Because it’s Fall Recess, we don’t have to return to school until the Wednesday following Thanksgiving. I spend those days recovering in the Jamison’s home. The girls had been let in on my being there, told I’d been in an accident. They don’t question why I’m staying at their place instead of my own. They’re just happy to have me here.
After a couple of days, I’m allowed to be up more, and spend time with them in their family room area, eating leftover turkey sandwiches, which are far better than the turkey sandwiches they have at school. The whole family has taken it upon themselves to try to outdo one another as my caretaker. It’s become a kind of game to them, to see who can do the most for me.
Mostly, I revel in being near Henry, all day, every day. I try to get him to take a break from me, but he won’t hear of it. Except for when he’s showering he’s with me; even at night he sleeps in the chair next to me.
Dr. Jamison casts my wrist, and allows me to have my ribs unwrapped temporarily for a shower myself. They even bring a plastic chair in for me to sit on in the shower.
I could have lived in this fantasy world forever, but inexorably, Tuesday comes. School is back in session tomorrow, and I can’t afford to miss it and have attention fall on me.
“Stay one more night,” Henry pleads. “I’ll take you home tomorrow after school.”
So I stay. I only have my torn and bloodied clothes which had been taken that first day—thrown away, I suppose—and have been wearing a pair of Claire’s pajamas. She brings me a pair of jeans and a top to borrow for school tomorrow, since we improbably wear the same size. They are the nicest clothes I have ever worn, but in a very girly and vain way, I’m glad that Henry gets to see me at least once in something that isn’t shapeless and ugly.
I awake the next morning, binding my ribs extra tight, not an easy task with one wrist in a cast. I’m still very sore, but I know I can make it. I looked at myself in the mirror, my face mottled with purple and yellow bruises. Most of the swelling has gone down though. My lip is only a little swollen, the biggest drawback to this being that it hurts when Henry kisses me, so he’s done very little of that.
We ride to school in a lightly falling snow. Henry has given me his coat against my protests, since his jacket is still at my house. I’m happy he insisted, because his jacket has long since lost the scent of him, but his coat is filled with it. He’s already spread the word among some of his friends about my “car accident”, knowing word would get around school.
He’s still frustrated with me because I won’t tell him exactly what happened.
I find that my “accident” makes me the recipient of some sympathy—probably more because of how my face looks than anything. Not only does no one try to hurt me or trip me, they actually hold doors for me and help me to carry my books—which had luckily been left at Henry’s—when I’m not with him. Mostly, this is carried out by Henry’s friends, which I’m grateful for when I pass Jessica in the halls and see not only a lack of sympathy in her eyes, but anger instead.
After school Henry argues with me, trying to get me to come back to his house. I want to do just that, take the easy way and hide as long as I can. He makes it so much harder when he looks at me with desperate appeal in the dark depths of his eyes. I don’t know what he knows, but I think maybe he suspects the truth, or something close to it.
Finally, he relents when I hold my ground. “At least let me take you to your house. You shouldn’t be walking so far.”
This starts a new argument, but I find Henry is as stubborn as I am. We compromise that he won’t drop me in front of my house, but in front of the house next door, and that he will let me make my way home alone.
He helps me out of the car, pulling me close for a gentle hug, dropping kisses on my face and lightly on my mouth. He presses something into my hand and I look down to see a cell phone there.
“No,” I protest, my voice still a little rough.
“It’s not from me. It’s from my dad.” When I start to hand it back he wraps his hand around mine, trapping the phone there. “It belonged to one of his employees who no longer work’s for him. My dad pays each month for it to sit in a drawer. He’s worried that you don’t have a phone. It’s a loan. Take it.”
“I can’t…”
“Please. For me. It has all of our phone numbers programmed in it. All you have to do is call and I will come; I’ll be here before you finish dialing.”
“Henry…”
“It’s just a loan.” He sees my hesitation. “If you don’t take it, I’ll throw you back in my car right now and hold you hostage at my house until you agree.”
I smile up at him. “Where’s the threat in that?”
He laughs, kissing me lightly.
“Please, take it. My mom will not let me back in the house if you don’t.”
I capitulate.
“Well, we can’t have that, can we?”
He shows me how to use the phone, since I’ve never owned a cell phone myself. He has, of course, programmed himself as the first speed dial.
He kisses me again, then holds me firmly. I relax into him, already dreading the time to go until I can see him again.
“I’ll miss you tonight,” I tell him.
He looks down at me.
“Call me before you go to bed.”
“Okay.” He releases me and I turn toward my house, frightened of going in, but knowing it’s time. He waits until I’ve arrived at my front door before turning away and getting back into his car.
Mom is sitting on the couch, but instead of being asleep or watching TV, she’s sitting, head in her hands, arms propped on her knees. She looks up as I close the door behind me. Relief floods her face at the sight of me. I walk over to stand before her and her eyes skim down me, taking in the cast on my arm, and my stitched brow before coming to rest on mine. She holds my gaze for a minute, then looks away.
“I was…I thought…I didn’t know where you were,” she stammers, and if I didn’t know better I might believe there is concern in her voice.
“You mean, you didn’t know if I were alive or not,” I say, fear twisting through my stomach at the thought of what she might do to me for talking to her that way.
She looks up at me again and her face is contorted with guilt. I feel a moment’s compassion for her, but that disappears when I take a deep breath and my ribs throb in protest.
“I’m alive and I’m back, and I need to rest to recover fully.” I move past her toward the stairs, glancing into the kitchen. She’s cleaned up the mess, scrubbed the wall and floor so that no evidence remains. So much for her concern for me personally—it seems she was more concerned about whether she might get caught. I take a step up the first stair, and then turn to face her again, heart pounding. She watches me closely.
“You can’t do that to me again. You can’t hurt me anymore.” She doesn’t say anything, so I turn and walk up the stairs. In my room I lay down on my bed, dizzy from the effort it took to stand up to her.
A smile crosses my face.
A new kind of life begins again. Because it‘s my right wrist that’s broken, it requires help with my work both at school—for which I oddly have plenty of volunteers, again mostly Henry’s guy friends, but also from several of the “losers” who share our lunch table—and with my homework after school. I tell my mother this, amazed she doesn’t argue. So after school I go home with Henry and stay the afternoon and into the evening each day.
Emma seems happy about this, and makes sure I have dinner each night before leaving. I recover quickly, probably because my body is receiving more nutrition than it’s ever had. I find myself fitting into a family, and I like how it feels.
Claire makes sure to show me plenty of embarrassing pictures of Henry—especially ones of her doing his hair when it was longer. I’m bribed to see these ones by allowing her to do my hair. I’m shown a picture of extended family members, including the Grandpa Henry was named for, and that brings back a clear memory o
f Henry as a boy.
The first day of school, he had announced his name in front of the class, telling everyone he had been named for his Grandpa Henry, and for the next few years, each time he introduced himself to someone new, he would repeat the same story. By the time we were in fourth grade, everyone was well aware of where his name had come from.
I laugh at the memory and tell his sisters about it, who find it to be a great thing to tease him with. They start calling him “Henry-who’s-named-for-his-Grandpa,” like it’s one long name.
Each night when I return home, I clean up the kitchen and living room, though it isn’t as hard as before, because my mom is making something of an effort as well. I clean my bathroom as I get ready for bed, then call Henry as soon as I’m in bed, and we talk until one or both of us fall asleep.
As the weather turns colder, sometimes dipping down below zero at night and struggling to rise to the mid-teens during the day, Henry starts picking me up and dropping me off in front of my house. He ignores my protests that I’ve been walking in weather like this for years, and when there doesn’t seem to be any fallout from Mom, I quit objecting.
One night we’re alone at his house. We’re sitting in the living room on the floor, doing math homework. This is my favorite place to be because of all of the holiday decorations. A mishmash of ornaments, made by the Jamison kids throughout the years, adorns their huge Christmas tree, along with store bought ones that have been picked by the kids. Each one is carefully marked with their name and the year the ornament was made or acquired. Somehow, Emma has made it look elegant and homey all at once.
Dr. Jamison told me I needed to wear the cast until the New Year, so I’m still unable to write. We aren’t getting much accomplished, though, since Henry keeps distracting me by kissing me since the swelling in my lip is gone and it no longer hurts. Also, I way preferred kissing him to math, so I’m not really protesting much.
“I want to ask you a favor,” he says between kisses. He’s watching my mouth, long thick lashes hiding his eyes, so I’m having a particularly hard time thinking straight.
“Anything,” I breathe, kissing him back. He smiles, then looks into my eyes, his gaze darkly intent.
“I want you to tell me something,”
“Okay,” I agree, ready to tell him anything.
He lifts his hand, brushing his thumb across the fading scar above my brow, following the movement with his eyes. The laceration had run along the line of my eyebrow, so it really isn’t very noticeable now that the stitches have been removed, and will eventually be almost unnoticeable.
His eyes come back to mine, and softly, sounding off-handed, he says, “I want you to tell me who did this to you.”
I freeze beneath his touch. His gaze doesn’t waver. I drop my eyes and sit up, moving away from him.
“Don’t ask me that,” my own voice is low.
“Don’t you trust me?” he asks. I turn to him, shocked. He’s looking down, drawing patterns on the floor.
“Of course I trust you, Henry. I lo—” I catch myself, but his eyes come to mine, stillness settling over his body. I think about the words I’d almost said; words that can’t be spoken aloud. So I tell him the next truth.
I drop my eyes, take a breath then look at him steadily again. “I mean, you’re my best friend. I trust you more than anyone else. I’m asking you to trust me when I say I can’t tell you.”
He still hasn’t moved a muscle, watching me, waiting. When I don’t say anything else, he releases a breath, looking away. Finally he nods.
“I can accept that.” He moves then, coming up onto his knees, pulling me up with him onto my own knees and into his arms. “I don’t like it, but I can accept it.” He keeps one arm about my waist, bringing his other hand up to rest alongside my neck, thumb tracing my jaw. “Can I ask you something else though?”
A little wary now, I nod.
“Is that all we are? Friends?”
“Uh…” my thoughts scatter again.
“Because I thought we were more.” He tips his head down toward mine. When his eyes are just inches from my own, he asks, “How many friends do this?” Then his mouth is on mine.
Heat flows through me as it always does when we’re this close, as if I’m on fire. Tonight it’s more intense with the realization I’ve come to about my love for him. I’d been about to tell him I loved him before, and I think he knows it. As soon as I thought the words, I knew it was the truth—that it will always be true. I can’t tell him that though, knowing that what we have now is only for now, that as soon as we graduate he’ll be going away to school. By the time he comes back, his life will have moved on, probably with someone else. Jealousy shoots through me.
We hear the garage door open, and pull apart as the door flies open, spilling his family in. They all come running over to kiss Henry and hug me, even his parents. With them here, the atmosphere is lively and vivid, intimacy gone. But still, while we do our work, Henry keeps his hand entwined with mine, his thumb tracing across the pad of my hand, turning my thoughts to mush. It’s only when he glances up at me from under his lashes with a secret smile that I realize he knows exactly what it’s doing to me. I think of pulling my hand away to wipe the smugness from his face, but then I’ll be without his touch. I’m not dumb enough to torture myself just to prove a point.
Later, as we’re leaving for Henry to take me home, Emma walks with us to the door. “Did Henry tell you we are going to Florida for the holidays?” she asks.
My eyes fly to Henry’s. He’s leaving? My horror must show on my face, because he answers for me.
“No, Mom, I haven’t told her yet.”
“Oh,” Emma’s answer is casual, as if she hasn’t just told me I’ll be spending two weeks in misery. Henry squeezes my hand.
“Well, actually, I know it’s Christmas, which is really a family holiday…” Hah, I think, not where I come from—it’s just another day. “…but we’d really like you to come with us, if you think it would be okay with your parents.”
I look at her, stunned. They want me to come with them on their family vacation?
“Paul’s parents live there, so we’re going down to spend some time with them.”
“You want me to come with you?” I’m not sure I’ve heard her right.
“Well, I know it’s a little odd, to ask your parents if you can go on a trip with your boyfriend’s family…”
I look at Henry at the word boyfriend, and he simply smiles back cockily, eyebrow raised, daring me to dispute her use of the word.
“It’s not so much that,” I begin, every fiber of my being wanting to scream yes, “Christmas not being an especially big holiday at our house,” understatement of the year, “It’s more, um…” I’m embarrassed at having to tell her there’s no possible way I can afford it. She waits. “It’s not that I wouldn’t like to, I’d love to, but, uh….”
“You think about it,” she says, noticing my discomfort and letting me off the hook. “Talk to your parents and let Henry know. We’d love to have you come.”
She has no idea how tortuous her words are. I’d give my good left arm to go—and the broken right one as well—but since I don’t think there’s a place to sell my arms, I know it’s only fantasy.
We ride home mostly in silence. When we stop in front of my house, he turns the car off and turns toward me.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were leaving,” I say.
“Mom wanted to ask you to come herself, and it would have been torture for me to tell you I was going and not be able to ask you to come. If you can’t come, I’m going to stage a mutiny and stay home.”
“And miss out on Grandpa Henry?” I’m teasing, but I can see the disappointment that passes across his face at the thought.
“I can’t come, Henry.”
His jaw clenches, but his voice is resigned.
“Parents wouldn’t let you, huh?”
I try to picture myself even asking my parent
s, but can’t even imagine it getting to that point. “No, it’s not that. It’s…well, look.” I sweep my hand towards my little dilapidated house in my rundown neighborhood. He looks, then looks back at me, brows furrowed in confusion.
“So?”
“Henry, look at my clothes.” He does. “If they could afford to send me to Florida for Christmas, they could afford to buy me at least one outfit that wasn’t secondhand,” I tell him, shamed at admitting this.
Henry’s face clears. “That’s the hold up? Money?”
“Spoken like one who has plenty to spare,” I grumble.
“Kate, when my mom asked you to come, she knew you couldn’t afford it.”
“Then, why…” my thoughts immediately turn to wondering why she would do something so cruel, teasing me like that.
“They intend to pay for you.”
“No! Henry, no. I can’t accept that. I’m not a charity case,” I lie, knowing that’s exactly what I am.
“Kate, sweetheart,” my heart skips a beat at the endearment, the first from his lips, “they wouldn’t offer if they didn’t want to. My whole family happens to be crazy about you. It’s embarrassing to admit but you know that they can afford it.”
“That doesn’t mean I would feel right taking it.”
“You would let your pride stop you from spending the holidays with me and my family?”
I know he’s trying any tact, even shame, to get me to change my mind. The problem is, it’s working a little.
“Don’t do that.”
“What?” He’s genuinely curious.
“Don’t make it seem like it’s my pride keeping this from being a reality. It’s a matter of right and wrong. And it’s wrong to let someone spend so much on me.”
“It’s not so much. It won’t change the cost of the place we’re staying at, or most of the meals that we’ll be eating there, since we’ll be eating mostly at the beach house we’re renting. It’s something they really want to do. You’ll break my mom’s heart if you say no.” It’s starting to sound like a painful possibility—painful because it isn’t possible—is it? Then he says the thing that makes me crack a little.
Heart on a Chain Page 12
