Heartstrings

by Kelli McCracken

  Then my body crashed into something hard. I lurched forward as my eyes flew open and the spinning stopped. My hands fisted the soft fabric beneath them. Once they came into view, a breath of relief filled my lungs.

  I was home, safe and sound and tucked into my bed. The fabric was nothing more than my sheets, and the nothingness from which I’d came, a bad dream. Knowing I had a nightmare provided me with a small sense of peace. But it didn’t last long. Despite the fact that I’d escaped the darkness of my subconscious, I was faced with one reality I didn’t want.

  The answers I sought remained questions to be unraveled. And the memories I longed to regain were still locked away in the part of my brain that refused to cooperate.

  Tears warmed my cheeks before I buried my face into my pillow. And I wept. Uncontrollably. Profusely. Hopelessly…

  ~ CHAPTER FIVE ~

  I watched the full moon fade in and out of my window, as well as countless sunrises that were lost in the emptiness of my mind. A solid week of not moving from the bed is what it took for Brighton to threaten me with a vacation. Said vacation involved a hideous jacket and a white padded room.

  As my eyes fluttered open, I took in the sunshine burning through the glass. I didn’t want to move. My body felt as though it weighed over a ton, each limb at least five hundred pounds. There was no point in leaving my cocoon of sheets and blankets. Nothing had changed. The thing inside my chest continued to pump blood and oxygen to every part of my body. I wished it would stop. Then the pain would do the same.

  This was about more than a void of memories. It was about having nothing to look forward to and no one to share my future days. Short of Brighton, I was alone, and half the woman I was supposed to be.

  Why didn’t I have friends? I could understand not having a relationship, but didn’t everyone have at least one friend in their life? I had them in high school. It didn’t make sense that I wouldn’t have any now. Was Brighton hiding more from me than what happened to cause my amnesia?

  The rich scent of ground coffee invaded my nose. So did hickory. I paid little attention to both. It was my mind working overtime, just like when I arrived home a week ago. If I could imagine a human being standing inside my room, what would stop me from imaging two delicious smells that would normally motivate me from my bed?

  Pushing up on my elbow, I surveyed my bedroom, half expecting to see the mysterious man who’d shown up that desolate night. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that I found nothing but my dresser, chest of drawers, and closet crammed full of shoes and clothes.

  The nightmare I’d had the same night still plagued my mind. Had it all been a bad dream? The hallucinations in the bathroom. My argument with Brighton. The mysterious man that not only showed up out of nowhere, but disappeared just the same. The answer didn’t matter because I knew I had lost more than my memory and the use of my fingers. I’d lost my mind.

  Desperate to escape my thoughts, I stumbled out of bed. The carpet cushioned my steps, protecting them from the cold, hard surface beneath. Lakeside weather in the middle of February always provided an ample amount of snow and blistering winds that caused thermostats to crank higher. I considered doing the same to mine.

  As I moved around the bed toward the door, I caught a glimpse of the guitar lying at the foot. I had no memory of setting it there nor passing it the few times Mother Nature forced me to the bathroom. I was dehydrated. I knew it but didn’t care.

  I reached for the guitar. My fingers hovered a few inches from the strings begging to be plucked and strummed. If anything had brought me a smidgen of comfort, it would be the instrument before me. Music always did comfort me. I remembered that much.

  Debating on whether to pick it up, I finally decided to wrap my fingers around the neck when a cool breeze rushed over my skin.

  “You okay?”

  Brighton’s voice made me jump. I didn’t know how he’d snuck into my room without me hearing him, but he stood at my side, a hint of smile on his lips. I wanted to punch him for scaring me.

  “Don’t sneak up on me like that.” I patted my chest in order to avoid following up on my desire to plant my fist between his eyes.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you, Jo.” He squeezed my shoulder. “Is everything all right?”

  I nodded and gazed at the spot where the stranger stood last week. For an instant, I thought my imaginary man had returned. In a way, I wished it had been him instead of Brighton. At least my mind would tire of the hallucination and take it away. There was no getting rid of my brother.

  “It looks like you’ve decided to rejoin the living. ‘Bout time.”

  “Yeah… Guess it’s official. Zombies do exist.”

  Brighton laughed. It was deep and hearty and made the corners of my mouth twitch. I fought back the smile trying to form and grabbed my sweater off the hook on the back of the door.

  “So my sister is part of the living dead now. Hmm. Promise not to bite me?”

  Only if you promise to leave.

  Shrugging as I passed through the door, I trudged toward the living room, reproaching myself for the thought. At least I had my brother. Our genetic makeup resembled more than most siblings, but it didn’t mean I should trust him. I didn’t. I couldn’t. But I wanted to, so I did the only thing I knew how to do.

  I faked it.

  “What brings you by this early, Brighton?”

  “Early?” He’d fallen in step with me as I proceeded to the kitchen. “Since when is ten a.m. early?”

  “Are you saying I’m an early riser?” I stopped near the counter that housed the coffeepot. The rich aroma teased my nose as much as it made my mouth water. I loved coffee. I hadn’t forgotten how much.

  “You’re not that early of a riser…but ten? Jo, maybe you should speak with a —”

  “I’m not seeing a shrink.” I snapped the words as I pivoted toward him. His face softened enough that it made me regret sounding so harsh. I knew the look, knew it was the one he wore when he truly worried about me.

  “Okay, sis. I just want you to know that I’m willing to help.”

  “If you truly want to help me, then tell me more about who I am.” I growled each word through gritted teeth.

  He backed away from me, then made his way to the table. As he pulled out a chair, he motioned for me to sit. “I’m trying to help, Jo. That’s why I made breakfast.”

  Atop the table sat a cup of coffee with steam pouring from the brim. A carafe of cream sat next to it, and a sugar bowl that belonged to our mother before she died. I didn’t tell him I remembered as much. I couldn’t. Shame had twisted my tongue.

  Easing toward the table, I released the fists I had formed and took the seat he’d pulled out for me. He joined me in the opposite chair, adding a little cream to his cup then swirling it.

  “Since when did you start using cream in your coffee?”

  The words fell out of my mouth, stunning him as much as me. His lips worked together with what should have been an explanation, but ended in my praise. “You’re doing good, Jo. You’re remembering so much. And to answer your question, I didn’t start using cream until…well, until I stayed at the hospital with you.”

  “Beg your pardon?” I spooned sugar into my cup so I wouldn’t have to face him. I couldn’t stomach the thought of him playing the good guy when he was keeping information from me.

  He must have sensed my frustration because he exaggerated his breath when he exhaled. “I didn’t leave your side unless I was asked. The staff only did so when you had to go for testing or if the doctor needed to evaluate you. The coffee in the vending area wasn’t the greatest, but a nurse suggested I use cream. It was tolerable after that. I’ve gotten used to it now.”

  It sounded plausible. He had no reason to lie about this, and it wasn’t like he was influencing my memories. I knew I was in a coma for a few weeks. Of the few things my doctor had told me, the coma had been the first thing out of his mouth. Then he attempted to explain why I coul
dn’t remember, but only after refusing to tell me what had happened. I despised him more than anyone at this point.

  Except maybe myself…

  My anger with Brighton had subsided again. Granted, it would take time to build trust between us, unless my memories came back, because an explanation at this point wouldn’t suffice. My emotions were all over the place. His refusal to answer my questions didn’t help, but I did see he was trying. He said as much. The bacon-and-egg English muffin and coffee proved it.

  This was my life for now. The sooner I accepted it, the quicker I’d heal. At least that’s what everyone said. If only the little voice in my head would tell me the same. Instead, it whispered an insistent request I couldn’t ignore.

  Keep searching.

  * * *

  Brighton didn’t leave a mess for me to clean. Most of the dishes were stacked in the dishwasher minus the cups we held. I followed him through the dining room instead of heading back toward the front of the house.

  We continued down a hallway similar to the one leading to my room. It took us to the east side of the house, past other rooms, including the laundry area. At the end of the hall stood a final door, but unlike the ones before it, this door remained closed. While the other rooms held little memory, the second Brighton opened the door to the final room, my heart kinked.

  The piano sitting in the corner held importance. I sensed that much, but the memories intertwined with it were lost. Common sense said it belonged to me.

  To be such a large room, it felt odd to have little else inside it except a chaise lounge, a few chairs, and speakers built into the walls. One chair sat away from the others, near a door. The other two were closer to the picture window overlooking the patio and backyard.

  The backside of my property held few memories, though I did recognize the hammock. Two birch trees suspended it a few feet from the ground. There was little else in the backyard that struck me enough to garner additional observation.

  The patio connected to the opposite corner of the house, the same side as my bedroom. A dark blue wall of curtains covered a set of doors. Despite the fact that my room had the same view as the music room, this was the first time I’d noticed the backyard. I vaguely remembered seeing the curtains.

  Of course, I wasn’t thinking about much of anything the day I came home. My pity party had begun, and I transformed into one hell of a hostess.

  I hated feeling angry, hated knowing that I was too busy wallowing in my losses than appreciating my life. It was selfish. I don’t remember feeling so self-centered before, but I didn’t want to be this person. I wanted to be grateful and happy and enjoy the company of my brother.

  I wanted to be me again—the woman that wasn’t broken.

  A distinct sound of a hammer hitting a string filled my ears. I peered over my shoulder to the piano. Brighton sat on the bench. He glanced my way and then toward the keys as another note rang out.

  Approaching both he and the instrument, I took my time walking the length of the grand piano, admiring the curve of its rim. It was a Mason & Hamilton Model BB. Knowing such specific details about an instrument incited me. I couldn’t remember part of my life but I could remember something as insignificant as a piano’s make and model. The human brain made no sense.

  I caught my reflection in the lid. Wow! I looked a mess. Unruly curls strayed from a ponytail I didn’t remember making. Perhaps Brighton did it.

  Memories flooded my mind. He used to play with my hair a lot when we were kids. One time he even told me his secret plan. He was going to marry Kathy Williams some day and have a girl and a boy. Playing with my hair was his way of practicing for his daughter. It didn’t bother me in the least. Besides, I thought it was cute.

  The memory made me smile, but the next one, not so much. It was of one of our neighbor, Darren. He’d enjoyed a few laughs at Brighton’s expense before, but even more so when he caught him braiding my hair. Not long after the embarrassing moment, Brighton made me promise to keep everything a secret. He swore he’d throw my baby dolls in the stream behind our old house if I told anyone.

  I never told a soul, but not because he’d threatened me. I loved him. He was my brother, my twin.

  Brighton cracked his knuckles and taunted me with a raised brow. “Any requests?”

  I shook my head. “No. You always play the opposite of anything I suggest.”

  He gave me the same boyish smile I remembered from childhood as his fingers hovered above ivory keys I could no longer tickle.

  “Very well then.” His voice took on a warning tone I knew well. I held my breath. If he broke into November Rain, I’d smack him.

  Notes filled the room when his fingers glided across the naturals and accidentals to the melody of Chopin’s Berceuse Opus 57—one of my favorites. Strange how I could remember this, much like I could remember the non-essential details about the piano. Yet when it came to the things that really mattered, like what happened to me, my mind was as blank as a sheet of paper.

  Brighton closed his eyes, swaying his head as he and the instrument became one. A twinge of jealousy made my chest tighten along with the tendons in my fingers. God I wanted to feel the same connection again. To be one with the music…

  Trailing my fingers along the rim, I mimicked the strokes my brother made. A dull ache warmed my hand, but I ignored it, allowing the music to comfort me. It caused the vessels in my injured fingers to throb.

  And the pain increased.

  Maybe I should stop, yet doing so proved hard. I couldn’t prevent the music from moving me or setting off instincts I’d had from the age of eight. I had a better chance of keeping the sun from setting.

  I refocused on Brighton. The room and I faded from his mind, not that I could read his thoughts. I didn’t have to. His creased brow said it all. He was more than part of the music. He was the music.

  As the throbbing sensation turned into pulsing, it burned enough to draw my attention to my hand. The beds of my fingernails began swelling. If enough pressure built, could they detach from my skin?

  The thought made me wince. It was the precise moment I pulled my hand back that I was filled with a sense of gratitude in knowing Brighton was occupied with playing. One look at my face and he’d be making a fuss.

  I hated when he made a fuss.

  Once my hand was immobilized, the burning eased. Relief washed over me, though the episode left me light-headed. I needed to sit or I’d be a puddle on the floor.

  Though my steps were slow and steady, Brighton must have sensed my approach. He opened his eyes and glanced up. A note lingered through the room just as his smile darkened. Then his fingers slammed on the keys. The notes led into a faster tempo.

  Lady Gaga’s Bad Romance echoed off the walls. Suddenly a Guns N Roses song didn’t sound half bad, or a different song from the current artist he insisted on playing. The notes pierced my ears, causing my temples to pound.

  I found the door, questioning if I could make it into the hallway before Brighton objected. My fingers were damaged, not my legs. I could do whatever was needed to get away from the noise.

  Brighton cocked his head toward me. I narrowed my gaze in the best menacing look I could muster. And it worked. He pressed his lips tight to hide a smirk as the notes switched to Tchaikovsky’s The Seasons: April.

  Lowering my hips, the plush cushion atop the bench kept me from going too far. I bit the inside of my cheek in order not to laugh, then nudged my brother’s shoulder with mine.

  “Couldn’t resist, could you?”

  His impish grin faded as a mess of dark waves tousled against his face. “Want to show me how it’s done?”

  “Like I can.” I waved my damaged hand in his face until my fingers began scorching.

  The last note faded from my ears. Brighton’s fingers left the keys and gripped the bench. Then he nudged me this time. “Wanna talk about it?”

  I swallowed hard. “No.”

  Silence fell between us. I hated how my defense
s were in overdrive. It meant shutting myself down and shutting him out. He’d been my confidant as a child. Hell, he knew all my secrets growing up, but after our parents died, he changed.

  The move from Southern Ohio to Northern Ohio, missing our mom and dad, falling into the wrong crowd, it was all part of his downfall. Most of those memories were still vague, and the ones that had returned kept me second guessing him.

  I sensed him staring at my hand when he cleared his throat and spoke. “The surgeon seems positive about the surgery working.”

  “It’s not a guarantee.”

  “Since when did life come with guarantees?”

  I readied my lips for a perfect retort but none came. Brighton grabbed my hand and thumbed over my knuckles. It made my stomach knot. Hurt showed in his eyes. It did even more when I yanked my hand away.

  “It could have been a lot worse, Jo.”

  “How so?” I jumped to my feet. “Do you mean getting them severed? Because short of that, I don’t see how it could have been any worse. If the surgery didn’t work, won’t it be the same?”

  “No.” Brighton pushed away from the piano. “Hating life won’t change anything. You have to suck it up and keep going. What happened didn’t just affect you.”

  “Oh really? I don’t see anything wrong with you.”

  “Maybe not on the outside,” he patted his chest, “but I know what happened, and it eats me alive to think…”

  His voice trailed off. We were back to where we started. Secrets. The ones he kept. The ones my mind kept. It would never end. I was stuck inside this shell of a body. A trip straight to hell seemed better than living behind the bars of a caged mind.

  ~ CHAPTER SIX ~

  I stared out the window as Brighton’s taillights disappeared down the driveway. He didn’t say where he was heading, and I didn’t ask. I was back to being angry with him. It was easier this way. Until I figured out which piece of me was missing, I wouldn’t trust anyone.