The Fall and Rise of Kade Hart: A Hart Brothers Novel (5 page)

“Yeah.” Bob, one of the employees comes over
and scratches Ethel’s head. That’s what I’ve named her. “You need
to take her. You’re so attached, and I think the Big Guy up above
is keeping anyone else from adopting her.”

“Bob! I can’t adopt Ethel. They would never
let me have a dog at the convent.”

“Have you ever asked?”

“No, but …”

“Ask. It can’t hurt to check.”

I lift Ethel in the air and say, “What do
you think, little fluff?” And that’s exactly what she is. One
cream-colored little fuzzy ball. She yaps in response. “Come on,
fuzzy. You’re having an outing today.”

“Where you going?” Bob asks.

“I have a singing lesson. I’m taking Ethel
with me. I’ll bring her back on my way home.”

Bob laughs. “You? A singing lesson?”

“Hush! Sister Helena wants to see if there’s
any hope for me, I guess.”

“Well, good luck at that.”

“I know.” I make a face.

After I put a puppy harness on Ethel, she
and I head out. I also take some food with me, just in case I think
she’s hungry.

It’s always daunting for me to go somewhere
new. I follow the directions I got off the internet to Mr. Hart’s
house. Again, eyes penetrate and shadows loom around me giving me
the jitters. I see faces and shapes in everything. They slip and
slide in and out of nowhere—from behind trees, cars, houses,
buildings. Sometimes I even hear their whispers, telling me not to
go this way or that way. It’s gotten to the point where at times
when I’m out and about, I question my sanity. Are these shapes and
shadows real? Why don’t they harm me? I
know
they’re there.
I can
feel
them like the whisper of a breeze across my skin.
Strangely enough, they’re the only things that keep me
grounded—reminding me that what happened over two years ago wasn’t
a figment of my imagination.

The change in me is so drastic when I think
about how I was back then versus today. Gone is the happy-go-lucky
girl and in her place is a suspicious, melancholy replacement. How
can it not be? Back then, I didn’t have those horrid images filling
my mind at night. Or hear footsteps in my room in the darkness,
sending ice picks ripping down my spine. I wasn’t afraid that some
wicked person would slash my neck for some unknown reason.

The fake smile I paste on daily is a tragic
substitute of what it used to be. I weigh ten pounds less, and on
my frame that’s a tremendous amount. The nuns always push food on
me, but when you have a jagged piece of barbed wire lodged in your
stomach all the time, it’s not easy to get much food down. When I
think about my life before, it only gets worse. My friends—did they
find awesome jobs, boyfriends, or even get married? Do they ever
think about me? Miss me? Wonder why I vanished? My heart stutters,
then nearly stops when I think about how much I miss my old life,
my family, how much laughter seemed to rule everything. Now it’s
only a bleak memory of a time that doesn’t seem real anymore. “Oh,
Ethel, you and I are quite a pair, aren’t we?”

Soon I arrive at Mr. Hart’s street. When I
get here, I’m a bit blown away at the neighborhood, and then at his
place. It’s gorgeous. I was expecting some small townhouse, but not
this huge fancy place. Maybe it wasn’t such a smart idea to bring
the dog.

A heavy old-fashioned doorknocker hangs from
a beautiful wooden door, so I clang on the door several times.

When Mr. Hart opens it, I can tell by his
expression that he’s surprised to see Ethel. I also have to prevent
the gasp that almost rushes past my lips. Handsome doesn’t work for
him. He’s downright beautiful. Yesterday when we met I was so
addled, like I usually am, I didn’t take the time to notice his
looks. How in the world could I have missed that? Thick brown hair
that is artfully mussed, high cheekbones, firm jaw, and full lips,
he looks like he was made to order. I’ve never seen anyone that
could be described as having a chiseled face, until now. His fits
that bill. But his eyes are what draw me in the most. They are blue
frost rimmed in navy, icy, and clear. They look like gemstones—pale
blue topaz to be exact. Naturally occurring blue topaz are quite
rare, and Mr. Hart’s eyes are too. They remind me of my dad’s
jewelry store—of the past that I need to bury. He’s so tall I have
to crane my neck to look at him. I’m a shrimp at five feet three.
He must be close to a foot taller than I. Quickly scanning him, I
can’t miss his obvious strength—muscular forearms bared by the
shirt that’s shoved above his elbows and thick thighs that his
tight jeans are wrapped around. I stop myself from licking my lips
but it’s hard not to drool over him.

Clearing my throat, I say, “I hope this is
okay. I work at the local animal shelter and I wanted to take Ethel
out for a spell. I should have called and asked first.” Then I
explain her dire situation.

“So, do you really think Sister Helena will
let you have a pet?” he asks.

“No, but I can’t stand the thought of them
euthanizing her.” I’m still standing on his porch. “I’ll understand
if you’d rather not have me come inside with her.”

“Oh, forgive me. No, please come in. I’m not
worried about that.”

I follow him through the entrance into a
lovely foyer and it makes me nostalgic for my family and home.
Sadness pounds into me and I nearly stagger with the pain of it. I
must’ve made a sound because he turns around and I quickly drop my
head to act like I’m looking at the dog. That wasn’t the smartest
thing because now I truly want to weep as I think of Ethel’s fate
hanging over me, too.

Think of something else, Jules, anything to
get your mind off that. Wood! There’s beautiful wood everywhere.
But what do I do? I stare at his ass instead. It’s a very fine ass.
Oh, hell, I need to get my mind out of the gutter.

Golden hardwood floors gleam in the
afternoon sun, so I force my focus on the grains in them. We walk
down the massive foyer and he leads me into a room that is much
bigger than I would’ve thought. In it sits a grand piano, an array
of guitars, a smaller electric keyboard, a cello (I think), and
some other woodwind instrument.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Oh, it’s a flute.”

“You play all of these?” My tone can’t hide
my surprise.

“Yeah.”

“And sing, too?” Again, there is no
mistaking the incredulity in my voice.

He chuckles. “Yep. Hard to believe, huh? Me,
a recovering drug addict.”

“What are you doing here?”

He gives me an odd look, an assessing one.
“What do you mean?”

“A talented man such as yourself could be
doing any number of things besides teaching a hopelessly tone deaf
person, such as myself, how to sing. You could be making a lot of
money.”

He laughs. “How much time do you have? This
explanation could take awhile.”

“I have to be back to the convent by six in
time for dinner. I have kitchen duties afterward. But I need to
take Ethel back to the shelter first.”

“Have a seat. Can I get you something to
drink?”

“No, but do you have a back yard where I can
let her out to—you know—and then give her some water?”

“Sure.”

I follow him again and after Ethel is
finished, we go back to the music room.

“So, will I offend you if I use foul
language?”

“No.” I laugh.

“Good, because I can’t tell this story
without it. My father was the most disgusting human being that ever
walked the earth and he fucked me up beyond recognition.”

Wow. I realize he’s not wasting any time
jumping right to the meat of things. “He FUBARed you?”

“You bet he did. My father owned a line of
casinos in Atlantic City and Vegas and was a mobster. He adopted my
two brothers and me. But what he did was heinous. He would find
women in his casinos who were addicted to gambling, get them to run
up their debts, and then in exchange for their payout, he would
force them to sell him their sons. I was one of them. It was all
legal, you see, but when he brought us to his home, he told us our
mothers didn’t want us. Then his brainwashing tactics began. It
started with my oldest brother, and with each one, it grew worse. I
was the youngest and the last of the three. I lived in a padded
cell that was soundproof without light for almost a year. In other
words, I was deprived of light, sound, and touch. I was fed two
meals a day and that was the only contact I had with him or anyone
for that matter. He was big into sensory deprivation and it was
abuse in the worse sense.”

“My God. What kind of man would do that?” I
try to absorb what he tells me and it sounds like something from a
novel. “Did he sexually abuse you, too?”

“No. But he did everything else. I craved
someone to hold me. I was a little kid—six years old at the time.
He was a fucking monster. We called him the dragon. He was shot and
killed by my mother almost two years ago when he tried to kill my
sister-in-law. I had just entered rehab, but the day I found out he
died was the happiest day in my life. That man was an animal in
every sense of the word. It’s because of him that I ended up on
drugs. They were my escape route. I couldn’t cope with what I had
been through. I never finished college because I couldn’t go to
class. I took every drug imaginable and eventually ended up living
on the streets. If my brother hadn’t found me when he did, I
wouldn’t be alive today. I tell this story loud and proud so I can
help others. Don’t mistake me; I’m not saying I’m proud of being an
addict. But I am proud of being in recovery. Too many people are
ashamed of being abused or ashamed of their addictions. I don’t
want them to be, because then it takes them too long to get help.
My mission in life is to get them to talk about it and to help them
get to recovery.”

As I listen to him, I’m amazed at how frank
he is. He doesn’t cringe and he doesn’t act embarrassed at all by
his admissions. “That’s very admirable.”

He shakes his head. “There’s nothing
admirable about what I went through. I only want to help others get
out of the hell they are living in, much as I was. When I think
back, if someone had said to me, ‘I understand what you’re going
through and there’s another way,’ maybe I could’ve latched onto
that and who knows? Maybe I could’ve avoided all the pitfalls. I
needed a shrink to help me in my teen years but my father would
never have agreed to it. Drugs were the next best thing. They were
the friends I never had.”

“So, you stayed in rehab and now you
counsel?”

He laughs. “Oh, it wasn’t nearly that easy.
Even now, there are times I want to use. At first they recommended
intensive rehab for three to six months. My sister-in-law is a
psychiatrist who, ironically, is deeply involved with helping
addicts. She started doing this during her residency, long before
she met my brother. So she was instrumental in getting me to
Denver—to the rehab center where I ended up. After six months, I
knew I wasn’t ready to leave, so I did another three, and then
another three. I was scared shitless to leave. So I started a
company that is sort of an exit strategy for people like me. It’s a
facility that houses individuals who don’t think they are in
control enough to do it on their own. It’s called Living Free. My
brothers are sort of entrepreneurs. They jumped on the idea and I
had the capital, but they had the business knowledge. I’m the artsy
dude out of the three of us.” He laughs.

“Artsy is great. What would our world be
without music and art? A pretty drab place I say.”

“Oh, they agree. But they both have these
brilliant minds. You should hear them in their business-speak. It’s
like when we get together and talk Mandarin. At least I can
understand that. Business, not so much.”

My jaw hits the floor. “You speak
Mandarin?”

“Yeah. It wasn’t by choice. My father forced
that one on us. He felt it would be important for our business
education. Though I was the music one in the family. Maybe he
thought I would go on tour and it would help me communicate.”

“I speak English. And not very well,
sometimes. And I can’t play any instruments nor can I sing. I feel
very diminished around you, Mr. Hart.”

“Kade. Drop the Mr. Hart thing. So, since
you know all about me, what about you? What led you to a life in
the convent?”

“Jesus Christ.” It’s time to dodge.

“That’s it?”

“Pretty much. I’ve always been a devoted
Catholic so I thought it was my calling.”

“Hmm. You thought it was or it is?”

“It’s my true vocation, Mr. … I mean
Kade.”

“College?”

I try not to cringe when I answer,
“LSU.”

“I thought I detected a hint of a Southern
accent there.”

“Yes, just a bit of one. I picked it up when
I went to school.”

“So, where’s home?”

Crap. He’s getting way too personal now.

“Iowa. Just a boring Heartlander.” I pray my
lie goes undetected.

“Family?”

“Unfortunately, no. I was raised in an
orphanage.” My head screams ‘liar’ again.

He’s silent; I suppose he’s expecting
more.

“My parents were killed in an accident when
I was four. I don’t remember them.”

“I’m sorry.” His eyes turn soft and kind.
They make me want to put my trust and faith in him, but I won’t. I
can’t ever trust anyone. Not even Sister Helena or Father
Anthony.

“Thank you. It was long ago and like I said,
I don’t remember them.” End of story.

He keeps staring at me and I want to fidget.
God, I want to fidget. I hate when people stare at me. It makes me
feel like they can read my mind, like they know I’m hiding
something. My hand automatically reaches for the necklace that’s
hidden behind my sweater. It always comforts me, knowing it’s
there, safe and sound.

Divert. Divert. “So, Kade, is Living Free
your main activity in working with addicts?”