Austen Box Set

by Hart, Staci

The last two days had been a blur of pain and commotion. I’d been moved out of ICU and into a regular recovery room where I got no rest, in part because nurses made their rounds about one REM cycle apart and otherwise because the crushing pain was so immense, it was impossible to ignore, pain meds aside.

  The first day was the hardest. I barely remember waking, only flashes of fuzzy memories like a disjointed dream. I drifted in and out once I finished with all the doing; I had to stand, move around, speak, prove that I wasn’t in distress, regardless of the fact that the movements themselves put me in their own form of distress.

  The pain was indescribable, white-hot and blinding, requiring all thought, all energy to endure. And when it was through and I was left to rest, I slipped away into a dreamless sleep.

  When I woke, it was to tears.

  I’d thought it couldn’t hurt any worse, but it did. People joked about feeling like they’d been hit by a bus, but that was honestly the closest I could come to explaining it. It was like I’d been crushed, shattered, and sewn back together, my bones stinging and burning and rubbing against each other like sandpaper. I couldn’t breathe past the most shallow of breaths, my throat a wasteland, dry and lined with glass. I wanted to drink, but the water hurt, the force of my muscles working my throat hurt. Everything hurt. So I lay there, parched and obsessively considering each pain, wondering how I could possibly survive this, wondering how long it would be until I felt better, if I would ever feel better.

  Somehow I’d made it through that night. And the next morning, it was better. Not very much better, but enough to give me the first glimmer of hope.

  And this morning, I’d woken to improvement, leaps and bounds ahead of where I’d been.

  It felt like nothing short of a miracle.

  Greg had been there through it all. I remembered flashes of moments—lying in his arms in the park as I’d said goodbye, the vision of his face in the ambulance with the humid oxygen mask on my face, wondering if I was going to die, holding his hand when I’d woken, knowing he’d been there all along, knowing he’d stay.

  And so, I was in good spirits, good enough to let Meg pull out those gruesome photos of my open chest and bleeding heart, which, in hindsight, I regretted. What little food I’d been able to keep down churned in my guts, even after they were packed away.

  Meg chattered on, relaying medical facts about the heart, and I looked over my family—my mother in her wheelchair laughing, the sun shining in her blonde hair; my elder sister smiling, her cheeks rosy and high and happy; and my youngest sister with shining eyes, everything about her vibrant and alive. And my heart beat a sweet, solid rhythm for the first time in my life. My hands were warm and full of color. My body, as broken as it was, was already healing, and my heart itself had already healed.

  The hole was gone, all patched up, and not a bit of happiness would be lost again.

  A knock sounded on the door, and Meg bounded off my bed to open it, my heart picking up pace when I saw Greg standing in the threshold with a bouquet in his hand.

  Meg jumped into his arms, and he made his way around the room, saying hellos. But he saved his most brilliant smile for me.

  As he sat on the edge of my bed, I took the flowers, bringing them to my nose. The bouquet was made of cream roses touched with the gentlest shade of pink and miniature lilies, dotted with sprigs of lavender, and the smell was incredible. Meg hadn’t stopped talking, and Greg kept her going with attentiveness, though his hand found mine, his thumb shifting against my skin all the while.

  “Well,” Mama said the second Meg finally took a breath, “I am starving. Elle, Meg, you must be hungry too. Annie had her lunch an hour ago.”

  Meg frowned. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Yes, you are. Come push my chair.”

  She groaned but did as she’d been asked. And without much more than a clandestine wink from Elle, they left Greg and me alone for the very first time since I’d been admitted.

  “Oh, thank God,” I breathed, reaching for him.

  He laughed and cupped my cheek. He kissed me with tenderness and longing, too gentle, as if I were fragile, as if he might break me. I wanted to wind my arms around his neck, but with the tubes and my cracked breastbone, I had to settle for my hands on his chest, slipped in the warm space between his shirt and jacket.

  I was breathless too soon; with my deepest disappointment, he noticed and broke away.

  “Well, hello,” he said, smiling. “God, you look good.”

  I chuckled. “It’s my new hospital gown, isn’t it?” I took a breath. “This color of green complements my eyes, I thought.”

  “That must be it.” He smirked. “How much better are you feeling?”

  “About a million times. I even ate pudding today and didn’t immediately want to ralph. Next stop, Ironman.”

  “You look brand-new. Must be the pudding.”

  I snorted a laugh. “Brand-new. That’s funny, Greg.”

  He took my hand, toying with my fingers, a smile on his glorious lips. “I’m sorry it took me so long to get here.”

  “Don’t be sorry. How was work?”

  “Fine. I was anxious to get out of there, and they knew it. But they wanted me to bring you this.”

  He reached for his backpack and rummaged around, coming back with a card printed on cream paper.

  Watercolor flowers framed the words, Obstinate, headstrong girl. —Jane Austen. Inside, it said, We would wish you to get well, but a girl like you needs no wishes, for she eats wishes for breakfast and dreams for lunch. Come back to us soon. And everyone in the bookstore had signed it.

  Grateful tears nipped at the corners of my eyes. When I looked up at Greg, he was smiling at me.

  He reached for my face, thumbing my cheek. “Your skin is pink, your eyes brighter…you really do look so good.”

  “Upsides to a working heart,” I joked.

  But he didn’t laugh.

  “I mean it. I can’t imagine how hard this has really been for you, but watching it has been the most terrifying, life-altering event I’ve ever experienced. But you’re going to be able to live now, Annie, in a way you never could before. You can run. Ride roller coasters. Go skydiving.”

  I laughed. “Maybe let’s start a little smaller. Like getting me home.”

  “Soon. Soon, you’ll be well, and all of this will be a distant memory.”

  “I’m ready. I need to get home so I can practice.” I watched his face for a reaction, smiling.

  First was confusion. “Practice? Practice wha—” His eyes shot open. “Juilliard?” he breathed. “You got the audition?”

  I nodded, my smile breaking into a grin as he whooped, leaning into me to kiss me again, his hands on my face, fingers in my hair.

  He tried to pull me into him, but I was attached to too many damned machines. He settled for an arm under my shoulders and my head in the crook of his neck, forcing him to bend at the most awkward angle, but he didn’t seem to mind, and neither did I.

  “You did it. I knew you would.” He kissed my temple and pulled away, reaching for my hand. He played with my fingers as he spoke, “I’ve never felt so helpless as I have the last few days. Seeing you in this bed, finding you in the park…” He took a breath. “I’m just so happy to see you like you are today. For a minute, I wondered if you’d ever come around again.”

  “So did I.” I watched him watching my hands, asking the question I would have asked a hundred times if there hadn’t been a forever multiplying number of people around. “What happened that day?”

  “I…” His lips came together, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “When Elle texted me, I took off from Wasted Words and rode into the park. It was your jacket; that was how I found you. I saw this streak of sunshine in the grass, and I just ran. I…I’ve never been so scared in my life as I was when I rolled you into my lap and saw your face, waxy and gray. You were barely breathing, but your heart was going crazy.”

  “I remember but just a flash—your a
rm around me, the look on your face…” I paused, collecting myself as emotion rose through me, starting in my stomach, ending at the corners of my eyes. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget that look.”

  “I thought you were gone. I thought I’d lost you.” His voice broke, his eyes cast down to our hands.

  “I’m here,” I soothed, my heart aching beyond the sutures and cuts. “I’m here.”

  “Will came to the hospital, did they tell you?”

  I nodded, swallowed, ached at the thought of what had happened, thankful I hadn’t been there.

  “I knew he would hurt you, but I never imagined this. If I’d had any idea, I never…”

  “I know.”

  He shook his head. “No, there’s more you don’t know.”

  “What?” My brows quirked.

  “That day, when you were with him, my sister told me the truth. Annie, he didn’t just start rumors. He…” He said nothing for a long stretch, then straightened up, meeting my eyes. “He drugged her and left her at a party. Someone assaulted her.”

  I sat, stunned, in the hospital bed, my hands tingling. “What?” I whispered.

  He nodded, the weight of the confession heavy on his brow.

  My mind raced, pieces clicking together, disgust and shock when I thought about what he’d done to Sarah. “I am so sorry.”

  “Don’t be—it’s him who should be sorry. And what’s really fucked up is that I believed him when he said he was.”

  I squeezed his hand.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you from him.”

  “But you did save me. I don’t want to even think about what would have happened if you hadn’t.”

  “I’ve already thought about it, obsessed over it, dreamed of it. The vision of you lying in that grass will haunt me until I die, Annie.” And he looked tortured and tired, dark smudges under his eyes, cheeks hollow, the change in him so slight, I hadn’t noticed it until that very moment.

  There was nothing to do but reach for him, and though I couldn’t rise to meet him, he knew what I wanted and filled my arms, filled my lungs, filled my heart, kissing me with gratitude and adoration that was met with my own.

  I didn’t realize I was crying until he pulled away and thumbed a tear on my cheek.

  “Don’t cry,” he whispered.

  “I can’t help it,” I said. “I should have seen you from the beginning.”

  “I should have told you from the beginning. But I don’t want to look back. I want to start now, right now. I want you, Annie, and I’ve wanted you since the first time I laid eyes on you. And now, you’re mine.”

  “Now, I’m yours,” I echoed.

  Beholden

  Greg

  A week later, George greeted me at the door and buzzed me up to the Jennings’ apartment, and I was grateful for his help with the doors, as my hands were full of gifts for Annie.

  Elle greeted me with the pack of dogs at her feet, but when I got a good look at her, her face was drawn. My optimism slipped out of me like air from an untied balloon.

  “How is she?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

  “It’s a bad day,” she answered simply.

  “Okay. Well, let me see what I can do.”

  “She’s just in her room.”

  I nodded. “Thanks, Elle.”

  Past the kitchen and living room, beyond the music room and study I went, down the hallway to her room. I placed my haul just outside the door and rapped softly.

  “Come in,” she said, her voice muffled by more than the door between us.

  I opened it with a quiet creak. The room was dark even though it was the middle of the day, the shades drawn and lights off. And Annie was lying in bed on her side, only the very top of her blonde crown visible under the fluff of her blankets.

  “Heya, sunshine,” I said jovially, making my way to the empty side of the bed.

  She didn’t move, just uttered a hello that sounded like a sigh.

  I kicked off my shoes and climbed in, scooting toward her until her back was nestled into my chest and my knees rested in the bend of hers.

  For a minute, I didn’t say anything, and neither did she. And I gladly let her be, let her breathe.

  “I’m sorry,” she said after a bit.

  I frowned. “What for?”

  A sigh was her answer.

  “Tell me, Annie,” I said gently, a command in name only.

  She drew another breath and shifted to roll over in my arms, and I moved to allow her room.

  She didn’t speak until we were settled in, her voice small and quavering. “I’m helpless. I’m helpless and hurting, and I just can’t. I can’t keep lying in this bed. I can’t keep letting everyone fuss over me, but I need their help, too. I’m a burden.” She was crying, her breath shuddering, ribs shuddering with it in the cage of my arms. “I’m a mess. And my audition is happening whether I’m well enough for it or not. I can’t practice, can’t work, can’t do anything, and I think I’m going crazy.”

  She stopped there and tried to calm herself, succeeding at least in schooling her breath. And I waited for her before speaking.

  “I know it doesn’t change anything,” I said, my hand tracking a slow path up her back, then down again, “but we’re all here because we want to be. You’re not a burden. In fact, the highlight of my day is coming here and taking you for our walks.”

  She chuckled sadly, her nose stuffy when she said, “Our shuffles, you mean.”

  “Yes, our nursing-home shuffles up Fifth Avenue. And I have a feeling you’ll be able to practice again soon. It’s just a bad day, Annie. A fresh one’s around the corner.”

  “It doesn’t feel like it.”

  “It never does, but that’s just how life works. Ups and downs, good days and bad, sunshine after the rain.”

  She didn’t speak for a second. “I don’t know why you put up with me.”

  I kissed her forehead. “Oh, I think you do.”

  Annie leaned back to look at me, her eyes so green, the honey-gold burst warm and luminescent. “I mean it, Greg. If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t even get out of bed. I just want to give up.” The words broke, but she kept going, “It’s too tempting to just slip into the sadness and let it take me away.”

  “I know it is. And you know what? I’ll even cosign some constructive wallowing. Whatever you want to do. Carte blanche. Want to curl up here in the dark and sleep all day? I’m in. Want to watch Nicholas Sparks movies and eat ice cream all day? I’m down.”

  Her smile was soft and amused.

  “But then we’re going to get out of bed and go for a walk. Or open the curtains and let the sun in. I’m going to remind you that things will get better, even if it’s inch by inch. You’re allowed to feel just how you feel for as long as you feel it. But I’m here to remind you that there’s hope, and I’ll be with you every day, every step of the way.”

  “I don’t deserve you,” she whispered, resting her hand on my jaw.

  “The feeling’s mutual,” I whispered back.

  And I kissed her so she knew it was true.

  I broke away, smiling. “I brought you something.”

  She brightened. “You did?”

  “I did.” I kissed her nose and climbed out of bed, opening her door to bring in the gifts as she brought herself up to sit.

  “First, this.” I handed her the big one.

  She smiled, her long fingers making quick work of the paper. And when she saw what it was, she gasped, her big green eyes meeting mine.

  “Greg!”

  I smirked. “Now you can practice. I mean, sorta.”

  Annie looked over the small piano. “You bought me a Casio!”

  “I really just wanted to hear Mendelssohn in a sweet ’80s synth. I swear, my intentions were selfish.”

  She laughed. “Seriously, this is amazing. I can play with it in my lap.”

  “I know it only has half of the keys you need, but I figured it would give you something to
do.”

  She flung herself at me as best she could from half under her covers and with a piano between us. “God, you’re amazing.”

  “Please, hold your applause until the end.” I handed her a flat, floppy package.

  Her eyes were curious as she unwrapped it, and when she breathed my name, I felt like a king.

  I’d do anything to make her happy. Anything.

  She ran her fingers over the top page of the Victorian sheet music, the heading of Mendelssohn’s Songs Without Words illustrated with a beautiful scene around the title.

  “Where did you find this?”

  “The internet. I found a lady in California who collects vintage sheet music. She didn’t have the entire thing—I guess some weren’t printed until later—but I took everything she had.”

  She was still looking through the pages, each song illustrated with a new image. “They’re beautiful. I can’t believe you did this.”

  “Really?”

  With a laugh, she said, “No.”

  “Feel a little better?”

  She sighed again, but this time, the sound was light and airy. “Much. How do you do that?”

  I twiddled my fingers in the air. “Magic.”

  As she giggled, I reached for the book I’d brought, holding it up.

  “If you want to be sad for a little longer, I brought Byron.”

  She brightened up and made to pick up the piano box. “Oh, will you read to me?”

  “Of course.” I took the box from her before she had the chance to lift it. “And then I think we should fool around a little.”

  “Hmm,” she buzzed, her face sparking with devilry. “I think I could be persuaded.”

  “And then we’ll go on our walk.”

  “Shuffle,” she corrected.

  I chuckled, climbing back under the covers. “Shuffle. And then the world is our oyster—”

  “Shuck it!”

  She nestled into my side, and I opened up Lord Byron, turned to The Giaour, and read her the long tale of the infidel who fell in love with a girl in a harem, drowned by her master when the affair was discovered. When the infidel professed his regret in the end of the poem—once exacting revenge, of course—Annie cried silent tears, tears from the girl who felt everything, those feelings vibrating through her like a tuning fork.