Heart on a Chain

by Cindy C. Bennett

  “It’ll break my heart if you don’t come.”

  I sigh. “I’m pretty sure she won’t let me come anyway,” I say, jerking my thumb toward my house.

  His sudden smile is brilliant, victorious.

  “But you’ll ask?” He’s triumphant.

  I can’t remain strong in the presence of his joy. I smile, “I’ll ask.”

  “Yes!” He shoots a fist up in the air like he’s just scored a touchdown. He kisses me enthusiastically. “When?”

  “When what?” I ask.

  “When will you ask?”

  “Oh. Uh, I don’t know. When the time is right, I guess.”

  He’s only slightly deflated.

  “Okay. But don’t wait too long. It’s only two weeks away.”

  The next Saturday I arise early and set to cleaning the house quietly but thoroughly. I’ve been taking advantage of my mom’s guilt and slacking in my servant duties. Today I need her nice because today I ask about Florida.

  I clean and scrub and organize, and I make sure when I hear her get up that she has a nice lunch waiting. I’m quiet, staying out from underfoot but available if she needs me. By the time I have her dinner cooked, served and cleaned up, I’m exhausted. I really want to go be with Henry.

  I walk into the living room, where she sits looking at an old magazine—probably pilfered from her last drug-searching doctor visit. I sit next to her, and she looks at me with a guarded expression.

  “Mom, I was wondering if I could talk to you.”

  She sets her magazine to the side—a first—and turns her attention to me.

  “I have something to ask you.” I swallow nervously.

  She reaches out toward me, and instinctively I flinch away. She stops abruptly, her hand frozen in the air between us. Something like sadness shadows her eyes. She holds her hand there until the panic leaves my face and I nervously sit up straight. She touches my cheek, with gentleness.

  “I haven’t been much of a mother to you, have I?”

  I’m sure my mouth falls open, but I’m not about to agree with her and set her off.

  “I’m sorry about that. I wish we could wind back time…” she looks away, dropping her hand. “What did you want to ask?”

  I take a breath. “I have a friend,” I almost smile at the word, thinking of Henry’s face when I called him a friend, “and my friend’s family invited me to go on a trip with them during school vacation.”

  “You have school vacation coming up?”

  “Yeah, Mom, for Christmas.”

  “Oh.”

  I hold my breath. She hasn’t said no yet, nor gotten angry.

  “You want to go away for Christmas?” She looks at me, stunned.

  I nod.

  She lets out a breath.

  “But what will I do without you here?”

  “It’s only two weeks. Then I’ll be home again.”

  She shakes her head, and I feel a stinging disappointment.

  “Well, I suppose it’s the least I can give you now.”

  I stare at her. Is she saying…? She looks at me.

  “I can go?” I dare ask.

  “I guess,” she sighs.

  A wide grin splits my face. I feel like I’m soaring—higher than I’ve ever been able to get on my swing. I stand up, controlling my reaction so she won’t have reason to take it away. On a whim, I lean down and kiss her cheek.

  “Thank you,” I tell her. I hurry up the stairs to my room, closing myself in before falling on my bed in ecstasy, laughing at my good fortune. It’s so much more than I could have hoped for.

  That night I dream.

  The sky is gray and overcast. I hurry out to swing first thing in the morning, my first time after having it delivered and cemented in by the big delivery men. It’s the quiet time of day; there isn’t any yelling going on yet. I know there will be a lot of yelling today, because Dad had come home really late again last night, stumbling and cursing loudly as he banged against the walls.

  The cursing and stumbling had started two days earlier when Dad had come home too early from work, announcing that he had lost his job. He smelled funny, and his words were slurred.

  There’s never been any cursing in our house, and Dad had never been drunk before. I only knew he was drunk because Mom had called him that that first day. He had stormed out of the house, slamming the door and that was when her tears had started. That night when he came home the yelling had begun. It continued the next afternoon when he had finally stumbled out of bed, and was followed by another door-slamming-storm-out, then more yelling again that night when he came home drunk again.

  I know it will be the same today because there’s a new pattern forming in our family.

  Mom is crying a lot. She has a new, pinched look around her mouth that I’ve never seen before. I‘m scared. I don’t like it. It makes me feel vulnerable. So I stay in my room, hiding, only coming out when Mom comes to get me for lunch or dinner.

  On this, the third day, I know the cement is dry, and I want to swing. So I do, without even asking for permission first. I grab the chains on both sides of the middle swing and hop up with a push of my feet. As I begin to swing, I feel my world right itself a little bit. Even though I’m a young girl, I can recognize the normalcy of the activity, a kid out on her swing with no yelling coming from her house.

  As I push myself a little higher I feel a tightening in my abdomen with each drop back towards the earth. Soon, I’m going pretty high, almost high enough to see over into the neighbor’s backyard.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been swinging when I hear my dad call for my mom. She answers, with a yell of her own, and then they both started arguing in earnest, their voices getting louder.

  I swing higher.

  The wind whistles past my ears, blurring the sound somewhat, so I push higher. I don’t get off the swing when Dad starts calling her names that I would definitely get my mouth washed out for saying. I don’t get off when she screams back. I don’t get off when I heard what sounds like someone getting smacked on the cheek, or when the pitiful crying starts, or when I hear Dad slam out of the front door, his tires squealing as he speeds away. I don’t even get off when the quiet returns, and time passes and my stomach growls with hunger.

  I figure the swinging has to be a good thing—it dries the tears no one else will.

  Then, the familiar dream—a memory really—changes. I’m still swinging, but I’m not alone. Henry sits next to me, holding my hand. Instead of the terrifying noises coming from my house, I hear laughter. Suddenly, the rest of Henry’s family comes out of the back door to join us. They are the source of the laughter. Most surprising of all, they are followed by my own parents—not as they are now, but as they had been before. Young and happy, smiling at each other and at me.

  I jerk awake, feel the tears sliding down my cheeks. I smile at the new turn in my dream, but my smile fades as I realize the impossibility of it. My tears become a self-pitying torrent as I bury my face in my pillow, praying for a dreamless sleep to take me away.

  I wait until I’m at Henry’s for dinner on Sunday to break the news. I tell all of them at dinner, and am pleasantly amazed at their response. Emma claps, Christine squeals, and Claire and Amy jump up in joy, rounding the table to hug me joyously. Dr. Jamison reaches across to squeeze my hand. The best reaction is from Henry. He doesn’t say anything, just leans his jaw against his fist. But his face is alight with happiness, the smile on his face and the look in his eyes just for me, satisfaction radiating from him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I come home from school the day before we’re scheduled to leave and find an old suitcase sitting on my bed. I open it and inside lays a one-hundred-dollar bill, tacked to a note that simply reads, “Merry Christmas.” I know what this cost them, and feel tears start at the kindness behind it.

  It doesn’t take me long to pack, since I really don’t own many clothes, throwing my personal items into grocery bags and putting those
in the suitcase. I have an old swimsuit because it had been required the year before for gym class, so I throw that in, not knowing if I’ll need it or not. Lastly, I throw in my tattered pajamas, hoping Henry will not have occasion to ever see me in them.

  I tell Henry I should probably stay home tonight, since I’ll be gone for so long. It terrifies me, though, that she might come in and take this away from me at the last minute. I know his family will have preparation themselves and probably don’t need me underfoot, so no matter how much I want to be with him, I stay home.

  I look at the money as I slip it into my pocket, and suddenly, decide to do something. I need help though. I call Henry and ask him if he can help me. I take the money that had been left in the suitcase, and hurry downstairs, out the front door.

  He drives me first to the mall. I make him promise to wait for me where he won’t be able to see what I’m doing. I go to one of the kiosks that sell knick-knacks and pick out a sterling silver ornament for my parents. I pick up a few other things for Henry and his family, and a roll of Christmas wrapping paper. I buy a small tabletop pre-decorated plastic Christmas tree from a discount store. It isn’t anything like Emma’s large pine tree covered with beautiful things, but it’s more than we currently have—which is no tree at all.

  I wait until I know my parents are in bed before going back downstairs to set the tree up, placing the wrapped gift underneath. I go back to bed and sleep fitfully until my alarm sounds at five a.m. Hurrying to get dressed, I grab my suitcase and run down the stairs to find Henry already waiting for me there in the pre-dawn darkness.

  He drives me back to his house, where we transfer my suitcase into their already packed family SUV. We drive to the airport, butterflies in my stomach at the thought of my first flight. Christine is tired, having been dragged out of bed so early and not really caring about the excitement of a trip. She insists that Henry carry her and won’t let anyone else touch her. So he carries her in one arm, and keeps the other around me.

  The flight is amazing. How many times have I been on my swing, pushing myself higher to try to get the sensation of flying? Now here I am, really doing it. Henry lets me have the window seat so I can look out. I keep my hand clamped to Henry’s, but my eyes outside, watching the sun begin to rise as we take off, amazed at the sight of clouds below me. Even if we had landed, turned around and went back home, I would have been happy.

  We’re staying in a small, white house not far from the airport. We pull into the garage, and unload our baggage from the rental van. There’s a smell in the air that I can’t quite place, but I like it. It smells clean and kind of salty.

  We walk into the house, coming down a short hallway into a large living area. My feet skid to a halt and my suitcase drops from my hand, thudding loudly on the floor. Henry drops his own bag and sets Christine down, hurrying back to my side, a look of alarm on his face.

  “Kate, what’s wrong?”

  He follows my gaze. I’m staring out the back of the house, which is made up entirely of glass windows that go ceiling to floor. But it isn’t those extraordinary windows that have caused my reaction. It’s the sight beyond it.

  “Is that the ocean?” I ask, awed.

  “Well, yeah. Haven’t you ever seen it before?”

  “No.”

  “Take her out and let her see it up close, Henry,” Emma calls from another room.

  Henry smiles at me, taking my hand and leading me out through the glass door. There’s a deck attached to the back of the house, with three steps down to the sand.

  “Wait,” he says, kneeling down to roll my pant legs up and tug my shoes off. “You’ve gotta take your shoes off to get the full experience.” Standing on the deck I realize that what I had smelled a little in the garage was stronger out here, and accompanied by the rhythmic sounds of the waves hitting shore and birds squawking overhead.

  After Henry removes his own shoes, and rolls his pant legs up, we walk down to the shoreline, sand squishing between our toes, warm on the top, cool underneath. The blue water comes rushing up with a wave, washing over my feet. I squeal as the cold water hits me, leaping away from Henry and running up above the watermark. I turn back to see him standing in water up to his ankles. He’s grinning ear to ear. The ocean makes a wide, beautiful, writhing backdrop behind him.

  “Come on,” he calls.

  “It’s cold!” I exclaim.

  “Come on, wimp,” he taunts.

  The water is already back down the shore, his feet half-buried in the sand now. I walk back toward him, poised to run when it comes back. He grabs my hand and urges me closer to the water.

  “No!” I laugh, standing firm as he pulls me toward the sea. He laughs and scoops me up into his arms, walking purposefully as the water again rushes at us.

  “Put me down,” I cry, still laughing.

  Instead of answering, he pulls me closer to him, planting his mouth firmly on mine. All of my protests are forgotten in the warmth of his lips. Slowly he releases my legs, letting me slide down the length of his body as the water swirls around his ankles. My feet touch the water, and I start to pull away, but he holds me tight, deepening the kiss.

  It’s an amazing sensation, heat flooding through my body, icy coldness at my feet—ice colliding with fire. My eyes pop open in surprise and I see him watching me intently. That look alone is enough to douse the ice with the flames and I give my struggle up, rather enjoying myself even as the ocean recedes.

  After a few minutes, he lessens the strength of his embrace, but doesn’t relinquish his hold on me. The water is once again swirling about our ankles, and I look down, surprised.

  “It doesn’t feel cold anymore.”

  “Yeah, it just takes a few minutes for your body to get used to it.” He’s scrutinizing my expression, then he grins mischievously.

  “Wanna go in?” he asks.

  My own eyes widen in astonishment.

  “Now?”

  “Now,” he confirms.

  “But…we’re dressed.”

  “So?” he shrugs.

  “What about my arm?” I lift it, indicating the broken wrist which Dr. Jamison has removed the cast from, replacing it with a splint, which I can remove to shower, but not for any length of time—and probably not to play in the ocean.

  “When we get back, we’ll take it off and I’ll dry it for you.”

  I look at the water, then back at him with a smile.

  “Okay.”

  He seems slightly surprised at my answer, but doesn’t comment on it, just turns, keeping his arm around my shoulder as we walk to the point where the water has receded to.

  At the first wave I draw my breath in with the cold that comes up to my knees with the wave, and nearly fall over when the water begins to withdraw again, sand drawing back against my ankles and trying to suck my feet in. It’s powerful! Henry keeps a firm hold, laughing with me.

  We keep walking in until we’ve passed where the waves are breaking, Henry now holding my hand and showing me how to jump as the waves come, jumping over the crest so that it doesn’t push us back into shore. Then we’re in water up to my chest, jumping as the waves roll over us. Henry turns, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me close. I wrap my arms around his shoulders, Henry lifting me weightlessly in the water to hold me tight against him, keeping my head level with his.

  He kisses me again and I taste the salt and cold on his lips. I laugh as a big wave comes unheeded and pours over our heads, knocking us off our feet and separating us. Henry grabs my hand quickly as he regains his footing, pulling me back to him, smiling.

  “I’m glad you came,” he says.

  “Me, too,” I smile at him.

  “I love you,” he says. I stare at him, stunned. Before I can begin to fully process his words, another wave washes over our heads, pulling us apart. This time, Henry manages to keep hold of my hand.

  “Wanna try something fun?” he asks.

  “Sure,” I say hesitantly, my mind st
ill whirling from his words, wondering now if I heard him correctly. When I had dared dream of it, I had imagined that any proclamation of love between us would come with…I don’t know, candles and violins, I guess—not thrown out casually in the ocean. I had to have heard him wrong.

  “When the next big wave comes, lift up your feet and let it take you into shore.”

  I lift my eyebrows doubtfully, and he laughs at me.

  “It’ll be fun, I promise. I won’t let you go,” his words have a serious undertone, and I cock my head slightly. He turns to look toward the waves, and I follow his gaze.

  “Not this one,” he pronounces. “It needs to be just right.”

  “And how do you decide which one is ‘just right’?” I ask, looking at his profile.

  “You just know,” he says, turning his dark gaze back on me, underlying meaning in his words again, a meaning I think I understand but am afraid to hope is true. He looks back at the ocean, then grins at me.

  “This one,” he says. I look and see a wave larger than the others rolling toward us. I glance back at him, and he must see the panic on my face because he leans close, planting a salty kiss on my lips.

  “Trust me,” he urges lowly.

  I nod.

  We turn to face the shore.

  “When I say so, give a jump and let the water pick you up. Keep your feet up.”

  I swallow loudly, gripping his hands beneath the water. The water begins to get deeper as the wave rolls in.

  “Now!” he yells, and I jump. The water catches us and propels us to the top crest of the wave, shooting us inexorably forward.

  This feels like flying in the water, I think, laughing and getting a mouthful of sea. Henry is further ahead than me, but still he holds my hand. The wave launches us into the shore, our knees scraping along the bottom. Almost immediately it starts pulling us back out, and I feel a moments panic at the power of the pull. Henry has gained his feet and turns to grab my other arm above the splint, hauling me clumsily up.