Beating Heart

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Acknowledgments

About the Author

Other Books by A. M. Jenkins

Credits

Copyright

About the Publisher

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

plucks at the eaves

 

 

 

 

 

 

scattered dreams

of

 

 

 

 

silent

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This house

 

is mine

 

and

 

I am

 

its beating heart.

E
van is not impressed when he first walks into the
house. There is no electricity; the only light comes in through the open door, and through the windows in rooms on either side of the hall. The wallpaper has been eaten away in patches. The wooden floors are gritty underfoot. Ivy has actually curled its way over a windowsill into the house, through one unevenly fitted sash. At the end of the hall, a wide staircase rises and seems to disappear into gloom.

Evan's mother is brimming with quiet satisfaction, and Libby, who is five, prances with excitement. But Evan feels skeptical. “This is it?” he asks.

Mom nods. “Isn't it beautiful?”

Libby skips toward the stairs, craning her neck to look up. She runs her fingers along the dusty scrolled banister. “It's like a castle!”

Mom smiles, then turns to Evan. “What do you
think?” she asks him.

Evan looks around at the dirt, the dust, the whole derelict, falling-apart thing. “You want me to be honest?”

“Of course.”

“I think it's the biggest dump I've ever seen.”

Mom shakes her head. “You're not looking at the potential.”

“Mom.” Evan can't believe she's oblivious to what this place looks like. “The
walls
are peeling off.”

“Yes,” she says fondly. “You can see the original wallpaper. Very ornate, isn't it? Doesn't it make you feel like we've traveled back to the 1890s? We're going to
love
living here.”

Evan gives a snort of disbelief.

“Whatever,” he says.

 

 

a voice

like a hand

 

shaking me

 

out of sleep

 

 

 

 

Has he come back?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

he belongs here

 

 

 

So do I.

O
n official moving day the place still seems shabby to
Evan, even though repairs have been going on for several months now and the house is supposedly ready. The air smells like paint, but underneath that is the musty odor of old wood, varnish, and neglect. Evan knows they don't have nearly enough furniture to fill the house, and that many rooms will remain empty. He has a sneaking suspicion that Mom's burned most of the divorce settlement getting this heap even halfway livable.

The movers are bringing the last load. Mom, Evan, and Libby come in together. Evan, ever practical, is carrying a box of his own belongings. Mom and Libby, empty-handed, prefer to let the movers do all the work.

Mom is the happiest Evan can remember. She stops in the hallway, hands on Libby's shoulders. “Oh,” she says, “I can't believe we're finally here.”

She has not been like this in a long time, light and smiling and excited about the future. Evan knows she's living out her lifetime fantasy of owning a big romantic old house. And the move doesn't really affect him much—same school, same friends. Besides, the apartment
was
crowded, with the three of them. So Evan has decided to at least
try
to keep his thoughts to himself.

“Isn't it gorgeous?” Mom asks Evan and Libby.

“It's
big
!” Libby agrees happily.

Mom's hand squeezes Libby's shoulder. “It's
ours
!” she says, the words soft and intense like a prayer. And then she grins. “Forget my bedroom,” she says. “I'm going to start on my office!”

Libby heads for the stairs. “I'm going to
explore
.”

Evan says nothing. Sometimes he thinks he's the only adult in this family.

Mom notices Evan's silence. She glances at him; his feelings are written all over his face. “You know, Evan,” she says with a sudden, detached calm, “if you come into this with a negative attitude, it's going to feel like a negative experience. Can't you try to project some positive feelings here?”

Evan's used to counselor-speak. He's grown up with it. He doesn't want to crush his mother's excitement. But he's not going to pretend he's in love with this place, either.

He answers in his own version of counselor-speak. “Just because I'm not as excited as you are doesn't mean I'm negative. Can't I be neutral?”

“Of course.” Mom's answer is automatic. “Feelings are always valid.” Normally she would pursue the conversation, try to unearth any of her son's hidden emotions about this move. But her eyes are already traveling around the house again; she's too happy to focus on anything else for long. “Oh, look!” she exclaims. “They've unboarded the windows on the landing! Isn't that the most glorious stained glass you've ever seen? And it's original to the house!”

Evan looks. The three windows, halfway up the stairs, have no pictures in them; they're geometric grids with loops and whorls in reds, oranges, yellows, and browns—nice, and they do let more light in, but nothing to get ecstatic about, as far as he can see. He agrees anyway: “Yeah, it's great.” And he starts up the stairs with his box.