Heart on a String

by Susan Soares

  “Oh, sweetie, you can sit here.” She pointed to a chair on the left-hand side of the table. There was a place setting next to me, and one across from me, and one at the head of the table. Brandon came in and set the garlic bread down on the table before sitting down next to me.

  “Nicholas, it’s dinner time!” Mrs. Carter yelled while carrying in the lasagna. She sat on the other side of me at the head of the table.

  Just then a young boy came running into the room. He had a head of moppy, chestnut curls that looked like they needed to be trimmed. I watched as he bounded into the seat across from me and grabbed the biggest piece of garlic bread off the plate.

  “Ahem,” his mother cleared her throat. “Nicholas, if you stop being a crazy child for a moment, you’ll notice Brandon’s friend is here.”

  The boy stopped fidgeting and looked up at me. I smiled weakly. “Hey, you came!” His face beamed with joy.

  “Do you have something you wanted to say to Marissa?” Mrs. Carter asked.

  Nicholas got up from his seat, walked over to me, and threw his arms around me. “Thanks for my balloon.” He squeezed me uncomfortably. “Sorry, I’m a hugger.” He let go and crossed back to his seat.

  Brandon and his mother started to laugh, and I did too. I grabbed a piece of garlic bread, and the knot in my stomach began to loosen. Everything about the dinner — the food, the company, the conversation — felt right. Mrs. Carter asked me about my hobbies, and I told her I enjoyed running and reading. Brandon told a story about the time he tried out for the track team but his shoelace was untied, and he tripped and broke his nose. Funny, his nose looked just fine to me. Nicholas talked about his soccer team, the Wildcats, and how in his last game he scored three goals. Mrs. Carter told me about her latest endeavor of starting a vegetable garden in their backyard. Brandon jokingly said that even a vegetarian would ask for a burger if they saw how sad that garden was, to which Mrs. Carter crumpled up her napkin and threw it at his head.

  They were a normal family. But I knew that there was more to this family than just the laughter and jokes at the dinner table. Their happiness had made me forget about something. The empty chair that sat next to Nicholas reminded me. I bet that’s where he used to sit. Bobby’s seat. Where he would sit and joke with Nicholas. Where he would spill his milk and burp loudly the way young boys do. My eyes became fixated on that chair. And then it happened.

  “Who’s ready for dessert?” Mrs. Carter asked.

  “I am, I am!” Nicholas shouted. “Is it triple fudge brownies? We haven’t had those in, like, forever.” The room went silent. I looked to Brandon who was looking at Nicholas. When I changed my view to Mrs. Carter, I saw her slightly slumped in her chair, her head looking down at her lap.

  “Brandon,” she began, an audible crack in her voice, “please get the carrot cake from the kitchen and serve it. I’ll be in my room for a minute.” She excused herself from the table, her gaze never coming up. Her head continued to hang low as she walked away, and I heard her sniffle.

  “What?” Nicholas said to Brandon, who was still staring at him.

  “Nothing.” Brandon tossed his napkin on his plate. “Why don’t you grab some paper plates and plastic forks, and I’ll help you in a minute.”

  “Okay.” Nicholas shrugged and bopped off into the kitchen.

  I uncomfortably cleared my throat. “Is everything okay?” I knew it wasn’t but I didn’t know what else to say.

  “It’s just, triple fudge brownies is, I mean, was Bobby’s favorite dessert. It just hits my mom sometimes. Like, she’s trying so hard to keep things normal for us, for Nick, and I can see her doing that. I know it’s good for Nicholas, you know, to have the stability and everything, but I hear her crying in her room at night. And it’s moments like that, like the brownie comment, that can hit her like a shovel to the face.” During the whole time he had been talking, he stared down the hallway his mom had walked, as if trying to send her his thoughts or his comfort.

  ****

  Six months after my mom passed away, I stood in the junior’s dress department of the high-end department store that graced our local mall. It was prom season, and the place was milling with girls trying on every dress in the store, hoping to find that one perfect dress for that special night. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to go. I mean, I don’t dance, and I didn’t have a boyfriend. But when Brian Smith asked me, how could I say no? We grew up two houses apart from each other. We shared the same bus stop, same homeroom, and same lemonade stand when we were five. My mother and his mother were close friends, and it was my grandmother who told me how wonderful it would be if we went together. She even layered on the guilt by saying how much it would have pleased my mother to see me and Brian going together. I didn’t think my mom wanted Brian and me to be an item, but my grandmother’s guilt was too powerful of a force to fight against. Plus the fact that she gave me her store credit card.

  So there I was in the dressing room, surrounded by chiffon and lace and the sounds of girls gabbing and giggling. I had tried on three dresses so far. A pink A-line satin dress that made me look like my hips were too big. A knee-length, red, sequined dress that made me look like a street walker. A floor-length, aquamarine blue dress that made me look like a distant cousin of a mermaid. And then I found it. An eggplant, satin, swing skirt dress. It was classic and stylish. A demure pin-up style. Like a five year old, I twirled around in front of the mirror, and the fabric made a delicious swishing sound. To get a better look, I left the comfort of my dressing room and ventured out to the large three-way mirror in the hall. My hands smoothed down the front of my dress while I waited for a girl who was complaining to her mother about not letting her buy the dress she was wearing. The dress in question was shorter than a miniskirt, maybe micro-mini, silver-rhinestoned, and strapless. The girl was throwing a temper tantrum, and her mother just kept shaking her head. Finally, the girl stormed off, vowing never to speak to her mother again.

  I stood on top of the circular platform and admired my dress in the mirrors. The grin on my face was that of a six-year-old girl who just came home from trick-or-treating with an overflowing bag of candy. Over and over again, I twirled like a ballerina, and the dress twirled with me. I couldn’t wait to show it to my grandmother. Just as I was about to step down from the platform, a sales lady beelined over to me.

  “Oh my, look at you!” She was short and plump and had a tape measure hung around her neck. “Why you won’t even need any alterations with that dress. It fits you like a glove.” She was flattening out some wrinkles around the bottom of the dress with her hands.

  I looked in the mirror again. It was just so beautiful. “Thanks, I love it.” I said.

  “And your mother is just going to die when she sees you in that. You look so lovely.” She didn’t mean anything by it, of course. How could she have known? The words pierced through me like a harpoon to my heart. I raced off the platform and nearly tripped on my way back to the dressing room. In tears, I pulled and tugged trying to get the dress off, which now felt like it was glued to me. As fast as I could, I pulled my jeans and T-shirt back on. My shirt was backward, and I didn’t care as I dashed from the dressing room. I race-walked all the way out to my car, where I then sat and cried.

  The night of the prom, I watched a Harry Potter movie marathon on television.

  Chapter Eleven

  I was wiping some cream cheese frosting off the corner of my mouth when Mrs. Carter walked into the living room. We had taken our carrot cake and coffee from the dining room, and I hoped she wasn’t going to get upset at us.

  “Dessert on the couch?” she said with her right eyebrow raised. “I love it.” After clapping her hands together she reached for a plate. She sat in a big recliner that almost swallowed her as she ate.

  Nicholas was playing with some model cars on the floor. “Can we watch TV?”

  “Not until seven,” Mrs. Carter answered.

  “Aw, Mom. Why?” He crashed a police car into a
fire truck.

  Mrs. Carter took a sip of coffee. “Because the TV doesn’t come on until just before bedtime.” Her tone was solemn.

  I watched Brandon walk over to Nicholas and ruffle up the hair on top of his head. “Listen squirt, later on we’ll play gin rummy together, okay?”

  “Yeah!” Nicholas shouted and raced out of the room with an armful of cars.

  Brandon sat down next to me again. “He loves gin rummy.” He took his last bite of cake. “I always let him win.”

  I felt a warmth creep up through my belly.

  “You’re a good brother,” Mrs. Carter said. She didn’t look at him when she said it. Her face was still distant. Probably thinking of Bobby. “Marissa, how about your family?” she asked me.

  My right knee began bobbing up and down. “Yes, I love to play gin rummy too.” I swallowed hard.

  “That’s nice.” She cocked her head to the side as she looked at me. “I meant, what about your parents? What do they do?”

  My nerves were starting to creep out. I bit my bottom lip. It was merely seconds, but I felt like everything in the room had frozen. The only thing I could focus on were her eyes, staring at me. Questioning me. I wanted to seep into the couch, never to be seen again, like a lost sock. Still unsure of what to say, I opened my mouth to begin to speak, just as the phone rang. The house phone was ringing loud and clear, breaking the silence. Thank goodness, I thought.

  “Excuse me,” Mrs. Carter said as she got up to answer it.

  Feeling like my legs were going numb, I readjusted myself in my seat. I caught Brandon’s eyes, and he smiled at me. “So mystery girl, what are the details of your life?”

  What did he mean by that? I couldn’t just open up here, in his house, with his mother ten feet away. How could I just blurt out the fact that my mom died of cancer? Even if he could understand, and even though he probably would. My mind played tug-o-war with itself. He was grieving; he lost his brother. If anyone would understand, it would be him. When I looked into his soft hazel eyes, instead of feeling calm I felt panic. A tremble like that of an earthquake shook through my entire body, and I did the only thing I could think of. I ran.

  “I’m so sorry. I have to go.” I stood and headed for the front door.

  Brandon’s long gait followed me. “Hey, Marissa, wait.”

  I pulled my coat off the hook near the front door and slung it over my arm. “I’m sorry,” I blurted out again.

  “What’s wrong? Why are you bolting?” Brandon stood in front of me, partially blocking the door.

  “I-I’m an idiot,” I stammered. “I totally forgot about this project I have due, like tomorrow. I… I haven’t even started typing my notes up for it. I’m so sorry.” I could feel the sting from the tears that were beginning to well up. This wasn’t the time or the place. I had to get out of there, and fast. My hand reached for the doorknob, which was just behind his back.

  Even though my eyes were on the door I could feel him looking at me. I stared at his chin for a moment then let my gaze reach his eyes — those eyes that seemed to look through me. It felt like they could see the lie, and they wanted to see the truth. A truth I couldn’t let escape. Not now. Not yet.

  “Thanks for dinner,” I said before shifting my body so he had to move from the door. While I sprinted to my car, I never looked back. But I knew he was watching me.

  ****

  It was one a.m, and I was staring at my computer. My eyes were strained, and I still kept staring at the images on the screen. Fuzzy, grainy images of Marc; the only other person on Earth who could understand what I was going through. Marc was the other person who lost his mother, our mother. She was the one who kept our little family together. She made us eat dinner together every night no matter what. She made us write apology notes to each other if we used the word “hate” directed at one another. She made us tell each other why we were thankful to have each other as siblings at Thanksgiving. She made us make each other a handmade ornament every Christmas. She reminded us over and over again that family was everything, there was nothing more important than family. And now, all I had left of our little family was pictures of my mom and pictures of Marc. But only one of them was dead. The other was off, no one knew where, ostracizing himself from the one other person in this world that knew what he was going through. I needed him. I needed him so much. There was no one else out there that could relive the details of the story of the golden goose. Right now, all I wanted was to talk, and to recount that story with Marc.

  ****

  It was my eighth birthday, and Mom took us to my favorite restaurant. The one with the all-you-can-eat pizza buffet, along with a huge area filled with arcade games. We had just finished eating our fair share of cheese pizza, and then it was on to game time. I took my cup full of tokens and headed to the pinball machines. Marc took off for the basketball net game. For some reason I was a master pinball player. Marc would never play against me. My mom said it was because I had such good eye-hand coordination. I just liked seeing the machine light up. Several games later, I decided to move on. To my left was my nemesis machine: the claw game. A simple idea of inserting a coin, positioning a mechanical claw over a stuffed animal, and then having the claw retrieve said animal and drop it down the chute for the winner to enjoy. But it never happened. Why I always spent half my money on the claw game, I’ll never understand. But here I was again. Token after token, I watched the claw loosely grab onto the edge of the goose I wanted, only to let it drop back down again.

  “Why do you waste your time here?” Marc stood near me, mocking me.

  Defiantly, I placed my last token in the machine. Like a trained ninja, I positioned the claw right where I wanted it, and I pressed the button. I held my breath as the goose began to rise up out of the pile, and I bit my lip as it descended down the winner’s chute and into my hand. I danced around merrily as Marc’s mouth gaped open.

  At home, I told Marc how my goose was going to lay golden eggs for me. It was my birthday after all, and I assumed all geese laid golden eggs, so mine would certainly oblige.

  That night, I fell asleep dreaming of the glittery gold eggs that would await me the next day. But something woke me from my slumber — some noises from the kitchen. I tiptoed out of bed and walked to the kitchen. There I saw Marc and my mother carefully positioning a stack of golden eggs in front of my goose.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, startling them both.

  “Look!” Marc shouted. “Golden eggs!”

  Hesitantly, I walked over to them. My mother was smiling, but Marc was grinning like a cat that had eaten a family of mice. While scratching my head, I looked back and forth at them and then at the eggs. Then I spotted the egg carton poking out of the trashcan. My little eight-year-old self, instead of being flattered at the trouble they had gone to in making me golden eggs, was enraged that they were tricking me. I picked up an egg from the pile.

  “Nice, huh?” Marc said. A moment later I splattered the egg against his stomach. “Hey!” he yelped. Then he grabbed an egg and cracked it on my head. I grabbed another, and so did he, and we began chasing each other around the kitchen table, dripping with egg, and laughing so much my sides hurt.

  All the while, my mother kept saying, “Children please, stop that, stop it right now, this is no way to behave.”

  Then Marc, while aiming for me, splattered an egg across my mother’s backside. She looked at him, and then quicker than a blink, she grabbed an egg and splattered it on his head. We had an egg war in the middle of the night in our kitchen. We laughed until we had trouble breathing. It was the best birthday I’d ever had.

  ****

  It was Monday, and a Monday at school always meant tired students and grumpy teachers. To my surprise, I managed to stay somewhat awake in all my classes. In study hall, I nodded off briefly before Zoe threw a pencil at me. I was glad Brandon had his classes on another floor — less chance of us running into each other. A pang of guilt hit my heart when he texted me
around lunchtime.

  Wanna grab a bite outside?

  I texted back, Sorry must study. A lie.

  Once classes let out I raced through the parking lot to get to my car. Unfortunately, Brandon was already there. “Hey.” His smile was bright, and I wanted to not like it as much as I did.

  “Hey.” I adjusted my book bag on my shoulder, its weight suddenly feeling like one hundred pounds.

  He brushed his hand through his hair, and I felt a prickling sensation at the base of my neck. “So tomorrow’s May fifth,” he said.

  Unsure of what he meant, I replied, “Very good.” Very good? What did that mean?

  He looked amused. “You’re funny. May fifth is Senior Skip Day. Now, I know you’re just a sad little junior, but I was thinking you might want to partake in some good, clean Senior Skip Day fun.” The way his eyes danced at me was as if they had taken ballet classes.

  “Good, clean fun, huh?” I tried to sound aloof, but I wasn’t sure why I was doing that.

  “Yeah, I was thinking you’d like to go to the beach with me. Now, I don’t swim, so have no fear that this invitation is simply a young man’s lurid attempt to see you in a bikini. No ma’am, this is good clean fun, as I previously stated. Just a walk on the boardwalk, maybe a slice of pizza, and a few games of pinball.”

  My ears perked up. “Did you say pinball?”

  “I’ll say it again if it means you’ll say yes.” His grin was infecting me with butterflies in my belly.

  “Okay.” I held back my smile.

  “I’ll pick you up then. Where do you live?” I pulled a corner off a piece of loose-leaf paper and scrawled my address on it. He took it from my hand, and as our fingers touched, I swear I felt a spark. “Great. Nine a.m. Okay?”