Years later she remembered the book. It had begun to collect dust on the shelf, and one day Henley plucked it from its spot, sat down on her bed, and started to read it. After just a few pages, she’d felt that itch to write. The inspiring how-to guide re-lit the fire Henley had allowed to burn out. Not only did she realize that she still wanted to be a writer, but perhaps part of her knew it was what her father still wanted for her. After all, the inscription on the cover page was in her father’s messy scrawl, a mantra she had forgotten. She had given up. As she read through the book, she realized that her father very well might have been looking down on her from heaven—if there was such a place—with disappointment in his eyes. Henley couldn’t bear that thought. Once she’d inhaled all the book had to offer, she found herself sitting at her computer typing out the words to her first novel. Even if her father wasn’t there to see it, she had to show herself that she still had what it would take. She could be whatever she wanted, and deep down, she still desperately wanted to be a novelist.
Between her college classes, her part-time job, and life, Henley wrote. It took her more than a year, and a lot of hard work, but soon she’d typed “The End” on her first novel. She’d felt satisfied and genuinely proud of herself. The words of her father and the words of the book were the muse that kept her going. The whisper in her ear that told her never to give up. And Henley felt that as long as she had the book, the whisper would never fade. Over the next year it had motivated her to write two more novels. She’d even begun to think that what she had could be something publishable and begun to pursue just that.
While she learned everything she’d needed to know about the literary industry, editing and re-editing those first few novels, Henley continued to write. The voices—the muse—inside her, overflowed her with ideas that were desperate to end up on the pages of upcoming novels. She had more ideas than she knew what to do with and worried about how she’d possibly ever find the time to write them all down. Along with the inspiring how-to book Henley constantly carried with her, she also brought along a notepad and pen. No matter where she was or what she was doing, she was able to write down the whims of the muse. Filling notebook after notebook with novel ideas, characters, and continuing to create worlds outside of her own. She hadn’t settled on a genre, an age group, anything. She just wrote what seemed to be the loudest idea coming from her brain, whether it was an adventurous tale of knights and dragons, bloodthirsty vampires or romance hungry vixens. Nothing was off limits.
To Henley’s dismay, her mother had moved on, perhaps a little too quickly. Or at least, it felt that way. Soon, her mother had gotten remarried and started a new family. The rift that began that day in the kitchen, when she’d looked down at Henley and her dream, had since become a gorge. The Grand Canyon. When Henley declared her choice of college, and her major would be literature, it had become apparent that some damages could never be repaired.
Though they say time may heal all wounds, for Henley, the loss of her father still weighed heavy on her heart. A cut just as fresh as the day she’d been told he’d never give her another hug. Read another one of her stories. Or be there when she needed him most.
After a few years of only seeing her mother on holidays, when she couldn’t come up with an excuse that would get her out of attending, her mother called out of the blue. She had been desperate to see her first daughter, and had insisted she’d come to terms with Henley’s choices. Henley reluctantly agreed to see her, willing to make an effort to patch up the gaping holes in their fragile relationship.
* * *
Henley waited at the café, searching her book for a particular passage, scanning the words, thumbing through the pages. She’d been making notes when she hit a wall on her latest project. Whenever Henley struggled, she pulled out her literary Bible, often instantly spurring her with a renewed sense of eagerness and inspiration to push through. Her heel tapped against the floor, knee bouncing as she grew impatient with herself, and her mother, who was already more than fifteen minutes late.
Just when she’d begun to give up hope, Henley found what she was looking for: a quote by a renowned author about character building. She read it, letting the words wrap around her like a security blanket. Letting the voice whisper in her ear, creating that moment of awe where the pieces she’d been missing began to weave together in her mind.
“Seriously, Henley? Couldn't you have left that damn book at home? You know how I—”
Henley peered over the pages of the book with a scowl. Her mother, Abigail, was standing just to her left, having appeared almost out of nowhere.
“If it bothers you, Abigail, you know where the door is,” Henley replied with a huff of annoyance, using the book to gesture the door at the far end of the café. “Perhaps if you weren’t late,” she glanced at her watch, “I wouldn’t have had to pull it out of my bag in the first place.”
Still standing, Abigail was the picture of poise and elegance. She wore a well-tailored gray pantsuit and blazer. Her brown hair was pulled up into a chignon that hid the silvery strands that had begun to take over. Even her makeup was flawless. But heavier than Henley had remembered her ever wearing. She took her new role as a wealthy wife to rich-ass business man a little too seriously. There was a time when people said the two looked alike, but Henley could hardly recognize the woman standing before her.
“Please, Henley, enough with the dramatics. I’m a few minutes late, the driver couldn’t find a parking spot and had to circle around.”
“Fine. See. I’m putting the book away.” Henley gathered up her notepad, pen, and her prized book, and shoved them into the bag that hung on the back of the chair. “Now please, Mother, I’m dying to hear why you so urgently needed to see me.” She motioned carelessly to the chair opposite her, permitting her mother to take a seat, though Henley knew she needn’t bother. Her mother was going to take a seat, regardless of how much Henley was already regretting the impromptu mother-daughter bonding session.
With her nose clearing tipped to the sky, Abigail delicately sat down, perfect posture and smug expression. She was quiet, eerily so, for what felt like an eternity. Henley saw a few different emotions flash through her eyes and over her face. Then, though she wouldn’t have believed it were possible, Abigail sniffled. She took a napkin from the dispenser on the table and dabbed at the corner of her eyes.
“This is hard for me, to come here, like this, but—”
“Please, God, just spit it out,” Henley said, sitting now at the edge of her seat. No matter how much she disliked her mother, the pang of guilt in her stomach was loud and clear at the sight of Abigail suddenly so distressed. She cared. Even if she hadn’t wanted to; wished she could look at the person sitting across from her and see a stranger, and not the mother who’d raised her.
“It’s Hailey, honey. She’s sick.”
It felt like someone punched Henley in the stomach. “What-what do you mean, sick?” Obviously, her mother’s urgent need to see Henley meant that it wasn’t a cold, a flu bug, but rather, something more.
Using the napkin to draw away more tears, Abigail replied, “Cancer, honey. My baby has cancer.” She burst into a fit of hysterics.
“Oh, God, Mom. I’m so sorry,” Henley replied, feeling terrible. More than terrible. She hadn’t exactly been the older sister Hailey probably deserved, and was overly callous when it came to matters that involved her mother. Now, that pang of guilt morphed into gut-wrenching turmoil. “What... what can I do?” Henley added, knowing there probably wasn’t anything. It wasn’t as though she secretly held the cure to cancer in her pocket. Though she wished she had. Her sister, Hailey, was barely five years old. She had her whole life ahead of her. Too young to be taken away. Not to mention, Henley wasn’t sure she could fathom the loss of another person dear to her.
Pulling herself together, Abigail responded, her tone a little hopeful, “Well, there is something...” her voice trailed off. Turning her attention to the expensive purse she held i
n her lap, Abigail loosened the clasp and pulled free some papers, sliding them across the table.
Henley read, her eyebrows dipping in question. “Permission forms?”
“Yes. To be tested. Hailey needs a bone marrow transplant. Her father and I aren’t a match, but-but they said you might be.”
“Aren’t there people who donate that sort of thing? I mean, just like donating blood...”
“Yes, of course. And Hailey is on the waiting list. But the transplant has a better success rate if... Well if... It comes from a matched family member.”
Inhaling a deep breath, Henley looked down at the papers. The foreign medical jargon began to blur her vision. “When?”
“If you sign the papers, we can go to the hospital now.”
Henley looked away from her mother’s optimistic expression, zeroing her attention on an abstract painting on the far wall. She tried to filter the millions of questions and concerns that invaded her thoughts. But then she remembered something important. Hailey. This was about her, and not Abigail. If Henley did this, she’d be potentially saving a life. Her sister’s. How could she not entertain the idea? How could she say no? How could she not do whatever she could to help?
In an instant, Henley realized how hard it must have been for Abigail to come to her. Desperate. Worried. She’d lost someone already, as had Henley. She suddenly felt sympathetic as she grabbed the bag from the back of the chair.
“Wait. Before you leave. Just—think about it. Please. I know it’s a lot to ask. But—”
Henley raised her hand, silencing her mother.
“I’m just getting a pen.”
Abigail put her hand over her heart, eyes welling with fresh tears. “Oh, thank God.”
“She’s my sister. I’ll do whatever I can to help.” Henley signed on the line, giving permission to have her bone marrow tested to see if it would be a match to Hailey’s. She had watched enough medical dramas on TV to know a little bit about the procedure and how painful it would be. That pain wouldn’t compare to the loss that would consume her if she sat back and did nothing, letting her sister die.
“My driver’s outside waiting. We can go to the hospital now and the doctors can explain everything to you. Can you do that?”
“Yeah, Mom, I can do that.”
Abigail stood, just as Henley did. She reached forward and pulled her daughter into a hug. Henley was reluctant to return the sentiment, but found herself wrapping her arms around her mother. Abigail slumped with relief as if clinging on to the hope that this would be what Hailey needed to get better.
Henley had driven to the café. She fed the meter with all her change, before walking over to the sleek black sedan that idled at the curb just a few spots away. The image fit with her mother, impeccably dressed with an air of elegance, but Henley felt awkward as she climbed into the back. She wasn’t used to such a luxury. She’d rarely taken cabs, preferring to save money by walking. Even her own car often sat untouched in the parking lot.
Her mother talked endlessly about Hailey’s condition; how it had been detected almost a year before, but had progressively gotten worse. Henley only half-listened, clutching her bag, allowing her book to give her the comfort and strength she needed. She even felt a few ideas prickling the back of her neck, the book and her father working their magic. Though she resisted the urge to pull out her notepad in front of Abigail and make a few notes. Instead, Henley concentrated on the view from the window.
What Henley heard first was the driver yelling, “Hang on!” and then the screeching tires. Henley drew her attention forward, leaning in her seat for a better view just as a Semi-truck jackknifed in the middle of the freeway. By the time Henley realized what was coming, it was too late. The sound of crunching metal, the impact, her bag no longer in her hands, but seized by imaginary fingers, came an instant later. Henley tried to brace herself. But then she was falling, consumed by blackness as an excruciating amount of pain spiraled from her head, down her back, to the tips of her toes. The wind knocked from her lungs.
* * *
Henley woke with a splitting headache, throbbing behind blurred eyes. Her throat was sore, dry and parched. She coughed as she'd begun to adjust to her surroundings.
"Easy. The doctors had to give you some strong sedatives."
Lazily, Henley turned her head to the side.
"I'm so glad you're awake," Abigail said, perched on the edge of a chair, hand firmly grasped to Henley's. She wore different clothes than last Henley had seen her. She looked more like the woman who had raised her, wearing simple jeans and fitted t-shirt. But it was the sling holding her arm in place that grabbed Henley's attention, as she thought back to the last thing she remembered. They had been on their way to the hospital when they were... In a car accident.
"What-what happened?"
"Oh, honey, a truck driver fell asleep at the wheel and hit us. We're lucky to be alive."
Instinctively, Henley began to flex her muscles, assessing the damage as she lifted her hands to her head. A bandage covered her forehead and shooting pain raced up her leg when she tried to wiggle the toes on her right foot.
"You had a nasty bump on the head. Some swelling in the brain. It was touch and go for a bit, honey, but you'll be fine. The doctors have assured me."
Henley tried to sit up as she said, "My-my leg hurts."
"It's not too bad. Could be worse, really. Just a small fracture. You'll have the cast on for a few weeks."
That didn't seem too serious, in retrospect. She was alive. Though, had she been wearing her seatbelt, Henley might have been better off. It was then Henley remembered the point of the car ride in the first place.
"Hailey."
Abigail waved her hand in the air. "She's fine, honey. Great, actually. They were able to do the transplant last week, thanks to you being a near-perfect match."
"Last week?" Panic began to eclipse the throb in her head and the ache in her leg. She hadn't remembered any procedures. Hell, she hadn't remembered getting to the hospital after the accident. Those events were veiled with a thick fog Henley couldn't see through.
"Don't panic-" her mother began. Henley snorted. She was already doing just that. "But you've been in here three weeks. We pulled some strings, and, well, we figured it'd be better just to go ahead with the procedures, honey, since you'd already signed the permission forms."
That made sense. Probably better not having to remember that. But three weeks!
“School.” Henley swallowed. “My job...”
Again, Abigail waved her hand in the air as if those things didn’t matter. “I took care of those. You’re going to be out of commission for a little bit. I’ve got your professors sending over your work, and with the semester almost over, and summer just around the corner... Well, I thought, maybe you’d want to come home—come home with me so I can take care of you...”
Henley could hear the sincerity in her mother’s tone, not to mention, as they had in the café, her blue eyes began to well with tears.
“Please. Let me do this for you.” At Henley’s apparent hesitation, she quickly added, “How about you think about it? You don’t have to make up your mind right now. I-I’ll go get the doctor.”
Abigail sashayed across the small hospital room and out the door. The click the door made when it closed behind Abigail was loud. Foreboding. Henley turned on her side, pressing her cheek against the hard hospital pillow. Tears pooled in her eyes and slipped down her cheeks. She hated the position she was in. There was no clear option, not one that would make things easier, on either of them. Abigail may have wanted to step up, now, after all this time, and be a mother to her again, but Henley was reluctant. However, with a broken leg, a bump on her head, and no work to pay her bills, she didn’t have much of a choice.
A few days later, Henley was released from the hospital and into the care of her mother. It had become clear she needed help. Simple things like getting from the hospital bed to the washroom were a chore, not to me
ntion, the doctor wouldn’t let her leave alone. She had to rely on someone. Her options were severely limited. Abigail, however, was taking on her new role with more enthusiasm than Henley was comfortable with.
“Here, I brought you this,” Abigail said, passing over a simple sundress. “I hope it fits.” She bit her bottom lip, as she turned around and waited for Henley to slip out of the backless hospital gown and into the dress. Henley was thankful it was summer. Dresses and shorts would be so much easier with a cast.
“You can turn around,” Henley said, sliding from the bed, resting her weight on the crutches she’d begun to get very familiar with.
Abigail smiled with delight. “It’s perfect.”
“Are you sure this is what you want? I mean, you have Hailey to take care of...”
“Hailey won’t be released from the hospital for another week or two. They want to keep a close eye on her, make sure there are no infections or... Her immune system is just so delicate, right now.”
Inhaling a deep breath, Henley said, “Okay. Let’s do this.” Then she looked around. “Where’s my bag?” She hadn’t thought about it at all, but suddenly it hit her, she hadn’t seen it. Not since the day of the accident, having it held tightly in her lap.
“Um, well... It didn’t make it, honey. They’d just barely gotten us out of the car when...”
Henley shook her head in dismay. “What do you mean it didn’t make it?”
“The car went up in flames, Henley. There’s nothing left.”
The air was knocked from Henley’s lungs as she fought for a breath, slumping against the bed. No! she screamed in her head. “Are you sure? I mean... It can’t be gone!”
“Henley, it’s just a book. It’s not the end of the—”
“Dammit! It’s not just a book.” She gulped in breaths of air, feeling woozy. Her hands slipped from the crutches. They fell to the floor as Henley wrapped her arms around her stomach. She felt as though she was going to be sick. “That-that’s all I have left of him!”
Capturing the Muse Page 9
