it. It’s too soon, and disrespectful to… her. But I do. Respect be deuced.”

  “Really?”

  His eyes fire with hope. “Really.”

  “Can — can you explain all of this to me?”

  “Yes, but we need time, love. Your parents will be here any moment. I don’t want to have to stop once I start.”

  I thought about that. Once he starts telling his tale — neither of us will be able to stop. Till all the secrets are out.

  I nod.

  “They’re going to be livid — and I’ll probably be summoned, but I don’t care. I’m willing to take the risk to be with you.”

  I swallow the oversized granite ball which is crushing my voice-box. “What are you talking about? Who are they? What risk?”

  “Later, your parents will be here any second. This thing, with your heart. It’s happened to other people — getting their memories.”

  “Really?”

  He nods fervently. “I used the internet.”

  The sheepish look on his face makes me burst out laughing. “You used a search engine? Wow! I am impressed.”

  His eyebrows pinch together. “A what?”

  I laugh even harder. “Never mind. I’ll explain later. “

  He laughs in return.

  My parents burst through the door. “Oh, our Mia.”

  My father takes notice of our hands intertwined, and his lips press into a thin white line.

  Morgan squares his shoulders, and squeezes my hand harder.

  Father turns his attention to me. “Darling, how do you feel?”

  I give Morgan a quick look. “Okay now.”

  ****

  My mother is rearranging an already meticulous pile of clothes. She’s been uncharacteristically hovering the last 24 hours, since I’ve been home.

  “Mom?”

  Her eyes stray to the rocking chair, where Morgan is sitting with his hands folded. He smiles at her.

  She smiles reluctantly in return. “Okay Mia. But I’m leaving your door open.”

  I laugh. “Fine.”

  She sweeps out the door in a suffocating cloud of expensive perfume. Morgan coughs a little.

  “I’m sorry. My mom can be quite the snob. No one is good enough for me.”

  Morgan stands and slides over to sit beside me on the bed. “She’s right. You should be cherished.”

  His palms cup my face, and he leans in slowly to let his thin lips brush mine. He kisses me tenderly at first, but with every graze I feel the growing fire beneath.

  His tongue darts into my mouth. My hands wrap into his hair; my breath hitching too hard and too fast.

  His hand slides down to my scar. I flinch.

  He breaks the kiss.

  His other hand grasps my chin, making me meet his gaze.

  His finger traces the scar, firm but gentle. “Mia. You are beautiful, my girl. This — this is nothing. It’s your Medal of Honor.”

  My heart soars at the words, my girl. The murmurs are fading, whispering only occasionally. It’s as if they’ve given up.

  I feel… sad. And weirdly determined; not to let Madelon’s traits disappear. I will fight to keep them alive and well, in me. She’s made me stronger, braver — better.

  I tear up. “I don’t know if I would’ve been able to face everything with anyone else’s heart. I think… she’s made me brave.”

  His right eye twitches, and he quickly rubs it, pulling his fingers together at the bridge of his nose. “Maybe so. But that’s good. Maybe she just helped you be who you were supposed to be all along.”

  I wipe my eyes. And take my mask off. And let the words flow out of my mouth, which usually flow onto paper. “You know — you always know exactly what to say. No matter the situation.”

  My heart and I seem to have an unspoken contract. It no longer feels too far back in my chest. I can feel its pace pick up in time to Morgan’s stroking fingers against my scar.

  My mother’s footsteps echo in the hall and Morgan’s drops his hand. She pokes her head around the door. “Maybe you should get some fresh air, Mia.”

  Morgan smiles at my mom. “I will be glad to walk her around.”

  Mom shrugs. “Just make sure she doesn’t get exhausted.”

  “Absolutely.”

  ****

  My arm is looped through Morgan’s, as he steadies me out onto the porch. I’m still weak from the two days of unconsciousness.

  I stop dead as I step out the front door. “What is this?”

  “Your chariot, Milady.” He does a footman-like bow that would be perfect in any Austen novel.

  My face heats with pleasure and surprise. A black Amish buggy, in mint condition, is hitched up to what I know to be his favorite horse, Beth’s white mare, Pilot.

  “Well, as I don’t have my license yet. And you aren’t exactly ready to ride my horse… this was the next best option.”

  He leads me forward, and I feel like I’m falling into one of the tunnels. Like instead of my gray sweatpants, I should be in a dress, with boots. The murmurs rise when he takes my hand, helping me into the buggy.

  It smells like leather and hay, and every creak’s a song
of a bygone era. His era.

  Morgan crawls up into the driver’s seat. “Ready?”

  Ready? To hear the story? To be all yours? To accept you — who you are?

  I swallow. “As ready as I will ever be.”

  He slaps the reins on Pilot’s hindquarters and heads down the driveway, toward the battlefields.

  The fields are stretched and undulating as we pass McPherson’s farm. A cold chill steals up my arms, raising the hairs. I’ve passed this place a million times — so why is it freaking me out now?

  Morgan is watching me. His eyes, deadly serious, flick across the surrounding fields. I know he’s reliving battles. Friends dying. Madelon. His face looks hard and old.

  Now that I’ve seen it, I see them too. Or imagine I can.

  Droves of ghosts of young, brave men. Men much too young to suffer and die.

  I gasp quietly and press my lips together. I point. “Over there. That is where I found you in the hospital.

  He nods brusquely. “That’s right, my love. There was a house there, which they turned into a hospital. It burned to the ground in 1895.”

  I can’t wait anymore. I need to know.

  “Tell me,” I whisper. “Tell me everything.”

  He leans over, and kisses me once. Light and tender.

  “I am born of a lineage, a secret society. It is known to run in literary families. Bronson Alcott, my father, was a Conductor.”

  “A Conductor?”

  “Yes. A Conductor controls the tunnels, to a degree. They’re more caretakers than masters. The tunnels are not… controllable. They’re living, organic entities. Walking through their rooms can change a person’s life — permanently. Beth and I have never figured out how or why people are chosen. Why one person’s life would warrant saving, versus another’s. Most of the times the purpose is noble — lost loves, lost children. It tells us where to go, where to take them.”

  “Is everyone in your family… a Conductor?”

  “No. Bronson was convinced it would be Louisa who would be chosen. But it was Beth. Which mortified everyone.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, Conductors might live on indefinitely. Watching everyone they love die, decade after decade.”

  “Might?”

  My mind is spinning. Does he have to live on indefinitely?

  “Yes, the line can pass to a descendent, allowing the Conductor to pass on. Not every child will carry the gene. There are also couriers. They can see the tunnels, but don’t carry the immortality gene. I believe you, my dear, might be a courier.”

  I feel my brow tighten. My mind recalls the three books on Beth’s shelf. Their titles emblazoned in my memory: Courier, Conductor, Literati.

  “Can Conductors get ill?”

  “Yes, they and the Literati can become mentally and physically ill — but it’s worse than dying. They just continue on in that state indefinitely till they produce an heir or the council rules they may move on. Then the tunnels… take care of it.”

  I shiver. He notices.

  His eyes widen. “I’m not certain you’re a courier. But I don’t know how else you could see the tunnels. When others enter — all they see is one straight dirt passage; like any other Underground Railroad tunnel.”

  Another realization dawns, and with it a jealous streak of heat across my face.

  I ball my fist at my side. “Was Madelon a courier?”

  He bites the side of his lip. “No. I — I think she was a Conductor.”

  “How do you know?”

  “We have the branding. It’s a birthmark. Conductors and couriers are black, but I’ve seen some change to red, for the Literati-mark.”

  “How did she pass on, then?”

  Morgan swallows. “The council ruled her injuries unsustainable. To allow her to carry on in such a state would’ve been cruel and unusual punishment.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  They need permission to die.

  He nods and we’re quiet for a few minutes; while the ghost of Madelon mentally torments us.

  I think of Beth, and the time I saw the birthmark on her forearm. “I’ve seen Beth’s birthmark. It looks like a Rorschach inkblot.”

  “A what?”

  “Never mind.” I want to soften that hard set to his jaw. Just use a search engine.”

  His lips twitch up in a reluctant smile. “I will.” He sighs. “There’s a catch to loving me, Mia.”

  My heart falls, twirling in my chest. “Yes, what?”

  “I’m… I’m not supposed to marry just anyone. I have to marry a courier, like myself. It’s like an arranged marriage.”

  Tears burn my eyes again, and I quickly blink them away. I’m beginning to hate them. “I know this is early — but then marrying me is not an option?”

  His eyes blaze. “I don’t care. If you’ll have me, I will.” He glances at me. “In due time, I mean. I know girls here don’t run off and get married at eighteen — like where I’m from.”

  Fear, pain, and joy whirl around in my chest. I won’t worry about particulars. Not now. He loves me that much. “B-but. What will happen? If you go against the law? And who are these Literati?”

  He won’t meet my eyes. He turns the horse up onto Cemetery Ridge, where stone sentinels mark the battle commanders’ positions.

  “There will be consequences.”

  “What kind of consequences?” Panic is thickening my thoughts.

  “I don’t know. Beth… has brought some on us.”

  “Like what?”

  His lips are a grim line. “Like that battlefield pig. The Literati released it, as a warning to her. That they know she’s been writing Louisa, using the tunnels for personal gain. I don’t know if they’ve figured out the rest.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Me. My existence, Louisa convincing Beth to save me, will be deemed as personal gain… and…”

  “Morgan!”

  His eyes are terrified. “You. You getting Madelon’s heart would be forbidden, too.”

  Chapter Twelve

  An Honorable Heart

  I walk faster. School today was the longest of my life. I almost left when I saw Morgan was absent. I drove Claire mental all day, talking to myself.

  I am breathing a little too fast as I hurry to the shop. The flowers are blooming the whole way up the walk, marigolds of the deepest maroon and orange. I snap a mental picture. They only last a few weeks.

  A recollection dances across my mind and I shiver and glance back — making sure they aren’t laughing at me.

  I pause with my hand on the doorknob. The sign says ‘Closed’.

  The museum shop should’ve been open all day. Intuition looms, hovering at my shoulder. Its rotten breath exhaling with the one I’ve just sucked in.

  Beth walks into the storeroom from her office, and I duck out of sight.

  I peek in through the stained glass. And gasp.

  She’s standing in front of the mirror, staring at her reflection.

  She turns her head and the adrenaline rush makes me dizzy.

  In a singular, two-inch space on the side of her head, a long, spiraling, gray lock of hair shoots out from amidst her dark brown. Longer than her shoulder length style, it reaches her waist.

  I gasp again, my hand shooting up to cover my mouth. One hideous, worm-like fingernail, at least ten inches long, corkscrews out of her index digit.

  Beth’s face is horrorstruck. Her lips begin trembling.

  A loud crash splinters the silence. Edward flies to her side, leaping over the remains of the ornate lamp he’d been lugging.

  “It’s alright. I’m here, darling.”

  His eyes scream the contrary.

  He wraps his arms around her — but her eyes don’t leave the mirror; they’re glued, ticking back and forth along the long, gray lock.

  I spin and run. Directly for the barn. My head is screaming with too many impossibilities. The whispers are back. They further intensify the chaos, adding a
soundtrack to the pictures in my mind. They spin and flicker, like an old-time movie reel gone awry.

  “Please, please let him be here.”

  I push hard against the thick barn door. Morgan’s smile fades as he registers my panic. He flies to my side.

  His hands grip my shoulders, “What? What’s happened?”

  “Beth. It’s Beth. Her hair.”

  “What about her hair?”

  “There’s… a long, gray lock growing out of the side of her head.”

  All color drains from his face. “Is Edward inside?”

  I nod. “Is this what you meant by consequences, Morgan?”

  He nods. “She’s aging, by degrees. For breaking the law. For using the tunnels to rescue me off the battlefield. I wasn’t scheduled to come here. Louisa told her to save me.”

  I step backwards, wrenching out of his grasp. “I won’t do it. I won’t let you be hurt for me.”

  His eyebrows depress into a V, his mouth screws up in pain.

  “This is my decision. Not yours, Mia,” he roars.

  I flinch. “You can’t make me love you.”

  He lunges, then pulls me to his heaving chest. I feel the rage and pain with every deep breath he pulls. I spin, but his arms trap me in a backwards embrace.

  His lips are in my hair, kissing the top of my head, murmuring.

  “My Mia. My Mia. You already love me. I already love you. It’s too late. Too late to turn back. I will not turn back. To not fight for someone you love… that is worse than any death.”

  The fear rushes out, and love and desire and selfishness take its place. I turn up my face. Knowing it is too late.

  He kisses me. We are both crying. Our lips melt the tears falling between them.

  He breaks the kiss and grasps my shoulders to stare at me. His mouth is fierce. “You must not leave me. I could not bear it. Not another loss.” His voice is loud. “This time is ours. We will make it so.”

  I worry my bottom lip.

  He softens his voice, “Please, Mia.”

  I nod. “But together. We have to do this together.”

  He nods back. “I promise.”

  ****

  He holds my hand as we walk through the pasture toward the shop. It’s the strangest feeling, being in love. It’s like coming home; to a home you never knew existed.