This Heart of Mine

by C. C. Hunter

  Then the fear twists and turns. It’s not about Eric anymore.

  It’s about not being able to breathe.

  It’s about those months that breathing was hard, before I got the artificial heart. It’s about dying.

  I force myself to draw in one shallow breath. Then another. I block out the terror enough to do my breathing techniques.

  In. One, two, three. Out. One, two, three.

  In. Out. In. Out.

  My chest loosens. My lungs soften. I stop rejecting oxygen.

  I don’t move for several minutes. Just lay there. Breathing. Clearing the clingy cobwebs of fear from my sleep-dazed mind.

  I’m not dying, I tell myself. I have a new heart. I have Eric’s heart.

  Then I remember. I sit up and turn on my bedside lamp and grab the pad and pen. I force myself to recall. Recall everything I saw. Everything I felt. I write it down. When I’m finished, I start back at the beginning.

  I keep writing, not rereading, just writing until I have nothing else. I drop the pen and paper and cut off the light. I sit there. The red illuminated numbers on my clock seem to scream at me.

  Four A.M.

  Sleep. I need sleep. I fall back on my pillow. The things I dreamed, the things I wrote keep flashing in my mind. Then I hear it over and over again. The sound of the gun firing.

  What did it mean? I didn’t hear the voice this time. I didn’t really feel I was being chased. Or did I?

  I hear Brandy’s voice from earlier. You and Matt have both been through hell. I think you both might just be … I don’t know … maybe not seeing things right.

  When she left, I went on the Internet and read every article I could find about Eric’s case.

  I hate to admit it, but she’s right. Everything pointed to suicide.

  But then how can I explain the dreams? I clutch my pillow.

  “Is this you, Eric?” I whisper into the somber darkness of my pink bedroom. “Did someone kill you? Or did you kill yourself?”

  Just asking the question makes me feel like a traitor to Matt.

  And Leah Mallory McKenzie isn’t a traitor.

  At least, Old Leah wasn’t.

  * * *

  My alarm yells me awake at 8:55 A.M. I slap it off. Eyes still closed, I palm my bedside tabletop looking for …

  The dream rakes through my mind. I feel the buzz of fear shoot through me. I remember my doubts about how Eric died.

  I brush the pad and pen off the nightstand. They thud to the wood floor. The sound of the pen rolling away echoes in the room.

  Running my hand over the smooth tabletop surface, I don’t stop until I find the thermometer. Opening my eyes, staring at the ceiling, I do my morning and nighttime ritual—temperature reading and blood pressure check.

  My temperature is normal. The blood pressure is…? I stare at it. It’s … I blink, refocus, and stare harder as if that might change it. Nothing changes.

  It’s high. Too high. I remember the dream. I remember reliving the panic from the dream right before I took my blood pressure. I’m sure it’s that.

  I feel fine, don’t I? Fear slices through my mind like a sharp knife. I remember not being able to breathe after the dream.

  I remember hearing Mom cry all those nights when I was sick. Recall seeing her rubbing her hands up and down her jeans. So afraid.

  I do a mental diagnostic workup.

  Breathing fine. Check.

  No pain. Check.

  No lethargic feeling. Check.

  Heart palpitations. Uhh? Only when I’m close to Matt or when I dream. I recall last night. I was scared, that’s all.

  I conclude I’m fine. I’m not a doctor, but with all I’ve been through, I should at least have earned a nursing degree.

  I retake the blood pressure.

  Lower, but still high. It’s the dream.

  Frowning, I start to write down my numbers. Then, knowing my mom will check, I fudge. But I put a dot beside it, so I’ll remember. And if it’s high tonight, I’ll have to say something.

  I pause and feel better remembering that tomorrow I’ll see Dr. Hughes.

  I push myself up to go get my pills. Mom won’t allow me to keep them in my room because she wants to see me take them. No doubt she’s sitting at the kitchen table already worrying that I’m thirty seconds late.

  “Good morning, Sunshine.” Mom smiles when I walk into the kitchen.

  She always says that. I was born at 5 A.M. and Dad says that those were the first words she said to me. Sometimes it’s annoying. But when I really got sick, before I got the artificial heart and was on oxygen and a huge heart machine, it was hearing those words first thing in the morning that convinced me I was still alive. I remember worrying that when I died and found myself in an afterlife, that it wouldn’t feel right not hearing them.

  I had even had a plan in place. I was telling my grandma she had to say them to me.

  That thought gives my heart a quaky, achy feeling. I push it away and offer Mom a smile. I want to hug her, but I’m afraid she’ll know I’m emotional.

  “All good?” she asks.

  She means my temperature and blood pressure. I turn to the fridge for milk so I don’t have to look at her when I lie. “Yup.”

  “You want some cereal?” she asks. “I left it out.”

  “Sure.” I set the milk on the table and grab a bowl and a glass.

  “You look tired. You feeling okay?”

  “Fine,” I say with confidence that I don’t feel bad.

  “Did you stay up too late reading?”

  She knows me well. “Yeah.” And it’s the truth. I had needed something to take my thoughts off Eric. And the book was amazing. Sexy, suspenseful, and seriously funny.

  “Another romance novel?” Her tone says it all.

  I nod and slug my pills down with milk. Like Sandy and LeAnn, Mom’s a bit of a prude when it comes to her reading tastes. She doesn’t really approve of my reading romances, but she hasn’t told me to stop either.

  Then again, she can’t. Not when I caught her reading Fifty Shades of Grey. Just to find out what all the hype is about, she’d said. Right, Mom!

  I reach for the cereal bowl. “Heart healthy” is printed in large letters on the package. And it shows a bowl of cereal topped with strawberries. Generally when they show fruit on top, it’s because you’re gonna need it.

  And I can’t eat fresh fruit. Well, I can if it’s guaranteed clean. Mom doesn’t want to take a chance. Me, either. I like this living thing.

  I fill my bowl with the dry flakes, drown it with milk, and grab a spoon.

  “I thought we could go shopping and pick up some school clothes,” Mom says.

  No, no, no. I’m going to Cassie’s and meeting Matt afterward. I need to shoot this idea down, but I’ve just shoveled a bite of almost-not-sweet, almost-cardboard cereal in my mouth. I shake my head no, hold up one finger, and swallow.

  It scratches my throat going down. While I try to get use of my mouth, I check the clock on the wall. Matt said he’d call around 9:15, and I left my phone in my room.

  “I can’t today.” I move the last bits of cardboard off my tongue, then scramble to form another lie. “I … I promised Brandy I’d help her…” With what? Shit shit shit. “Help her organize her closet.”

  I stare down at the milk. Seriously, organize her closet? Is that the best I’ve got?

  “Oh.” Mom’s disappointment hangs in the air, and I feel it. If I look up, I’ll see it in her eyes and it’s gonna sting.

  I drop the spoon in the bowl, nudge it away, and face the music. “We have to go to the doctor tomorrow, right? We can do lunch. Make a day of it.”

  Her eyes light up. “Yeah, let’s do that.” She smiles, a real smile. I know it’s real because her nose wrinkles. Then she glances down at my bowl, makes a funny face, and passes the sugar bowl. “Here.”

  “Mmm,” I say. “Sweet cardboard is much better than plain cardboard.”

  She chuckles.
I add sugar. Then, not wanting to miss Matt’s call, I scarf down the cereal, but not so fast as to create suspicion.

  Mom gets up to refill her cup of coffee. I used to drink it with her, but caffeine is sort of a no-go for me now.

  “But we won’t have too long to shop,” Mom says.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “The Kellys invited us to their place in Fredericksburg, remember?” She adds a teaspoon of sugar to her cup.

  I do now. And I’m so tempted to ask if I can just stay home, but the odds of that happening are zero, minus a couple more zeros. If I said I didn’t want to go, Mom wouldn’t go. And she’s been looking forward to getting away.

  “We could shop a bit while we’re there too.” She stirs her coffee, clink, clink, clink.

  “Sure.” I’m ready to bolt.

  She picks up the cup, holds it up to her lips, and stands there looking at me over the steam. “I’ve got a good idea,” she says. “Brandy should come here and help you organize your closet after you do hers. I’ve been asking you to do it for a month.”

  I think shit! but say, “Yeah.” I reach for my cereal bowl and shovel one more bite in my mouth. “Gotta go.” I talk around the food and suppose it’s poetic justice that I get punished for lying. But how I’m going to get Brandy to share in the punishment is another question.

  Guess I’ll have to pull a girlfriend card. I’m almost certain she’ll do it. She is my best friend. The fact that she doesn’t believe me right now is just an inconvenience.

  14

  It’s eleven o’clock when I turn onto Cassie Chambers’s street. My cardboard cereal is heavy in the pit of my stomach. My wrist and the base of my neck flutter with a speeding pulse.

  This is an older neighborhood, with a lot more trees than we have in ours. But some of the houses look a little worn, tired, begging for a fresh coat of paint.

  I spot the number on the mailbox. The two-story house is brick that’s been painted white. An orange cat sits guard on the front porch staring at my car easing past.

  I don’t pull into the driveway because … I don’t feel like I belong there.

  Cassie Chambers probably won’t recognize me.

  Matt doesn’t believe that. He thinks because he’s noticed me, everyone has.

  It’s not so.

  It’s not like I’ve been bullied. Just ignored.

  Well, not just ignored. There was the day in science class in tenth grade when Tabitha, one of Cassie’s friends, was asked to team up with me on a project. She turned to Cassie, who sat behind her, and said, “Why is he putting me with that book geek?”

  Cassie glanced at me and looked embarrassed.

  It stung, but not for long. Frankly, I was a blatant book geek.

  I wasn’t embarrassed about reading. If anything, it saddened me that some people were missing out. I smile, remembering that I’d been looking for a name for our book club. Blatant Book Geeks had a ring to it. I don’t know if she ever realized it, but I was proud of it. Still am.

  Even though I haven’t been to a meeting in a year and a half, it was started by moi. Moi even turned some nonreaders into book junkies.

  I’m glad I could do that for them because, holy smokes, it helped me cope with a lot of shit this last year and a half. Reading’s my escape when I need one. And forget sex ed, I just read a romance. Yeah, I know it’s fiction, and probably glorified, but since the whole world makes a big effing deal out of it, I’m betting there’s truth to it.

  The guard cat meows loud enough that I can hear it. I look back up at Cassie’s house. She’s not going to know me. I’m not sure if that will bother me or not.

  A curtain in the front window flutters open. Someone knows I’m here.

  I put the car in park. The heater blows. My palms are slick on the steering wheel.

  Crap.

  I don’t want to do this.

  But I’m gonna do it. “For Matt,” I whisper. “And Eric,” I say because right then I feel it again. Unexplained emotions.

  Does he know I’m here? Does he miss Cassie?

  I cut off the engine.

  My mind races to recall the questions Matt wanted me to ask Cassie. I’ll rephrase most of them. Matt’s version sounds … accusing. I still don’t think Cassie is behind Eric’s murder.

  For that matter, I’m still on the fence about whether I believe Eric was actually murdered.

  And that bothers me, because until yesterday I hadn’t questioned it. Had I been gullible because I just wanted to help Matt? Or—I swallow the unexpected lump down my throat—am I nervous about actually hunting down a killer?

  With that thought skittering up my spine, I get out of my car and walk to the door.

  The orange cat slinks against my calf. I reach down and give it a quick pass with my fingers. I don’t let my fingers linger because, like uncooked food, cats can hurt me. They can carry a dangerous parasite that can affect both pregnant women and people with low immune systems.

  I stand, take that last step to the door, square my shoulders, and knock.

  I hear someone at the door. Suddenly my case of bad nerves is something more. Fear. No. Terror. And it’s not just mine. Eric?

  Shit. Crap. Shitcrap shitcrap shitcrap shitcrap!

  * * *

  Matt’s phone beeps with an incoming text. He checks it immediately. From Leah. On my way.

  He’d asked her to text when she left Cassie’s so they could meet at the park—by the bench again. He’s already here.

  Lady is busy sniffing the ground. He’s busy fretting over what Leah learned. Could it be this easy? Could Cassie have confessed?

  Okay, maybe it’s farfetched to think Cassie killed Eric, but Matt’s gut tells him Cassie knows something. She holds a clue to the whole damn mystery.

  He stands up, planning to meet Leah halfway.

  He gives Lady a this-way tug, then takes one step.

  And bam!

  He’s not here. He’s not him. He’s Eric. He’s running.

  He … drops the gun.

  There are flashes. He feels as if he’s falling. Then pain. Hot pain in his temple.

  Then it’s over.

  Lady is biting her leash. Matt presses a hand to his head. He breathes in the scents of winter, of the dirt, of the cold.

  He stands there, waiting to feel like himself again. Then he recalls what he saw. Eric dropped the gun. Could it have gone off? Or was it someone else’s gun that fired?

  The sound of footsteps brings him out of it. Glancing up, he sees her. Leah.

  Surrounded by the muddy brown color of winter landscape, she stands out like a peek into summer. She wears a dusty blue sweater and light faded jeans.

  No matter how messed up his mind, he still notices how pretty she is. Her hair is down. It sways ever so gently when she walks.

  Then he notices something else. Fear. Her eyes are round with it. She’s pale.

  He rushes to her, resisting the urge to pull her against him. “What happened?”

  She shakes her head as if it’s nothing, but her eyes scream it’s something.

  “Are you okay?” Lady jumps at her legs, showing her concern as well.

  “Yeah. I just … freaked a little.”

  “About what? What did Cassie tell you?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t … She wasn’t at home. I spoke to her mother.”

  “Then why the scared face?”

  She bites into her lip before answering. “I was nervous, and when I was leaving a cop car pulled into the driveway. For a minute I thought she’d called them on me.”

  “Wait.” He takes her hand and leads her back to the bench, nudging her to sit down. He drops beside her. Lady scrambles to climb into Leah’s lap.

  Leah allows the dog up and runs her hand down its back, but she still looks scared.

  “Relax and then tell me. Tell me everything.”

  He watches her take in a deep breath, hold it, then release. She does it again, and it almost seems as if she’s
counting and doing some yoga breathing technique.

  Lady, appearing worried, sits up in her lap and licks her face. Leah looks at his puppy and then at him. “I’m okay.”

  He realizes then that he’s still holding Leah’s hand. Her palm feels soft in his. But damp. Whatever scared her did a number on her. He feels bad that he asked her to do it.

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  “For what?” She looks at him, her eyes are still large, so blue, but no longer so frightened. But she’s still pale.

  Guilt takes a lap around his chest. “Maybe this is a bad idea.”

  “What?”

  “You talking to Cassie. I should do it.”

  Her brow tightens. “But she won’t talk to you.”

  “I know, but I … I don’t like seeing you like this.”

  She sighs, slumps her shoulders, then shakes her head. “Nothing bad happened. I just freaked out. It was silly of me.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t.” He squeezes her hand. “Tell me everything that happened. Start at the beginning.”

  “I got to her place and … I felt strange again. Sad, like we talked about. As if Eric was feeling it.”

  He remembers his own Eric moment, the gunshot. “And then…?”

  “I notice someone looking at me from the house. I get out of my car. When I get to the door, I’m suddenly scared shitless. Ms. Chambers opens it. I ask if Cassie’s home. She says she’s at a friend’s house.”

  “Here?” he asks. “She’s at a friend’s house here?”

  “She didn’t say ‘here,’ but it seemed implied.” Leah looks at their joined hands as if it’s a surprise.

  Lady barks. Leah pauses, but she doesn’t pull her hand away. For some reason he thinks it means something. Something good.

  “Then Ms. Chambers asked me who I was,” Leah continues. “I know I stumbled, but I finally said we went to the same school.” A whisk of her hair flows over her face. She brushes it off with her free hand. Lady does her prenap wiggles, then settles in Leah’s lap.

  “She asked me if I had Cassie’s cell number. All suspicious like. I lied and said I did. Then I heard a car pull up in the driveway. Ms. Chambers just stared at me, then blurted out, ‘You should go.’ When I turned around, I saw the cop car in her driveway. I got even more frightened. I went to my car but didn’t start it up, because I thought she called the police on me. But he didn’t get out. So after a few minutes, I left.”