by Staci Hart
My first open-heart surgery was at three weeks old when they put in a temporary shunt. I tried to remember that fact when Mama was overprotective. I would imagine her lying in a hospital bed, her brand-new baby whisked away and put in an incubator so that she could breathe. I would picture Mama in the NICU, staring into that plastic box at her newborn whose skin was a terrifying shade of blue, her tiny body full of tubes and wires, her chest stapled up after being cracked open like a melon.
That usually worked to temper me.
My second open-heart surgery was at six months old, this time for a permanent shunt. At two, the shunt was no longer enough to keep my blood pressure and flow regulated. And so my third open-heart surgery was scheduled for the final phase in rigging my heart up in an effort to get me to my teenage years when the muscle would be fully grown, and then I could have surgery to fix it once and for all.
All of that, my mother had endured. She endured the fear and anxiety of having a child so sick. She endured my strict diet and inability to walk or run or play like a normal child. And all of that endurance had made her overprotective. As frustrating as it was and as angry as it sometimes made me, I couldn’t blame her.
It had been traumatic for her, and I forced myself to remember that. It was easy to forget. I didn’t know any different. She knew too much.
Nevertheless, it seemed we had worn her down by showing her the merits of my liberation—under the solemn promise that I’d be careful and mindful and safe.
So when I woke, it was with a smile on my face and arms stretched over my head. The winter morning sunshine filtered in through the curtains, and I greeted the day with hope and optimism and giddy, good cheer.
A job!
I found myself grinning as I reached for my little notebook on the nightstand. It was a hardback the color of a marigold with fine golden strands woven into the canvas and a shimmering satin ribbon resting between the pages where my list began.
My angled, looping handwriting smiled back at me.
LIVING OUT LOUD—or Things Annie Daschle Has Never Done and Is Ready to Do Already
1) Get a job. A real job with a paycheck and coworkers and maybe even benefits.
2) See falling snow.
3) Make a snowman.
4) Have a picnic in Central Park.
5) Get a tattoo.
6) Meet a boy,
7) Who will take me on a real date,
8) And kiss me.
9) *And maybe be my boyfriend.
I stopped scanning there. There were pages and pages of things listed—everything from, Get drunk, to, Play piano onstage. Some of them were specific to New York, and some of them were just specific—like, Use very own money to purchase something completely unnecessary simply because it makes me happy.
But that item on the top, that very first one—that one, I might cross off in a matter of hours.
It was enough to make me giggle there in the silence of the room, snapping the notebook closed and pressing it to my chest just over where my heart tha-dumped in a syncopated rhythm that felt like a cha-cha bongo.
Because for a moment, my pain was behind me in the coolness of my shadow and the whole world was spread out in front of me like a feast of possibility.
And I would take a taste of everything I could.
Greg
I never saw Annie Daschle coming.
I meant that in the most literal sense. Her small body slammed into my much larger one with enough force to send her reeling backward. The crates in my hand clattered to the ground, abandoned in favor of reaching for her.
I caught her by the wrist and pulled, righting her a little too suddenly. She tottered back into me—though softer this time. She landed in the circle of my arms, looking up at me with eyes the color of a green glass bottle, lit up from the inside with sunshine.
It was maybe only a heartbeat, a breath, but it felt like that second stretched out in a long thread between us.
She laughed, her cheeks high as she leaned away. The chilly air cut between us the second she stepped back, leaving me colder than the moment before.
“God, I’m sorry,” she said in a lilting Southern accent. “Are you all right?”
I smiled. “I could ask you the same thing.”
She brushed her wild blonde hair back from her face with a mittened hand the color of pink lemonade. Not a glove. Mittens, like a kid would wear. On anyone else, I would have considered it ridiculous. On her, it was adorable.
“I’m just fine, thanks to you. If you hadn’t caught me, I’d have gone tail over teacups.” She laughed again; the sound set a smile on my face. “Do you work here?”
We had collided just inside the doors to Wasted Words, the bookstore-slash-bar where I’d worked for the last year and a half.
“Almost every day. Anything I can help you with?”
Her smile widened. “Why, yes, there is. I’ve come to see if you’re hiring.”
The answer: no.
So like any good, honest employee, I said, “As a matter of fact, we are.”
She lit up like the Fourth of July and began pulling off her mittens, which complemented her bright yellow peacoat and made her look a little bit like an adorable popsicle. “Oh, that’s great. What are you looking for?”
“What kind of work are you interested in?” I asked, gesturing to a booth next to the bar.
Her face fell just a touch as she slid into the bench seat. “Well, I used to volunteer at the library back home, so I have plenty of experience with cataloging books and that sort of thing. And I’m pretty sure I could get the hang of a cash register, if you need a checkout girl. Really, I could learn just about anything,” she added hopefully.
I’d unknowingly boxed her in, my hand resting on the back of the booth and my body blocking any exit she might have, as if I could pen her in and make her stay. At the realization, I stepped back.
“Let me go grab you an application.”
“Thanks,” she said. “Oh, what’s the manager’s name?”
I smirked and offered my hand. “Greg Brandon. Nice to meet you.”
Her big eyes widened in surprise as she took my hand. “Annie Daschle. Nice to meet you, too.”
Her hand was warm in mine, her fingers long for such a small girl, just a wisp. I wondered absently how old she was before letting her go.
“Be right back. Can I get you anything to drink?”
She unwound her pink scarf. “Water would be fine, if it’s no trouble.”
“None at all. Coming right up.”
I turned and walked away, grinning like a fool as I made my way behind the bar, first pouring her a glass of water, then fishing around under the bar register for the folder of applications.
Technically, I was a manager, just not a hiring manager. I ran the bar, not the store itself. That was Cam’s job—on top of running me. But I had a feeling I’d be able to secure her a spot doing pretty much whatever she wanted. I found myself already rearranging the schedule and concocting a plan to convince Cam.
I stopped for a moment to consider what had gotten into me. I’d never taken an interest in new hires before, but for some unknown reason, I felt compelled to help her.
I wasn’t quite sure what it was that had struck me. She was just a girl, probably younger than I figured, maybe even as young as twenty. But there was something about her, something small and vulnerable, like finding a stray puppy or a floppy-eared, big-eyed bunny that needed a home. Something that made me feel the urge to protect her, to button up her coat and make sure she didn’t lose a mitten or her hat. At the same time, she seemed perfectly self-sufficient with a sunny, optimistic look to her that spoke of a girl who would walk home in the rain or dip her hands into a bag of grain to feel every seed.
Living in New York my whole life, the concept was as foreign as it was fascinating.
I brushed my thoughts aside and took her the application and water, setting it on a coaster. She caught a glimpse of it as I set the glass on
top, immediately moving it to read the coaster aloud.
“No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call— / All mine was thine before thou hadst this more.” She beamed. “Shakespeare, Sonnet 40.” She recited the rest from memory, “Then if for my love thou my love receivest, / I cannot blame thee for thou love usest; / But yet be blamed if thou this self deceivest / By wilful taste of what thyself refusest. I love the sonnets.”
“I can see that.” I chuckled. “They barely read like English, but hearing it…I think I actually understood it that time.”
She blushed, just the slightest tinge of dusky rose in her cheeks. “It’s always better spoken. All mine was thine before thou hadst this more,” she said with depth and passion. “She loved him before he took her love, and she’s begging him not to hurt her for the sacrifice. It’s about the power one holds over another who gives their love. It’s beautiful. Are all the coasters the same?”
“Cam, one of my bosses, loves finding quotes for these things.” I grabbed a stack off the back of an adjacent booth and tossed them on the table.
Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery. —Jane Austen
Always laugh when you can. It is cheap medicine. —Lord Byron
And your very flesh shall be a great poem. —Walt Whitman
Annie looked them over with her big eyes and wide, smiling lips. “Would it be pathetic to beg for a job?”
“You wouldn’t be the first. Let’s start with you filling that out for me.” I nodded to the application.
She straightened up seriously, a little embarrassed. “Yes, of course.”
“Just come get me when you’re through, and we’ll chat.”
She nodded, but I caught a glimpse of her nerves; she was an open book, her pages fluttering from one emotion to the next with an easy whisper.
I walked over to the empty crates, still sprawled across the entry, and picked them up. I carried them out to the sidewalk where my beer delivery guy was waiting, nose in his clipboard. We exchanged a few words, but I wasn’t really paying attention; my mind was turned back to the girl sitting in the booth with pink mittens in her lap.
Her head was down, attention on her application. The tip of her tongue poked comically out of the corner of her lips. And I kept on walking until I was behind the bar, busying myself with anything I could think of, which wasn’t much. We hadn’t been open for long enough that morning to actually have anything to do.
I was in the middle of pretending to do inventory when she set her pen down. I was so aware of her, I sensed the motion rather than saw it.
I smiled and made my way back over, sliding into the bench across from her.
She beamed and pushed the paper in my direction. “Here you go. All done.”
I glanced down the sheet, taking in the details. Her name and address—
Surprise jolted through me that she lived on Fifth and 94th, the Upper East—the Upper Crust. That surprise turned to downright shock when I noted her birthday.
She was eighteen.
Fresh out of high school.
With no job experience.
I looked up at her then, her face full of hope, laced with fear and longing, touched by a shadow of desperation. And there were only two things to do.
I packed away any notion that I might ever be able to be with her and asked, “When can you start?”
Annie
“I got the job!”
Everyone in the living room smiled—even Mama, a smile that was real and genuine even if it was a little scared—and Elle and Susan stood to congratulate me with hugs and kisses on the cheek.
“The bookstore is amazing,” I said as I pulled off my mittens and coat. “It’s huge, full of romance novels and comic books, and the bar is a coffee shop too. The ceilings are a mile high with all the pipes and everything exposed, and the floor is brushed concrete with swoops that make it look like the pages of books. Oh! And they have coasters with literary quotes, and they do these singles’ nights where they try to hook the comic-book boys up with the romance girls,” I rambled. “I mean, what an idea. Books and booze and baristas. Genius. But I’m such a klutz. I tripped right into the manager and would have fallen if he hadn’t caught me. I can’t believe he still hired me!”
“Ooh, a boy!” Meg teased, waggling her eyebrows.
I rolled my eyes and ruffled her sandy-brown hair, ignoring the rush of adrenaline I had at the thought of Greg—tall, handsome Greg with the nice smile and striking blue-green eyes who was way too old for me. “Psh, he’s my boss, and he’s old. He’s got to be almost thirty.”
Mama let out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a snuffle. “Practically ancient. Was it his cane or his bifocals that gave him away?”
“Ha, ha,” I sang. “They want me to start tomorrow! I can’t even believe it.” My cheeks so high from smiling, they ached a little. I barely noticed. “A real job. I’ll be working the cash register at the coolest bookstore I’ve ever seen.” I sighed and dropped into an oversized armchair.
Mama watched me, her face full of pride and trepidation. “I knew you’d get it. They’d have been crazy not to hire you.”
“Thank you, Mama, for giving me your blessing.”
She let out a sigh of her own, and it was anything but dreamy. “It was time. And this sounds like a nice sitting job, one without too much physical effort on your part. Did you tell them? About your heart?”
“I didn’t think explaining Ebstein’s anomaly to my new manager during an interview would get me any points, so no, Mama, I didn’t mention it. But I will, if I need to.”
“When you need to,” she corrected.
I looked to Aunt Susan, who had been quiet for the longest stretch I’d ever witnessed. “What have y’all been doing all day?”
She smiled, her eyes meeting mine for only a moment before turning back to the embroidery in her hands. “Oh, not much. Meg has been informing us of the wonders of Egypt.”
Meg lit up. “Did you know King Tut died because he was inbred, not in a chariot race like his sarcophagus said?”
My brows rose.
Susan laughed. “We’ve had nothing to do and spent the day rolling around in the luxury. Congratulations again, Annie. I’m so glad to see you’re feeling better. I know moving here hasn’t been easy for any of you, and I’m sorry if I’ve made it any worse than it had to be with my constant blather.” She paused, considering her words. “I’m one of those odd people who laughs when bad things happen—my children never found it amusing when they skinned their knees—and I tend to cover up my sadness with humor and happiness, sometimes when it’s not appropriate.”
Guilt slipped into my heart. “Aunt Susan, your cheer has been one of the best things about coming here.”
Her cheeks were pink and merry, but her eyes were sad. “I’m glad. And we’re glad you’re here.” She moved her embroidery to the small table next to her. “Emily has been telling me all day about how lovely your piano playing is, but I haven’t had the courage to ask you to play. Do you think you might like to? I would so love to hear.”
And I smiled, partly at the thought of Susan not having courage for something and partly out of sheer pleasure at the prospect of playing for an audience. “Of course.”
When I hopped up, my heart jigged dangerously in my chest. Black spots danced in my vision, my breath shallow and thin. Elle was on her feet, catching me as I teetered, staggering forward.
“Are you all right?” she asked, her concern weighing her voice.
“Yeah, I…I just stood up too fast; that’s all,” I answered with what I hoped was a comforting, believable expression on my face.
But I held on to her arm as we walked through the double French doors to the grand piano.
I took a seat at the piano bench and opened the lid, the toothy smile of the keys comforting, calming my heart, bringing my breath back to a steady rhythm.
“What do you want to hear? Mozart?” I made a snobbish face, my back ramrod straight as m
y fingers drummed the bouncing opening to Piano Sonata No. 11. “Tchaikovsky?” I banged out the dramatic ending of Swan Lake. “Maybe a little light Beethoven?” I dum-dum-dum-dummmmed the dark opening bars of Symphony No. 5.
Meg rolled her eyes so hard, I couldn’t see her irises. “Boring classical. Play Elton John!”
I laughed, my fingers finding the keys without looking, plinking the ivory to the ragtime rhythm of the bouncing saloon opening of “Honky Cat.” I sang—it was impossible not to sing along to it—roistering about the city lights and my redneck ways and just how good the change would do me.
Meg sang along, and everyone joined in but Elle, who was convinced she couldn’t sing (this was a lie; I had heard her on occasion when she thought no one was listening, and her voice was quite lovely). But she swayed. She swayed and she smiled, her eyes twinkling like Mama’s.
I made a big show as I broke it all the way down with the rolling, wild ending. And when I finally gave it up for good, they cheered.
I laughed and curtsied invisible skirts as they shouted Brava and Encore!
Aunt Susan was smiling so wide, I could almost count her molars. “Annie, that was wonderful!”
“Why, thank you.” I bowed deeply this time with the sweep of my arm. “I’m here all week. Try the prime rib!”
“Do another!” Meg bounced. “Do Bowie!”
So I did. I played “Oh! You Pretty Things” and The Beatles’ “Rocky Raccoon” with a little “Killer Queen” for good measure before I finally called it.
They clapped, and I stood for a final bow.
We chatted as we turned for the door to the room, but Mama touched my arm.
“May I talk to you?” she asked, her voice low.
Everyone kept walking out, not having heard her.
“Of course, Mama.”
We moved to the armchairs where I sat, and she pulled up next to me, her face drawn.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Nothing’s wrong; that’s the thing I’m trying to keep in mind. Ever since you were born, I’ve been afraid. In fact, I can barely remember what it’s like not to be afraid, and I can’t recall what it’s like not to feel guilty. You’ve missed so much, and it’s my fault.”
