Pieces of a Mending Heart (3 page)

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

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

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

She snorts
softly. “Well honey, I don’t blame you for wanting t
o 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 y
ou’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 ge
t 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 brightn
ess before me, and I’m forced to squint
from the light of the set
ting sun. It’s
chilly, but t
he 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 glisteni
ng 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 stan
d there and continue
to ogle at the marvelous beauty
in front of me. Instantly, I fal
l 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, probab
ly a half a mile away. I nod.
“That
’s the stable. There’s
three horses in there, if you wanna learn to ride some ti
me. 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 ecc
entric women taking me in. I have a feeling this will
be quite the adventure.

*
* *

The night before my first d
ay of school i
s an evening fille
d with different emotions. I’m
nervous as could be, and Aunt Rache
l’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 w
ear 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 o
f the night and eventually find
myself wandering the small h
ouse. The
tiny, retro kitchen i
s well stocked with every kind
of food imaginable, so I grab a green apple and return to my bedroom. The room i
s 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 wonde
r what the mattress was made of
) but the v
iew I have from my window
, which can’t be more t
han 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 specif
ically 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 eate
n the apple robotically, but
now, I relish
e
very 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 w
ould 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 s
treaming 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 spin
e. 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. H
e 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 h
olding 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 wa
ke with a start, beads of sweat slipping down my face and n
eck. Looking at the clock, I see
that I had only fallen asleep
about five hours ago, but I know there i
s 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 wate
r in the shower, I strip
mysel
f of the sweaty pajamas that cli
ng to me.
It was just a dream,
I
repeat to myself.
Still, the echo o
f the boys’ shrill cry resounds
in my skull l
ike 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 ha
ir is that it always grows back.
S
lowly 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 dull
ed to the good things around me. T
hat is pa
rt of my punishment; t
he 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.