As a child, I loved sitting in his study while he spent hours reading from his favorite excerpts. I notice the Walt Whitman book on the table, one passage in particular coming to mind that always stuck with me.
There is no endowment in man or woman,
that is not tallied in you.
There is no virtue,
no beauty in man or woman,
but as good is in you.
No pluck, no endurance in others,
but as good is in you.
No pleasure waiting for others,
but an equal pleasure waits for you.
That was from Pap’s favorite poem called, To You.
He’s always been an incurable romantic. I’m sure his passion for the written word had a lot to do with winning Gram’s heart.
I grab the Whitman book from the table, smiling to myself at memories of the most amazing man I’ve ever known.
I look up to see his peaceful face.
With one hand gripping a book—and the other holding Pap’s hand—Gram reads Yates to her beloved husband.
My heart warms at this touching vision before me.
In the old days, letters were hand-written and intimate. It seems archaic now with the advancements in technology. So impersonal—yet convenient. The idea of someone writing down their favorite poem and mailing it to someone they love, well most people would find the notion absurd. But not my Pap. Gram still has boxes of poems and notes he sent her all those years ago.
As a society, we’ve become inherently lazy. Everyone’s always taking the easy way out—looking for the quick fix. It’s no wonder love is no longer appreciated the way it used to be. It’s no wonder love has lost its meaning.
Pap has always told me, “If a man can’t give you the name of at least one famous poet or author, don’t waste your time, Chloe. A man with love in his heart will have it filled with poetry...and the rest are animals.”
And I’ve always believed him.
These days, actual poetry’s been lost through song writing. When a guy starts spouting lyrics, he assumes you should go weak in the knees. Yeah, right!
Sure, some songs are pretty. But for the most part, it’s the music or the melody that grabs your heart. Not the words. Poetry on the other hand, doesn’t need musical accompaniment to make it beautiful. It just is.
Perhaps the next time I see Hunter I’ll test his knowledge of poetry. I can’t imagine a tough guy like him would have the first clue about the classics. Considering the fact that he enjoys talking like he’s in an old black and white film, it’ll be fun to find a weakness.
I need to start bringing him down off that pedestal in my mind.
And speaking of Hunter, I haven’t seen him yet today.
Maybe he won’t be coming by after all.
Sadness seeps through my chest at the thought.
Not to worry though. It’s not like I need the distraction.
Gram closes the book and turns to Dru. “Your turn, dear. Why don’t you read him a story this time?”
Dru grabs a book from the table. “I think that can be arranged.” He takes a seat opposite Gram, then begins.
My brother has the most soothing, melodic voice. Pacifying. The inability to hear it in person for six years gives me a newfound appreciation for its tenderness.
As I sit in the corner listening to Dru read from Pride and Prejudice, I take a moment to look at Pap’s surroundings; what he’ll see when he wakes up.
If you take out the monitors and tubes, it doesn’t even look like a hospital room. There’s nothing clinical about it. Instead, the walls are an earthy shade of garnet, and my pap rests comfortably beneath a coordinated pattern of chocolate, burgundy, emerald green, navy blue, and crème linens.
We’re thankful for the oak table and chairs. Much better than the cold, impersonal waiting room. But you can usually find me parked on the cozy loveseat—mainly because I enjoy the soft, glowing light from the floor lamp.
Each wall wears a painting of various outdoor scenes: Vibrant, crisp autumn leaves; a gorgeous, spraying waterfall; and an artistic field scattered with a multi-tonal array of flowers. They sort of have a Thomas Kinkade feel to them.
It’s a masculine atmosphere, but it feels more like a den in your home than a hospital room. When Pap wakes up, he’ll feel more than comfortable here.
I continue listening to Dru tell the captivating tale of Miss Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy. Even though I’m not a romantic like Pap, this story moves me. It’s one of my favorite books, and Jane Austin remains one of my favorite authors. If ever I dare to dream about love and an unfathomable happy ending—it’s when I read this book.
Dhelia took Gram and Aunt Morgan to pick-up something for lunch that’s better tasting than cafeteria food. I look up at the clock on the wall, my growling belly reminding me I shouldn’t have skipped breakfast. And maybe I should have ordered something more substantial than a grilled chicken salad. Oh well. I’m sure it’s too late now.
The fam must be close. Dru slams the book shut and walks to the open door with a victorious smile. “Lunchtime.” He’s such a show off.
I jump up from my cozy spot on the couch.
Just as we make it to the hall, the elevator doors swing open. To my surprise, my family isn’t alone. The delicious Hunter Payne steps off with them.
Yum. I didn’t realize I’d ordered dessert with my lunch.
As if stuck on a giant flytrap, I remain glued in place while everyone walks inside. Hunter, however, stops in front of me. “Good afternoon, Miss Chloe.” He nods in my direction.
My god he’s gorgeous. His radiant smile and sparkling eyes could melt steel.
“Hi! I…I didn’t think you were coming by today. It’s late for you.” Pipe down, Miss Chipper. You’re acting like a bubble-headed-schoolgirl again. Why don’t you just hold up a neon sign that says, “Caution: children at play”.
“Yeah well, it’s my day off, so I slept in as long as I could. It was a really long week.” He stretches before me like a well-fed house cat.
“I don’t blame you then. I love sleeping in any chance I get.” Oh who am I kidding? I sleep in even when I don’t.
“Yeah, me too.” He chuckles, looking over my shoulder inside Pap’s room. “Hey, don’t let me keep you from your lunch. I don’t want your gram to get mad at me.” Right on cue, his hands find his pants’ pockets. The Hunter Payne signature move.
“Yeah, they’ll be yelling for me. She’d never get mad at you though. She thinks you’re the next best thing since Armani.” My cheeks flush, so I turn my attention to the floor as fast as I can.
Ha. The Chloe Bishop signature move.
He laughs his adorable little laugh, eyes twinkling like stars catching the full moon’s reflection. “Now, if only her granddaughter felt the same.” He sends me a wicked grin.
Did he really just say that?
Chapter 7
Open Mouth, Insert Truck!
“I’ll stop by before I leave, okay?”
“Sure, we should still be here.” I sure hope so anyway.
Heat spreads across my cheeks from his playful crack. Even worse, I hate that I don’t want him to leave. I only want to be near him. What’s that old saying, “Like a moth to a flame?” What’s wrong with me?
His smile fades a bit. “Enjoy your lunch.”
“Thanks. I plan to.”
He turns to walk down the hallway towards his friend’s room, but then glances over his shoulder in my direction. “There’s that spunk I’m so crazy about.”
We both laugh as he disappears through the double-doors to the burn-unit.
I don’t know Hunter well enough to be sure, but he still seems a bit off since our age discussion. I must have freaked him out?
Oh, who cares? He just flirted, so that’s all I need to get me through the day.
I walk back into Pap’s room, just as they finish getting the food from the bags.
Twenty minutes later, Dru assumes his position n
ext to Pap, and I go back to my indented corner of the love seat. Maybe I’ll take a nap.
Dhelia leaves with Aunt Morgan to arrange for Ash and Aidan’s trip next week, so Gram moves back to her chair to hold Pap’s hand while Dru reads.
Watching her now, I can see some of the worry she hides so well, appearing on her drawn, listless face. I wish she didn’t always feel the need to maintain such control of her emotions. I can only imagine how painful it must be to watch her husband lying there so helpless—and unaware.
She sits for what seems like an eternity. Rubbing his hand. Smoothing his hair. Adjusting his blankets and pillows. All the while, regarding him as if she’s seeing him for the first time. What a rare love they share.
If only my mother could have had that with my father. My heart clenches at the memory of their less than romantic love affair. I wish she could have known what it feels like to be on the receiving end of something so resplendent—and one-hundred-percent reciprocated.
She glowed that night I saw her, like she had found true happiness. But I can’t help but wonder if she’s with my dad where she is. No. There’s no way she could be. If she is, someone needs to reconsider the rules of the afterlife. There’s no chance she’d be in heaven with the man who killed her. No God could be that cruel.
Somehow, in the midst of admiring my grandparents’ enduring love—and feeling remorse for my mother’s unhappiness when she was alive—I manage to fall into deep slumber.
My surroundings are extrinsic.
I’m frightened—but not for myself. So for whom? And where am I?
I’m desperately searching for someone in a crowded room.
My heart pounds. Palms sweat.
Someone’s hurt. I can feel it in the pit of my stomach.
I need to help them.
From a distance, I hear my name in a faint whisper. “Chloe...I need you.”
I force myself to run.
The trepidation builds in my chest, as if my ribs are crushing my lungs.
I press my hand to my heart, but the beating never slows.
Where am I going?
Why does it seem like I’m running in circles?
Darkness moves in around me as a low, rumbling growl gets closer.
“Hurry, Chloe. Where are you?” There’s the voice again. It’s louder this time. And female.
I stop.
I try to figure out where I am, but not a single thing is familiar.
Where the hell am I?
Wait. The people. Where’d they go? Everyone disappeared.
I’m in an endless, shadowy, marble hallway with high ceilings and picture-less walls.
Completely alone, I can still hear the voice calling. “I’m here, Chloe. Over here. Please, hurry.”
The anguish in the voice brings me to my knees. I’m powerless. And unsure.
“I can’t find you!” I call out. “Tell me how to find you.” Tears stream down my face as I lose control of my emotions.
My heart pounds like a bass drum. What’s happening to me?
I press my hands to my aching chest again, just as a dim light appears up ahead. It’s calming somehow.
The pain in my chest begins to dissipate.
Someone’s there in the distance.
There’s a faint silhouette, but not enough to know who it is.
They aren’t moving. They lay on the cold tiles—lifeless.
“Hurry, Chloe. There isn’t much time!” The woman's voice is full of more panic than it was just moments ago.
I push myself up off the floor and back on my feet. I have to move. I have to help.
I try to run, but my legs are like lead anchors. I force myself to move, but I’m stuck in slow motion.
“Chloe!” the voice cries out. Desperate. Pleading.
“I’m almost there!” I shout. “Hold on!”
As I get closer, the person on the floor starts to disappear, evaporating into thin air.
I don’t understand. Where are they going?
“Chloe, where’d you go?” The voice gets louder. “Chloe. Come on, wake up.”
I’m jolted awake as someone grabs my arm.
I squint, trying to see who it is.
It’s Hunter.
With his chiseled face only inches away, his minty breath grazes my cheek.
“There you are.” He caresses my forearm. “You had me freaked out for a second. I kept calling your name but you wouldn’t wake up.”
Crap. “Sorry about that.”
“Do you always talk in your sleep?” His head tilts to the left, eyes narrowing.
I push myself up to a sitting position, realizing everyone else had left the room. I look back to Hunter. “How long have you been here?” And how long was I out?
“Oh, only for a few minutes. I ran into your family in the hall and they told me to see if you were awake. I didn’t want to bother you, but you were having a bad dream again.” He clears his throat. “I couldn’t leave you like that.”
I run my fingers through my hair, just in case it’s sticking up somewhere. “Thanks for waking me.” I lean on my elbow, acclimating myself to my surroundings.
My insides shake, recalling my dream with such clarity.
“You okay? You still seem out of it.” With a gentle touch, he strokes my hand. It pulls at my heart like a tug-of-war.
It’s too much. Damn it. I can’t do this.
I need to change the subject—and fast. “Hey, I have a question for you...but you have to promise you won’t laugh at me for asking.” It’s time to find fault in this seemingly perfect stranger. That will snap me of this ridiculous infatuation.
“Hmm. I don’t know if I can make a promise like that. You do sort of make it easy to laugh at you, you know.” He smirks.
“Come on. Promise me?” I pretend to pout. Unsuccessfully, I’m sure.
“Okay, okay. Anything to avoid seeing that face again. I promise I won’t laugh.”
“Thank you.” Proud of myself, I sit up straight. “So I was wondering—and maybe I should pre-empt this first by saying—your answer doesn’t mean anything one way or the other. I’m only asking out of curiosity, so there’s no wrong answer.” Guilt creeps through my stomach before I even ask.
“Well, now you have me curious. Just ask already, woman.” He sits on the couch beside me.
I hunker down in my seat, preparing for his reaction. “Do you by chance know any famous poets?”
He leans back, squinting as he parts his lips. What on earth is going through his head?
Great. He must think I’m evil for asking something I know he’s clueless about.
His look of confusion turns into one of tenderness. His eyes widen. Face softens a bit.
What’s that about?
I can’t help but ask, “What? Did I say something wrong?”
He smiles, his right eyebrow rising.
“I carry your heart with me.
I carry it in my heart.
I am never without it, anywhere I go you go, my dear.
And whatever is done by only me is your doing,
my darling I fear.
No fate, for you are my fate, my sweet.
I want no world for beautiful you are my world,
my true.
And it's you who are whatever a moon has always meant.
And whatever a sun will always sing is you.
Here is the deepest secret nobody knows.
Here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life, which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide, and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart.
I carry your heart.
I carry it in my heart.”
Hunter gazes into my eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching.
Where the hell did that come from?
My mouth hangs open in veneration.
I have no words. Though what words could I possibly speak anyway?
He looks amused, grinning li
ke the fool who just told a hilarious joke. “Oh, I’m sorry. You asked if I know any famous poets. My bad. I didn’t answer you properly. E. E. Cummings. There. Will that suffice, Miss Chloe?”
I manage to find my voice after the initial shock wears off. “Ah, yeah. That will more than suffice.” My cheeks enflame. “Um, mind if I ask where you picked up poetry?”
“Oh, a little here...a little there.” He won’t wipe the stupid grin off his face.
“Okay...you can stop gloating anytime now.” I look up, shaking my head. Of course, I would have to look like a fool. Again.
“Hey, it’s not my fault you asked the question. And you were afraid I was going to laugh.” He chuckles. “I happen to know all the greats.”
Oh, really? “Is that so?”
“Sure is. Why? You wanna test me some more? Well, fire away, little lady.” He crosses his arms, puffing his peacock chest out. Men.
I think for a second. “Browning.”
He nods in acceptance of the challenge then begins.
“I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless,
that only men incredulous of despair,
half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air,
beat upward to God's throne in loud access of shrieking and reproach.
Full desertness, in souls as countries, lithe silent-bare,
under the blanching, vertical eye-glare,
of the absolute Heavens.
Deep-hearted man, express grief for thy dead,
in silence like to death,
most like a monumental statue set,
in everlasting watch and moveless woe,
till itself crumble to the dust beneath.
Touch it.
The marble eyelids are not wet,
if it could weep, it could arise and go.”
Hunter bows from his seat before his captive audience.
Hmm. Very interesting. “Impressive, Mr. Payne.” I raise my hands in a golf clap, right fingertips onto left palm.
“Let me guess...you thought the big, tough fireman couldn’t possibly know anything about poetry, right?”
Crap, I’m so busted. What an ass. “I’m really sorry. Most guys don’t know the first thing about poetry. I...I shouldn’t have assumed.” Beyond mortified, I lean down, putting my face in the palm of my hands.
Tethered (A BirthRight Novel) Page 9