Heart on a Chain

by Cindy C. Bennett

Probably a stable, I think cynically.

  I should have known. He’d told me his dad was a veterinarian, I should have known he had money but he’s so nice that I never pictured it. I look at him now and it seems so obvious. His clothes are clearly nicer than average, his shoes the overpriced kind, even the way he holds himself with an unassuming confidence screams money. His jacket that I now wear is thick, good quality. I feel sick at my stupidity. Jessica was right—I don’t belong with him, not even as a friend.

  “I should go home,” I tell him, my words saturated with dejection.

  He pulls my hands into his.

  “Kate, have I done something wrong? What’s the matter?”

  “You’re rich,” I accuse.

  “Actually no, I’m not. My father is rich; I myself am poor and am living on his good graces,” he teases, an unsure grin on his face. That’s something only someone raised with a lot of money can say, I grumble to myself.

  I look down and see my shabby shoes next to his neat, clean ones. “I don’t belong here.”

  He laughs and gives me a hug.

  “Of course you do. Listen, my family is going to love you, just like—” He stops mid-sentence, noticing the look on my face. “Please, my mom is really looking forward to this. I’m looking forward to this.”

  My resolve crumbles in the face of his pleading tone. I let him pull me forward, feeling like Daniel going into the lion’s den. Well, I think, I’ll just stay through dinner and then make my escape. I can survive the snobbery and disdain they will surely have for me for that long—for Henry.

  He keeps hold of my hand as we go through the luxurious front door, into a foyer that’s like pictures I’ve seen of grand hotels; marble floor, curving staircase with stairs of hardwood, dark wood table next to the perfectly painted wall with a large vase of arranged flowers. To the left stands a living room with formal, uncomfortable looking furniture. To the right is a dining room with a long table surrounded by heavy chairs.

  My stomach clenches tighter if that’s possible.

  We walk down a short hallway toward the back of the house, and I can hear people laughing and talking. As we go through the archway into the family room, the house changes. This room is full of comfortable, overstuffed furniture, the kind meant for curling your feet up on.

  There’s a large TV, which is playing a Halloween cartoon. In front of the TV sits a small girl with wispy blonde hair, an open book on her lap that she’s looking at with absolute concentration, ignoring the noise around her.

  The family room is open to the kitchen, which is putting forth smells that make my mouth water, smells of comfort. There are four people in the kitchen, the ones making all the noise, seeming to be tripping over each other in their proximity.

  I stand for a moment, taking it all in. It’s not the quiet, elevator-music-playing scene I had pictured moments before. It’s the scene I dream of sometimes, of how a family should be. The tiny girl reading turns and sees us standing there.

  “Henry,” she squeals, scrambling to her feet, climbing up on and leaping over the back of one of the couches. She runs, jumping at Henry. He catches her up and she wraps her arms around his neck.

  “You know, I just saw you ten minutes ago,” he tells her with a tickle in her ribs that sends her into a fit of giggles. He plants a kiss on her cheek. Her noises have caught the attention of the rest of the family, and they all come over to where we stand.

  He shifts the little girl so that he holds her with one arm, and puts the other around my shoulder.

  “These are my parents, Paul and Emma, and my sisters Claire and Amy. And this one,” he says, shifting the little one higher in his arm, “is Christine.” He smiles down at me.

  “Everyone, this is Kate.”

  His dad reaches out and shakes my hand. He looks very similar to Henry, only with laugh lines around his eyes, a little gray sprinkling his hair, which lays flat instead of spiky like Henry’s, and stands maybe an inch shorter than his son.

  “It’s good to finally meet you,” he tells me.

  His mother steps forward and instead of shaking my hand she gives me a hug, releasing me quickly before I have a chance to respond or be discomfited. She keeps her hands on my shoulders though, smiling into my face.

  “All we ever hear about is Kate, Kate, Kate, so I can’t begin to tell you how glad I am to meet you and see that you are a real girl.”

  My mouth drops open at this, and Henry’s dad pulls her away with a laugh. “Okay, sweetie, that’s enough embarrassing the girl for now.”

  “My turn, my turn,” calls Amy, who’s ten. She also gives me a hug.

  Claire pushes her out of the way. This is his sister who is thirteen I know, but she looks sixteen. She’s as tall as me, she’s absolutely beautiful—and I’m intimidated by her immediately.

  “Sorry they’re all such a bunch of dorks,” she says. There’s no malice behind the words, though. She puts her arm around my shoulders, shoving Henry’s off and maneuvering me further into the room.

  Christine scrambles out of Henry’s arms and returns to her book by the TV. He catches up to us and tells me, “Let me just apologize now for this one,” he jerks a thumb towards Claire, who looks at me and rolls her eyes.

  “Whatever,” she says sarcastically, and then in the same breath, “Cool jacket.”

  “It’s not mine. It’s Henry’s.”

  “Huh,” she eyes me. “He must really like you, because if I borrow anything of his he goes ballistic. You have really awesome hair.”

  I jerk a little at the sudden change in subject. I reach up to touch my unremarkable hair.

  “Can I touch it?” she asks, then does so without waiting for permission. “That’s what I thought. It’s so soft. It looks like those commercials, you know, for shampoo or whatever, where they always have this perfect, shiny, glossy hair that you know is only that way because someone brushed it for hours. You must brush yours a lot! I’d love to get my hands on it, see how it looks curly.”

  “Claire,” Mrs. Jamison says warningly, “Kate is not one of your makeover guinea pigs. Try to restrain yourself.”

  “Sure, Mom, whatever.” I’m stunned at the sarcastic tone she uses with her mother, which only earns her a wry look, rather than a smack or kick.

  Mrs. Jamison comes over to where we stand.

  “Can I take your jacket?” she asks politely, giving Henry a pointed stare.

  “Oh, sorry,” he says. I’m not sure if his apology is for me or her. “I’ve just kind of gotten used to seeing it on you.”

  I unzip it, and try not to show my surprise when he helps me take it off. I’ve seen chivalry in old movies where men always did things like that for the women, but not in real life, much less be the recipient of it.

  An informal table stands off to the side in a nook, already set and decorated with a plethora of autumn and Halloween decorations. Even the dishes are shaped and colored like fall leaves. It looks like something out of a magazine—kinda like the front part of the house.

  “The table looks great,” I tell Mrs. Jamison.

  Claire beams with pride.

  “I did it. My mom told me I could help once I was a teenager, and this year I am thirteen—officially a teenager—so she let me do it myself.”

  I’m impressed, and tell her so.

  “You shouldn’t encourage her,” Henry tells me, “She doesn’t need any help with her ego.” This is said with an indulgent smile towards her.

  “I hope you like pumpkin,” she tells me.

  “I don’t know,” I say, “I haven’t ever tasted it.”

  “Really? Who hasn’t tasted pumpkin?” she asks with nose wrinkled. “Oh well, you’ll like it. No one makes pumpkin soup like my mom.”

  “If you don’t like it, sweetie, you just tell me and we’ll get you something else,” Mrs. Jamison says.

  Soon we’re seated at the table, after a little fuss from Christine who wants to finish her book. A promise from Henry to read her a
bedtime story later solves that. It’s obvious that she and Henry are crazy about each other as she insists on him sitting next to her.

  I sit on his other side and look around at them, all smiling and laughing and talking over top of one another with an organized kind of chaos, and I feel the world shift again. I didn’t know that this kind of family really exists. I watch the way his parents look at each other, with a deep understanding and security in their love for each other. His sisters bicker somewhat, but there’s obvious love there as well, both for each other and for Henry. They include me in as if I belong.

  They all take for granted the pumpkin soup served in hollowed out pumpkins, the homemade rolls in a wicker basket lined with a cloth napkin, the sautéed squash, the whole atmosphere, things that, to me, are like a fairy tale. When Henry’s mom rises to go to the kitchen to retrieve the pumpkin cookies she’s made for dessert, my eyes follow her. As she disappears through the open doorway my gaze comes to rest on Henry, who’s watching me closely. I watch his eyes darken as they do whenever he’s feeling strongly about something. He seems to read something on my face, but he doesn’t question it, simply reaches under the table and takes hold of my hand, giving me a secure anchor to hold on to.

  After dinner, Mrs. Jamison won’t let me help clean up as I’m the guest, no matter how persistent I am.

  “Take her out to see the clinic,” she tells Henry.

  I’m not sure what the clinic is, but I’m okay with being alone with Henry so I happily go along. He grabs his jacket for me to put on. We step out through an impressive pair of French doors onto a deck that’s larger than my bedroom. We cross an expanse of lawn that‘s still green in spite of the fact that it should be going into hibernation. He takes my hand and leads me toward the big building I had seen earlier.

  Turns out I wasn’t so far off when I thought it was a stable—no horses since his father doesn’t specialize in large animals, as Henry explains, but it’s the clinic where he treats animals. He opens the door and turns on the overhead fluorescent lights, revealing a clean, sterile room which, he tells me, is the operating room. He leads me in, showing me the individual treatment rooms, the recovery room, and the waiting room which has large windows looking out the opposite side of the building from the house. I can see the parking lot out there and realize that it’s accessible from the main road.

  “Your dad works at home?” I ask.

  “Pretty much, yeah.”

  “Your mom is okay with that?” I ask, thinking about how much my own mom hates it when my dad’s home. When he is home all they do is fight anyway.

  He laughs. “Weird, huh? My parents are still embarrassingly in love. She spends most of her time out here when he’s working.”

  We’re standing in the doorway that separates the waiting room from the rest of the clinic; I look around at the comfortable waiting room which is more welcoming than my own home and I feel tears sting my eyes at the glaring differences between my life and his.

  “I don’t deserve you,” I whisper, immediately flushed with embarrassment at having voiced the thought.

  “You don’t have any idea how I feel about you, do you?” he asks.

  I look up at him. He stands with both hands buried in his front pockets, shoulders hunched slightly forward, leaning against the doorframe opposite the side I lean on. We hadn’t turned on the lights in the waiting room; the only light is coming from the streetlights gleaming through the windows, and from a huge fish tank that glows in the corner. The lights from the hallway behind shine brightly, shadowing his face in darkness so that I can’t make his expression out.

  I shake my head.

  He cocks his head. “Have you ever had a boyfriend?”

  I choke out a laugh.

  “Hardly. You’ve seen…well, you’ve seen how it is at school. I don’t even have a friend.”

  “You do now,” he says, quietly.

  “I don’t know why you want to be, but you are my friend. My only friend. You’re my best friend.”

  He laughs softly, “I’m glad about that.” His tone is low and husky with a concentration I haven’t heard him use before. Slowly, he leans toward me, bringing his face close to mine. He stops inches from my face. “But I’ve been trying really hard to be more.”

  My breath catches in my throat at his nearness.

  “Ever been kissed?” he whispers, with a grin.

  Only by you, I think. If he doesn’t remember, I’m not going to bring it up. I shake my head, ducking a little in awkwardness.

  He kisses me then, his lips warm and soft on mine. I’m stunned, my wide eyes staring at his closed ones. I kiss him back, instinctively, innocently, awash in the sensation of feeling. There’s no movement in the room, no sound but our breathing, my heart pounding in my ears. He’s not touching me anywhere but with his lips on mine.

  It’s the best moment of my life, even better than swinging.

  “Ew, gross,” Claire comes in behind us, without us hearing her approach—or at least, I didn’t hear her over the thrumming in my ears. I jerk instinctively, but Henry presses closer, bringing one hand up to the back of my neck, trapping me. He doesn’t remove his mouth from mine, though he does open his eyes to find me still staring at him. He feels the tension in me, and whispers, “relax,” against my mouth. He reaches out to his left and gives Claire a light shove backwards.

  “Hey!” she calls out.

  “Go away,” he grumbles, mouth still pressed to mine. He pulls the door closed, shutting us into the darkened waiting room. I smile against his mouth, and he meets it with a smile of his own, pulling back slightly. I look down, reluctant to meet his gaze in the raw emotions of the aftermath of the kiss. It was more than I could have dreamed of, even more amazing than when he holds my hand. I didn’t think anything could be better than that, the simple human contact that I haven’t experienced since I was young.

  He brings both his hands up, bracing my neck on both sides, thumbs skimming lightly over my cheeks, forcing me to look up. The smile drops from his face as he brings his mouth back to mine. This time I close my eyes, letting the sensations flow through me.

  Chapter Ten

  “So, Wednesday is Halloween,” Henry says as we walk to school Monday morning. We’re enjoying a late Indian summer this year, chilled air in the mornings and late evenings but seventy-five degrees during the day. So we’ve decided to walk to school every day until we no longer can. He holds my hand as we walk, carrying my loose books in his other arm.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  He looks down at the books in his arm. “Don’t you have a locker?” His change of subject makes me laugh. Sometimes conversation with Henry is as schizophrenic as conversation with his sister, Claire.

  “No, I haven’t had a locker for years.” I’m not about to tell him that I discovered early that lockers are nothing more than a torture device. It was bad enough finding all manner of disgusting garbage left in there that I had to clean out, or finding a destroyed text book that I couldn’t begin to afford to replace and the accompanying visit to the principal’s office where only my genuine tears got me off the hook for that. The last straw was when I had been shoved and locked into it; I decided that was my cue to never step near one again. Therefore I carry everything to and from school.

  “You can share mine,” he says.

  I imagine him opening the locker to see a moldy sandwich smeared on his stuff, and shake my head.

  “That’s okay. I don’t mind carrying them.”

  “Especially since you don’t carry them,” he says, shrugging them higher in suggestion. I feel my cheeks flush.

  “You don’t have to carry them for me, you know,” I mutter.

  He laughs and leans down to give me a quick kiss, surprising and warming me at the same time.

  “You really have to learn not to take everything so seriously.”

  “Says someone who comes from the family that laughs all the time.”

  “They were just putting
on a front for you.”

  I look at him, eyebrows raised sardonically.

  “Okay, so they are annoyingly cheerful,” he says. “They liked you. Especially Claire. She really wants you to come back so she can play with your hair.”

  I laugh. “I really liked them, too. And I just might come by some time and let her do that.”

  “You don’t know what you’re saying,” he warns mockingly. “I’ve seen the damage she can do. She’s done it to me!”

  “What? She’s done your hair? Your hair seems pretty short for that.”

  “Why do you think I cut it this way? It used to be longer.”

  “She have pictures of this?” I ask, laughing when the pained look he shoots me says, yes, she does.

  “So about Halloween. You doing anything?”

  Yeah, I think, the usual; making a sign for the door that says “no candy,” so that I don’t get blamed for kids knocking on the door, wanting candy we don’t have. Then I’ll get up extra early the next morning to clean up the eggs and pumpkins that have been thrown at the house because of that sign before she sees them.

  “Because there’s a group of kids going to the corn maze, and I thought it might be fun,” he continues.

  “Oh, well, yeah.” I feel a stinging jealousy that he’ll be having fun without me. I know he has a life, that he doesn’t hibernate in his room when he isn’t with me, but I haven’t really thought consciously of it. “Sounds like fun. Who are you going with?”

  He looks at me, shaking his head. “No, Kate, I’m asking because I want us to go.”

  “Oh,” I feel both stupid and elated at my misunderstanding. Of course, I can’t go, there’s no way. “Sure, I think I could do that,” I say.

  “Great.” He squeezes my hand and leans down to kiss me again. I could so get used to that, I think.

  “Do you have a costume?”

  My face falls. “No.” And no way to get one, either.

  “That’s okay. You’re about the same size as my sister. Think how thrilled she would be if you let her lend you one. It would probably make her year if you let her dress you up.”