Heart on a String

by Susan Soares

  My feet pounded against the pavement. While trying to focus, I took a misstep and almost rolled my ankle. I could hear my track coach’s — correction, my former track coach’s — voice in my head. “Watch your footing, Marissa!” Coach Moore used to say that to me all time.

  Truth be told, I wasn’t that good at track, but my mom had convinced me to join. She had loved running track when she was in high school and, in a lot of ways, I wanted to be just like her. So, I decided to give it a try. My strongest attribute was that I was consistent. I had a consistent pace, a consistent pattern, I consistently came to practice, and consistently ran on my own at home. More than anything else, I liked the stability of it. After my mom died, I didn’t want to do anything or be part of anything anymore. Coach Moore was super sympathetic, and so were the girls on the team. My grief was too intense, and I just couldn’t get all hyped up over stupid competitions and being a happy team player when I was dying inside. Losing that part of my life did make me miss the stability of it though. Only a few weeks after my mom died, I started running again, on my own. It felt good to be out, free, in the open air. No one bothered me or asked me how I was feeling. I could run as fast or as slow or as long as I wanted. Running became a constant for me. Part of me always wanted to keep running, to run away, forever.

  The air smelled good and clean, and I was proud of myself for being out there even if I was going to venture down Cujo’s… I mean, Roxie’s street. My best bet would have been to keep a quick pace past her house. Maybe she wouldn’t be near the front door (like she always was) or maybe she’d be busy eating her breakfast. I focused on my pace and looked straight ahead. Nothing could divert my attention.

  Then the smell of something sweet and fattening wafted through the air. My senses kicked into overload as I inhaled deeply to enjoy the scent of fresh blueberry muffins. I turned my head to see a woman fanning over a bunch of muffins she had placed on her windowsill. Did people still do that? At this hour? Who was she, Betty Crocker? Oh how I would have liked to stop my jog there, grab a muffin, and sit down for a cup of chai tea. No, I had to keep running! A moment on the lips means a lifetime… what was that? What did I just step in? Disoriented, I stopped my jog and looked down at my right shoe. No, no, please don’t let that be what I think it is. I looked behind me a few steps to see the pile of dog excrement I had just run through. Seriously!

  “Oh, look what you did,” a woman in a baby blue terrycloth robe said to me while looking down at the mess. What I did? “I was just coming to pick that up, and you made it a big mess.”

  Then I heard the barking. I looked to the woman’s front door, and saw Roxie on her hind legs barking her head off. She clawed at the glass door, begging to come out and tear me to shreds. Cujo!

  On instinct, I started running again. I didn’t want to be around when the lady opened her door to go inside, and Roxie was set free to get me. I faintly heard the lady say, “Thanks a lot!” As if I was the one who made her dog go on the sidewalk!

  The rest of my run was uneventful and stinky. After attempting to scrape off the dog feces from my shoe, I dragged myself into the house and waved to Gram who was sitting at the kitchen table, eating her usual breakfast of toast and eggs while sipping a cup of black tea.

  “What’s that smell?” she asked as I crossed through the room.

  “My life.” I replied.

  ****

  When I arrived at school, I scanned the hallway for Zoe, but there was no sign of her. If I didn’t catch her before first period I wouldn’t see her until English class much later that day. I had to try to find out if Brandon was in school today or not. The bell rang as I was sending Zoe a text.

  Hey, u here? U know if Brandon’s here?

  I had just sat down at my desk when I felt my phone vibrating in my purse. Casually, I peered into my bag as if I was searching for a pencil and looked at the return text Zoe sent me.

  Out sick. Me I mean. IDK about Brandon. Lemmie text Darren.

  Great. I hated dealing with the cafeteria without Zoe. Not that I was some sort of outcast or something. It’s just you have your “socially-assigned” seating going on in the lunch room, and when that delicate balance is thrown off, it tends to make me edgy. My phone vibrated again, and this time I had to fake that the pen I had in my hand had stopped working so I needed to check my purse for another one. Zoe’s text blazed at me.

  Yup, Brandon there today. U gonna talk to him?

  I was just trying to skillfully type my reply when Mr. Crooger walked up to my desk.

  “Here you are, Marissa.” He placed two brand new ballpoint pens down on my desk. “Now, I trust we can get back to American History if that’s all right with you.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.” Oops. I had to wait until halfway through class before I asked for a bathroom pass. That’s when I sent my text back to Zoe. Which simply said:

  IDK.

  For the rest of my morning, I was pretty out of it. Luckily I didn’t get called on by any of my teachers. Good thing too, because I wouldn’t have been able to answer any of the questions they might’ve had for me. I was too busy thinking about Brandon. Questions raced through my mind as I walked into my last class. Would I run him down again once he got out class at the end of the day? Would he even give me the chance to apologize to him? I had to say something to him. My hand covered a yawn that escaped my mouth; I had been up half the night just trying to think of it from his perspective. How would I have felt if I had been on the receiving end of getting that letter returned to me? Most likely, I would have broken down. But, that was how it was after my mom passed away.

  ****

  I had never been inside a cemetery before the day we went for her burial. There’s not much I remember about that day. It’s kind of a fog. We all got herded there from the church ceremony. Marc and Gram and I sat quietly inside our limo. That was also the first time I’d been inside a limo, which I thought was odd. I’d always pictured my first limo ride being to my prom, not to my mother’s funeral.

  It was November, but it was an unseasonably warm day. We stood at the gravesite, and the sun was beating down on my face. I remember thinking that my mom was somehow responsible for the sun; she wouldn’t want us all standing there in the pouring rain. She loved the sun, and it was bright and powerful that day. The casket was covered with flowers, and I tried to focus on what types of flowers were in the bouquets. It was a way to stop my mind from going crazy, a way to stop it from thinking about where I was and what was happening. The priest was wearing sandals, and I was obsessed with his toes, which were disgusting. He was saying some prayer, and my brother was squeezing my hand, and all I could do was stare at this priest’s toes. Why wouldn’t he get a pedicure if he was going to wear open-toe sandals? Or at least clip them. I mean, they look like talons sticking out.

  When the ceremony was over, we walked back to our limo. Marc told me it would be okay about fifty times.

  “We’ll be fine. You and me, kid. We’ll be fine.” Ha, what a lie that was.

  Gram had the idea to take us back to the grave on the one-month anniversary. She felt that had been enough time for what had happened to sink in. It wasn’t, and it never would be. We agreed to go to keep her happy. On the Internet, she had read how lots of children of deceased parents feel better when they write a letter to the loved one, attach it to a balloon, and then let it go at the grave. I knew there was no way this was going to make me feel better. She wasn’t going to get it. It’s not like there was some magic wind carrying these balloons and these love letters to Heaven. It was stupid. A stupid idea. But could I tell that to my grandmother? Never.

  Dear Mom,

  This is my letter to you in Heaven. How you’re going to get this, I don’t know. Why I’m even bothering to write this, I don’t know. I guess because it makes Gram feel better. I wonder what Marc is writing in his letter. Even though we knew it was coming, I still don’t understand. You’re so beautiful. I’m sure you still are in Heaven. You w
ere so… young. Too young. I can’t even bear to mention all the things that you’re going to miss out seeing me do, so I won’t. I can’t. I wish people didn’t know you died. They look at me different. They pity me. They think I’m a freak. I feel like I have this new name attached to me. Like people are saying, “Who’s that?” “Oh that’s Marissa, her mom died.” I hate it. I know you didn’t do it on purpose. I know you didn’t cause yourself to get cancer. I hate cancer. I hate every abusive cancerous cell that infected your body! I’m crying now. Can you see me? Oh, Mom. You were the best mom ever. I love you so much. I miss you like crazy. I wish I could talk to you so bad. I sprayed some of your perfume on my pillow. I love you. Please stay close to me, okay? I hope you get this letter. With everything in my heart, I hope you do. I love you.

  Your loving daughter,

  Marissa

  I think I cried for the next hour. That’s when Gram came to tell me to get my coat on and that it was time to go. It was early December, and it was freezing. There hadn’t been any snow yet, but it felt like it in the air. The sky was gray, and that’s how I felt. Gray. At the grave, Gram handed me some tape and a red heart-shaped balloon, and she handed another balloon to Marc.

  “Where’s your letter?” I asked him.

  He took out a black sharpie and wrote on the balloon. I love you Mom. To me, it seemed like kind of a cheap move. I had worked hard on my letter, and he just wrote “I love you” on the balloon. Humph. Well, I knew whose balloon Mom was going to like better. We stood at the grave for what seemed like an hour — it was probably five minutes — while Gram read one of Mom’s favorite poems out loud, Stay Gold by Robert Frost. My bottom lip was quivering, and I didn’t wipe away the tears as they streaked down my face.

  “Okay Marc, why don’t you go ahead?” Gram said. Marc’s eyes were glassy, and he cleared his throat before he spoke.

  “This one’s for you, Mom.” He let his balloon go. It quickly traveled straight upward. My balloon was clutched in my hand.

  “Whenever you’re ready, Marissa,” Gram said as she rubbed my shoulder.

  Looking at the balloon, I wondered how it was going to make the long journey to Heaven. Somehow in my heart, I knew it would, though. I closed my eyes and kissed the balloon. My lips left a light pink lip gloss mark, and I let it go. It began a slow ascent, the letter giving it a bit of weight. That’s when the wind shifted, and my little balloon made its way into a tree.

  “Noooooooo!” I shouted as I watched Marc run toward the tree. My brain was spinning. She won’t get it! She’ll never get it! She has GOT to get my letter! Oh Mom! The tree was big, and the balloon was dangerously close to the top. I thought there was no way Marc could get it. But I watched in awe as my brother scaled that tree like a monkey. He was relentless even as the smaller, weaker limbs were breaking under his feet. My heart pounded in my chest, and I could barely breathe. After what felt like hours, as my legs stayed cemented in the spot I was standing, Marc descended down the tree, with the balloon, intact, in his hand.

  “Here, try again,” he said as he handed me the balloon. He was out of breath, and he had some scrapes on his face. I grabbed him and squeezed him tightly, my tears seeping through his favorite blue jacket. “All right, all right.” Gently, he pushed me off him. “Just do it right this time.” He playfully punched my arm.

  A chuckle caught in my throat. Without saying a word, I let the balloon go. This time, it sailed high into the sky. I felt part of my heart soaring off with it, my heart on a string.

  ****

  Back in class, the sound of the bell jolted me. Scanning the room, I saw all the other students gathering their books and beginning the mad dash out the door. I collected my things and began pushing my way through the sea of bodies in the hallway. When I managed to reach the third floor, I was deflated. Brandon’s classroom was empty. There was no way I could beat him to the parking lot. The group of guys playing hacky sack in front of me would make sure of that. I walked down the two flights of stairs in unison with all the other students. When I managed to get outside, I scanned the parking lot for his truck. It wasn’t where it was parked yesterday, but then again we didn’t have assigned parking. Maybe my apology wasn’t going to happen today — if ever.

  “Hey,” I heard someone say behind me. “Marissa, right?”

  The male voice had gotten closer now. I turned around and looked up into a pair of deep-set hazel eyes. Brandon’s eyes.

  Chapter Seven

  “Yeah. I mean, hi.” My palms began to itch as he stepped toward me.

  “Could we…” He paused and let out a heavy sigh. “Talk?”

  “Talk?” I repeated. The word sounded foreign coming out of my mouth, like it was the first time I had ever said it. “Well, yeah. I mean, okay.” The action of putting thoughts cohesively together was eluding me.

  “There’s a little coffee shop on Main Street.”

  “Oh yeah, Main Street Coffee Shop. I know the place.” The more I spoke, the dumber I felt.

  His mouth turned up into a gentle smile, and I felt a flutter inside me. “Yeah, that’s the one. Do you need a ride?”

  “Oh, no. I’m good. I mean, I have my car. I’ll meet you over there.” I could feel beads of sweat forming on my brow, and I hoped he didn’t notice.

  “Okay, I’ll see you there in a few.” We walked together, but apart, as we found our way to our cars. I gave him a lame wave and ducked inside my car.

  While I drove to the coffee shop, I began to panic. What if he was angry? He didn’t seem angry but what if he was trying to be all cool at school with all the other students around, and now at the coffee shop he was going to lay into me. Wait — there would be people in the coffee shop too. He had too much time to think about what he was going to say to me. But I hadn’t had nearly enough time to figure out what I was going to say. Okay, that wasn’t true. I had thought about this apology over and over again, but I never thought he’d be the one to ask me to talk. This completely threw me off. What was his intention? Before I could drive myself any nuttier with questions, I arrived at the Main Street Coffee Shop. As I parked my car, I watched him walk inside. Butterflies were going to war inside my stomach.

  “Have a seat.” He waved his hand at the chair adjacent to him. “Oh wait, a drink. What do you want?”

  “What? Me? Oh, I’ll go up and get it myself.” He was standing to the side of me, and all of a sudden, I felt claustrophobically uncomfortable. Man, he was tall.

  “I’m going up there anyway. What do you want?”

  I avoided his eyes as I pulled two dollars out of my purse and handed it to him. “Just a medium coffee. Thanks.”

  He let out a small laugh as he took my money and walked to the counter. It was hard to get a read on him. Of course it had only been a total of maybe three minutes since we’d been here, but I still wondered what his deal was. His tone wasn’t friendly, but it wasn’t upset either. It was just sort of flat.

  “Coffee.” He said as he put the cup in front of me.

  “Thanks.” I took the cover off to let it cool faster.

  Brandon put his cup on the table then leaned back far in his chair. “So,” he began. He looked at me, and his eyes seemed to be emitting heat through my body. So much so that I wanted to take my cardigan off. “I don’t exactly know what to say.”

  My heart began to race.

  “I guess I’ll start with… thank you,” he said.

  What? “Hold on, you’re thanking me?” My voice raised an octave in my astonishment.

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t want to, like, have me arrested or something?”

  He let out a laugh. “Have you arrested? You’re kind of weird, you know that?” He shook his head and mumbled the word “arrested” again as he leaned forward and took a sip of his coffee.

  “I just, I know how mad you were the other day.” I made circles on the table with my index finger.

  He sighed. “I know. I was. It’s just…” It seemed like
he was searching for words in the air. “You took me off guard, you know?”

  “I know. And I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you yesterday, but you weren’t in school.” I wanted to go into this big speech I had prepared about how sorry I was — how truly, deeply, sorry I was — but I didn’t. Instead, I just took a sip of my coffee and subsequently burned my tongue.

  “So can you tell me again how you got the letter?” His voice was soft, and he leaned closer to me

  I began fidgeting with the zipper-pull on my purse. “You see, Brandon.” Saying his name made my tongue feel hot. Where would I start? “The short version is I’m a runner, and that cemetery is along one of the routes I run. So, my shoelace came untied, and when I was tying it, I happened to see your family. I saw the little boy and his balloon. I didn’t think much of it.” Now that was a lie. “Anyway, when I came back that way at the end of my run, I saw the balloon in the tree, and I recognized it as yours so I got it down.” There, short and sweet.

  “But, why?” he said with simple curiosity.

  “I thought I saw something attached to it, so I figured it was a letter and that’s why I thought I should get it down.” Please don’t see through the holes in that explanation.

  “So you just had to tug on it and it came down then?” He cocked his head to one side.

  I looked at his deep-set, hazel eyes for a moment and then quickly looked away. “No, I… I had to climb the tree.”

  “You climbed the tree to get the balloon out?” Pure shock was in his voice.

  Casually, I sipped my coffee, burnt tongue be warned. “Yeah, it was no big deal.”

  He started scanning my face, and when his eyes caught mine, I quickly looked to the table. “I don’t understand your motivation,” he said.

  “Ha!” An overt, loud laugh escaped me. “It was no big deal.”