Captive Hearts

by Harper Bliss

  I never thought I’d encounter the professional satisfaction that I have found here at Northville High. But, of course, I’m a different person now than I was in Boston. Different things matter here. When I look in the mirror here, I no longer want to die.

  I don’t have any classes in the afternoon, and while I pack up my things, I mull over what Patty has just said to me. Kay and I have been to dinner parties at her and Steve’s house. Seeing them together, I automatically assumed Patty was the product of a childhood like Kay’s.

  Then, as I exit the classroom, I conclude that everything that everyone has said to me the past two days can only lead me to one person: my mother.

  * * *

  “What are you doing here?” my mother asks when I rap my knuckles against the back door and walk into the kitchen. For a while after I returned to Northville—and certainly longer than I had ever expected—my mother adopted a tone that wasn’t truly hers when I came over. She was making a conscious effort to be extra nice, and to not let any disappointment shine through in the way she spoke. But three years down the line, when I stand in her kitchen unannounced on a regular old Thursday, she has clearly forgotten all about the warmish way she temporarily greeted me with.

  “I’m not saying you’re nitpicking,” Kay said to me when I expressed my grievance over this. “But some things will never truly change. And what do you prefer? A hug you’re not really into yourself every time you walk into your parents’ house, or your mother making an effort on many other fronts. Because she is. She’s trying so hard to become more to you than she is.”

  I always think of what Kay told me that day when I greet my mom. It helps me to ignore the fact that we’re just not that kind of family. “I’ve come to see my mother,” I say.

  “Oh.” Whenever I visit home, it always comes across as though my mother feels ill at ease in her own house. Or as though I’m interrupting her while she is performing a very important task. “You’d best sit down and have her pour you a cup of coffee then,” Mom says.

  I put my bag on the kitchen table and sit down in one of the chairs of my youth. “Where’s Dad?”

  “Out riding his bike. The doctor gave him a real scare and now he’s trying to undo a lifetime of unhealthy choices by pretending he’s in the Tour de France. You know what your father is like.” Mom fumbles with the espresso machine I got her for her birthday. I know she only uses it when I’m here, and she doesn’t really know how it works. But I know better than to interrupt and show her.

  After she manages to produce two coffees and sits down in a kitchen chair as well, she asks, “Was there anything in particular you wanted to talk about?”

  I know she lives for these moments. These rare instances when one of her daughters treats her like the mother she could have been. As though this is what we do all the time. As though impromptu intimate chats are common in this house.

  “Kay asked me to marry her.” I have no other choice but to blurt it out. My heart pounds a little when I say the words.

  “Oh.” Mom’s default response to most declarations. But I’m glad this is her reaction. I’m glad she doesn’t burst out into a jubilant shout the way Patty did. My mom’s reaction fits my own sentiments perfectly.

  “I haven’t given her an answer yet,” I continue. “I never saw myself as the marrying kind.”

  “She must be devastated.” My mother looks away.

  Devastated is not the word I would connect with how Kay behaved last night. And this is the big difference between spending time with Kay and spending time with my mother. “No. She understands.” I sip from my coffee. When I gave my mother the coffee machine as a gift, I could predict with a hundred percent certainty that her response would not be to simply thank me. Instead, she asked, “Is the coffee from my coffee maker not good enough for you?” It’s how she is. Negative reactions are hard-wired into her DNA. “I wanted to ask you a question,” I say.

  My mother looks at me from over the rim of her cup, not saying anything.

  “Knowing what you know now, and having been through all that you’ve been through.” While I’m asking the question, a persistent voice in my head keeps shouting that my mother is the very last person I should ask about this. What am I thinking? Have I lost my mind? “Would you marry again?”

  Mom puts her cup down and stares out of the window. I glance at her furtively, at her worn skin, at what decades of medication have done to her body, at the hard, hard lines bracketing her mouth that always make it seem impossible for her to genuinely smile. And I’m torn, the way I always am, between the love I have for her, and the compassion, and all the things I cannot say to her, and by the distance that I keep—because distance is always easier. I may have moved back to Northville from Boston, but the emotional distance between us remains. Because there are no miracles when it comes to negotiating the minefield of family.

  “You kind of sprung that one on me, Ellie.” Sitting here with her, asking her this question, is my only way of showing her I care. Her opinion does matter to me, no matter how unnatural this conversation feels.

  “I know.” I give a chuckle. “Kay kind of sprung the question on me as well.”

  “My only possible answer can be a resounding yes.” Her voice has gone all solemn. “If I hadn’t married your father, I wouldn’t have had my beautiful children.”

  Ah, there we go. Touching on that ever-returning conundrum in my mind. The most persistent voice of all. No matter how bad my parents’ marriage got, no matter how bad a combination—to say it in Patty’s terms—I always believed they were, and no matter how much I loathed some of their ways, I’m their child. They made me. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for them.

  What am I supposed to say to that? Thank you? Besides, she’s missing the point of my question entirely. “You didn’t have to be married to have children.”

  “Back then we did. Things are different now.”

  “I know,” I reply. I also know I came to the wrong person with this question. A silence ensues. All the while, I try to come up with valid excuses to get out of my mother’s kitchen pronto.

  “Look, Ella, I won’t sit here and pretend I don’t know why you’re asking me this question.” This grabs my attention. Once in a while, it’s as though my mother crawls out of her perpetual funk and bares her teeth, shouting, “I’m here and I still matter.”

  “I know you think your father and I have a poor marriage, one we’ve stayed in for all the wrong reasons. And I know very well how much our endless fights used to hurt you as a child.” She says it in the tone Dr. Hakim used to take with me: cool, calm and collected. As if there’s only one truth in the universe and she’s about to deliver it. “It’s not hard to guess why you didn’t jump at the chance to marry Kay. You don’t believe in marriage. And that’s totally okay. But let me say this. We are all born with our imperfections and our insecurities. Some more than others. Case in point.” She actually gives a self-deprecating laugh. “Do I wish I had made different decisions in my life?” A shrug. “Maybe. I don’t know. I stopped asking myself that question long ago, because this is my life. I can’t imagine it without your father, not even after he cheated on me, because I need him. More than I’ve needed anyone in my life. And I can’t possibly claim that a life without him, even after you and Nina were born, would have made me any happier. Because that man knows me better than anyone else. And, yes, that means he knows exactly what to say and do to coax the worst reactions out of me, which he does. Often. But he also knows the opposite. And there’s so much comfort in that, Ella. I love him. And I love you, and Nina. I know I have a funny way of showing it, but I love you all so much.”

  For an instant, I think she might start crying, but she doesn’t, of course. This is still Dee Goodman sitting across from me, despite the un-Dee-like speech she just gave.

  “No marriage is perfect. It doesn’t mean people should stop getting married,” she adds. And, I guess, that is the one thing I did want to hear. That one
sentence I drove here for.

  “Kay really, really wants to get married,” I say, because I have no immediate response to all the other things she just said.

  “I want to give you something.” Mom surprises me by getting up. “Just hold on a second.” She exits the kitchen and I hear her thumping up the stairs. This gives me time to ponder this conversation. What would really change if I married Kay, except that it would make her very happy? But this is not about Kay’s happiness so much as it is about me confronting my beliefs. Because, of course, I want nothing more than to make Kay happy.

  I hear Mom descending the stairs and I’m burning with curiosity to find out what she wants to give me. Her hand is cupped around something when she enters the kitchen.

  “Here,” she says as she shows me what is hiding in her palm. “This is the engagement ring your father gave me. It belonged to his grandmother, then to his mother. It was all he had left of her after she died. I want you to have it.”

  “You do?” I stare at the ring. It’s a simple gold band with a tiny diamond welded into it. For some reason, it strikes me as the most beautiful ring I’ve ever seen. Not that Kay would ever even consider wearing something diamond-studded.

  “Yes, Ella. Do with it want you want. Keep it somewhere, if only as a reminder that your dad and I were once very much in love and, sometimes, we still are. We still choose each other, even though most days it’s not a conscious choice at all. But after all these years, we still do. Our marriage may not be the happiest of all time, but it’s by no means a failed marriage.”

  “Thank you,” I say, my voice breaking a little.

  “Only you can decide if you want to be married, Ella.” My mother is still holding out her hand, the ring sparkling in her palm. I take it from her and hold it in front of me. I know what to do. And, as though this ring has magical powers, I also suddenly know where to do it.

  “Thank you,” I say again, and I can’t resist the urge to hug my mother, not something I do very often. That’s how giddy I feel.

  Kay

  “Wake up,” Ella says, but it’s not easy. Nina and Kaden came over last night with a bottle of brandy I couldn’t resist savoring way too much of. On Thursday, though, Ella asked me to not plan anything for Saturday because she had a surprise lined up for me. When I open my eyes a fraction, blinking against the too bright morning sun, which isn’t even that bright this time of year, I see Ella smiling down at me.

  “What’s gotten into you?” I groan.

  “You’ll see. If you ever make it out of this bed.” She narrows her eyes. “And I won’t stand for any complaints about having drunk too much, darling. You really shouldn’t try to keep up with a man who only just turned thirty. You’re almost forty-five. You’re no match.”

  “Be nice to me, please.” I grab Ella by the neck and pull her on top of me. “Your old lady needs you to be kind to her today.”

  “How about I run you a bath?” Ella whispers in my ear.

  “Only if you join me,” I whisper back.

  “I would if you hadn’t slept this late. I have plans for us, remember?”

  “But it’s Saturday,” I grumble. “I’m allowed to sleep in.” I pull Ella closer to me, inhaling her fresh soapy scent. When did she become this chipper in the morning, anyway?

  “Yes, well, now I’m asking you to please, pretty please, get your hungover ass out of bed. I promise you it’ll be more than worth it.” Ella wrestles herself free from my hold and stares down at me. “Come on. Chop chop.”

  “I’ll get up as soon as you’ve run me that bath.” I let myself sink deeper into the mattress, relishing its softness, giving in momentarily to the urge to prolong my snooze.

  “You have five minutes.” Ella grins at me. “You will find aspirin and a glass of water on your bedside table.”

  Ten minutes later I’m lying stretched out in the bath, trying to ignore the throbbing of my brain against my skull, and trying to guess what Ella’s surprise is. I know we have to leave the house for it. That’s as far as I get. My brain is too frazzled to form too many logical thoughts.

  Half an hour later, after Ella tells me I won’t be needing any breakfast because she has that taken care of—“and it’s more time for brunch by now, anyway”—I’m in the passenger seat of her car. I lean my head back and stare out of the open window, letting the wind caress my skin and, hopefully, blow away that nauseous feeling in my gut. I look at the houses we pass, and conclude that I know almost everyone who lives here. When Ella drives us to the edge of town, then takes a right, I know where she’s taking me.

  “Feeling nostalgic?” I ask and put my hand on her knee.

  “Maybe a bit.” She doesn’t look at me—she has always been a nervous driver—but I can see her lips curl into a smile.

  When we reach the woods, it’s as though the fog clears from my brain, and a tingle settles in my stomach. Ella is not one for grand gestures and trips down memory lane. There’s a reason why she brought me here: either she’s going to give me the most heartfelt proposal rejection ever, or she has picked this spot to say yes.

  She rebuffs my offer to carry the picnic basket she packed up the hill, so I’m left with no option but to follow her, my hands empty, but my head filled with possibilities.

  “Remember when we came here last?” she asks as she spreads a blanket over the grass.

  “How could I ever forget?” It was our first semi-date more than three years ago, after Ella had just started occupying her family’s cabin at West Waters, and I was so intrigued by her return I asked her to go on a drive with me. “You ran away from me that night. I’m still recovering from that.”

  “I did no such thing, darling. You were just coming on a bit too strong, that’s all.”

  I stand behind her and wrap my arms around her waist. “That’s bullshit and you know it,” I whisper in her ear. She leans into me and lets the back of her head fall onto my shoulder.

  “You must be hungry,” she whispers.

  “I’ll be hungry for you soon enough if you keep this up.” Her behind is pressing into my groin.

  “Come on, you have to eat something.”

  “I know.” I draw her closer to me. “You.” I can’t help but giggle into her ear.

  “You’d better behave or you can kiss your surprise goodbye.” She pushes herself out of my embrace. “I have bread and cheese and salami.” She bends down to open the picnic basket. “I also brought a bottle of wine, but I’m guessing you won’t be partaking today?” she asks with a smile in her voice. “And then there’s this.”

  Her hand comes out of the basket with her fingers folded into a fist. She rises to her full height and faces me. She clears her throat and fixes her gaze on me. “Kay Brody,” she says, while slowly unfolding her fingers. “Will you marry me?” In her palm, I see a ring. On her face, I see an expression torn between the widest smile and the onset of tears.

  “You’re asking me?” I’m so beside myself, I forget to reply, while in my mind, a loud voice is screaming: yes, yes, a million times yes!

  “I am.” She takes the ring out of her palm and holds it in front of me. “I got you a ring and everything.”

  I look at the ring and the diamond it sports and push the instinctive thought that this ring doesn’t exactly fit my personality to the back of my brain immediately. “Hell, yes, Ella Goodman. I will marry you. I would marry you a thousand times over.”

  Ella breaks out into a wide smile, and I feel my cheeks dimpling with the same sensation. “Come on then. Let’s get this on your finger.”

  “Where did you get this?” Try as I might, I can’t imagine Ella picking out a ring for me. And if she did, she wouldn’t have chosen this one, as I presume she knows me better after three years together.

  “Mom gave it to me,” she says, and reaches for my hand. “Gave me a speech with it and all.”

  “Oh really? What did she say?” Ella lifts up my hand and proceeds to slip the ring over my ring finger. “You ha
ve to put a ring on Kay Brody because she is the most awesome and most sexy woman in all of Oregon?”

  “Oh damn.” The ring doesn’t want to go past my knuckle. “Your finger is too big.”

  “You’ve never complained about that before.” Every trace of that hangover has left my body.

  “You know what, Kay? If I didn’t know any better I’d think you’re not taking any of this seriously.” Ella is using her teacher voice. She keeps on trying to get the ring on my finger properly, but it simply doesn’t fit. I put my free hand on hers and stop her from trying any further.

  “This is the most serious day of my life.” I take the ring from her and examine it again. I think of the ring I got for her, but never had the chance to give her. It’s quite similar to this one. “Why don’t you try it on?”

  “Okay.” She holds up her hand, her fingers splayed.

  And then, at last, Ella allows me to slip a ring on her finger. It glides over her knuckle as if it was made for her. We both look at it, while pure happiness bursts through me.

  “What made you change your mind?” I ask, while I bring her hand to my mouth and press a kiss on her finger.

  “Everything everyone said to me, I guess. But most of all: you. Just you being you, Kay.” She steps closer and looks me in the eyes. “I love you and I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with you. Nothing else is of any importance.”

  “Thank you,” I say, because I know Ella had to conquer some demons to get to this point. I know she had to get outside of her head, and the million thoughts that gather there and make her fear so many things she shouldn’t be so afraid of. “I love you.” I gather her toward me and kiss her for a long time. When we break from our kiss, I say, “There’s really only one way to celebrate.”

  “Oh yeah?” Ella paints on a crooked smile. “What’s that?”

  “Don’t be coy with me. I know why you picked this spot.”

  “Do you now.”