His Heart

by Claire Kingsley

  “It usually follows an infection of some kind,” Dr. Senter said. “It could be viral, although bacterial infections have been known to cause cases of myocarditis as well. But Sebastian’s health history doesn’t indicate he’s been sick.”

  “No,” Mom said. “He never gets sick. Other kids got ear infections and coughs and stuffy noses, but never Sebastian. He’s always been so healthy.”

  “No strange symptoms in the last six months or so?” Dr. Senter asked, looking at me. “Fatigue, stomach problems, fever?”

  “No,” I said. My mom was right. I almost never got sick.

  “Well, in some cases, the cause can’t be determined,” she said. “Sometimes we just don’t know why it happened.”

  “What do we do now?” Dad asked. “What sort of treatment does it require?”

  Just like my dad—ready to talk solutions.

  “Our first concern is preventing another fibrillation episode,” Dr. Senter said, her eyes on me again. “I have several prescriptions you’ll need to take. These will help ease the load on your heart and make another ventricular fibrillation less likely.”

  “But what about the inflammation?” Dad asked. “How do we fix that?”

  “We just need to let it heal,” Dr. Senter said. “The medications will help. We’ll need to keep a close eye on his heart function over the next six to twelve months. For now, you’ll need to limit your activity. You’re a wrestler, is that right?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “But the season’s over.”

  Dr. Senter nodded. “That’s good. Definitely no wrestling. Or running. Keep it mild so your heart can get better.”

  I nodded, but I hated the idea of not working out. I took a little time off after wrestling season each year, but I kept in shape year-round. I had to be ready for next season. College was going to be even more competitive. I had to up my game, not take time off.

  But I couldn’t wrestle at all if my heart quit working again.

  I glanced at my dad. “It’s just like any other injury. I’ll rehab it, and next thing you know, I’ll be back at a hundred percent.”

  He smiled—a look of resolve—and nodded. “That’s right.”

  Dr. Senter had more to say, but it was all worst-case scenario stuff. What would happen if my heart didn’t heal—if the inflammation spread. I needed to know what to look out for—how to tell if something was wrong—but I didn’t worry about the rest. I’d take my pills, follow my rehab plan, and be back to my old self in time for wrestling at U of I.

  That was what was going to happen. Like winning state against Charlie. There was no other option.

  5

  Brooke

  January. Age seventeen.

  My key rattled in the front door lock. It always stuck a little, but I managed to get it open. A big black garbage bag, full of who knows what, stood in the way. I had to push it aside to get the door open enough to come in.

  I’d spent the afternoon doing homework with Liam and Olivia next door. It had been a little less than a year since the first time Liam had kissed me. After that night, I’d officially become his girlfriend. He’d been my first kiss, and he was the first guy I’d ever dated. I was crazy about him.

  The air tickled the back of my throat. My house perpetually smelled of cigarettes and weed, the stale pungent scent permeating everything. It was stuffy—warmer inside than out. Phoenix had great weather in January, but our house was always uncomfortably hot.

  The worn-out gray couch—which provided the only sense that the living room was, in fact, a living room—was piled with flattened cardboard boxes. More bulbous garbage bags sat on the floor, their contents warping their shapes. What was going on?

  “Mom?” I called, pitching my voice to be heard in the kitchen at the back of the house. “Are you home?”

  Something crashed in the kitchen, a sharp metallic sound, like pots and pans hitting the floor.

  “Fuck!”

  “Mom?”

  I hurried down the short hallway to the kitchen to find my mom in a black t-shirt and jeans, standing over a pile of pots and pans. Her hair was limp and wet, like she’d recently showered. She put her hands on her hips and for a second, I stared at her bony arms. She was so skinny. Not attractive thin, like she was in good shape. She was sickly, with bones protruding from her pallid skin. Her t-shirt was too big, the neck slanting crooked, almost off one shoulder, and her elbows were sharp and pointy.

  “Fuck,” she muttered again.

  “Mom, what’s going on?” I asked.

  “We’re moving,” she said without looking at me.

  I blinked at her, my breath freezing in my lungs. Moving? Again? In my seventeen years on this planet, my mother had moved me no less than twenty-three times. That I knew of. The number might have been higher, since I didn’t know all the places we’d lived before I was three. But by my best guess, this house was number twenty-three.

  “What?” I asked. “Moving where?”

  “Tucson.” She crouched down, revealing her tramp stamp—a set of wings tattooed on her lower back. I’d never been sure if they were supposed to be angelic, or some kind of bird.

  “Why?”

  She looked at me for the first time then. Her eyes were always bloodshot, so the red veins standing out against the whites of her eyes were nothing new. Today she had dark circles beneath her eyes and a scab on the corner of her lip. Whether that was a cold sore or a place she’d been hit was anyone’s guess. Paul didn’t usually smack her around, but it happened once in a while if they got really drunk. And she would sometimes leave the house and disappear for a few hours—or days—and return with a bruise or two. I’d never asked what they were from.

  “Because we are,” she said, her voice sharp. She went back to stacking the pots. “Because Paul is a fucking prick.”

  I took slow steps backward, my stomach tied in a knot. My mouth hung open, but the words I wanted to say died in my throat. I knew it wouldn’t matter how much I protested. Arguing would only get me in trouble. I didn’t want to risk getting slapped, or worse.

  I decided to try a different tactic. I kept my voice light and conversational. “Wow, Mom. This is unexpected. When did you decide this?”

  “Don’t argue with me,” she said.

  “But I was just asking—”

  “Goddammit, Brooke,” she said, whirling on me. She was smaller than me, all sinew and bone, but I knew how strong she was. “Don’t fucking start with me. I’m your mother. We’re leaving tonight.”

  “Tonight?” I asked, my voice strangled, barely escaping my throat.

  “You need to listen,” she said. “You know I hate repeating myself.”

  “I know, Mom, but this is really sudden,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, life’s a bitch. Paul took off and I got fired. I’m already behind on the rent on this place. We can crash at my friend Leslie’s for a while until I get us back on our feet.” She went over to the counter and grabbed a pack of cigarettes, then smacked the pack against her hand a few times before pulling one out and sticking it between her lips. “Where’s my fucking lighter?”

  With trembling hands, I quickly grabbed a lighter off the counter and handed it to her. She lit her cigarette and took a long drag, then took it out of her mouth between two fingers. She held in the smoke before blowing it out in a cloud.

  “Go pack your shit,” she said. “Just what we can fit in the car. We’ll have to come back for the rest. Or just get new shit, I don’t know.”

  My lungs felt tight, like I couldn’t get enough air. Without another word, I turned and went upstairs to my room.

  I didn’t start packing like she’d told me to. I stood in the center of my bedroom, looking around. I was going to graduate in five months. The last five months of my sentence. Possibly four. In four months, I’d turn eighteen. Even though I’d still have a month until graduation, I’d be a legal adult. Maybe I’d find a way to move out.

  I just needed four more months.

/>   But this move shouldn’t have surprised me. Mom had been with Paul for a record eighteen months, and we’d lived here for well over a year. We’d been downright settled in this place. It had been stupid to hope we’d live here long enough for me to graduate. I should have known better than to make friends. Get close to Liam.

  I glanced out my window at Liam’s house. His bedroom was dark, but it was six o’clock. Dinner time. He was probably sitting at the dining table with his family, sharing a meal. Something that required pots and pans like the ones my mom was pointlessly packing downstairs.

  Tucson was three hours away. Would Liam’s parents let him come visit me? Would he ever have time? He’d have school, and practice, and games.

  More importantly, would my mom let me see him if he came?

  I’d kept my relationship with Liam quiet, hiding behind my friendship with his sister. It was easier to tell my mom I was going next door to hang out with Olivia than be honest and say Liam was my boyfriend. I was terrified of lying to her, but I was more afraid of what she’d do if she knew the truth. It wasn’t that we were sleeping together, like she feared so much. But she’d never believe me if I told her we weren’t having sex. To her, that’s what a relationship was.

  And I was friends with Olivia. I didn’t hang out with her as much as I did Liam, but I liked her a lot. She was only about six months younger than me, and a junior. She was the first friend I’d had since I was little.

  I’d been spending a lot of time with the Harpers. Liam’s parents were amazing, Olivia was sweet, and Liam… He was everything. Some people would say I was too young to be in love, but I knew better. I was completely in love with Liam Harper.

  How could I leave them?

  Anger bubbled up inside me. Why did she have to do this to me? Over and over again? I tried to be a good daughter. I cleaned up after her. Followed her rules, whether they made sense or not. Ignored her drugs. I never ratted her out or called the cops, not even when she hit me.

  I’d spent my entire life trying to make her happy. Trying to be good so she’d stay sober for a little while. Because sometimes she did. Sometimes she seemed to get herself together, and things would be okay.

  Then I’d come home to her passed out on the couch, or packing up the house to move in with yet another dirtbag she’d picked up who knows where.

  And now she was going to move me yet again, right in the middle of my senior year. When I only had four months left before I’d be free.

  I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t pack up and start over again. Not this time.

  Instead of pulling out my things and packing for Tucson, I grabbed some of the least-shitty clothes I owned and stuffed them into my backpack. My journals. Hairbrush. Makeup bag. The picture of me and Liam at the dance.

  There wasn’t anything else I wanted.

  With my phone in the back pocket of my ripped jeans, and my backpack slung over my shoulders, I crept downstairs. I desperately hoped I could get out of the house without her hearing. She’d seemed pretty sober, so I didn’t have the advantage of her being stoned. If I was really doing this, I had to do it fast.

  There was so much crap strewn around the living room, I had to pick up my feet and tip-toe around. Mom was still in the kitchen. I could hear her muttering and the ripping sound of packing tape. What was she doing back there? She only had a sedan—how much kitchen stuff that never got used did she plan on stuffing into the back seat of her car?

  “Brooke!”

  I froze, my heart pounding. Did she think I was still upstairs? Should I answer? I was too far away from the door. Could I outrun her if she chased me? I’d never tried. I’d always been too scared of what she’d do when she caught me to run away from her.

  But I wasn’t coming back this time. Not ever. So fuck it.

  I sprinted for the front door. Threw it open.

  “Brooke, where the hell do you think you’re going?”

  My backpack bounced as I bolted down the three steps leading to the driveway. One of my journals dug painfully into my back, but she’d do worse if she caught me. I almost made it to the street—although I had no idea where I was going—when I tripped and flew forward, landing hard on the black asphalt.

  Pain bloomed across my palms, scraped raw, and my knees burned. I’d tripped over something, but I wasn’t sure what. It didn’t matter. I just had to get up.

  “Brooke, what the fuck is going on?” Mom asked. Her footsteps were getting closer, but she wasn’t running.

  I glanced over my shoulder. She was only a few feet away. Another step, and she’d be close enough to reach out and grab me. I had to get away.

  Pushing myself up with my palms stinging, I struggled to my feet. Blood soaked my jeans at the knees and more ran down my arms. My chin burned; I must have scraped it when I hit the ground.

  “You dumbass,” Mom said. She had a new cigarette between her fingers and she flicked the ashes into the street. “What are you running outside for? You all packed? I don’t have time for your bullshit.”

  “No,” I said.

  She put a hand on her bony hip and cocked her head to the side. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m not going,” I said.

  I expected her to erupt with anger, but she simply looked amused.

  “Is that so?”

  I nodded. “I’m not moving with you.”

  She took a long drag of her cigarette, never taking her eyes off me. “Yes, you are.”

  “No.”

  Anger reached her eyes then. They narrowed and a vein pulsed in her neck. “I’m your mother, Brooke. You’re coming with me.”

  I shook my head. I felt like my scrapes should hurt more, but maybe it was all the adrenaline coursing through my system. That, or all the fear.

  The slap came so fast, I didn’t have time to flinch away. My cheek erupted with pain and I covered my face, turning away from her.

  She hit me again, her fist closed this time. “You little bitch. You can’t run away from me. I’m your mother.”

  “Mom, stop.”

  Another slap, her palm open. I warded off the worst of it with my right arm, but her fingernail scratched my forehead as it went by.

  “This is the thanks I get?” she asked, her voice getting louder. Smack. “This is what I get for raising you?” Smack. “Putting up with your shit all these years?” Smack. “Do you have any fucking idea what it’s been like?” Smack. She slapped me again, and again, her blows hard and erratic.

  “Mom, please.” Tears rolled down my cheeks. I staggered backward, my arms up, trying to stop her from hitting me. “Please stop.”

  “I’m your mother,” she shouted. Another hard slap connected with the side of my head, just above my ear.

  “Mom—”

  “Hey!” Liam’s voice.

  Oh god, no. No, no, no. Don’t let him see this.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Liam asked.

  I didn’t turn to look, but I could hear his footsteps as he ran toward the street. Mom’s hair was disheveled, her face twisted in an angry grimace. Somehow her lit cigarette was still pinched between two fingers, a tendril of acrid smoke rising into the air.

  “Mind your own fucking business,” she said.

  “Did you hit her?” Liam asked.

  “I’m her mother,” she said.

  “Bee, are you—” He stopped, his eyes going wide. “Oh my god.”

  My entire body shook. I didn’t want him to see this. I’d lied about my mom for years, assuring teachers and school counselors that everything was fine. I didn’t want anyone to know that this was where I came from. This was my life. I didn’t want anyone to see.

  Especially not Liam.

  Pity and anger stormed in his eyes as he looked me up and down. I’d never felt so ashamed. So dirty. He was seeing the truth of me in all its ugliness. My mother, her baggy clothes hanging off her emaciated frame, the last vestiges of a cigarette in her hand. The door to my disgusting house, wide open, the mess in plain
sight.

  And me, bleeding, my skin burning, my eyes filled with tears. I’d been so careful not to let him see this. Always met him at the street so he wouldn’t come up to my door. Aired out my clothes in the window every night so they wouldn’t smell like smoke. Tip-toed around my mom, lying to her, so I wouldn’t give her a reason to be mad—a reason to leave a mark on me.

  “Listen, you little shit,” Mom said to Liam, breaking me from my stupor. “Get your ass back in your house. This has nothing to do with you.”

  Liam moved in front of me, placing himself between me and my mother. “Don’t you dare touch her.”

  Mom snorted. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me,” he said. “Don’t touch her. You’re never laying a hand on her again.”

  “And what are you going to do about it?” she asked. “Hit me back? Go ahead, hit a woman. That’ll go over well.”

  He took slow steps toward her, his body tense. Mom’s eyes widened and the color drained from her face.

  “I won’t hit you,” he said, his voice dangerously low. “I don’t have to because you’re going to walk back into that house right now. And Brooke is coming home with me.”

  “Like hell,” Mom said, but there was a lot less conviction in her voice.

  Liam shifted toward her and she flinched. “Yes, she is.”

  “I’m her mother,” Mom said weakly.

  “Not anymore.” Liam turned away from her, as if she no longer existed. “Come on, Bee. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  I trembled as he led me into his house, too shocked to process what was happening. Liam spoke softly to me, words of encouragement that I couldn’t understand. My breath came in shaky gasps, and I clutched my scraped hands against my body.

  “Liam, what’s going on out there?” his mom, Mary, called from the other room.

  “Brooke needs help,” he said.

  Mary met us in the kitchen. Her jaw dropped and her eyes widened. “Brooke, what happened?”

  “Her mom,” Liam said, his voice thick with anger.

  “What?” Mary asked.

  “I went outside and her mom was hitting her in the street.”