Heart Murmurs (8 page)

****

Mia
Two hours later

Am I ready for this, an outside tour? My legs are still wobbly from the collapse. Morgan slipped out while Beth peppered me with questions like ‘Are you alright? Maybe you should go home?'

I estimate the distance of the tour; my eyes flick from Orchard House, to the barn, to the cannons. I'm still easily winded. My stomach twists as I picture myself doubled over, wheezing, as the group waits for me to recover.

Beth thinks I'm ready. I whisper to myself, “You can do this.”

My heart is lambasting my chest as I take stock of the tour group assembled before me.

Older, elegant ladies — check. They will be no problem. If anything, they'll be mothering me with the slightest sign of illness.

Young couple — check. They steal a kiss and stare into at one another's eyes. I chuckle. They aren't going to hear a word I say.

A mom with three kids — check. Homeschoolers?

The two school-aged kids, a boy and girl, stare at the barn, infatuated with the horses.

Toddler little brother. Uh-oh. He could be trouble. The mom grabs his wrist as he fidgets and wails and drops to the ground, where he hangs like a writhing little firecracker.

I smooth my dress down and glance around the barnyard. Where is Morgan? And why is he constantly on my mind?

I raise my voice over the toddler. “Are we ready to begin?”

A chorus of enthusiastic ‘yeses' reply.

I speak into my megaphone, walking backward, avoiding the gopher-holes. “The farm is self-sustaining. Most of the food served in the restaurant is grown right here.” I gesture to what's left of the crops.

I turn toward the ancient, iron beast beside the barn. “In a few minutes we will have a cannon demonstration.”

If Morgan ever decides to stop being a crytpic, he-loves-me, he-loves-me-not, moron and show up.

“Jimmy!” The mom's shriek freezes my blood.

The toddler breaks free of the group; his chubby legs working fast and furious as he darts across the field. Toward the stream.

Oh, laws. The whispers ignite.

The mom sprints after him, mud surreally splattering her flowered skirt. She trips on its folds. The little boy bolts faster, giggling.

His brother and sister run after him. I turn, tearing across the grass.

Thump-thump-thump-thump.

Please, just let me run. Just this once. Please!

Little cherub cheeks grinning. Tiny tennis shoes. The creek is small, but fast. Very fast. He will drown.

The rush of the water amplifies, drowning out the mother's screaming; the old ladies' panic.

The young girl stops, stooping to help her mother. “Go, forget me! Save him!” she wails.

The boy and girl run faster. Too far. He's too far. There's no way.

An electric shock of rushing adrenaline infuses my legs. For a few glorious seconds, I sprint.

Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump.

“No!”

I'm gasping. My legs collapse. Like a switch flicked off. The grass rises in slow-motion as my head collides with the ground.

Hoofbeats. I hear their vibration, my ear pressed against the ground. I command my legs to stand and wobble upright, hobbling again toward the boy.

Inside, the whispers scream.

Morgan. On Beth's white horse. “Ha!”

He is on the other side of the creek, barreling toward the water.

The white horse sprints forward and Morgan leans into him, their motions becoming one. His wide, wild eyes match the emotions ripping through my heart.

The mother is wailing, running. Every step she takes distorts her cries; they're ragged and clipped, like a mother goat's bleats.

The toddler looks over his shoulder, running full-tilt. He reaches the water.

His tiny faces screws up in horror for a terrible second as his feet leave the bank.

On the other side, hooves leave the ground; Morgan lurches sideways, fingers outstretched for the boy's suspenders.

He swipes but misses.

Time surreally lengthens. The boy's feet, trunk, and head slip beneath the water in slow motion. I hear the mother's wail as if far away.

Morgan slips off the saddle, splashing into the water, instantly diving into the rushing current. The horse lands on the other side, shaking his head.

For a horrible moment, all is still.

We all reach the bank, panting.

The mother is dumbstruck; her mouth moves without issuing a sound.

The older sister's voice breaks. “Mommy?” Her daughter's voice breaks her trance. The woman lurches forward, stumbling down the riverbank.

A huge gasp and a splash erupt.

Morgan breaks out of the water; a coughing and spluttering toddler clutching his neck.

Morgan battles the current, cutting across the swift-moving water toward us. The boy coughs, vomiting up a gush of water. His tiny chest gasps as he fills his lungs with air and he wails in earnest.

Morgan's eyes flick to mine. They're bloodshot, but calm.

“Oh, my boy. Oh, my boy. Thank you so much—” The woman wades into the water, arms outstretched.

“Morgan.” I fill in her pause.

“Morgan.” She repeats his name like an embrace. He gently deposits the screaming boy in her arms, then supports her till she's firmly on the creek bank.

I extend my hand to him. He eyes it, one eyebrow raised. A lopsided smile breaks as he slips his hand into mine, allowing me to help him out of the water. It's shaking.

Superman does have a Kryptonite. Good to know he isn't made of stone, after all.

The rest of the tour finally catches up. One man asks, “Should I call 9-1-1?”

The mother and I both shake our heads. She responds, “He's okay. We'll go to our own doctor to be sure.”

“Let's get you back to Orchard House.” Morgan gently guides the woman through the crowd.

I take the two younger children by the hand, following in their wake. The toddler's eyes are already drifting shut, his head resting against his mother's shoulder.

****

That evening

Beth is hovering, stoking the fire. The quiet house is like a balm on my irritable nerves. She places another blanket on both mine and Morgan's shoulders.

“I'm so sorry, Beth.”

“Mia, it wasn't your fault. You aren't responsible for other people's toddlers. I don't know what that mother was thinking, anyway.” She eyes both of us, her eyes lingering on Morgan. “I'll go make you tea, yes?”

She bustles into the kitchen.

One blanket drapes over both our shoulders. I feel the heat rolling off Morgan's body. The whispers urge me closer, under his arm. I refuse to budge. A harsh anger grits my teeth. I'm furious.

Morgan's eyes finally leave the fire to look at me. One eyebrow rises in question. “What, Mia?”

“Nothing.”

“It's something. You look about to tear my throat out.”

“I…” I clear my throat. “Why aren't we friends?”

He shrugs and looks forward. “I don't need friends.”

“Everyone needs one friend.”

His eyes flick back to me. They're reluctant, like a barrier rumbles, wanting to lift.

He scowls. “People here don't understand me.”

“What? It's not like you're a foreign exchange student.”

He smiles. It's an ugly thing. “I am, after a fashion.”

I push off the quilt and stand. “Seriously, quit with the cryptic crap. Just ‘speak plainly', as you love to say.” My fingers use the quotation marks, mocking his frequently used phrase. “And what's with the way you talk? I think you're taking the character acting to an extreme; it's like it never leaves you.”

His lips twitch. “Is that so?”

Ugh. He's impossible. “Yes, it is.”

I move to leave and he catches my arm. His thick fingers could circle my wrist twice.

Something in his expression shifts. “Sit down, Mia.”

I glare at him.

“Please?”

The whispers moan to be near him. My anger leaves in a rush, leaving only exhaustion. “Fine.”

I sit roughly.

He gently replaces the blanket around me. “You're still trembling.” His arm lifts tentatively and then rests on my shoulders. I relax under its weight. The whispers hum like kittens.

From behind, Beth's footfalls enter and pause; she's undoubtedly having a stroke that I'm not only quiet, but in his arms. They pad away quietly.

His voice is in my ear, deep and husky, as I've never heard it. “What's really wrong, Mia? Why are you so angry?”

Hotness flushes my face and I speak through my teeth. “Because I'm tired of being weak. I couldn't even run. I couldn't save him. I. Hate. Being, being…”

“Dependent?” He finishes my sentence.

“Yes. It sucks.”

He pulls me closer, till our sides are touching. “I imagine it does. You remind me of one of my sisters. Willful. Independent. Headstrong.”

My mind takes flight with my beating heart. I don't want to be your sister. I want you to want me, like a man wants a woman. Like this ridiculous, insatiable need I have for you.

And it suddenly hits me. How lonely he must be. Are all of his family dead?

I bite my lip, terrified he'll resume his guard. “Do? Do you miss her? Your sister?”

“Terribly.” His smile is tight, but his eyes are still warm. “Maybe I could use a friend, after all.”

I want so much more. But it's a start. I smile back. “Just one.”

He smiles in earnest. “Just one.”

Beth threatened (
and I didn't think she was capable of threatening)
to fire Morgan and I if we couldn't keep our hands off one another.

Or our lips, or any other body part. She also promised to tell my parents if it happened again. Especially at work — where we were scaring her patrons away.

Morgan walks through the cafeteria, sweeping past my table without a glance. I flush with irritation.

Claire notices. “I thought you two were…”

“I don't know what we are,” I snap.

He's in gym shorts, and every eye in the cafeteria is ogling his deformed calf. It looks as if an animal bit and removed the outer muscle, leaving a barely-covered, stick-like bone in its place. And the skin… is discolored, darkened.

Morgan sits down beside the new kid, Calvin. The first black kid in this all-white school. They already look to be best buds as Calvin flashes him a wide smile. Well, at least he's accepted one friend.

“Has he ever told you what happened to his leg?” Claire asks, not taking her eyes from it.

“No, he's too busy swinging from his wild desire to suck my face off to not speaking to me for days at a time.” My hands ball into fists.

Apple struts past, hanging on Steve's arm like some dangly man-purse. Her gum popping grinds my last nerve.

“That's disgusting,” I say, loud enough for her to hear.

She stops dead, dropping her arm from Steve's. “No, that's disgusting.” She jabs her manicured nail toward a tiny bit of my scar poking out at the top of my shirt.

Claire quivers in her seat and shoots to standing. “You are a pathetic piece of plastic. How much did those cost?” Claire points to Apple's double D's.

“Maybe Mia can use my doc for her scar.” She smiles tauntingly.

Everyone within earshot is staring.

Humiliation burns down my face, like hot tentacles, spreading across my neck and chest.

“You stupid—” Claire steps forward.

“I got this, Claire.” I stand up and step forward, not thinking, not seeing.

I want to smear that perfectly made-up face to match her insides. Screwed up and ugly.

I cock my fist.

Claire's mouth drops open as she leaps out of the way.

Apple's face twists from haughty to fearful.

Steve barks, “Mia, don't!”

Warm, calloused fingers close around my wrist, restraining it.

He whispers in my ear, “Good-humored, unaffected girls will not do for a man used to sensible women. They are two distinct orders of being.”

The anger melts from my body.

I drop my arm, and my jaw.

How could he know I love Austen, almost as much as Louisa? And now he's quoting her to me.

The conversation with Claire echoes from before.

My eyes brim with comprehension — that I'm the sensible woman that Jane Austen spoke of — and Apple… is Lydia. From Pride and Prejudice.

Silly and stupid and selfish. Without common sense and never thinking of others.

“You're better than that, Mia.” Morgan's eyes are concerned, not judgmental. “And I saw the Austen quote on your mirror, in your room.” Answering my unspoken question.

“Yeah, you're better than that!” Apple cackles.

With the threat of my raised fist gone, her haughty posture is restored and she saunters off. Steve trails behind her, still shaking his head, stealing backwards glances at me.

“I wouldn't have believed it, had I not seen it,” quips Claire.

I'm still angry; I can't seem to control it. “Yes, this doormat's been lit on fire.”

Teachers are turning to look now. The lunch attendant picks up a clipboard and is making a beeline directly for me. Great. Detention. Another first.

Morgan gives my hand a little shake, demanding my attention. “Have you read the book I gave you yet?
A Long Fatal Love Chase
?”

His question sidetracks me. He's doing it on purpose. I've forgotten all about the book, it's shoved under my bed at home. “No.”

“There's a mystery in it. See if you can figure it out.”

“What do I get, if I do?”

His mouth pushes to the side, thinking. “Mask off.”

My heart flips, landing a somersault in my stomach. “Mask off? For keeps?”

He smiles, “Yes.”

“What about the tunnel?”

The mask returns, his hand tightens on my wrist. “What about the tunnel?”

“There's something wrong with it. You know it, and I know it.”

He laughs. “That one is non-negotiable.”

“We'll see about that. What about Bronson Alcott?”

His eyes leave my face, staring behind me. “Not a chance.”

“Ms. Templeton. If I see you even
threaten
to strike another one of your classmates, it will be detention for a week. Do you understand me?”

Mr. Hickey and his horn-rimmed glasses are visibly flustered that his once-favorite English student is now a candidate for UFC.

“Yes, sir. I'm so sorry, sir.”

He pivots, heading back to the teacher pack.

I turn to further question Morgan, but he's gone. I look around the cafeteria. Nowhere to be found.

I slump beside Claire. “You okay, champ?”

“Shut it.”

I spear a piece of lettuce, shoveling it into my mouth. Claire eyes me warily. “Mia, you hate salad.”

I stop, mid-chew, at the revelation. “I do. I did… I guess I don't anymore.”