by Sara Ella
“Good.” Jake taps something out on her tablet. “Now then, pass these around.” She retrieves a stack of red paper hearts from her tote along with a pencil case. “Take a heart and a pencil each.”
Everyone obeys but I’m a statue, staring at Hope where she sits cross-legged on the trellis rug. She’s different than she was this morning. The easygoing girl who insisted this place is special now forces a smile. Her crisscrossed legs turn into butterfly wings when she takes a heart and pencil and sets them in her lap. She could fly away. Does she have someone on the outside who would notice if she went missing?
Why do I care?
I take my things without looking, keeping my focus on Hope instead. We are not friends and we’re never going to be. I don’t have time or even the hint of a desire for attachments that won’t last. But the piece of me that used to be, the part once whole and unbroken, makes eye contact with the girl I assumed was too young to understand.
You okay? I mouth when she meets my gaze.
Fine, she mouths back, though she’s obviously not.
I narrow my eyes. The all-knowing empath in me that surfaces when I’m not numb can sense when someone’s lying. My heart screams offense, but my head says we’re not as different as I first believed.
Hiding behind practiced expressions and cookie-cutter answers. Never allowing anyone inside because we’ve done so too many times to count and we’re tired. Washed up. Finished.
I bite my tongue and stare at the heart in my hands. A rip in the paper’s edge begs me to make the tear deeper, longer. Until the stupid symbol is torn in two and nothing can be done to save it. Tape and glue will never take it back to perfect.
“I want you each to close your eyes and think of some negative words or even phrases you’ve allowed to define you.” Jake closes her own eyes.
Classic fail, lady. Treating us like children isn’t going to get us to trust you.
On principle, I keep my eyes wide open. I’m the only one, though. Even Hope obeys despite the edge about her now.
“Maybe these are words you’ve used for yourself,” Jake says. “Ones you’ve voiced until you’ve come to believe them so deeply, they’re ingrained as truth.” Hand to her heart, our leader rolls her shoulders, inhales, and releases the breath. “Or they could be terms or phrases someone else has tagged you with. Unwanted. Ugly. Unworthy. Waste of time. Whatever they are, let them appear before your mind’s eye.”
I have half a mind’s eye to slip out of the room, leave my paper heart behind with the rest of this nonsense. But a twitch in Hope’s expression catches the corner of my vision. Her chin crinkles and quivers, eyebrows the shade of her freckles and hair pinching the space above her nose.
And something within me cracks, Hope’s pain pouring in, becoming my own.
I seal the hole quickly, finally closing my eyes if only to keep from letting her in.
“Do you have your words? Can you picture them?” Jake clears her throat, and I almost get the sense she’s choked up.
She’s a fine actress. Too bad I don’t believe in fiction.
Some girls “mmm-hmm” in response to her question. Hope is the only one who voices a clear “yes.”
I peek through my lids.
Jake’s satisfaction goes viral across her face. “You can open your eyes,” she says, placing a long, carefully chosen pause before continuing. “Now, I want you to take your pencils and write those words and phrases on your paper heart. Take care not to rush. Use flourishes or embellishments. Etch those beliefs into that heart until there’s no denying they’re there.”
I’m almost boiling now, my nerves rattling muscle and bone. “What’s the point of this?” I hiss under my breath.
Jake faces me, pouring all her attention and energy into her considering stare. “Brooke.” She leans forward slightly. “I was going to save introductions for after our exercise, but maybe you’d prefer to do that now?”
The friendly tactic won’t work. I’m on to her methods and this is only day one. “No, thanks.”
I expect her to insist. To use her power to force the soul out of me. Never mind the brownie I ate to appease her. I’m not going to let her win this one.
But she only shrugs. “Okay. Where were we?” Fingers combing her short hair, Jake almost appears flustered, absentmindedly regular like anyone else when interrupted.
Another trick? Or a flaw in her façade?
“Right. Words, ladies. I’ll give you ten minutes.”
The rest of the group begins the assignment. Some scribble feverishly, filling their hearts within a few minutes. I look to Jake, surprised to find her also filling out a paper heart.
What game is she playing?
Hope catches my attention again. She stares at her heart, glancing from it to her hands and back again. Our time’s almost up before she writes a single word at the heart’s center, then folds it in half, creasing the edge, precision in her gaze.
Ah, a perfectionist. Should have pegged it sooner.
“Great.” Jake crosses one leg over the other, taking time to make eye contact with each of us in turn. “We’ll divide into pairs now.” She turns her heart to face us so we can read the words she wrote. Underqualified and doesn’t fit the mold are two of several definitions displayed on the paper surface.
My invisible wall lowers an inch.
Most of the other girls grab their desired partner, leaving me and Hope the only ones without a match.
Great. New girl and newest girl are stuck with each other. Can I get a rain check, please?
“You may find any spot on the grounds you wish. Go for a walk through the gardens,” Jake says. “Take a stroll through the stables. Head up the hill, bask in the ocean view.”
My ears perk at the word ocean.
How long has it been? Months? A year? I can’t remember anymore.
“It doesn’t matter where you go, so long as you are willing to trust your partner with your heart,” Jake goes on. “It’s your job to release it. And it’s your partner’s job to speak truth into you until those words no longer matter. Until you can erase them with full confidence they mean nothing at all.” She takes a breath, letting her instructions sink in. “Some words may be erased today. Others may take much longer to remove. Maybe even after you leave here and go home, at which point you would find a new life-giver. A trustworthy friend or family member, a teacher, or even a counselor who can continue to hold you to those truths.”
This is all way too touchy-feely for my taste. Can we get to the “dish” or whatever it is already?
“We’ll convene back here at the top of the hour. Trust each other, ladies. I can’t wait to hear about your journeys whence you return.”
Did she say “whence”? Seriously, this woman is too much.
Everyone’s on their feet before I can grasp what’s happening. When they’ve all left and Hope stands before me, she offers her heart. The gesture is innocent. Childlike.
I snatch the shape from her hand in a harsh move I regret almost immediately. “Let’s get this over with.”
“You’re supposed to give me yours,” she responds, more snap in her voice than I expect.
I shove my own paper into her hands.
She stares down at it, a frown creasing her expression. “It’s blank.” Her stare mimics her spoken word.
“Yeah.” My response presents a challenge, daring her to so much as breathe the wrong way. “So?”
“It’s just . . .” Her head tilts. She blinks once. Shakes her head. “You are not nothing. You know? Whether you wrote the word or not, you should know you’re not nothing. And whoever made you think you are is a liar.”
My jaw goes slack before I can control it. My chest swells and emotion squeezes my throat, choking me until it’s nearly impossible to breathe. I don’t know why, but I open her folded paper and look over the word on her heart, find the one she did, in fact, write. The one I didn’t have the courage to make real.
Nothing
/> I swallow. Then meet her eyes, my heart softening when I do.
“You’re not nothing either,” I tell her.
“I guess that makes us both something.” Her grin isn’t practiced this time.
“I guess so.” I almost mean it.
When we walk outside, I follow her to the hill I assume leads to the view of the ocean. As I watch her, the January air nipping at my neck, our words replay in my mind, stirring something unfamiliar and foreign.
A couple of nothings, making their way toward something.
Something beautiful.
Something real.
Something I haven’t seen in quite some time.
Nine
Merrick
“Y’all go on in. I’ll be right behind you.”
Merrick’s mom flipped down the visor in the front passenger seat. She checked her face in the small mirror and wiped at her eyelids, rubbing off the black, inky spots her tears had temporarily tattooed onto her skin. She caught his gaze in the mirror’s reflection. Her eyes brightened, hinting at a smile though he couldn’t see her lips.
“You don’t have to come in.” Merrick turned toward Nikki, squeezing her hand but avoiding her eyes. Her admission from earlier hung between them, and he couldn’t bring himself to meet the questioning look she was probably giving him. “Harold can take you home.”
“Do you not want me here?” As confident as she was, even Nikki had her insecurities.
“No!” Merrick’s gut clamped at the lie. Worse, his dad’s voice took the lead in his mind, telling him what good publicity it would be if Nikki were seen with their family during a crisis. Her father might be swayed to merge companies if he knew Merrick was serious about his daughter.
The thought made him sick.
He opened the door. Stepped out of the car and into the rain. Drenched instantly, he ducked his head back into the car. “We could be here all night. You should go home, Nik. Get some rest. I’ll call you in the morning. Okay?” He flashed his teeth and that seemed to do the trick.
Nikki nodded, seemingly satisfied with his excuse. She was on her phone before he slammed the door.
Beneath the awning of the hospital’s entrance, Merrick shook out his hair and wiped his feet. It was New Year’s Eve and the hospital’s Christmas décor was still up, same as it was at home. Wreaths with giant red bows hung from the glass doors. Twinkle lights wrapped the pillars on either side of the mat where he stood. He was about to go in when a distinct mechanical hum sounded. He turned, found himself eye to eye with his mom behind a half-rolled-down window.
She looked like she was about to say something but didn’t.
Her stare left him uneasy. “See you inside?”
She nodded. “See you, baby.”
Then she rolled up the window, her face vanishing behind a pane of dark glass.
* * *
It had been years since his mother had referred to him as “baby.” Merrick resented the sour feeling it left in the pit of his stomach.
“It shouldn’t be much longer.”
A hand holding a steaming Styrofoam cup hovered an inch from Merrick’s face. He looked up to find the nurse—what had she said her name was? Jane? June?—standing in front of him. She wore festive Whoville and Grinch scrubs and a reindeer antler headband that jingled when she moved.
He sighed. Right. This was a children’s hospital. No doubt he’d be seeing many a reindeer antler around. He took the cup. Sipped. Hot cocoa. With marshmallows. Of course it was.
She hummed, clearly comfortable in her own skin. Her white Skechers squeaked on the linoleum floor. “We have family counselors here if you need to talk to someone. They’re on call twenty-four-seven.”
Oh. Great. We have a talker.
So not what he needed. Someone to tell him it would all be “okay.”
He sighed again, louder. Hinting. “Thanks for the drink, but I’m good. Waiting to see my sister.”
And this, apparently, was an invitation for her to sit.
Merrick rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and finger. Pinched hard, hoping to wake from what was sure to be a conversational nightmare. When he opened his eyes and she was still there, he saw it would take more than sighs and body language to get his point across.
“Look. My mom will be up any minute.” He took another sip, this one coming too fast, burning his tongue, scorching his throat. “She may want one of your counselors, but I’m good.”
“You said that.”
“I meant it.”
“Are you sure?”
She was pushing the boundaries. Crossing the line between professionalism and prying.
“Yep.”
She stood and cleared her throat. “Let me know if you or your family need anything. I’ll be at the nurses’ station all night.”
“Will do.” He expected her to go then. She didn’t.
She sniffled instead.
Merrick cringed. He noticed something he hadn’t before. Though she wasn’t super pregnant, the bump was definitely there. He didn’t have to be a prodigy to figure out she was prone to become an emotional wreck due to the simple fact she was growing a human inside of her.
He looked around, hoping the tough nurse, the one he saw in movies, would walk by and save him.
“My dad died by suicide.” Nurse Basket Case shifted from foot to foot. Had she considered she might be the one in need of counseling? “Last year. He . . . jumped off the bridge.”
She didn’t have to say which bridge. They lived in San Francisco. The bridge meant the bridge. Still, the fact that they were both natives didn’t make this therapy hour. And it didn’t make them friends either.
He glanced at her name tag. Jana. She was pretty, though tired looking. As if time in this place had aged her. What genius thought to give the pregnant lady the graveyard shift anyway?
“Has the doctor talked to you at all? Has he explained what . . . happened?” Jana tilted her head, waiting.
Merrick shook his head. “I’m sure he’ll come talk to us when my mom arrives.”
Jana’s brow pinched. “We’ve seen a lot of childhood suicide cases and attempts over the past year. It’s heartbreaking . . . to see someone so young want to take their own life.”
He didn’t want to have this conversation. He wasn’t ready to wrap his mind around it.
But his lack of preparedness didn’t stop the pregnant nurse from going on. “Most of the time, when someone slits their wrists, they bleed out in minutes. There isn’t time to save them.”
Merrick couldn’t face her. He hung his head lower, enough so she couldn’t see the pathetic sign of weakness welling in his eyes.
“I’m not allowed to give you medical details or advice, but I can tell you the difference between a true attempted suicide and a cry for help. This is a chance you might not get again. Next time might end differently. Anyway, let me know if you need anything.” Jana retreated then, seeming to realize she had, one, already said this and, two, said too much.
Merrick was thankful for her absence and annoyed at the same time. Though he wasn’t in the mood to deal with wacky woman hormones, he also didn’t want to spend one more moment watching the clock on the wall tick, tick, tick. Another second. Another minute. Another hour. A cry for help? A chance we might not get again? Where was his mom? Why wasn’t she around to hear this? How long did it take a person to get it together and come inside?
It had been three hours since he’d arrived. And fifty-two minutes. Seven, eight, nine . . .
She was in the gift shop.
Or she was getting food. The cafeteria was closed and she’d gone to bring something back. His dad would never approve, but Merrick would give anything for Taco Bell.
It didn’t take this long to get Taco Bell.
Maybe she was filling out paperwork.
She could do that up here.
He set his cocoa on the chair beside him, pulled his phone from his pocket. No missed calls. Zero unread texts.
The signal in the hospital was probably bad. He powered the device off and then back on, waited a full minute for it to register any new voice mails. Something.
But there was nothing.
Where are you, Mom?
The text said delivered. He waited for it to inform him it had been read. Stared at the screen, as if he were some kind of superhero who could force her to answer with his mind.
“You can go in now.”
Merrick swiped at his eyes with the heel of his palm before meeting the gaze of his father across the hall.
Hiroshi stood with one foot still inside Amaya’s room, looking a little disheveled but still his regular self. The man’s expression gave nothing away as he nodded, then headed down the opposite hall before Merrick could even ask him if he’d heard from Mom.
Amaya’s door was cracked when Merrick reached it. One breath. Two. He entered. The heavy door announced his presence, but his sister didn’t stir.
The IV drip, drip, dripped.
The vitals monitor beep, beep, beeped.
He inched closer and finally resolved to sit in a reclining chair at her bedside. An artificial Charlie Brown Christmas tree stood by the window, its lights pale in comparison to those of the city beyond. They probably had these in all the rooms. Merrick angled himself so the tree was nowhere within his line of vision. He didn’t need false cheer rubbed in his face. Not now.
“Worst brother ever, huh?” Merrick’s hand migrated to Amaya’s knee. He shook it awkwardly. “Guess this means you get the top bunk to infinity and beyond.”
The odd joke came out of past memories of watching Toy Story on Oba-Chan’s old VHS player. Memories that refused to die. They hadn’t shared a room in years. Not since their father lived on base back in his Navy days. Merrick was twelve. Amaya, four. Their small house only had three rooms. One for their parents. One for Hiroshi’s office. And one for the kids. They were young enough that privacy wasn’t a thing, and it had made no difference that she was a girl and Merrick was a boy. But he was still older and that meant he got the top bunk.
Amaya used to have the biggest meltdowns over it until one night when Mom finally gave in.
