Heart on a Chain

by Cindy C. Bennett

  I see the way Emma looks at Henry, concern etched in her face.

  “Henry,” my voice is still scratchy, but he hurries to my side when I call. “Go home, Henry. Take a real shower and shave,” I reach up, no small accomplishment, rubbing my hand on his bristly cheek. “Get a good night’s sleep in your own bed. I’m not going anywhere; I’ll still be here in the morning.”

  Emma joins her voice with mine.

  “Go, honey, I’ll stay here.”

  He looks about to protest, but then he nods his head wearily. I can see the toll it’s taking on him to be here all the time. He agrees to go shower and shave, but insists on coming back later this evening.

  A week later I’m going stir crazy. I want some privacy from all of the doctors, nurses and therapists that are constantly in the room. I’m also afraid, because I can’t go home.

  I haven’t asked yet about my mother. Neither she, nor my father, has been in to see me. It’s gotten to the point where the not knowing is worse than asking, so when Henry and I have a rare few minutes alone together, in the deep of the night while he sits in his chair and tries to get comfortable next to my bed, I ask.

  “What happened to my mother, Henry?”

  He stills where he’s sitting, looking down at his feet. Finally he exhales a loud breath and looks up at me.

  “I’m not sure it’s my place to tell you, Kate.”

  I laugh scornfully.

  “You’re the only one who should tell me, Henry.”

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “Are you mad at me, Henry? For not telling you, I mean.”

  He looks at me, confused.

  “For not telling me what?”

  “About…her. You know, for not telling you what was going on at home.”

  He comes over and takes my hand, pressing it to his mouth.

  “Of course not.”

  I look up at him. “Not at all?” I ask.

  He shrugs and grins sadly.

  “Maybe a little, because I could have helped, maybe. Because I hoped you trusted me enough to know that you could tell me anything.”

  “I do trust you, Henry, more than anyone. It wasn’t that at all.”

  “What was it then?”

  “I couldn’t have stood it if you pitied me. I knew you did a little anyway, because of the kids at school. But if you had known about her, I would always have wondered if you really loved me, or if it was sympathy.”

  “How could you wonder that? Don’t you know how much I love you?”

  I smile at him. “It’s a little hard to fathom, because if there’s one thing I know, it’s that I don’t deserve you.”

  “Don’t say that,” he looks pained at my words. “I don’t deserve you, especially now.” The last two words are muttered low.

  “What do you mean, ‘especially now’?”

  His face is anguished as he squeezes my hand.

  “This is my fault,” he says, his hand sweeping the length of my body, which has been mostly freed from its various tubes and straps.

  “What? Henry, by what stretch of the imagination do you think this is your fault?”

  “Because I took you home. I had the feeling that I needed to come in with you, but I let you talk me out of it. If I had come in…” he breaks off, tormented.

  “Henry, look at me,” I say, waiting until his eyes meet mine. “If it hadn’t been then, it would have been later, after you left. Or the next day. Or the next week. It’s not your fault, and for the first time in my life, I know it wasn’t mine either. I won’t let you blame yourself. Besides that, it’s over. I won’t ever let her touch me again.”

  He looks away at my words.

  “Thanksgiving? Was that her?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  “And all the other times, when you had black eyes, or other bruises?”

  “Yes.”

  “I should have known, should have guessed,” he says miserably.

  “No you shouldn’t have, Henry. I was good at the hiding game.”

  He doesn’t look convinced by this.

  “Is she in jail?” I ask.

  He doesn’t answer, holding his breath with dread and I know that she isn’t.

  “If she’s not in jail where she should be, if she’s still at home, I’ll have to find somewhere else to go. I can’t go back there.”

  If possible, Henry looks even worse than before.

  “What is it, Henry?” I’m starting to feel afraid now at the look on his face. “Is she at home?”

  Henry shakes his head, and I feel a little relief. But he still looks miserable. Now I’m afraid and confused.

  “Henry?”

  “Kate, there’s something you need to know. About your mom.” He blows out a resigned breath. “Kate, she’s dead.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  On that day I become a murderer. She died as a result of hitting her head against the tile floor, a rare but fatal injury separating her brain from her brain stem. She’d died immediately—there would have been no saving her even if anyone had been there to try.

  It explains one thing I’ve been wondering about; why my father hasn’t been to the hospital to see me. He must hate me, I think.

  The police want to speak to me as soon as the doctors feel I’m able; the only thing keeping them away thus far is the fact that I’ve been unaware of her death.

  With the knowledge of her death I become despondent, numb, and they bring in a psychiatrist to speak to me, the only condition being that a police psychologist is allowed to listen in.

  I really don’t want to talk about it, though. I tell the police everything I remember, but I don’t want to share with a psychiatrist. I don’t want to share with anyone. Henry tries to get me to talk about it, but I can’t even look at him. I can’t imagine him wanting to be with a murderer; how will he ever look at me the same again?

  I’m told there will be an investigation—there always is when a violent death occurs—but it will wait until I’m out of the hospital and feeling stronger.

  I continue to improve physically, eventually getting to the point where I’m no longer attached to any machines nor have any tubes in me. I also continue my physical therapy until I can walk mostly unaided. The doctors decide I can go home and continue my therapy on an outpatient basis. This brings up a new fear—where will I go when I do leave the hospital?

  Henry, Emma and even Dr. Jamison all try to convince me to come to their house, but I adamantly refuse. I will not do that to them, bring a murderer into their house, with them, and with Claire, and Amy and Christine.

  The day before I’m to be released, my father comes to see me. I’ve just finished physical therapy and I’m tired, ready to sleep for a while when he walks in. Henry is sitting in his chair, working on homework that Emma has started to bring to him from school. They’re being more lenient with me, waiting until I’m released before they send a teacher with my own homework.

  Henry looks up as he walks in, and stands.

  “Hey, Mr. Mosley,” he says to my father.

  “Hi Henry,” my father returns. I look between them, stunned. When did they meet?

  Henry walks over to me, leaning down to give me a kiss.

  “I’m going to go to the cafeteria to get a drink. I’ll be back in a little bit,” he tells me. I grab his hand, imploring him with my eyes to stay. He just squeezes my hand, trying to reassure me, before turning to leave. I watch him go, panicked at being left alone with this man who is my father, but who’s more of a stranger to me than even the doctor or nurses who care for me.

  He stands in the doorway, seeming as reluctant as me to see Henry go. He’s wearing a baseball cap which he removes, twisting it in his hands. I can see he’s made some effort to look presentable, wearing a button down shirt that’s wrinkled but clean, and freshly shaven—that given away by the piece of tissue that’s still stuck to his chin.

  I study him, and realize that some time in the last ten years he has aged. I
remember him as young and handsome, but now he looks old and ragged, gray streaking his hair, wrinkles on his face, and heavy bags under his eyes.

  He clears his throat and takes a single step closer.

  “You look better,” he says.

  “You’ve been here before?” I ask, surprised.

  “I came at first, but then it didn’t seem that you would wake up and so…” he trails off, lifting a hand as if that explains his absence.

  “I’ve been awake for almost two weeks now.”

  He looks away, guiltily.

  “I know,” he says, “Paul—Dr. Jamison—came by on the day you did to let me know. He offered me a ride, but I didn’t want to face you.”

  Guilt nearly smothers me at his words. Of course he didn’t want to face me; I killed his wife. I nod, tears pricking my eyes as I look away.

  He takes another step closer.

  “The thing is…I failed you, Kate.”

  I look at him, staggered by his words. He failed me?

  He shakes his head, stepping closer and I can see he’s struggling with his own emotions.

  “I could stand here and say I didn’t know, but…” he releases a heavy breath, and even from where I lay I can smell the alcohol; not strong, but there nonetheless. “I think I did. I guess I know I did. I just didn’t know how bad it was.” He glances at me to gauge my reaction. I’m open-mouthed. Is he saying he knew of the abuse? That he’s known all along?

  “I didn’t know she would hurt you so badly.” A sob escapes him, which he sucks back in. “I swear I didn’t know that.”

  “I killed her,” I tell him, wanting him to hate me.

  “I know. It was self defense though, right? I think that she wouldn’t have stopped. If you had seen yourself—” he breaks off at some memory that crumples his face. I turn away, not sure how to deal with this stranger who suddenly is giving off some mixed-signal paternal indications.

  “They told me there might be a trial,” I tell him. He nods, moving another step closer so that he’s only a few feet from my bed now.

  “They said you can come home tomorrow,” he abruptly changes the subject.

  “Can I?” I ask, and he looks questioningly at me. “Can I come home, I mean?”

  Realization clears his face, then his mouth turns down.

  “Of course you can. It’s your home. Where else would you go?”

  I think of Henry’s home, of the life and laughter and light that is there, of the love and care and comfort I know I’ll get if I go there. I think of my own house, how dark and dismal and lifeless it is in comparison.

  That’s where I belong.

  “Will you come pick me up, or…?”

  He looks away, guilty again.

  “I came in tonight to sign the papers. They said you could ride home with Henry.”

  I feel a catch in my throat. So, he hasn’t come to see me after all, has just come to sign the papers pushing responsibility for me off on someone else. Things are back to normal, at least where he’s concerned.

  Henry comes back then, and the tension leaves the room at his appearance. He’s carrying his drink, eyes on me to determine if I’m upset or not. I am, but try not to show it.

  “So, I guess I’ll go now,” my father says. “You’ll bring her home tomorrow then, Henry?”

  “Of course. I’ll stay with her until you get home. I think my mom was planning to bring some dinner over.”

  My father nods.

  “That’s nice of her. Tell her I said thanks.”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Mosley.” Henry, ever the gentleman is being polite, but I know him well enough that I can hear the tension below the surface.

  “Well, goodbye then,” he says to Henry, looks toward me with a nod, and leaves. We both watch him go.

  “You didn’t tell me he had been here,” I say to him.

  “You didn’t ask.” I throw a condemning look his way and he shrugs, sipping his drink and setting it on the table next to my bed. He sits on the edge of my bed, stroking up and down my arm with his hand.

  “I thought it might upset you. I wasn’t sure if he was part of the…” he grimaces painfully, then forces the word between his teeth, “…abuse that you were being subjected to.”

  I gasp. “You thought he was abusing me also, but you left me here alone with him?”

  “No, I don’t think that; not anymore. But to be honest, I was outside your room the whole time, watching.” He smirks with charming guilt. “I asked one of the candy stripers to go grab me a drink.”

  I smile, then recall his words.

  “Why don’t you think that anymore? That he was part of it?” I ask.

  “Because I watched his face when he was here. He cried a lot and seemed really guilty, but not the kind of guilt that someone who was capable of this would have.” He glances up at me. “Am I wrong?”

  “No.”

  “But he didn’t stop it from happening either, did he?” His voice is low with controlled fury.

  “No.” My eyes fill with tears again and I wipe them angrily away.

  “I would have. I would have found a way to stop it.” His eyes are boring into mine, intent clear as he speaks. “If I had known….” He looks down. “I should have known. I should have seen—”

  “Don’t,” I tell him stiffly. “Don’t do that. Don’t make this something for you to be guilty about. That is not what it is.”

  He looks back up at me, torment in every line of his face.

  “I can’t stop thinking of it. I can’t stop imagining what it must have been like for you, every day. All that time I thought you didn’t want me to come to your house because you were embarrassed by it, or by your parents, or even by me. It never crossed my mind that it could be this.”

  “Henry…” the tears are running down my cheeks now.

  “When you came to my house on Thanksgiving…I thought…someone else…but I didn’t think it was your mother.” His head drops next to my arm on the bed.

  “Henry,” I pull his face up. “Of course you couldn’t imagine it. Look at your mother.” Guilt flashes through his eyes again.

  “No!” I tell him. “You are not going to feel guilty for having a great family.”

  “But I brought you home, waved them in front of your face when all the time you had to go home to face…that.”

  “Yes, and thank you for doing that,” I say sincerely. His eyes widen a little at my words. “I didn’t know there could be a family like that. You brought me in and showed me how it is supposed to be. And your whole family…they showed me love and kindness, whether I deserved it or not. I love them, Henry.”

  He pulls me into his arms, his body trembling with the force of his emotions as he processes my words and tries to let go of his own guilt.

  “Are you going to be okay going back there?” he asks into my hair. “Because you know you can and should come to my house.”

  I hug him tighter, not wanting him to see the lie on my face.

  “It’s going to be fine. I want to go home.” I force my voice to sound sure.

  He releases a loud breath, giving in.

  “Okay, but plan on me being there all the time, until you’re sick of me.”

  I push back to smile at him.

  “That isn’t going to happen. No way would I ever be sick of you.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Henry takes me home in the morning. I’m glad there isn’t anyone there but him and me. I expected it to be changed somehow, to look different. But it’s the same; the couch and small TV in the same place, the wood floor still scuffed and marred, the kitchen still small and plain. The only physical difference is the missing lamp.

  The unseen difference is where I falter. I look at the wall where I had fallen with the first swing of the bat, and imagine I can see the outline of my body there; the place on the wood floor where I had dragged myself forward, imagining I can still see a faint outline of the blood streaks I had dragged with me; the tile floor in
the kitchen where I imagine I can see the circular outline of her head, the place that had taken her life by the force of my hand.

  I shudder and turn my face into Henry’s shoulder, his arms coming up to surround me with safety. I take a deep breath, forcing strength into my mind. I know that if I give him the slightest provocation he’ll sweep me up into his arms and carry me to his home. I ache with longing at the thought, then mentally shake my head to clear it of that yearning.

  Emma soon comes with Christine to help me settle in. The other girls are in school but she’s promised to bring them to see me later. I want to see them, but I’m ashamed to have them see my house; it’s such a depressing place compared to their beautiful, bright home. I think that maybe it’s good; maybe they should see me in my real world so they can understand how much I don’t belong in theirs.

  I sit on the couch—on the opposite end from her end—curled into Henry who sits next to me. It has exhausted me, the trip home, and soon I’m asleep.

  When I awake, I’m lying on the couch with a pillow under my head and a blanket covering me. I can hear Henry in the kitchen, talking with Emma, the sounds of food preparation underway. Then I hear my father’s voice, and stiffen.

  “That seems like a fine way to go. Medical school has to be pretty pricey, huh?” I hear him question.

  “Yeah, but I’ve already got some scholarships lined up to help with that,” Henry says.

  “You gonna be going to school around here?”

  “Henry has applied to and been accepted at several schools,” Emma announces proudly. “He’s always wanted to go away to school, so I imagine I won’t have him around much longer.”

  I can almost hear the shrug in Henry’s voice as he responds.

  “I might hang around awhile, go to school here.”

  “Oh?” I can hear the surprise in Emma’s voice. “I didn’t know you had even been thinking of that. Oh, excuse me,” she says as her cell phone rings. There’s silence in the kitchen with the exception of her responses.