Kismet

by AE Woodward

  Kismet

  Copyright © 2014 by A. E. Woodward

  Interior Design by Angela McLaurin, Fictional Formats

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing.

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Epilogue

  Kismet Playlist

  Acknowledgements

  “A woman’s heart is a deep ocean of secrets.”

  ~Rose Dawson

  Titanic

  It hurts worse than I ever imagined. And that’s not just physical pain, but the emotional as well. Sure it’s painful, but the hurt in my heart is way worse. I’m not ready. It’s too soon. I’m just too young.

  “Katie,” the doctor says, “I’m going to need you to really focus. The baby’s head is right there.”

  I shake my head, the nervousness slowly overtaking my body. The panic I’ve worked so long and hard to push away is slowly starting to make its presence known again. It’s taken every ounce of strength I have to make it through this past year and I’m just about to break down when I feel his hand slide into mine. His warmth and strength feels nice and calming, even though it still doesn’t feel quite right. “You can do this Katie,” he says leaning down and allowing his eyes to lock with mine. “I know you can.” I’m so lucky to have found Michael. He’s perfect. A better person than I ever deserved.

  I nod with resolution, but the sadness in my heart is still buried deep within me. I sit up, grab my knees and push my chin onto my chest. I can do this—especially with Michael by my side. This is what I wanted, and I will not let the remorse overtake me.

  “That’s it, Katie,” the doctor cheers as he leans down, continuing his work. I can see the intent and focus on his face while Michael continues to squeeze my hand. The pain sears through my body, but it’s okay because at least I know I’m still alive. I can feel the pain and that’s half the battle. It’s when I stop feeling that I know I’m in trouble.

  I stop pushing for a brief second, just long enough for me to take a deep breath and rest my head on the pillow. The doctor looks up at me again. “One more push, Katie. You’re almost there.”

  I sit back up, putting all the pent up feelings from the past year into one final push, and letting go of all the tension in my life. Within seconds I hear the cries, and with that one little noise all my fears just melt away.

  One of the nurses tells us that it’s a girl and lays her on my chest. My eyes immediately fall to her headful of dark hair. I gently place my hands on her back and the warmth from her skin brings me to life. She is my reason for breathing. She will be the thing to put me completely back together again. Her and Michael will make my heart whole again.

  I pull her into me, her eyes blinking before she’s finally able to open them and look directly at me. Looking at her with those unmistakable icy blue eyes literally takes my breath away. There’s no denying that she’s his daughter and I hope that I’ve done the right thing. I did what I had to do and made the best choices I could.

  Michael leans down and studies her with me, his face set in a straight line. Panic sets in my chest just before he looks at me. I find myself calming as soon as I catch a glimpse of the warmth radiating from his eyes, he smiles and I know, without a doubt, that this is the right thing. Being here with Michael is exactly what my heart needs. I’ll be happy. I’ll be looked out for, but mostly…

  I’ll be loved.

  5 years later…

  The dream always ends the same. Well, it’s not really a dream, but more like a nightmare. A recurring nightmare that has invaded my sleep every night for I don’t know how long. Referring to it as a nightmare is a weak attempt at fooling myself. I can’t call it a nightmare when in actuality it’s my life. My new, lonely, tormented life.

  Whatever you want to call it, it always starts out the same each time, and even though I know how it ends I can’t do anything to prevent it from happening. I know I can’t change the ending, yet my mind reels with possibilities as to what could have been done differently. If I’d said something, taken longer getting ready, then maybe I wouldn’t be living my nightmare on repeat like the movie “Groundhog Day”. It doesn’t matter what I think, or try to do, it just plays out the same every time, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Nothing can change it.

  Somehow, it always starts from the beginning. We hop in the car for a quick trip to the mall. We need to go pick up some final things for a party, my party. It’s a baby shower. We’re laughing and happy, just the three of us. I feel hope. He doesn’t buckle up, but I don’t say anything because I’m too wrapped up in myself. We sing the “ABC” song and “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” as we drive along the same road we have thousands of times before. It feels familiar. He looks in the rear view mirror at her too much, but I don’t think anything of it because I can’t resist looking at her either. She’s the most beautiful creature I’ve ever laid eyes on. Well, besides him. He gazes into my eyes as he rests his hand on my belly, his face full of love and adoration.

  I feel love.

  And then, without warning, terror. He turns his eyes back to the road as we hear the horns blaring, the tires screeching. And then, it all goes black, and the loneliness slowly creeps in.

  And that’s as far as I make it… every time. It’s then that I wake up screaming, my throat burning.

  Bedridden.

  In a hospital.

  Alone.

  A widow.

  Childless.

  Empty.

  Every miracle, every single thing that had held my life together, stripped from me in a single second.

  I continue screaming while a nurse rushes in and pumps drugs into my I.V. Once I feel the drugs surging through my body, the screams stop and turn to sobs. But there are no tears left, just dry, throaty cries. I feel my body lighten as the drugs find their way through my veins, straight to my broken heart. It won’t heal the damage, but at least I know that I won’t feel the emotional or physical pain for a little while.

  It’s always then that I realize I’m starting to drift back to sleep, but this does nothing but heighten my anxiety. It doesn’t stay dark for long, and knowing that the drugs will eventually wear off and the dreams will start again makes my heart race. The dreams will come back, they always do. In a twisted way, sleep is my enemy because it gives me a false sense of security, even if for only a moment, because at least when I’m awake I know I’m alone.

  It’s not fair, they left me here.

  Alone.

  Alone, with nothing but my own remorse.

  Wanting desperat
ely to be with them, to get a do-over.

  I want to die. There’s nothing, or anyone, left for me to live for. I am worthless. Undeserving of love or happiness.

  Is it possible to die of a broken heart? If it is, I must be close to death because this pain is unbearable.

  I struggle to keep my eyes open. The world around me flitters in and out of focus as my eyelids open and close a few times before the darkness surrounds me, and I succumb to the drugs. I can only pray that my dreams will be barren.

  Just like my life.

  Hearing murmurs coming from a corner of the room, I begin to stir. My eyelids are heavy, more than likely from all the drugs. All I ever do is sleep so I couldn’t possibly be tired. In fact, I should be rested, but I’m not, for my sleep is never really restful. One horrifically painful memory, playing over and over again while I sleep, isn’t exactly my idea of a good night’s rest.

  The more awake I become, the more my curiosity grows, and the faster my heart begins to beat. The anxiety is slowly creeping in again. I do my best to control it, but instead I find myself taking quick shallow breaths. The feeling is all too familiar. I know myself well enough to know that I need to calm down. I’d done it before. In fact, at one point of my life, I’d been a professional at controlling my anxiety, and I know all the strategies to get myself under control. But those strategies I learned so long ago don’t do much for me anymore. In fact, they’re useless… powerless. Just a weak David pitched against an all-too-strong Goliath. The gaping hole in my chest is just too much to overcome.

  They were the only things in my life that made sense, and their love for me was the only thing that kept me going. Without it, I wouldn’t know how to go on living. Like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, Michael had put me back together and Zoe had made me whole again, igniting something deep within me that I thought had been lost forever. I feel a tear prick my eyes. If I had known that morning would be the last time I’d hug her, I would have never let go.

  Eventually, despite the urge to know what’s going on around me, I stop trying to open my eyes. Lying awake, with my eyes still closed, will have to suffice. I’ve completely lost track of time. No one can talk to me about what happened because straight away I start losing it, and they have to drug me again. The two people who loved me unconditionally, are gone. It’s bad enough that I have to relive it every day and night in my dreams, I don’t need someone talking to me about it in my consciousness.

  It’s unbearable to hear about them, and the way they were taken from me. The words cut through my heart, slicing through all my hopes and dreams, and leaving cut up pieces behind. I can’t deal. I won’t deal. So instead, I scream to get them to stop.

  Truth is, I already know what happened, all too well in fact. It’s something that I will never forget, no matter how badly I want to. I just don’t want them, or anyone for that matter, talking to me. I don’t want to think about it. To know that I finally got what was coming to me was punishment enough.

  Pushing my unpleasant thoughts aside, I refocus my attention on the murmuring I heard earlier. I zone in on the familiar voices and I hear the strain in my mother’s. “She needs to say good-bye.”

  I know what she’s talking about, but I don’t want to say good-bye. In fact, I refuse to say good-bye. I won’t. Ever. Saying good-bye means it’s real, and I just can’t face it.

  Not yet.

  Probably not ever.

  How does someone truly cope with the death of his or her whole world? I’ll tell you how. They don’t. That’s how.

  The thought of saying good-bye becomes so real. The weight on my chest unbearable, I shift on the bed, trying to find some sort of relief, even though I know that it’ll never come. My heart pounds uncontrollably and I feel each beat reverberate through my chest, causing my whole body to shake. I take a deep breath through my nose to try and shut it all off, to make the pain and the panic stop, but focusing on my breathing does nothing but heighten my anxiety. The pressure in my chest builds with each painful inhale.

  Listening to my mom discuss what’s right for me, I decide then and there what is the best way for me to deal with my unbearable pain.

  It’s simple really. I haven’t spoken a word since the day my world came crashing down, and I honestly don’t see the point. Words are meant to convey emotions, and I need to be emotionless. I need to choke back my grief, and live the life I deserve to live—one void of hope and emotion. It’s a familiar feeling, and it’s easy. I’m not going to say anything to anybody, ever. I’ve done it before and, as messed up as it sounds, it helped with the pain back then so it certainly can’t hurt now.

  Everyone needs to just give up on me already. The sooner they realize it, the better. I’m lost. I’m gone. Shattered to bits, never to be put back together again. The only solace I can find is that somewhere deep within my own mind, I can be alone and I can remember… even if only for a moment.

  My mother’s shaking voice breaks my thoughts. “I want to take her home, she doesn’t need to be here,” she says franticly. “The only thing they’re doing here is drugging her, and I can do that at home.”

  “Can you, Mom?” My mood lightens momentarily at the sound of his voice. Tommy, my Tommy. My brother in shining armor. “Can you do that?” He’s obviously frustrated, and even in my foggy state I sense that they are arguing. Tommy was always trying to look out for my best interests. He was there with me through everything, even when he didn’t have to be. My heart swells knowing that, years later, he’s still up to bat for me, and he’s still the one who understands me most.

  “Can you listen to her screams? She’s not the same person anymore, Mom. She needs help. Professional help. More help than we could ever possibly give her.”

  “I can help her,” my mother pleads. She’s trying to convince Tommy that she’s right, only she isn’t. Tommy and I both know that. I wish everyone would just understand that there is no helping me. My own anguish engulfs me so that I’m lost. Numb to it all. Indifferent to the suffering of my remaining family. Helplessly searching, I find myself empty, even though I should be fighting to hold on to what’s left.

  “No, Mom, you can’t,” Tommy bites back.

  “You know, we’re all hurting, Tommy. With the state of the farm, and then this. Your father can’t even stand to be in here. He’s got to sit in a waiting room by himself.”

  A choking sound permeates through the room and I know that Mom is trying to keep herself from crying. “We all lost them, she needs to be home with her family so she can get better. So we can all start to heal.”

  I hear the clicking of heels fading and assume that Mom has left. She never allows us to see her cry, preferring to be strong for us, but she can only feign strength for so long. I find myself wishing she’d just cry, let herself break down every now and then. It might make her feel better. On second thought, it probably won’t. After all, my screams don’t do anything for me—besides get the drugs back into my bloodstream.

  Drugs = nothingness.

  Just the way I like it.

  I sigh and shift on the uncomfortable bed. Mom’s right, they’d all lost them, but they didn’t love them like I did. They were my reason for living. I needed them. They were the one thing that made sense in my life.

  My family could never understand the pain I was feeling. The constant pressure in my chest. The lump in my throat. The wrenching pain in my stomach, like I’m being ripped apart from the inside out. The ache in my heart. The agony. The anxiety every time I wake up because I know I’m alone, and the anxiety when I’m going to sleep, because I know the nightmare—or memory—will eventually find its way into my conscious. And the guilt. Guilt because I lived and they didn’t.

  No, they’d never feel it like I do.

  Dejected.

  Bitter.

  Brokenhearted.

  Tears pool behind my eyelids. I want to open them, to see Tommy, but they feel so heavy. Eventually, I win the battle and toss my head to the side, attempting to
find him. My eyes land on the body in the chair next to my bed. His legs are sprawled out in front of him, his head resting on the back as he gazes blankly at the ceiling. I know without a doubt that he’s counting tiles. It’s what we do when we are uncomfortable. That simple mundane act comforts and provides peace for us when we most need it. This would definitely be classed as a time when we need it.

  We’d done it for hours every time I’d been to the doctors growing up, and there were a lot of them. Tommy had insisted that he go with us to all my appointments, which was a good thing because I think I would have fallen apart without him by my side. He and I would lie in the hallway, holding hands and stare at the ceiling while we waited for my turn. Counting our time away, as we referred to it back then. My parents didn’t understand why we did it, and we never explained. But without fail, any time I had a place to be, Tommy was there with me, counting tiles. For us, it was the awake version of counting sheep. Something to pass the time while we waited for miracles.

  My eyes focus and I see Tommy clearly for the first time since the accident. He’s not the version of my brother that I remembered. I do a double take because he doesn’t even look like my Tommy. He was the cheerful one, always smiling and laughing. His exuberance was infectious. Everyone loves Tommy because he’s always happy.

  But the vibrancy is gone. The high-on-life attitude replaced with a man who looks gaunt and tired.

  I lie there with my eyes open for what feels like hours before he finally notices that I am awake. When his eyes meet mine, he leans forward. “Hey, Katie,” he whispers.

  I lift my hand up to him in response, a halfhearted wave of sorts. It feels strange to move, my body almost feels detached… numb and tingly in fact. My mind is such a fog from the countless doses of medication that I couldn’t have formed sentences even if I wanted to. He grabs my hand but I immediately pull it away from him. I don’t deserve to be touched, or loved.

  “Katie, I know you’re hurting but you’ve got to start dealing with things. It’s been two weeks already. I’ve watched you go through this before, and you can’t go back there, Katie…”