Sacred Hart

by A. M. Johnson

  “Today was the day my daughter died.” The tight cadence of the words fell flat against the countertop. The wax paper he held crunched as he rolled his hand into a fist.

  “I didn’t know. You shouldn’t be here.”

  He was the only one who knew my whole story. Tony might not have known specific dates, but he knew how Belle had died. How I’d caught Sarah, how I’d nearly beat the shit out of Paul, and then shot him. I was aiming for Sarah. She was the reason Belle was dead, but Paul took a bullet to the shoulder trying to protect her. The courts went lenient on me and decreased the charges from attempted murder to assault with a deadly weapon, but I did the max — ten years. I was twenty-two the day I threw my life away.

  “It’s all right. I mean, where the hell else would I go?” The truth of my statement hit him and he shut his eyes.

  “Ryan.” He opened his eyes and placed his hand on mine.

  I quickly pulled away. “I’ll be okay. Let’s feed these pigs so they can go pull over a mom of three for speeding.”

  He clicked his tongue and pursed his lips. “Fine, but your ass is out of here at noon.”

  “We’ll see.” I grabbed the bagels and threw them face down on the grill.

  We got the rest of the order ready in silence. Tony and I didn’t really ever bother with small talk. He’d had his great adventure, his life with Red. Tony suffered through the death of his “one true love”. He was dead inside, just like me. He just died when he should have. I was still too young. Thirty-two was too young to be living in a shack behind a run-down diner wishing my days away, trying to figure my way out of the hole I’d dug for myself. My days were numbered, I felt it, just like I felt the grease burn my arm. I felt the slow burn of death on the fringes of my life.

  “Take off after the breakfast rush, Ryan. Go do something. Go into town, find a hot young thing, something to distract you.” Tony grabbed the last piece of wax paper and wrapped the bagel then placed it in the thick brown paper bag. “I don’t want to see your mug around here at all. We’re closing early anyway. The Zucchini Festival is today.”

  I nodded my head. When he seemed satisfied, he turned to leave. Just before he walked out, he said, “I’m sorry you had to suffer such a loss. God does stupid things sometimes, but there’s always a reason, Ryan, always. Hold onto that.”

  I didn’t believe in God. “Sure thing.”

  “You’ll see Belle again, I have no doubt, son, no doubt. You’re a good kid. You just need to realize it is all.” He smiled softly.

  “Save it for mass, Tony.” My familiar jab at his old sage advice made me chuckle.

  He scowled. “No later than noon. You hear me.”

  “Loud and fucking clear.” I smiled at his frown.

  “Why do I even try?” He turned, his arms filled with the brown sacks and walked through the door, out to the loud laughter and the happy lives.

  I tried not to focus on the dejected way he’d said his last statement. If Tony held hope, then maybe I could. The radio played its twangy guitars, and the bacon popped and sizzled. Time moved forward, always forward, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to stop it.

  Sometimes, when the dark, heavy air hovered above me, I’d remember. I’d remember her—her forgotten smile, her perfect giggle. Sometimes it hurt too much. All I could think about was that heavy dark air. And all I wanted to do was give in, reach out, let it engulf this fucking life, this goddamn hole in my chest. This pain was acutely chronic, and with each night that passed, I was afraid I would no longer be able to find the present as I fell deeper into her memory.

  “Come on, baby, we need the money.” Sarah’s plea echoed against the tile floor of the bathroom. Her blonde hair was pulled up into a high ponytail. She looked sexy as hell.

  I wrapped my hands around her waist and pulled her body against mine. “I want to stay here. I can think of other things I need right now more than money.” I pressed my lips to hers and she frowned.

  “Ryan, we need the money.” Her small hands pushed against my chest. Sarah’s cheeks paled as she searched for something to look at – anything, anything but me.

  “You think I don’t know that? You think I like that Belle has to wear that Goodwill shit? You think I like my girl working at the fucking Five Points?” I took a breath and lowered my voice as I watched Sarah shift uncomfortably at my tone. I reached out to touch her cheek, and my chest filled with regret as she turned away from me. I hated that my wife had to work at a grocery store. I hated that I’d finally finished school, only to be able to find a part-time paramedic job. “I know we’re struggling, but I promise…” I lightly took her chin between my thumb and forefinger and met her gaze, “…I promise things will get better soon. As soon as—”

  “As soon as… that’s all it ever is with you.” She pulled away from me again and opened the bathroom door. “Just take the shift.”

  The slam of the bedroom door opened the gates of guilt.

  The quiet giggle of my daughter filtered through the house as I opened the door to leave. Her small arms wrapped around my leg.

  “Love you, Belle.”

  “Love you, Daddy.” Her big brown eyes smiled up at me.

  “See you soon, Birdie.” I took Belle’s hand in mine and pulled her from the death grip she had on my leg.

  The rain drizzled against the tin roof of the small cabin behind Red’s. The sound, once a trigger, had become a safety net as I lie awake each night. Belle’s death ate at me, and every day I wished I could go back. I wished I’d never picked up that extra shift.

  Birdie. I hadn’t thought about her nickname in so long, but there’d been a little girl in town today that looked so much like Belle, I wasn’t sure if I’d been hallucinating or if I’d seen a ghost.

  The sunlight and the way it reflected off of her blonde hair had been what caught my attention in the first place. That particular glint of gold had only belonged to one other person in my life, and she was dead. The girl, like an apparition, floated along the sidewalk, skipping and smiling so damn bright, that I felt the weight of it, and it pressed and encumbered each beat of my heart. I’d been shocked motionless as her laughter filtered through the air. The girl turned her head, and her eyes scanned the small gathering at the festival. When her eyes had landed on mine, the sharp pain of her stare was the knife that had the power to gut me. She’d been alone and, before I had a chance to stop myself, my feet moved. The need to see her up close, to see this carbon copy of my daughter; it was dominating over my usual self-preservation. Once I’d gotten closer, I realized she was older than my Belle had been by at least two years, but her giggle, her eyes, and that straight blonde hair, it was like Belle was right there. I’d wanted to call out her name, grab her hand, and run, run from the past, capture a different future, but I didn’t. Instead, an older woman took her hand, and as they passed by me, they’d given me a polite smile. I’d thought I’d heard the lady tell the girl her mother was waiting, and reality seeped in. That little girl, she was no ghost, and she sure as hell wasn’t Belle. She had a life, a mother that was “waiting” and a family.

  I turned onto my side; the thin sheet and quilt moved with me, and the bed whined under my large frame as I shifted. My eyes closed and, as always, the life I’d once had flickered like an old movie behind my lids. Sleep was a luxury I couldn’t afford. My dreams were too real, too hard, and I begged my body to keep me awake, keep me away from images that would one day pull me under.

  The sky hadn’t yet been dusted with its normal bruised light. The damp early morning air was thick and chilly as I walked the short distance around Red’s to unlock the front door and grab a morning paper from the dispenser. The news was a nice diversion, a reality check that I, in fact, still existed. The rain was more like a mist this morning; my sweats did nothing to help keep the cold from my bones. My shift at the diner started in thirty minutes. I’d finally dozed off about an hour ago and overslept. It was safe to say I was wrecked. The paper dispenser was ol
d and would open without the customary dollar and fifty cents. I left the coins on the top every morning. Someone somewhere needed the money more than I did. My lips spread into a small smile. It was the simple things I tried to focus on. Otherwise, the world felt too big, and without Birdie, the world was too empty.

  As I was making my way back to the cabin, the sound of tires squealing made me drop the paper to the wet ground. That heart-wrenching tone of steel ripping, bending in ways it shouldn’t filled the quiet country darkness. My legs pushed me fast over the gravel toward the accident. It was instinct. One I’d never lost; a skill I’d always have. Two vehicles, head on, mangled, and somewhere I could hear what I thought was a hubcap swiveling in the distance. The smell of fuel assaulted my nose. Shit.

  It was a mess, but it seemed the person in the red car was moving.

  “Help,” she called out to me.

  “Don’t move. Are you hurt?” My words were clipped as my eyes assessed her vehicle.

  “Yes, my skin, it’s burning.” Each syllable she spoke was strangled in pain.

  Once I got closer, I saw the airbags had deployed. I pulled hard on the door, but it wouldn’t open. She had a small gash on her head, and her pupils were dilated. Shit. “Stay still, okay? I’m going to check your pulse.” I reached through the broken glass of her side window. Her pulse was threaded, and her respirations were rapid. She was panicking. “Take deep breaths. What’s your name, miss?” She appeared older, but I couldn’t be sure.

  “Alex.” Her lips were trembling, and I dropped her wrist. “My head really hurts.”

  The bright headlights of an on-coming car flooded the scene as it pulled to the side of the road. Great. A Good Samaritan. I didn’t have time for this, I needed to assess the other vehicle, call 911. “Don’t move, I’m going to call for help.”

  “I-I… okay, be fast.” Her voice shook.

  I reached through the broken glass once more and rested my hand on her shoulder. “Deep breaths.” I gave her a small reassuring smile and turned to check the other car.

  There was a small woman helping a large man out of the driver side door. What the hell? He could have a broken neck or back. What was she thinking? I ran over to her just in time to help ease the man to the ground. He was moaning and there was blood everywhere.

  “He’s bleeding pretty bad. Looks like he took a piece of the frame to his right side. I’m worried about the bleeding. In my car… pop the trunk. I’ve got a small trauma kit. It’s on the left side,” she ordered me as she held pressure on the man’s wound.

  I didn’t let pride rule me on most days, but I didn’t like being ordered around by some stranger who thought she was some roadside nurse.

  “Go!” She raised her voice and met my eyes.

  I dropped her stare, something in her eyes cut me and it was unsettling. I did as she instructed as fast as I could. Once the trunk was opened, I could see she was well prepared. I grabbed the kit, not bothering to shut the trunk as I heard the far-off sirens. She must have called 911. My surroundings were still a blur as I kept on task and made my way back to them in a hurry.

  “Here, switch spots with me. I need to make a pressure dressing,” she continued to bark her orders.

  “I can make a pressure dressing, but at this point, I’d stay as you are. You don’t want to take your hands off that wound until EMS gets here. You shouldn’t have moved him. His neck—”

  “Excuse me? He was bleeding out. It was move him or let him die.” She was incredulous.

  The man coughed, and blood splattered onto her clothes. It was then I noticed she was wearing black scrubs with a yellow long sleeved shirt underneath. The tips of her sleeves to her elbows were covered in a rust that would never fade. “You a nurse or something?”

  “Yes,” she said curtly, flicking her eyes up to mine as I kneeled down to get a better look at the man.

  “I used to be a paramedic.” My eyes fell to the face of the man who was dying in the dirt.

  “The person in the other car?” she asked.

  “Head trauma.” The lights of the ambulance lit the pavement, and the sirens sent chills down my spine. My cue to leave. “You got this?” I stood ready to escape. The bile in my gut rising.

  “You need to stay, tell them your assessment of the other car.” The irritation in her voice drew my eyes to hers one more time. They watched me with a quiet arrogance.

  “Head injury, airbag burns. That’s my assessment. And this guy… he’s a goner.” My eyes scanned her face and she frowned.

  The voices of the first responders filled the air. I needed to get the hell out of here. When I turned to leave, the nurse’s back driver side door was open, and the small girl I’d seen at the festival was staring at the man on the ground. I hadn’t noticed a child in the car when I popped the trunk. My heart beat wildly within its cage. She really did look just like Belle… my Birdie. The rain, the blue and red lights, it was like I was seeing a ghost again. My throat started to constrict and I had to close my eyes.

  “Oh my gosh, Beth! Get back in the car, Honey Bee. Mom’s helping save lives.” The panic in her voice shook me from my breakdown.

  I scrubbed my palm down my face and across the rough hair of my beard before I opened my eyes. The little girl was still standing there, and I could see she was definitely older than Belle. She looked about five or six, but I couldn’t be sure.

  “Listen to your mom, you don’t need to see this.” The sound of my voice surprised me. I hadn’t even thought the words, yet I spoke them. The girl shook her head, the green scarf around her neck made her hair look like corn silk. “Go on, go wait in the car.” She finally listened and sat down inside the vehicle. I walked over and shut the door. She watched me with giant brown eyes. She grinned as I smiled at her, and my chest filled with a familiar heaviness.

  “Thank you,” the nurse called out to me. I nodded at her and headed back up the drive to Red’s — to my cabin, to my safety. This whole accident, this little girl, the paramedics, two of which were now helping the “Good Samaritan”, drained me minute by minute.

  I didn’t look back. I just kept one foot in front of the other long enough to make it back to my place. The door shut behind me, and I fell to my knees with the blood of the man still on my hands. The cold surface of the floor seeped through me as I yelled at the top of my lungs. My eyes were wide open, taking in each inch of the nothingness that I owned. My throat burned from the volume of it, and the hot tears stained my cheeks.

  When would I stop seeing ghosts that weren’t there?

  When would I stop missing every moment that never got to happen?

  When would I forgive Sarah… or better yet… myself?

  Rust-tinted water swirled down the drain as I washed away the blood from my shaking fingers. The responsibility of his death still lingered. Had I caused him more pain by trying to save him? Should I have left him to die in the car? Tears fell down my cheeks as the hot water started to finally lose its warmth. Gosh, how long had I been in here? I turned the shower off, pulled the comic book themed plastic shower curtain to the side, and stepped out of the tub. I grabbed my towel and roughly dried my hair, then my body, trying to remove every last bit of guilt that I could. The terry cloth was too soft; I wanted to feel the burn of the fabric against my skin. I hadn’t saved him. He wouldn’t be home tonight with his wife. Mr. Bartley wouldn’t get to see his daughter graduate from Oakville School. My head fell forward as the tears came in a rush.

  I let the pain in this time. I deserved it. That paramedic was right; I shouldn’t have moved him. My personal relationship with the patient, one of my neighbors, clouded my judgment. It was stupid to play the “what if” game, though. It wouldn’t bring him back, and no matter what, I did what I thought was best. Mr. Bartley died in my arms, he died with familiar eyes on his. I was just glad I wasn’t the one who’d had to tell his family. Officer Reynolds had, and I didn’t envy him that.

  I dressed quickly in jeans and a crème color
ed sweater. The dense fabric did little to warm me. My house was old and the floor board heaters, if I was being honest, were crap. The wood burning stove helped to some extent, but my bedroom faced north; it was always the coldest. I French braided my hair and sat on the edge of the bed. The pale blue and green quilt my mother had made me was threadbare, but I would never part with it. It could be in rags and I’d still sleep with it. I tried not to think of my parents. I tried not to think about Mr. Bartley to no avail. Technically, I should’ve been at work, it was where I’d been headed this morning. Instead, like any other day, I dropped Beth off at Cornelia’s place, but called in sick and came home. The charge nurse was understanding. I worked at All Saints Hospital just outside of town. It was the only trauma hospital for miles. Trauma was my specialty, in work and out. I exhaled an exasperated puff of air.

  “Simmer down with the dramatics, Maggie. Geez.” I watched myself in the mirror and pretended to smile, first with little teeth, then a small smirk, and finally, a giant cheesy grin. I laughed. This was mine and my little girl’s favorite game. “Goofy smiles in the mirror always helps a sad heart.” It’s what my mother used to say to me. These were the little things I’d kept with me. Even now after my parents’ death, I could still find the real smile in the mirror… sometimes.

  I stood abruptly and grabbed my keys off the dresser, nodding at my reflection. I’d pick Beth up early; maybe we could go get some lunch, try to make this crap day better. I grabbed my jacket and slipped my arms through the sleeves. The rain had stopped, but the air was icy. My breath created misty puffs as I walked to my car. The dented Volkswagen Passat sat in the driveway with a dusting of ice along its surface. I’d had this car since I graduated nursing school ten years ago. I climbed in, started the engine, and turned the heat on high blast. The music played effortlessly through the speakers. The slight warm twang of the guitars, the low tone of the piano, it was sad music, but it soaked through all my defenses and made me happy. Music was probably the only thing, besides Beth, that got me through the rough patches. Eventually, my window defrosted enough, three songs later to be exact. I was blissed out as I turned up the stereo and backed out of my driveway.