Speak From The Heart: a small town romance

by L. B. Dunbar

  “Post-traumatic stress disorder,” Grace had said. Perhaps Jess suffers from it as well. He’s certainly stressed about his daughter and her reaction to me.

  “My wife and I were high school sweethearts,” he begins, letting out a long breath. “Deb wanted out of here, but she was three years younger than me. I went off to college, and we did that awkward long-distance thing, giving each other permission to do our own thing. She was more wayward than me, as I was dedicated to my studies. Eventually, I thought we’d just fizzle out. Instead, she came to me after her high school graduation. She couldn’t get into the University of Michigan where I intended to be a grad student, so she went to Eastern.”

  He sighs, falling back against the swing, causing it to rock and peers around me into the living room to check on his daughter. I turn as well, looking over my shoulder, and note she’s still fast asleep.

  “I married her.” My head quickly turns back to Jess, and he shrugs. “She wanted to hold off on children. It was fine with me. We weren’t . . . stable, and I was busy. Grad school. Internship with General Motors and then a job in R&D. I was working on the electric vehicle. Life was good, but my marriage wasn’t.”

  He exhales again and looks down at his fingers splayed over his thighs. “Then she got pregnant. She didn’t want the baby and told me she might not be mine.”

  Oh my God.

  “I wasn’t certain she was mine either, but I couldn’t turn away a pregnant woman who happened to be my wife. Thankfully, a simple blood test proved Katie belonged to me, but I hated Deb for what she’d done. She’d cheated on me, but I kept her close because she was my child’s mother.”

  He shakes his head and gives a bitter laugh.

  “Then one day when Katie was almost four, I came home and found my baby girl alone. No mother. No note. No clothes remaining in the closet. Gone.” His eyes drift back to his sleeping child, and I sit still, horrified at the thought of abandoning that sweet baby resting on my grandmother’s couch. “She wouldn’t talk. She could before, but she no longer did, and we’ve never known why. A psychologist, social workers, child neurologists, they all said the same thing. She was choosing not to speak. Selective mutism, they call it. The pieces are all there for her to vocalize. The only thing we don’t know is the reason she’s not.”

  His eyes meet mine, sad, somber and full of questions I can’t answer. The loss he’s experienced is on a level I’ll never comprehend.

  “The doctors told me she’ll talk again on her own timeline. We had a rough go of it at first, and eventually, I decided to come home to be near family.” He stops, and I can sense there’s more to his story, but I know this is as much as he’s going to give me tonight, or maybe ever.

  “I don’t know what it is about you. You look nothing like Debbie. Your hair is golden. Your eyes bright.” His eyes lower to my lips, and his voice drops as he says, “Your lips a rosy pink.”

  I fight the flutters in my belly over him noticing my features.

  “Are you still married?” I question.

  “Fuck no.” He laughs bitterly. “She went to Chicago, and that’s the only connection I can make between the two of you.” He pauses for a second, his brows creasing like what he just said isn’t exactly true, but he adds nothing further. “When she sent me divorce papers, I learned where she was. She relinquished her parental rights to Katie.”

  “She disowned her?” I gasp, astonished by the possibility. How do you give up a thing as sweet as that little girl?

  “I have sole custody, guardianship, and any other thing. She practically claimed Katie wasn’t her offspring, which is ridiculous because I witnessed Deb give birth to her.” He snorts, a crack of acidic laughter mixing with the sound. Two hands cover his face, scrubbing at his cheeks before he swipes downward, flinging his hands aside and then gripping the edge of the swing near his knees.

  “Is there something I said or did that caused her reaction earlier?”

  Jess shakes his head. “Besides simply leaving, who knows? I’m baffled by the whole thing.”

  His voice turns bitter like the first time I met him.

  “She’s grown attached to you for some reason.” He looks over at me. “Don’t know what it is about you, Emily Post of Chicago, but the idea of you leaving just freaked her out.” He shrugs, still uncertain himself and frustrated with the situation. The shrug does not downplay his feelings.

  “Are you upset that she might like me?”

  “Upset? Why would I be upset? My own child doesn’t speak to me. She hardly even smiles at me, but she offers one to you, a total stranger.” His hand waves in the air.

  Okay, he’s upset.

  “I’d like to help.” I don’t know why I offer. I don’t even know what I could do for them, but I feel a sense of purpose here I’ve never felt before. I reach out for his hand holding the swing edge, and his eyes lower to where my fingers cover the back of his fist. Immediately, I pull back, sensing my touch is not wanted. There’s no zing or zap, only a small crackle, like a fizzling spark. As I retract my hand, he reaches for it, slipping his palm against mine and entwining our fingers, bringing our grasped hands to his thigh. His hand is warm, and his eyes focus on our interwoven digits. His heavy breathing is the only sound besides the creak of the swing chains.

  “I think . . . what’s best is . . . if you stay away from us.”

  What?

  Instantly, I pull back at my hand, but he doesn’t relinquish it. He shifts to face me, and I stare at him. The pain in my chest might hurt less if he’d actually stabbed me.

  “I can’t have her growing attached to you, especially given you aren’t staying. She doesn’t need another wayward woman in her life.”

  “Wayward?” I snap.

  “I mean . . . someone who won’t stick.”

  I tug again at my fingers, but he doesn’t release them. He holds on tighter, in direct opposition of what he’s saying.

  “Fine,” I mutter, easily acquiescing as he’s her father, and I’m assuming he knows best for her. Still, it hurts that he won’t let me help and doesn’t want me near his child, who I’ve just as quickly grown as fond of as she seems to be attached to me. I unfold my leg, removing my foot from under my knee, and attempt to stand even though he’s still gripping my hand like a lifeline. With a huff, I jut my hip to the side as I stare down at him. His eyes remain where our fingers meld together.

  “I’m not trying to be cruel.” Slowly, he lifts his head, those denim eyes as dark as the sky just before dawn blooms. The pain in them nearly splits me in two, but I’m equally raw. Another hand joins the first, wrapping around our collective fingers as if begging me to understand.

  It isn’t you, Emily, it’s me.

  “I understand,” I retort even though I don’t. I didn’t do anything wrong, so why do I feel guilty? “You’re welcome to sleep on my porch or take the couch opposite Katie. Do what you wish. I’m going to my room.”

  And I do just that, feeling worn out and unwelcome and totally worthless.

  Rule 6

  Whispers in the library can still be heard.

  [Jess]

  I’m a little unfocused as I stand in the children’s department of the public library. Once the home of a founding family to Elk Lake City, it was willed to the town for use as a library and sits on top of a hill with a perfect view of Lake Michigan. The enclosed front porch is the fiction section, and I’d much prefer to take a seat in one of the rocking chairs than stand here next to the shelves, holding myself up.

  I’ve been puzzled over the function of Mrs. Parrish’s radio—how to restore it so it makes music again. Emily mentioned its malfunction when she brought it in last Friday, and I want to make it sing once more. For Elizabeth, I tell myself. The old lady deserves to hear her big band sounds once more on that thing. But I’m stumped over the radio, just as I’m stumped over her granddaughter.

  I can’t seem to get Emily off my mind despite the fact I’d told her to stay away from us. She h
asn’t called about the kitchen sink nor has she been in to discuss the radio’s progress. Of course, I assume she has bigger things to worry about, like her nana’s health. I can’t help but wonder if Elizabeth has Alzheimer’s. Since my mother is a nurse, I’d asked her about it.

  “How would you know if someone had Alzheimer’s?”

  “Usually, there are early warning signs like memory loss or misplacing items and issues in problem-solving.” My mother’s head tilted. “Why, baby?”

  I’m thirty-six, and she still calls me baby.

  “I think Mrs. Parrish has it.”

  My mother looked at me quizzically, knowing I’m no doctor.

  “Her granddaughter’s in town, taking care of her.” Is that what Emily’s doing? Is she taking care of her or taking care of things? Cleaning house with plans to move Elizabeth out?

  “I heard that,” my mother said. A slow smile curls her lips as though she knows a secret. It’s a small town, and news travels fast. A new resident of sorts would be the kind of thing people took notice of, and it’s hard to miss Emily.

  And Emily’s been avoiding me for days.

  Well, you asked her to stay away, I remind myself. My head taps against the bookshelf at my back, and that’s when I see her slipping down to the nonfiction section on the lower level. I tell Katie I’ll be right back, knowing she’s safe enough with the librarian reading aloud for summer story hour. For some reason, I look over my shoulder, making sure no one sees me as I take the steps two at a time, but I can’t find Emily.

  What the heck? The shelves are all chest height, so it’s easy enough to see anyone standing down here. I walk past one aisle and then another until my view is filled with a firm, fine ass in the air.

  Hmm . . .

  And then, shit. I shouldn’t be checking out the long legs extending out from her loose running shorts or the way her shirt hangs off her and reveals her stomach as the material slips forward in her odd position.

  “Whatcha doing?” I ask, and Emily whips her head upward, narrowly missing the shelf. A scattering of pamphlets litters the floor, but Emily holds a book in her hand.

  Can she go anywhere without making a mess?

  “Jess, have you ever considered some sort of assistive communication for Katie?”

  What the hell? Without waiting for an answer, she plows on.

  “This could be it,” she states excitedly and looks down at the book like she’s found the answer to all the unanswerable questions. “Jess, this is it.”

  My heart leaps—as well as another body part—with the enthusiastic way she says my name. The smile on her rosy cheeks also does something to me, and I’m quickly at full mast.

  I need to get laid, I groan internally, knowing the woman before me has unwittingly provided several nights of fantasy.

  But then I consider what she asked. Have I considered some assistive communication for my daughter?

  “Jess, this could be the answer,” she repeats, holding up the book so I can read the title.

  Sign Language: The Art of Communication.

  What the fuck?

  “No,” I blurt. “I don’t know sign language, and my daughter doesn’t need it,” I say, narrowing my eyes at her, but her enthusiasm does not wane under my glare. While I’m an educated man, and I understand the reasoning behind such suggestions, I am not subjecting my child to something that will make her feel as if she’s different. She didn’t do this to herself. Something was done to her. My sister and mother have both recommended devices and programs, but I’m not doing it. They’ve told me my reasoning is illogical, but that’s my stance. My daughter will speak to me on her own terms when she’s ready, just like the doctors said.

  “You could learn. Katie, too. Then you could communicate with one another. You could speak to each other.” The brightness of her faces turns up like she’s giving me the greatest gift with this suggestion. Only, I don’t appreciate it. At all.

  “I do communicate with my daughter.” I talk to her every day. Every. Damn. Day. With nothing in return. We speak to one another in other ways. A learned language between us. Of course, some days I get my signals crossed, and I mess up. She grows frustrated, but so do I. I don’t know what she wants. I don’t know what she isn’t saying.

  I glance away from the book, but Emily does not give up. She steps closer to me.

  “Jess, I’m not saying you don’t communicate to her, but don’t you want to communicate with her?”

  “I do talk to her,” I snap, turning my head back to her.

  “I know, but don’t you want her to respond? Answer back to you?”

  What. The. Fuck. Of course, I want her to answer me! I grip the book she holds out, attempting to tug it from her. I want to throw it across the room and tell her to mind her own damn business. Katie and I are doing fine as we are. We’re doing the best I can do.

  “Just stay out of our business,” I growl.

  “I’m only in your business because I care about Katie. And you.” While the intention was well-meaning, I don’t read anything deeper into those words. Emily holds tightly onto the book, and we struggle for control of it. She grips the edges near the bottom while I pull at the top. Back and forth, we battle like a tug-of-war.

  “You’re so pushy,” I snap.

  “You’re so stubborn,” she says.

  “Don’t act like you know anything about us,” I stammer, still tugging at the book.

  “I’m not trying to act any way, but this could help.”

  “We don’t need help.” My voice rises, the tone deepening.

  “Everyone needs help.”

  “Oh, yeah? Like you and your nana?”

  She gasps. I’ve gone too far, just like her. She hasn’t released the book yet, but I imagine she’s the one who’d like to claim it—and knock me over the head with it.

  “If you’d only be open-minded,” she groans, her voice dropping as we continue to fight for the book.

  “I stay closed up for a reason.”

  Her eyes leap to mine. I can’t believe I’ve said what I said. She stills as if she’s finished with our skirmish, but she’s pissed me off. I yank at the book with more force than necessary, and it easily comes free. She had to have relinquished it because I stumble back. I slam the book on the bookshelf to my side and step closer to her, ready to lay into her.

  I don’t need her advice.

  I don’t want her help.

  I don’t need anything from her.

  But my mouth has a different plan, and my hands have a will of their own because they reach for her jaw and then my lips crash against her mouth.

  She stiffens under me as I suck at her, willing her to fight back. She responds quickly, opening for me. My tongue dives forward, sweeping against hers with the force of my fury, which abruptly sputters and wanes with the flutter of her tongue against mine. I drink her in like I’m a thirsty man, and I am. I’m dehydrated to the point my heart is shriveling within my chest. I’m desperate for her kind of sweetness. That which is more powerful than any alcohol. That which is more thirst-quenching than sex. Her lips against mine is the most potent drink I’ve ever had, and I’ll never get enough.

  Suddenly, I realize what I’m doing.

  I’m kissing the temporary girl. The woman who won’t stay. The one only passing through town.

  Abruptly, I pull back, and Emily follows, her lips still puckered. Her eyes closed.

  “Why’d you do that?” she asks as her lids slowly open and reality hits. Her bright eyes widen. “Why’d you kiss me?”

  She rolls her lips inward like she wants my kiss off her lips.

  “I did it to shut you up,” I counter, offering a small lie to cover the larger truth. Because from the moment I saw you, I’ve wanted to kiss you. Because those rosy lips look like candy, and I wanted a taste. Because just like my daughter, I’m drawn to you when I shouldn’t be.

  She huffs, her irritation returning us to some semblance of normalcy. I don’t think she
cares much for me, and I’ve certainly tried to give her the impression I’m not impressed with her. But I am.

  She might not be wrong about the sign language stuff, but I’m not willing to admit it to her.

  Katie is my daughter. I know what’s best.

  “Well, that was—”

  “Not supposed to happen,” I interject, cutting her off before she starts to catalog the kiss. I spin for the staircase, ready to grab Katie and get us out of here.

  I don’t need Emily’s help.

  I don’t need her lips.

  And I don’t need her, period.

  My thoughts match the angry cadence of my feet up the ancient steps until I’m waylaid at the top by Mrs. Drummond, an old schoolteacher and current volunteer librarian. She’s droning on about my sister, the one who teaches at the high school, but I can’t seem to step away. Before I can stop the ceaseless chatter, Emily breaches the top step, and Katie spots her.

  Shit.

  “Mrs. Drummond, I really need to—”

  “And then your sister . . .” She continues prattling on, not paying any mind to my interjection despite the fact that I’m clearly not listening to her. I’m watching once again as my daughter easily goes to Emily, taking her hand and practically dragging her to a child’s reading table. Emily’s eyes seek mine as she follows my daughter. Because I can’t get away from Mrs. Drummond to tell her not to, Emily folds herself into the small chair where Katie directed her, not giving a care that she doesn’t fit. Her knees come to her chest but don’t cover the swell of her breasts. The image reminds me of how they were pressed up against me downstairs. She’s wearing a highlighter pink racer-back shirt with a matching sports bra underneath, and I recall the low-cut red one and the original black one. Today, pink is my new favorite color.

  “Mrs. Drummond, if you’ll excuse me.” I walk off after gently pressing a hand to her shoulder, not knowing if she listened to me dismiss myself any more than I listened to her telling me about my sister.