Kismet

by AE Woodward

  Everything. Off.

  When I stopped talking as a child, my family took me to so many specialists, doctors, and therapists, that I eventually lost count. It took me years to heal my small heart. There were lots of appointments, therapies, and just plain hard work.

  So even though I’ve been through it all before, here I am again. My struggles, my victories, everything I thought I was… gone in a flash, again.

  Eventually my thoughts come back to the present and I realize that my beloved I.V. is gone. I know that my sweet drugs, my only real solace, have been replaced with a dose of pills in the morning, and another at night. I have been showered and dressed by the nurses. My dark blonde hair has been washed, combed and pulled into a low ponytail, my permanent attire of hospital gown and scrubs replaced by actual clothing.

  My mother brought clothes from home for me. I know that she must’ve searched painstakingly for something appropriate for me to wear. I imagine she had to dig through storage totes since my closet is currently saturated with maternity clothes. She knew that I would have come undone slipping my still enlarged abdomen into clothes that had once brought me so much joy. I want to thank her for being so thoughtful, but I don’t. I’m wearing some old sweatpants paired with a t-shirt, both obviously from a bin of clothes from high school.

  I stare at the TV again, not really watching what’s on, while the people around me busily prepare for my departure. A nurse fusses over my stitches and bandages, while my father and brother chat mundanely across the room from me. I hear my mother talking in hushed voices with Stevenson. I can’t make out the whole of their conversation, and I don’t really care to, but since the men in my family are speaking at an annoyingly loud decibel, I couldn’t if I tried. That being said, I hear a mix of their words.

  “…Considering the trauma… low self-worth… Selective Mutism, which should be familiar… happens only in adults with previous mutism… as far as treatment… anxiety reduction… exposure exercises…”

  These are all words my family and I are all too familiar with. My family knows all the ins and outs of my diagnosis. They know the therapies—what has worked in the past, and what didn’t. We’ve been down this road before, and to think of traveling it again makes me sick to my stomach, but I can’t see how things will get better. My reasons for living are gone.

  I shake my head, thinking about doctors. It hadn’t taken long for them to label me again, deciding what is best for me and my emotional well-being. I want to be pissed, to have some sort of reaction to something, but I just can’t muster a single feeling. I truly don’t care. They think they know me, but they don’t. All the degrees and training in the world can’t touch my emotional damage. I have nothing left to live for.

  “Are you ready, sweetie?” my mother questions, just as she shuts the TV off.

  I shift my attention toward her. My eyes make contact, but I can’t feel anything. Instead, I stare right through her, feeling nothing. A part of me, somewhere deep within the anguish, finds this sad. My own mother can’t awaken something in me. No memories, no emotion… just pure nothingness. She closes her eyes and takes a deep cleansing breath. I can tell that this is all wearing on her. Looking at how broken she is, I know I should feel something. But I don’t.

  She looks years older than she did before the accident. Not that she looks terrible, she just actually looks her age. My mother had always been the envy of every woman in our small community. Tall, with gorgeous long, blonde hair, and beautiful facial features, she was the most gorgeous woman I had ever laid eyes on. Her skin was the perfect accessory to her great bone structure, and as she remained beautiful through the years, the other women in town loved to speculate about the work that she must have had done. Of course, she hadn’t, she just had great genes. I can’t help thinking that they’ll all be glad to see that she’s a mere mortal after all.

  “All right then,” she coos. Ignoring my silence and emotional absence, she directs her stare at my brother, “Tommy, push your sister out of here. Let’s get her home where she belongs.”

  In my head I scoff at my mother’s naivety. I don’t belong anywhere, and for her to think I do makes me angry. But before I can respond, I get my emotions in check and I relax. The wheelchair lurches as my brother begins pushing me down the stark white hallways. Despite having my head down, counting floor tiles, I feel every person we pass give me a look of pity. At least they have come to terms with the fact that my life isn’t worth saving. I just wish they would pass the memo on to my unrelenting family. I could really use the space.

  The farther away from the hospital we get, the harder my heart starts beating. Anxiety rises within me as the time approaches for me to get into my father’s Yukon. The closer we get, the faster my breathing gets. I realize that I haven’t been in a car since the accident. The skin of my knuckles turns white as I grip onto the arms of the wheelchair.

  A lump forms in my throat, the pressure returns in my chest, and I feel like I’m going to be sick. Michael was the last person to drive me anywhere. But he’ll never drive me around again. I miss him.

  God, I miss him.

  I’m sucking air faster than I should, my breathing matching a pace I would have kept during one of my 5k runs. But I’m not running. Instead, I’m sitting, in a wheelchair, being wheeled straight out from the comfort of my little bubble and back into the real world.

  Tommy senses my apprehension and gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze, but I flinch at the contact and he moves his hand away. Even though his touch startles me, I feel my muscles relax a bit. Tommy, my Tommy. God, I love him.

  Growing up, Tommy and I were inseparable, despite the fact that he is five years older than me. He looks out for me more than he has to because I’m his pride and joy—he’ll tell anybody that. One thing is definite, and that is my brother loves me more than anything else in the world.

  He was the town’s golden boy, and his name paved the way for me. I was forever known as “Tommy Garvin’s little sister.” I guess that happens when your older brother happens to be an All-American shortstop. Tommy always looked out for my best interests, so much so that he even enrolled his buddies to keep me out of trouble. A lump forms in my throat when I think about his friends. I wonder if they know? If they wonder about me, and if I’ll see any of them know that I’m going home?

  I shake the thought from my head, I don’t need to take a trip down that road. Not yet, probably not ever.

  The wheelchair comes to an abrupt stop and my head falls ever father forward once Tommy puts the brake on. He takes me by the hand, supporting my elbow at the same time, and leads me into the SUV. I slide onto the crisp leather seats and wipe the sweat from my forehead. My anxiousness is still heightened, but not enough for me to say anything. Oddly enough, my silence is reassuring to me, and I swallow the lump in my throat. I know I can do this. I’ve ridden in a car before. I squeeze my eyes shut, while simultaneously choking back the bile that churns in my stomach.

  “You okay, Gertrude?” Pop glances over his shoulder at me, a worried look on his face.

  Why do they keep asking me questions? I have nothing to say. And why is he calling me Gertrude again? The old nickname brings nothing but sadness because I’m not that girl anymore. Gertrude died in a blaze of glory with her husband and children. Why won’t they just accept the fact that she’s gone?

  I open my eyes just in time to watch my mother place her hand on my dad’s leg. “Let’s just get her home, John,” she urges.

  As Pop turns the key in the ignition, Tommy reaches across the back seat and grabs my hand. The contact startles me from my zombie like state and I glance up at him, considering pulling away. But it’s Tommy, my Tommy, and his hand feels kind of nice. He squeezes and his deep blue eyes plead with me, hoping for some sort of response.

  There’s a small part of me that wants to give him hope, a part of me that wants to smile, or squeeze his hand back. But I can’t. I don’t have that kind of strength. Instead, I give hi
m nothing, allowing him to hold onto my hand as I direct my attention out of the window, staring blankly at the scenery as it passes us by.

  Much like my life.

  The car ride is beyond awkward. Periods of silence were occasionally broken by strained attempts at normalcy. Mom and Pop try to kick start a conversation while Tommy squeezes my hand just to let me know that he’s there for me. My heart aches for my family. They’re trying to give me some sense of who I was, but their efforts continue to fall short.

  The tension in the car is palpable, and I can almost hear a collective sigh of relief when we eventually pull up to my childhood home. Well, I guess it isn’t just my childhood home anymore. From today on it’s my new home. My dad has already taken care of the house Michael and I owned. I overheard him and Tommy discussing details a few days back. From what I gathered, it’s been cleaned out, our things appropriately packed and put into storage, and it is now on the market. It kills me to know that a new family will move in, totally unaware of the ghosts that live within those walls.

  Michael and I bought it while I was pregnant with Zoe. We searched for months for the perfect place, and to say that our search had been painstaking would be a vast understatement. We spent weeks looking at house after house, until finally, after much debate, we settled on a small three-bedroom ranch, just outside of Manchester. It paled in comparison to the house I grew up in, but I loved it nonetheless. It was ours. Well, it was ours. Now it would be somebody else’s.

  My parents’ house has been in the family forever. A sixth-generation farmhouse, it sits atop a grassy knoll in the middle of sixty acres of prime Northern New Hampshire farmland. The place is full of so many memories that I can’t even begin to touch on them all. Tommy and I grew up tending to the garden, the cows, and chickens. As kids it seemed as if our chores were never-ending, and we were always itching to head out to be with friends. Now it seems like a much simpler time.

  A time that I wish I could go back to.

  I haven’t been back here in years. Seeing it brings back all those simple life feelings and in spite of my sadness, I find myself looking forward to being with the animals again. In fact, it’s the only thing I’m looking forward to because, let’s face, it there really isn’t much for me to live for anymore. I had always found so much joy in riding and taking care of my horses. My connection with them had been the reason Mom and Pop had decided to start rehabilitating horses in the first place. Once I made that relationship with my first horse at a stable across town, things fell into place for me. Therapy starting working, and I started coming out of my shell.

  This place is woven into every fiber of my past, and it feels familiar—like maybe this might be the ticket to healing my damaged heart. My optimism is short lived though as I remember that things are so much worse this time. My whole world is gone.

  I know coming back here is part of the greater plan. I’m not stupid. The farm and the horses were part of my therapy before, so it makes sense that they want to try it again. Maybe being back here with the animals will allow me to find myself. Maybe it will give me just enough of a distraction from the pain I feel to allow myself to start healing. For the first time since the accident, I find a sliver of hope within me.

  Stepping out of the car, I breathe in the fresh air. I forgot how refreshing the air outside the city is.

  I stand there for a moment taking in the scenery, focusing on the fields, the trees, and the mountainous background. My mind stops reeling. Optimism slowly creeps in and I can tell already that the simplicity here will be good for me. But my hope is short lived as Mom grabs me by the elbow and starts walking me around like I’m incapable of doing so myself. I can’t say that I blame her because I wouldn’t think I was capable of caring for myself either.

  Instead of fighting it, I let her lead me into the house. She guides me through the foyer and into the living room and after she straightens her already impeccable living room, I sit down on the couch facing the bay window.

  I love sitting here because it gives you a perfect view of the horse stables. It had always been my favorite spot in the house. It still is. I could spend hours here. No, correction, I will spend hours here.

  Mom finishes straightening some magazines on the coffee table. I’m not stupid. I know she planted them there in hopes of getting me to pick one up and thumb through it. I glance down and see all of my favorite trashy gossip magazines, but it doesn’t stir anything within me. I have no interest in what might be between those pages. None of that nonsense matters anymore. That girl, the one who cared about celebrity goings on, is gone, Mom.

  I see her deflate as I look back up and stare out the bay window at the stables. “I’ll get you some lemonade,” she says quietly.

  As much as she tries to hide it, I hear her sniffle as she walks out into the hallway towards the kitchen and I can’t help but wonder if she’s regretting bringing me home yet. I don’t like that I’m doing this to my family, but I can’t bring myself to pretend like everything is okay.

  Because it’s not, and it never will be.

  There’s a familiar tightening in my chest and tears prick my eyes when I catch sight of the horses running in the yard. The horses that I have always loved are running free and I find myself jealous of them. They’re free of worries.

  I wonder if I’ll work up the courage to ride again? It was once my solace. It had proven to me that there was no greater therapy than sneaking out in the middle of the night and riding my favorite horse bareback.

  Watching them run, their manes flowing in the air behind them, stirs something inside of me. I stand up and stalk to the window to get a better look. That’s when I spy the most beautiful horse I think I’ve ever laid eyes on. A gorgeous black Friesian gallops gracefully across the yard, its mane bouncing with each step. It’s a new horse, one I’ve never seen before, and it is absolutely stunning. Breathtaking even.

  “You should ride again.”

  Tommy spoke quietly from behind me, causing me to release the air I had been holding in my lungs. “It might be good for you. It was before.”

  I don’t bother to acknowledge his presence. Instead, I become mesmerized as I watch the horses move about the yard. I focus on the rhythm of their muscles contracting with each movement.

  He sighs and a few tense moments pass before he joins me at the window, obviously trying to get a better view of exactly what has caught my attention. “Ah, you’ve spotted the new Friesian. That’s Onyx. She’s been here about two months. She was abandoned at some bankrupt farm up in Maine but Pop rescued her. When we got her she was nothing but a mangy mess, but she sure is a beauty now, isn’t she?”

  There’s a pause as Tommy waits for me to respond, and the strain resounding within him is palpable. I notice him flexing his hands, his angry tic making its presence known. Obviously frustrated with me, he walks toward the door. “You and her are a lot a like, ya know, Katie. She just needed a little time and love to get back to her beautiful self, just like I know you will. You did it before, and you’ll do it again. You’re still in there, Katie, and I refuse to give up on you.”

  Without so much as another word, he’s gone again.

  I feel my knees go weak, my heart pounds in my chest, and I have to rest my forehead on my arm against the wall. A single tear finally falls free. Spending so much time trying to keep my emotions locked up is exhausting. Flicking it away with my index finger, I take a deep breath before slumping back against the wall. I’m unable to wrap my mind around what’s going on in my head. The heartache comes from every angle and it’s overwhelming.

  And the guilt.

  Life just isn’t fair.

  Tears fall faster, my cheeks quickly becoming wet. I hate myself. My family is hurting too and they don’t deserve this. The way I’m acting is selfish, I know that, but they didn’t love them like I did. They don’t know the half of it—the secrets and pain that I’ve locked away with their loss is more than anyone should have to cope with. My family means
well, but I just don’t see how anyone ever gets past all this. When your whole existence is ripped from your life, you can’t flip a switch on your grief. I’ve just lost three people who I loved more than myself. There is no quick and easy fix for that.

  “Here’s your lemonade, sweetie.”

  Startled, I quickly wipe at my face and make my way back to the couch. Flopping down, I let out an exasperated sigh. Mom frowns as she takes a seat next to me on the couch. I’m sure her heart is breaking. She was always my best friend and I want nothing more than to reach out to hug and comfort her, despite the need for my own comforting, but I just take the cup from her hand.

  The ice-cold glass feels nice in the unusual springtime sweltering heat. It’s damp with condensation, and I finger the beads of water with one hand lost in the patterns that I make on the glass. I take a gulp and let the sweetness cool me from the inside out. It’s refreshing and damn good. My mom always did make the best lemonade. Memories of Tommy and I waiting impatiently for her to make us a pitcher on hot sweltering days like today, come flooding back but I shake them free. I don’t need to go there. Memories do nothing but reopen the wounds of my past.

  I have to hand it to her, Mom knows what she’s doing, trying to awaken a part of the old me by surrounding me with familiar things. She gently pats my leg, giving me a hopeful look. I press my lips together to form a hard line and try lifting the corners of my mouth. I want to smile at her, but my lip starts to quiver. Smiling just feels so wrong. Tears threaten to unleash themselves again.

  Mom quickly stands, getting ready to flee and I have no doubt that she’s about to break down.

  “I’ll just leave you be,” she chokes, spinning on her heels. I know she’s heading to the kitchen to cry.

  I sigh heavily, getting my own emotions in check. Focusing on my deep breathing, I wonder if I will ever get used to this perpetual feeling of walking on eggshells, the breakdown always imminent. I highly doubt it.