The Wrong Heart

by Jennifer Hartmann

  Freezes my bones.

  And when the rain pours down like grief, drenching me in its sorrow, I shiver and shake, teeth chattering, warmth eclipsed.

  I cradle Charlie in my arms, rocking us back and forth, side to side, drowning in rainwater and blood and bitter tears.

  He is cold now, and so am I.

  Today was supposed to be beautiful—a new beginning, a new chapter, a new year of dreams and possibilities.

  Our wedding anniversary.

  But now it’s just the day the sun died.

  —TWO—

  When I open my eyes, I’m fucking pissed.

  All I wanted was peace.

  I wanted to fade away and drown myself in darkness, but instead, this brassy, artificial light is scorching my goddamn eyeballs. I blink back the hospital fluorescents, mentally cursing my insufferable luck, while strangers who are getting paid to give a shit about me wheel me down the long corridor.

  This is her fault.

  She put me here. She spit me out, branded me with all these scars and ugly stains, then left me here to rot with a stubborn death wish that won’t abate and won’t come true.

  A growl erupts from my chest, an angry, embittered roar, and a baby-faced man in scrubs leans over to quiet me as we roll down the bright hallway.

  Why is it so fucking bright?

  “You’re okay, sir. Try to stay calm.”

  Calm.

  I try to remember the last time I felt calm, and I’m momentarily whisked away to one of my very first memories, shoulder blades pressed to the bark of a cherry tree as a young Border Collie licked the sticky fruit juice off my chin. The sky danced with pillowy white shapes, and I laughed when the grass tickled my bare toes, much like the puppy teeth nicking my jaw.

  I’ll never forget that the midsummer breeze smelled like daylilies.

  I only knew that because my father loved lining the front of our porch with daylilies, and he’d sit outside and watch them, eager to catch the first sign of life. They only stayed in bloom for one day—one day—before the yellow and orange petals closed up and went to sleep for another year.

  It confused me.

  Out of all the flowers in the world, why did he love daylilies so much? Their beauty was so short-lived.

  I asked him once—why he loved them, why he enjoyed temporary things.

  His reply has always stayed with me: “Fleeting beauty is the most precious kind. You appreciate it more.”

  It’s one of my few good memories, and I wish it were strong enough to replace all the others.

  I’m ripped from the reverie by a needle jabbing into the underside of my elbow, a lifeline of sorts, to keep me bound and tethered to this mortal Hell. My fingers curl around the cords in an attempt to pull it out, but I’m hindered by hands and arms and words of protest, words to sedate me while they poison my veins.

  While they try to calm me.

  I want to laugh, a crazed, maniacal laugh, but I can’t recall the last time such a sound escaped my throat, and I wouldn’t even know how.

  So, I just lie there instead, as apathetic as ever.

  Just fucking over it.

  And that’s when I hear it. That’s when something other than my own dispassion, my own resignation, burrows inside and invades me.

  An intrusion.

  It crawls along my skin like decay. Something visceral, raw, unhinged.

  It’s a woman’s scream.

  She’s mourning—howling with an anguish that some fucked-up part of me wishes I could relate to.

  It’s a ballad for the dying.

  I don’t know why I let it in, why I let it cling to me like a dark passenger, but I feel compelled to carry it with me.

  It’s comforting somehow. I’m not alone in my misery.

  As I continue to lie there, the doctors and nurses transform into a blur of flashes and movement, their voices drowning out, words incoherent.

  Maybe it’s the shit they fed me through the IV, polluting my veins.

  Or maybe it’s my new companion.

  Whatever it is, I’m grateful for it, because I realize for the first time in decades that I am calm.

  —THREE—

  I’ll never forget the look on her face when she walks into the small, delicately furnished room, her eyes like acorns, hair dark and curly—a mess of chaos, like my petrified heart.

  Her nametag tells me she is Dr. Whitley, but I think it’s a lie.

  Her expression tells me she’s the Grim Reaper.

  My legs are physically trembling as I stand from the chair, hand planting against the wall for support, while the other grips my chest. I still feel him in there, settled beneath my ribs, beating and warm. The vibrations tickle my fingertips, a soothing lullaby to outplay the dirge.

  “Mrs. March… I’m very, very sorry.”

  Her voice is sweet, so gentle and kind.

  A sympathetic whisper.

  It’s the antipode to the hideous moan that erupts from my core, like I’m a weeping volcano, exploding with denial, disbelief, and hot lava tears.

  She catches me before I hit the ground, but it’s not enough. Her arms weren’t built to hold the weight of my grief, so I fall—I fall so hard, I know there’s no crawling out of this black abyss, this endless hole of disrepair. The sun has permanently set inside me, hijacked by a cruel winter.

  Dr. Whitley wraps her arms around my shaking shoulders as I wail and sob, begging for it to not be true, cursing and blaming and self-destructing in her embrace. She’s trying, I know she’s trying, but her efforts are futile—she did not prepare for this winter, and neither did I.

  I’m not sure how long we stand like that, crumpled in the middle of the bereavement room, but I don’t think it’s very long. Dr. Whitley has more patients to care for, more lives to save.

  More seasons to change.

  Life goes on around me as I numbly follow Dr. Whitley out of the room, and I don’t think I’ve ever borne witness to something so honest.

  So stripped down and painfully raw.

  Conversations in the waiting room. Sitcoms on the television. The rattling of a vending machine while children purchase snacks. Telephones ringing.

  Laughter.

  Someone is laughing while my husband lies dead in a hospital bed.

  It’s then that I grasp the fact that I have my own conversations to have, my own phone calls to make—I need to talk to the detectives who are waiting for me. I need to inform my family.

  I need to inform his family.

  Oh, God.

  His mother. His poor mother.

  My grief washes over me like a tsunami as I make my way through the hospital hallways to say my final goodbye to Charlie.

  But my knees buckle, my ankles giving out, and I collapse before I make it very far.

  My purse falls beside me on the tiles, spilling its contents everywhere. Lip balm, loose change, random receipts, an assortment of junk and knick-knacks.

  All of it stares back at me, a scattered mess of drivel, and I realize, I realize with a sickening cry of horror—

  This is what he died for.

  Two Weeks Later

  The shower jets are hot, pelting me with liquid fire—a feeble attempt to cauterize these open wounds.

  With my palms pressed against the fiberglass walls, fingers splayed, I bow my head when I feel an added warmth trickle down my inner thighs.

  My throat tightens.

  The lump swells as my stomach churns, causing my legs to quake.

  No.

  Please, no.

  I watch in horror, mute and numb, as the water runs red, and my only remaining glimmer of hope disappears down the shower drain.

  It didn’t work.

  Two hours later, I’m curled into the fetal position on the bathtub floor. The water is now ice cold, raining down frost and hailstones.

  Winter is here, and I think it’s here to stay.

  —FOUR—

  One Year Later

  “You
should eat something.”

  I spare West a quick glance before returning my attention to the assortment of baking ingredients strewn about my kitchen countertop. “I will. After the batch of red velvet.”

  “I’m not a cupcake expert, but that looks like vanilla.”

  “It’s cookies and cream.” Swiping my hands along my apron, I avoid eye contact and reach for the hand mixer. “Red velvet is three batches from now.”

  “Melody.”

  West murmurs my name like an affectionate warning—in that way he always has, but more so lately. He’s my big brother, after all, so I suppose he’s entitled. “West.”

  “You’re too old to spoon-feed.”

  I blink. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

  “But I will if I have to.”

  A sigh escapes me, pausing my feet as I lean forward on the heels of my palms. “Tell Mom she doesn’t have to worry. I’m twenty-eight years old. I’ll eat when I’m hungry.”

  He puckers his lips, mimicking my stance on the opposite side of the island. “You look thinner.”

  My eyes flick up to my brother, catching his concerned expression. He looks exactly like our father when he assesses me this way, his eyes all sapphire and sensitive, forehead creased with worry lines. When his dirty blonde hair catches the overhead light, the faintest flecks of silver dance beneath it. He’s six years older than me, but our age difference has never impeded our bond. “West, I’m fine. I promise. I have a crap-ton of orders to get through, so I’m just focused, okay?” I smile for added effect, and because it’s something I’ve always been good at—even when it’s not entirely genuine.

  My brother scrubs a palm down his face, straightening his posture, shoulders deflating with an air of submission. But his eyes don’t leave mine, and I know it’s his way of trying to get the last word in.

  I can’t fault West for always checking in on me, just like I can’t fault Mom for calling a hundred times a day, or Dad for showing up and doing random house projects, or Leah for blowing up my Facebook messenger with GIFs and funny memes to keep me smiling.

  I can’t fault them for caring, just like I can’t fault Charlie’s mother, Eleanor March, for abandoning me when I needed her most.

  She was my final tie to Charlie.

  Charlie was her final tie to me.

  It took a long time for me to realize that those ties were not the same.

  And when ties that bind turn to cinders in your hand, you learn to make new ties. New tethers. So, I started an in-home confectionery business in Charlie’s honor, because of his peach pie eyes and marmalade kisses. He’ll always remind me of sweet things, even on the sourest of days.

  The last few weeks have been a blur of Easter baskets and springtime treats, and now Mother’s Day is right around the corner.

  West watches me mix the batter, gaze drifting from my face to the ceramic bowl, then back up again. He scratches at the nape of his neck. “You’re going to burn yourself out, Mel. You have plenty of money from the life insurance policy and your savings to keep you comfortable for a long time.”

  My grip tightens on the bowl. “It keeps me busy. Distracted.”

  “There are other ways to stay distracted,” he counters. “Why don’t you come out for a beer with me and the guys tonight? Bring Leah.”

  “Leah doesn’t like you.”

  “Leah likes me. She just doesn’t like that she likes me.”

  West shoots me a wink, pulling a reluctant smile from my lips.

  “Besides,” he presses. “A break will do you good. You’re always cooped up here in this… house.”

  There’s an emphasis on the word house—a weighty timbre that makes my skin feel itchy. It’s my house with Charlie, yes, but it feels like his house, and no one understands why I chose to stay here instead of move; why I wanted to strangle myself in these dying roots when I could plant new ones.

  It’s for the same reason I didn’t wash the bedsheets for months, and why I showered with his Irish Spring soap, and why I didn’t have the heart to throw away the mail that had his name on it.

  It’s why I’ll never get rid of my purse—the purse.

  I’m connected to him here.

  I still feel him here.

  And when I finally washed those sheets, when the soap ran out, and when the stacks of envelopes grew too high… I still had this house. His scent lingers on the drapes whenever a tepid breeze blows through. His fingerprints are on these walls, and his custom-built shed sits out back, filled with his tools and hardware. Our prized magnolia tree is blooming to life, bursting with pastel petals, a deceiving contrast to the ghosts that haunt me here.

  I love this house.

  It’s my favorite place to be, ghosts and all.

  “I’ll think about it,” I respond, my tone flat and void. I’m not doing my believability any favors. “Thanks for stopping by.”

  West’s defeated sigh is a prelude to the look of disappointment that I’m certain adorns his face, but I wouldn’t know, because I don’t look up from the cookies and cream cupcake batter. I keep stirring and stirring, mixing and folding, even when I sense him rummaging around the kitchen, sifting through the refrigerator, and poking inside cabinets.

  A few minutes later, I hear him retreat with a hollow goodbye. “I’ll call you later.”

  “Okay. See you.”

  When the front door closes and my brother is gone, I finally release the mixer and lift my eyes from my task. I swallow down a lump when I spot the peanut butter and banana sandwich sitting atop a paper plate, cut diagonally just how I like it, paired with a glass of cold milk.

  “Thank you,” I whisper to the empty kitchen before picking the mixer back up and drowning myself in cupcake orders.

  I keep working.

  I keep going.

  I keep myself busy to the point of exhaustion, because if I don’t burn out… I’ll burn away.

  And that seems infinitely worse.

  I’m just as surprised as West and his friends when I stroll into the brewery that night with Leah’s arm linked through mine. It was a last-minute decision after a black cloud decided to infiltrate me, all sharp teeth and long talons, and even reruns of Veronica Mars couldn’t pull me out of the funk.

  I definitely look the most homeless out of everyone in the bar, with my petite frame swallowed up by one of Charlie’s old hoodies and faded leggings hanging loose off my too-thin legs. I brushed my teeth, but I didn’t brush my hair, and lip gloss is the only makeup that found its way to my face.

  But I’m here.

  And I’m smiling.

  “Ladies, grab some chairs,” one of West’s buddies hollers over to us as we saunter up to the round table, featuring my brother and his two longtime friends, Alex and Shane.

  West leans back in his seat, knees spread, beer dangling between them. The smile he sends me is laced with tenderness before it transforms into something more guileful as he sets his sights on Leah. “Hey, tiger.”

  “Hey, Westley.”

  My best friend gives my upper arm a light pinch, then releases me to drag a chair over to the table, situating herself beside my brother.

  West purses his lips at the sound of his full name as his gaze floats back to me. “I thought I told you not to bring her,” he teases.

  “Yeah, that’s totally what you said.” I watch as Leah flips her shiny black hair over one shoulder and props her high heels up on West’s thigh. These two have been ready to ignite since Leah and I were in high school. I have no idea why it hasn’t happened yet. Pulling my own chair up to the table, I return the welcoming head nods given by Alex and Shane and take a seat. “Long time, no see. How are you guys?”

  Their responses disintegrate into background noise and static almost instantly. Their words are secondary to the sound of my blood pumping through sullied veins, a cruel and constant reminder of the fact that he is gone and I’m still here. Charlie should be next to me, his arm draped protectively around my waist as he
talks sports with West and sips on a craft beer. He’d be deep in conversation right now, fully engaged, and yet his true focus would somehow still be on me.

  Fingers dancing along my hipbone. Ankle crisscrossing with mine beneath the table. An unspoken “I love you” filtering into my ear, the affection palpable.

  I realize I’m smiling and bobbing my head at Alex, watching his lips move, his hands waving animatedly. To him, I’m fully engaged.

  But I haven’t heard a word he’s said—my true focus is elsewhere.

  “Anyway, you look great, Melody. It’s nice to see you out.”

  Alex’s words finally break through my barrier, causing me to blink. I clear my throat. “Thank you. I’ve been so busy lately with the business, it’s hard to find time to socialize.”

  “I feel you. Dad life is a bit of a fun-sucker.”

  So is grief.

  Shane cuts in, his blue-gray eyes pinned on me. “You do look good.”

  For some reason, I glance at Leah, as if he’s speaking to the wrong person.

  Leah’s smile is more genuine, her laugh a little louder, her clothes fashionable and figure-flattering. She’s a vision, and I’m a blur. I never used to fade into the background, but my extroverted personality has dwindled over the last year. It’s been chipped away by scalpels and spears, leaving me feeling small.

  But the smaller I get, the easier it is for me to hide, so I’m content with that for now.

  Leah wiggles her eyebrows at me, almost like permission. Permission to accept this compliment. I duck my head, shifting my attention back to Shane. “Thanks.”

  God, who am I?

  Where did I go?

  I used to be funny. Witty. Chatty.

  Now I’m just a shell of my former self, spewing out lackluster words and robotic replies.

  My fingers curl around the beer that’s been placed in front of me, gripping hard, and I know exactly where I am.