Captive Hearts

by Harper Bliss

  “Have you settled in well?” my mother asks. “Do you like the new decor?” In my head, I hear: Is it really so much better than staying here with us?

  “It’s wonderful.” I haven’t set foot in my parents’ living room for years. Always too busy to book a flight. Always finding the perfect excuse not to make the trip.

  “How’s the rental?” Dad looks out of the window to the driveway. “You could have used the—”

  “I know, Dad. It’s fine, really.” I’m already staying in their cabin and the last thing I want is to feel as though I owe them anything for using objects that belong to them.

  “Coffee?” Mom asks. Their initial invitation was for lunch, but I couldn’t bear the thought of having to sit through a meal with them. I’m not ready for that just yet.

  “Black, please.” Perhaps it’s strange that my own mother doesn’t know how I take my coffee.

  “She drinks more than she eats these days,” Dad says as he takes a seat at the kitchen table, not offering any more explanation. He looks like a man who drinks just as much as he eats himself.

  Already, I can’t stop myself from glancing at the clock—the same one they’ve had for decades, with such a deep, loud tick-tock that sometimes, when I was upstairs in my room and the house was quiet, I could have sworn I could hear it all the way through the ceiling.

  When Mom deposits the cups and an apple cake on the table, I notice how bony her arms have become—and I know it’s because of me. If not politeness, then at least guilt will keep me here for the next few hours.

  “Are you not having any?” I ask her after she has served me and Dad.

  “I’m sure your father will have my share.” With that, the topic of conversation is firmly closed. My Dad emits a barely audible sigh at her well-worn remark.

  I’m not particularly hungry myself, my stomach having tightened the instant I pulled up in the driveway, but I eat the piece of cake anyway, lest they think I suffer from a lack of appetite—and all the associations they could make in their minds.

  “Are you feeling better?” Mom asks after the silence has stretched into minutes, only interrupted by the clinking sounds of our forks against the plates, and, apparently, has become unbearable even for her.

  “Much.” And I know I should say more, but the words don’t come. I suppose that the reason why my family is so bad at starting conversations is because we’re so skilled at killing them.

  Think happy thoughts, I tell myself. I didn’t get that nugget of wisdom from Dr. Hakim, I read it on the internet. On one of those wellness websites that endlessly recycles the same articles. So, I think of West Waters, of the stillness of the lake this morning, because honestly, I don’t have that much else to think of in that department.

  “What will you do with your time?” Dad asks. “Wouldn’t it be better to stay occupied?”

  I asked myself that same question over and over again before deciding to come here. But work was part of the problem. How I completely buried myself in it. Took on more seats on more committees than any member of faculty—despite finding committee work the biggest waste of time ever invented. But anything was good enough to keep me from going home to my house and the blackness that awaited me there.

  “I’m sure she knows best, John,” my mother comes to my defense, and it strangely touches me—tears at the ready behind my eyes and everything. But she’s wrong, because if I had truly known better, I wouldn’t have done what I did.

  “I won’t be teaching the first term,” I state, as though I’m facing a class of students instead of my parents. “I’m only slated to return in the New Year.”

  Then, out of nowhere, my mother’s hand lands on my wrist. I flinch because I hadn’t expected it, but it only makes her claw her fingers deeper into my flesh. “If there’s anything—” she starts to say, but chokes up.

  I swallow the tightness out of my throat—images of the splendor of West Waters flooding my brain—and put my hand on hers. It’s all I’ve got for now.

  “I—uh, I’d like to get a picture from my old room,” I stammer, uncomfortable in the moment as it drags on.

  “Sure.” Mom removes her hand and stares into her empty coffee cup.

  “You still know the way, I hope,” Dad says in an overly cheerful voice that doesn’t fit the mood at all.

  “Sure.” I push my chair back, my eyes fixed on the stairwell, and I can’t get out of there fast enough.

  Once upstairs, the bedroom where I spent my youth is still semi-intact. The bed I slept in is still there, but numerous other objects have found their way in. Toaster ovens Dad has won at card games, old electrical appliances Mom can’t bear to throw out, a worn, deflated lilo we used to take to West Waters.

  The picture I’m looking for is one of Nina and me, taken outside the cabin. I find it face-down on the corner of my former desk. Nina’s at least two heads taller than me, her hair straw-blond and scraggly—and always that glint of trouble in her eyes. She must be ten, still young enough to wrap an arm around my shoulders for a picture, and I’m seven. I am smiling broadly, one tooth missing, my hair much darker than my sister’s, and, despite the toothless grin, my glance much more demure.

  I look around the room but the anticipated wave of nostalgia doesn’t come. Too much time has passed, too many new memories have erased the ones I made here. I wonder what Nina’s old room looks like these days, but instead of walking across the landing to find out, I take the stairs down, and hide the picture in my purse.

  “We’re having Aunt Mary over for dinner this weekend,” Mom says when I re-enter the living room. “Will you co—”

  “Don’t pressure her, Dee,” Dad cuts her off.

  “It’s fine,” I quickly jump in to avoid further arguing about me. “I’ll come, but I should go now. I want to get to the store before it closes.”

  Their goodbye is casual and quick—the goodbye to someone they’ll see again soon. This time it’s true, despite it being the exact same type of farewell we always exchange.

  * * *

  Back at West Waters, the sun is already bleeding out its last rays of the day over the lake, and it all weighs heavy on me again. Before putting the groceries away, I lean against the kitchen counter and dig up the picture I snatched from my childhood bedroom.

  You were always the easy one. I hear my mother’s voice in my head. You never caused us trouble like your sister did. Dr. Hakim has taught me that there is absolutely no use in trying to guess what someone else might be thinking. I used to sit in his office three times a week, motionless, detached, and impossible to read. I’d listen to his baritone full of wisdom, stare at the liver spots on his hands as he rubbed a finger over his thin beard. It reminded me of a social communications class I took in college.

  Our teacher Mrs. Kissinger, on whom I had a raging, silent crush, filmed us while we talked about ourselves for a few minutes. When she went over the videos in class, teaching us about body language and what it revealed about a person, she basically skipped my segment, stating that, in all her years of conducting this experiment, she’d never come across someone as non-verbally uncommunicative, the way I sat stock-still, my hands slipped safely underneath my thighs.

  Nobody ever noticed.

  A whistling sound outside shakes me out of my reverie, followed by Kay’s deep voice. “Knock, knock.”

  I step outside to find her on my porch, moist hair drawn into a tight ponytail.

  “Tonight’s my weekly drinking night at The Attic. I was wondering if you felt like tagging along. Reconnect with some folks from way back when.” She’s wearing dungarees, split low at the sides, over nothing more than a tank top.

  Flummoxed, I push a strand of hair behind my ear. “Thanks, but not tonight.” Or ever.

  “Are you sure, Little Ella? You look as if you could do with letting your hair down a bit.”

  I give her a well-practiced smile. The exact same one I used for years on everyone I knew. It even works on myself sometimes. �
��Maybe next week,” I lie. “Still settling in and all that.”

  A scrunch of the lips and a dip of the head, and she’s gone, her hands tucked deep in the front pockets of her dungarees, like a farmer leaving his field after a good day.

  Chapter Three

  The rain starts coming down hard around three in the morning. Loud pelts—like stones being thrown at high speed—coming down without mercy on the wooden roof above me. Having lain awake through many a rain storm in my youth, I know this one, just like any bout of summer rain, will pass by morning, leaving the lake and its surroundings aglow in a new, lighter clarity at dawn. Nevertheless, any hope of sleep soon escapes me. Which is fine, because I have all of the next day to do nothing.

  Have you considered that, on top of everything else, you might be suffering from burn-out? Dr. Hakim asked in our first session. I thought he looked smart in a well-worn way. Brown tweed jacket with patches over the elbows. Intelligent, dark eyes behind rimless glasses. One slim leg slung over the other.

  Doing nothing is the cure. Accepting emptiness. Learning to exist in the quietness between bursts of activity. It’s harder in the dark of night, nothing or no one around but memories I’m trying to erase. Out of nowhere, a shot of worry makes its way through me. I hope Kay made it back safely from the bar, before the rain came. She doesn’t strike me as the type to be foolish enough to drive after too many beers—but really, I have no way of knowing.

  I grab my phone from the night stand and touch it so it lights up, more for illumination than anything else. I hold it in front of me and make my way to the kitchen, where I pick up a glass of water, before heading to the porch.

  Clouds cover the moon, and the darkness, pierced by rapid, splashing sounds, is almost complete around me, making the screen of my phone glow brighter. Automatically, my thumb goes to the e-mail application, but I removed all work-related accounts before I left Boston. I only have one personal account installed on it, but there are no new e-mails since I last checked before going to bed.

  To kill time, I go on Facebook and search for West Waters. A small smile tugs at my lips as I click ‘like’ on the page. I scroll through a few comments Kay has left in response to other people’s, and click on her profile. My thumb hovers over the ‘Add Friend’ button. Why not? As always, my brain comes up with many reasons not to, but I’m curious to see what hides behind the privacy settings Kay has enforced. A flick of the thumb is all it takes. Friend request sent.

  Two seconds later, the red circle indicating a notification lights up at the top of my screen. Friend request accepted. I guess I’m not the only one who can’t sleep through the rain. I barely have a chance to check out her profile before I get a private message. I don’t know why, but my heart beats a little faster as I start reading it.

  * * *

  Still awake, Little Ella?

  * * *

  Instead of typing what I want to—Please, stop calling me that—I ask if she made it home safely.

  * * *

  I always do. Best get some sleep now. My day starts early.

  * * *

  Good night, I type back and click on her name. Her profile picture is one of just her head sticking out of the lake, eyes squinting against the sun, white teeth glinting in between curled up lips. Her relationship status says: It’s complicated. I can’t help but snicker. Kay seems like the most uncomplicated woman I’ve ever met, but I guess looks can be deceiving. Perhaps it’s a joke, or, for her, complicated means long-distance or something. I’ve only been here a day, but I haven’t noticed any signs of someone living with her in the lodge behind the shop.

  And what do I care anyway?

  The rain is easing on the surface of the lake. I decide to go back to bed and try to catch a few more hours of sleep. Not easy when medication is no longer allowed.

  * * *

  “Best enjoy the last few hours of quiet.”

  I instantly recognize Kay’s gravelly voice. I open my eyes and stare into her smile.

  “The weekend crowd will be arriving soon. It’s the last big one of the summer. After that, things should die down.” She chuckles. “I’m only informing you because you seem like someone who values her privacy.”

  I push myself up a bit on my lounge chair, relieved I’m not wearing my bikini as I had initially planned, but shorts that reach the middle of my thighs and a halter top. Not that it makes my skin look any less milky white. Still, I feel less exposed this way.

  “Oh shoot.” She crouches until her eyes are level with mine. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

  “No, just trying to absorb some vitamin D.” I feel Kay’s gaze glide across my body.

  “You’re probably too smart to forget, Professor, but I hope you applied sun screen.”

  Was that a crack at the impossible paleness of my legs and arms? “SPF 50,” I say. “I’m hoping to go lower soon.” My top clings to my skin in the small of my back because of the sweat that has pooled there. “Full house this weekend?”

  “Pretty much.” She looks over the lake, momentarily lost in thought. Her skin has the same tone as Dr. Hakim’s brown tweed jacket. I woke up to an e-mail from him this morning, phrased in the same unobtrusive way he used to treat me.

  * * *

  I hope you’re doing well, Ella. Call me any time.

  * * *

  “We’re having a bonfire on Sunday night. Just sayin’. Not invitin’. Everyone’s welcome.” A sassiness has seeped into her voice, giving it a higher pitch.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  She shoots me one of what I’ve already come to think of as her trademark winks before pushing herself up. “I’ll leave you to it. The water’s wonderful today, by the way.”

  I watch her walk away. Her navy shorts barely cover her ass as she saunters away from the patch of lawn in front of our cabin. I recline back in my chair and ponder Dr. Hakim’s e-mail. Am I doing well? I certainly don’t feel the need to call him. I guess I’m doing as well as can be expected.

  * * *

  The days at West Waters are slow, so I’m actually quite happy to have the distraction of dinner with my parents and Aunt Mary on Saturday evening.

  She grips me in a tight bear hug the instant she sees me. “Oh, Ella. Oh, Ella,” she keeps repeating. Aunt Mary is like a more filled-out, taller version of my mother. A quick-mouthed high school teacher who was promoted to principal the last fifteen years of her career. Unlike my mother, she likes to say things out loud. Not this, though. There are some things that no one wants to speak of out loud.

  Aunt Mary has four highly successful children of her own, and all but one live close by. Between them, they’ve already given her seven grandchildren, with an eighth on the way. It’s only natural for her to talk about her offspring in a light tone, laughter in her voice, pride glittering in her eyes. As she does, it’s as if I can see a sheen of bitterness coat itself around my mother’s skin. It’s not as much envy, I think, as the loss of something she never even experienced. Something that could potentially brighten up her days.

  And I know it’s not my fault—Dr. Hakim and I have covered this extensively—but the guilt still nags at me. It’s there, showing up faithfully, every time I walk into this house.

  Every time Aunt Mary wants to ask me a question, she bites it back, her mouth opening and closing like a fish gulping for air on dry land. Just like everyone else who knows, she’s unsure of what is safe ground. What is allowed to be asked, to be said. Soon, the conversation dies a predictable, natural death.

  But it’s not the silence that falls around us that makes me freeze up. It’s the un-spokenness of it all, of ‘the thing’ that hangs above all of our heads. The precise reason why I’ve come. But I’ve only just arrived and I’m nowhere near ready. Then, just as the tension becomes unbearable, Aunt Mary hammers the final nail into Mom’s coffin.

  “Any news from Nina?” It’s not malice, I’m sure of that. It’s not exactly an innocent question either, more a desperate con
versation starter.

  “She’s in New Zealand. She was an extra in The Hobbit,” I’m quick to say, to give my mother time to regroup. Nina e-mailed me this nugget of news months ago, and I scoured the IMDb to verify her claim, but the list of extras was so long, I couldn’t find her in it.

  “The what?” Aunt Mary asks.

  “It’s a big movie franchise. A spin off of Lord of the Rings,” Dad says.

  “I see.” Aunt Mary nods as if she’s reflecting deeply on this. From the set of her jaw, I easily deduct this visit will end soon, for which I’m grateful.

  When she leaves, she hugs me tightly again. Neither Mom’s nor Dad’s side of the family—and least of all our own—are naturally tactile people, and learning to accept a family member’s arms around me is still so foreign that I find it hard to enjoy the offered comfort. Instead, I stand stiffly inside her embrace, my muscles automatically rejecting this sort of display of affection. But Aunt Mary’s hug is different from Mom’s, more matter-of-fact and less desperate. The quick, solid embrace of a woman who has gotten used to comforting grandchildren.

  Only a few minutes after she’s out the door, I’m quick to say my goodbyes as well. On the way back to West Waters, I drive past The Attic, keeping my eyes peeled for Kay’s car. What does she do for entertainment in this town apart from having a beer with the same people every week?

  By the time I drive up to what I’ve started to consider as my parking spot at West Waters, my head is overflowing with questions I’d like to ask Kay. To my dismay, one of the weekenders has parked in my spot, and I need to maneuver into another space. I can’t wait for the weekend to be over and have the lake to myself again.

  Chapter Four

  On Sunday night, I find my own surprise in attending the bonfire reflected in the expression on Kay’s face when she spots me.