Pieces of a Mending Heart Read online

  I hear the mechanical whirring sounds that could only mean the plane is about to take off. As predicted, the pilots’ voice filters through the speakers, thanking everyone for flying with them today. I block it all out, tracing the thick scars on my wrist and humming. The plane jolts forward, momentarily sending my stomach into a nervous knot. There is no reason to fear flying, but there’s a first time for everything and I’ve never been on a plane before.

  The aircraft rockets forward and begins to ascend, leaving the city behind and all the memories it holds. Whether this is a blessing or a curse is unknown to me, but that’s the beauty of it all. I’m not running away from the past, but rather embarking on a new adventure. The future is mysterious and unknown and both adjectives fill most people with anxiety or nervousness, but not me. No, right now all I can think of is the joy of becoming a new person, full of excitement at the opportunities ahead. Right now, all I can think of is finding my angel.

  * * *

  A few hours later, I end up in the backseat of my Aunt Rachel’s car. Not only does it smell like baby powder, heavily, but also like roses. Not the smells that I’m used to, but I immediately associate this with new beginnings. Hopefully, though, the rest of my adventure won’t be as… girly. I’m not a tomboy, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t like smelling like old ladies who fell in a rosebush.

  The car ride is awkward to say the least, having to sit in the backseat because my luggage took up every other available space. Silence fills the heavy air with its uncomfortable deadness, and even the static-filled radio can’t relieve the tension floating through the air.

  “So, Katherine, are you excited?” Aunt Rachel chimes in, taking a puff of a cigarette.

  I hesitate before answering. Excited for what, exactly? Living with her? Not at all exciting. Awkward and unnatural? Yeah.

  “Yes, Aunt Rachel. I’m looking forward to experiencing new things,” I say, politely cool.

  She snorts softly. “Well honey, I don’t blame you for wanting to get away from that house,” she said, bitterness lacing her tone.

  She’s always hated my father. At least we have one thing in common. I smirk. “Will it just be you and me at the house?” I asked quietly.

  Aunt Rachel looks at me briefly in the rearview mirror before taking another puff of her cigarette. “Sure thing, honey. It’s a tiny little ranch, but you’ll like it a lot there, don’t you worry. I have you all set to start school next week Monday and all your supplies and whatnot are waiting in your room. I hope you like blue, because I painted the walls myself. I thought I remembered you saying it was your favorite color when you were just a little tot,” she trails off, giggling a bit.

  I wasn’t sure if I liked the endearment “honey.” Sure, it was sweet sounding to others, but to me, it sounded condescending. If there is one thing I cannot stand, it’s being pitied or looking down upon.

  “Whatever you have for me is just fine, Aunt Rachel. Thank you,” I say, still rigidly decorous.

  Suddenly, the car stops. It sputters for a moment before kicking off completely. With my suitcases stacked on either side of me, I can’t see out the windows. I don’t know where we were until I hear, “We’re home!”

  The door is wretched open and my suitcase tumbles to the ground, letting the brisk air attack my sensitive skin. At first, I’m mortified by the little house in front of me. Then, before I get the chance to say something out loud, I see the vast, open sky in front of me. My eyes can’t seem to adjust to the disarming brightness before me, and I’m forced to squint from the light of the setting sun. It’s chilly, but the calmness of the quiet soothes my gooseflesh.

  “What do you think?” Aunt Rachel asks, gesturing towards the little house a few yards away.

  The house is tiny; Rachel was right, it’s more like an apartment. Not in building structure, but in sheer size. Why would anyone waste building such a small house on such a beautiful piece of land? The green seems to stretch on for miles, which it probably does. Off in the distance, I see the faces of mountains, their tips glistening in the setting sun. It looks like a postcard, like the postcard Rachel sent me years ago. The only postcard I ever got from her, but I treasured it for its beautiful photograph.

  Speechless, I stand there and continue to ogle at the marvelous beauty in front of me. Instantly, I fall in love with the landscape, feeling its fresh openness seep into my deprived bones. “I love it,” I whisper, just loud enough for her to hear.

  “You see that?” She points to a small building, probably a half a mile away. I nod. “That’s the stable. There’s three horses in there, if you wanna learn to ride some time. It’s pretty relaxin’, having all this space and nothing to do. You ever feel like going exploring, go on horseback,” she finishes, taking my suitcase into the house.

  Oh yes, I feel myself warming up to the eccentric women taking me in. I have a feeling this will be quite the adventure.

  * * *

  The night before my first day of school is an evening filled with different emotions. I’m nervous as could be, and Aunt Rachel’s continuous assurances seem forced and empty. This is my one and only chance to start new; different people, teachers, classes, basically everything. Five months ago, I couldn’t have cared less about what outfit to wear to school, but now, I’m frantically changing clothes in an attempt to find the perfect ensemble.

  Unable to sleep, I toss and turn for a greater part of the night and eventually find myself wandering the small house. The tiny, retro kitchen is well stocked with every kind of food imaginable, so I grab a green apple and return to my bedroom. The room is just to my liking; not too plain, not too flashy, with just enough extra room to transform the space into a comfortable haven.

  The one thing I love most about the room is not the large queen bed, (which is so fluffy I had to wonder what the mattress was made of) but the view I have from my window, which can’t be more than five feet off the ground. I can see the vast Montana landscape more perfectly than anywhere else in the house, my own personal painted canvas of land.

  The view overlooks a valley, the red barn, a pasture and the mountains in the distance, which are spotted with rays of sunlight during the day. On my first morning here, I was woken by Rachel specifically to see the sun rise. It was worth every moment of sleep loss.

  I bite into the apple, feeling its sour taste spread across my tongue. Five months ago, I would have eaten the apple robotically, but now, I relish every bite and flavor that hits my mouth. I close my eyes and breathe in slowly, then exhale. Minimally, I feel more relaxed, but not enough to sleep yet. So, instead, I throw the apple core into the garbage can and move to sit on my puffy bed. Honestly, if I never had to leave this bed again, I would be content.

  Lying down on my back on top of the plush blue comforter, I close my eyes and whisper a prayer to God. “God, I want to thank you for this chance at a new beginning. I will do everything in my power to make this right again, and I thank you for your faith and strength. Please give me rest,” I say quietly, clumsily breaking the steady silence of the room. My prayer every night since I have arrived here in Montana has been similar, but always filled with sincerity and trust.

  In the next moment, I’m asleep and having one of those “I know I’m dreaming but there’s nothing I can do about it” dreams.

  I was walking through the hallway of an unknown house next to a boy I have never seen before, but a voice in the back of my mind screamed familiarity. He had tears streaming down his face, as he burst into a large, empty bedroom.

  Without warning, he let out a strangled sob and ran his hands through his shaggy light blonde hair. The boy picked up a maroon colored lamp and flung it across the room with a scream that sent chills up my spine. His face was blurred, as if I was seeing him through a glass of water. He paused, sobbing, and turned towards the bathroom. I followed, a sense of dread filling my entire body, threatening to crush my heart with its hammering presence.

  The boy started filing through a cabinet,
tears still streaming. He found what he was looking for, which was apparently a prescription bottle. With no hesitation, he unscrewed the tight cap and poured practically the entire bottle in his mouth. I wanted to stop him, but my mouth had no voice. Frozen, I watched him take three large gulps of water from the running facet before reaching for another bottle of pills in the cabinet and repeating the process.

  The boy collapsed on the ground, sobbing, grasping at a picture frame I hadn’t seen in his hands before. I crouched down on the ground next to him and caught a glimpse of my wrists, which were unscarred. I stood, looking in the mirror at myself in my sixteen-year-old body, short hair and all.

  The boy, wearing a green shirt and clutching the photograph of a smiling little girl, started twitching on the ground, and I forced my terrified gaze from my reflection. Kneeling next to him, I saw three people standing around him looking pained. An old man was holding the hand of an old woman and a man in a fire-fighter uniform was in front of them staring at the boy.

  “Please, help him!” I begged, feeling a sense of terror as the twitching intensified. “Please, God! Help him!” I screamed, and the three people looked at me before disappearing. I ran my hand through the boys’ hair, whispering comforting words through my tears. The boy grew lifeless beneath my stroking hand, and with an aching heart `I watched his last breath slip away into a cloud of green mist…

  Chapter 3

  I wake with a start, beads of sweat slipping down my face and neck. Looking at the clock, I see that I had only fallen asleep about five hours ago, but I know there is no chance of drifting off again. So, I hop out of bed and pad over to one of the two bathrooms in the tiny house.

  Turning on the water in the shower, I strip myself of the sweaty pajamas that cling to me. It was just a dream, I repeat to myself. Still, the echo of the boys’ shrill cry resounds in my skull like a clap of thunder and I’m unable to shake off the uneasiness. I can’t remember much detail about the end of the dream, other than it being frightening and strange. Frustration claws into my skull because I want to remember! Something is significant about the dream, but the details are fuzzy.

  I step into the now running water, attempting to wash away any signs of the nightmare, dismissing it as an effect of the ice cream I ate too soon before I went to bed.

  About what I judge to be a half an hour later, I emerge from the shower sparkling clean and with smooth legs. My hair has a very natural curl to it, spirals framing my oval face with their caressing flyaway hairs. The great thing about hair is that it always grows back. Slowly but surely, it grows. Looking in the mirror, I finger the cross hanging from my neck and think a silent “good morning” prayer to God.

  I open my eyes and see a renewed hope in them, an emotion that still feels unnatural in my body. It’s not uncommon for me to feel dulled to the good things around me. That is part of my punishment; the good things are muted, still noticeable, but muted none the less. I wouldn’t even know the feelings were subdued without the fuzzy voice in the back of my mind telling me that they were. It is a voice I have grown to trust of late, one that whispers to me things that would normally go unseen. Call it a sixth-sense, guardian angel, whatever you want, but do not doubt the fact that there is someone giving me wisdom.

  The voice isn’t so much a voice, but more like a very strong feeling grating against my brain until I open my mind and listen. I tell myself it’s God, but others would say it’s my anxiety medications making me lose my mind.

  Through the door, I hear my aunt stirring in the kitchen. Tracing the scar on my left wrist, I sigh and get dressed, humming. Opening the door, which creaks and groans, I use my free hand to adjust my denim skirt so that it hangs more respectively on my long legs.

  “Good morning, sunshine! I thought that was you I heard singing in the shower this morning,” Aunt Rachel said, winking.

  I barely crack a smile through my discomfiture. Singing comes naturally to me and I often do it without even realizing. PANG, the embarrassment spreads through my veins like liquid fire. Quickly reminding myself it is Rachel I stand before, I chase the feeling away by looking out the front window at the mountains. The sunlight casts a perfect view on their tips, making them look like a masterpiece.

  “Couldn’t sleep late,” was all I reply. I wasn’t exactly a big talker, a trait that contributed to people’s opinions that I’m a snob. That isn’t true; I just don’t waste words.

  A half-hour later, Aunt Rachel, me, and my enormous backpack are packed in the tiny car. It amazes me how at ease I feel around my aunt. Perhaps it’s the freeing atmosphere, or her laidback attitude, but whatever it is I’m grateful for it. I know the time will come when she talks to me about my past, my dreams, my hopes, fears, and decisions, but now is not that time.

  “Good morning, Sherry. This is my niece, Katherine Mary Prince. Today is her-”

  Aunt Rachel gets cut off by the bulbous, alarmingly loud red-headed woman behind the front desk in the principals’ office. “First day!” she shouts, clasping her hands together in animation. “Yes, my dear! We are so excited to have you,” the woman says, with just as much verve.

  We go through the formalities; the handing out of schedules, maps, locker combinations, and uniforms. Yes, uniforms. The school has a policy that the girls are to wear dress slacks and a polo-shirt or a just-above-the-knee skirt. Being my first day, I’m allowed to dress in normal, casual clothing. I force myself not to wince as I look at the plain gray skirt and maroon polo. It could be worse.

  Aunt Rachel gives me a hug goodbye and, with a pat to my backside, sends me out the door of the office. Immediately, I’m in view of several hungry sets of eyes. The school is small, only two-hundred students in the entire institution, and it seems like every eye is focused on me. No, not only me, but me and a terrifying looking boy standing a few feet to my left. I didn’t even see him until the prying eyes shifted to him. His face is the only one I can see that isn’t focused on me.

  Instantly, I’m struck by his beauty. Not a fake type of beauty either, but the kind of raw, natural loveliness that took your breath away. Light-blonde hair that is short enough so that you could see his eyebrows, his black leather jacket covering thick shoulders, and dark jeans that hug his legs just enough to make my heart skip a beat. PANG, the lust flowed through me like I touched a bug-zapper. Blushing, I look down at my new black shoes, trying to calm myself down. How ridiculous, you’d think I’d never seen an attractive guy before.

  In that moment, I hear Mr. Beautiful suck in an audible breath. I peek up just in time to see his light blue eyes widen, then dart away from me. Seconds have passed, but they feel like minutes.

  “Hey there,” a friendly voice calls out from the crowd. “You must be Katherine.”

  No, not Mr. Beautiful, but a Mr. I’m-attractive-because-I-try-too-hard. Tugging at the corners of my long-sleeve shirt, covering my scars, I answer with a “Yes, hi,” which came out breathy, giving me that “new student” awkwardness I wanted so badly to avoid.

  The boy smiles, stepping closer to me. Averting my gaze elsewhere, I see Mr. Beautiful push through the crowd of students and into an open doorway. Before he fully enters, he turns back in my direction and catches my gaze, his eyes smiling. With a slightly open mouth, he smiles a barely-there smile before turning into the classroom.

  “I’m Scott Persico,” said the boy in front of me. I assume he is attractive, in a way. Other girls would be fawning over him, but not me. I prefer Mr. Beautiful types. The lust keeps flowing, and it tastes like bitter pomegranate, my least favorite fruit. This isn’t the worst kind of emotion I was punished with, but it was certainly up there.

  “Nice to meet you,” I say, gingerly shaking his extended hand. Scott’s eyes lit up like the Montana sun when my hand touches his. I’m used to being the center of attention and I discover now how much I loathe it.

  Scott releases my hand and reaches for my shoulder, but I instinctively step away from his advance. Realizing I probably look like a
wounded puppy, I tilt my chin a little higher and stand up straighter, bringing my eyes to the same level as Scott’s.

  He seems to bristle at the change and his face takes on a confused look. “I’m senior class president, if you need any help with anything at all, just come to me,” he says proudly, winking.

  He actually winked. Yeah, I’m liking Scott less and less by the minute; cockiness is unbecoming. The crowd of people surrounding us seems to dissipate as our conversation wanes to incessant, forced chatter to fill the silence.

  “Well, the class bell will be ringing right about now. Where is your next class? I could walk you there, if you’d like,” Scott offers, sounding overconfident

  I glance down at my schedule, feeling uncomfortable and vulnerable. “AP Government, room 102, Mrs. Hollis,” I say.

  Scott’s face lights up again, brown eyes brightening. “You’re in AP Gov? So am I, second period! We could definitely study together sometime. I’m not in your class, but we get the same work so, if you want a study buddy, I’m free anytime,” he offers, voice trailing off, dripping with charm. What ever happened to boys playing hard to get?

  Blushing, I say a quiet thank you and turn away from his smiling face. Walking into room 102, which is the room Mr. Beautiful walked in to, every pair of eyes falls upon my flushed face, causing me to color even more. Everyone minus the one boy who made my heart race watches me cross the room as I walk towards the teachers’ desk.

  Without looking up, the woman says, “Katherine Prince, I presume,” sounding bored. She holds out her hand, still not looking up, so I place my white sheet of paper in her palm. I’m supposed to have every teacher sign this piece of paper, confirming I attended their class today.