Heart on a Chain

  “No, it’s fine,” I tell him. I try to smile, but know it doesn’t look true when his expression darkens.

  “I’ll make them go away,” he says, gruffly.

  “No, let them stay.” I keep him from walking away again. “Please. For me.”

  He looks at me oddly, and I can tell he wants to refuse, but he doesn’t, nodding instead. The guys all come over, shaking his hand and smacking him on the back, each of them saying “hi” to me and telling me I look “good.” The girls also say hello, but still are a little unsure of me, hanging back in their own circle.

  Only Jessica stands away, by herself. She looks oddly uncomfortable, glancing at me then back at the ground. She seems even more anxious than me.

  Huh.

  I decide I’ll just stay near Henry, secure in the knowledge that he won’t let anything bad happen to me. The others decide they need a picture of just the guys, which leaves me standing to the side while Amber takes pictures. I feel exposed and vulnerable.

  Jessica takes the opportunity to walk up to me, and instinctively I cower away. She sees this and her face falls in dismay.

  “Can I talk to you?” she asks me, hesitantly.

  I look at her, then back to where Henry stands with his friends, laughing as they goof around for the camera. There isn’t really any way to call him to me without seeming like a complete coward. I consider calling him anyway.

  “I promise I’m not going to do anything.” She steps a few paces back from me. “Look, I’ll stand here. I just want to tell you something, and then I’ll go. I shouldn’t have even come, but Ian wanted to stop, and I didn’t know it was where you and Henry would be.”

  I keep silent, distrust running rampant through my veins.

  “I know you have no reason to believe me,” she says. “And I don’t blame you for hating me. I have done some really awful things,” her voice hitches and she looks away, guilt suffusing her face. “Really awful,” she reiterates. “And I wish I could take them back, but I can’t. I am really sorry, but that doesn’t change those things, does it?” She glances at me, but I don’t think she’s expecting an answer, and I probably couldn’t have given her one anyway, I’m so stunned by this odd speech.

  “I’ve been so horrible to you. We were friends once, remember?” Again she glances at me, not wanting an answer. “I was stupid and petty and jealous and cruel and I have no excuse. I heard about, you know,” she looks away, seeming embarrassed, “your mom and all, and all I could think was that you needed a friend. And when you needed a friend I was there making sure you didn’t have one, that you didn’t have anyone you could count on. And I’m really, really sorry, more sorry than you’ll ever know. I wish I could make it up to you. I feel really bad, but I guess probably not as bad as I’ve made you feel for all these years.”

  I can’t speak, wondering what’s behind this amazing confession. I’m waiting for the punch line—or even just the punch—or the prank to cause me humiliation, or whatever it is she has planned.

  “I just wanted you to know I’m sorry.” She glances at me again. “Tell Ian that I went home, okay?” She turns to walk away. I look back at Henry, and then decide to take a chance.

  “Jessica,” I call. She stops and turns back toward me.

  “Don’t go,” I say.

  “What?”

  “Stay.” I shrug then wave vaguely toward the fire. “We’re going to make s’mores.”

  She looks at me questioningly, taking a hesitant step back toward me. “Are you sure?”

  I’m not, but I nod anyway.

  “Have you ever had a s’more?”

  She smiles waveringly.

  “Yeah, they’re pretty good.”

  “They’re really good. You should stay.”

  She walks back over toward me, stopping a few feet away.

  “This is your night,” she says. “I don’t want to ruin it.”

  “So don’t,” I tell her. “Stay and have a s’more.”

  “Okay,” she agrees with a small smile. I smile back, my uncertain smile matching hers. It would seem we have reached some kind of a truce, at least for tonight. I can live with that.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  One week before graduation is my trial date. I borrow one of Claire’s dresses, a modest, unassuming, light blue one. It’s nicer than anything I own—even though the few clothes I have in my closet seem to be multiplying, somehow producing clothes nicer than my second-hand ones. Claire claims she was just going to throw them out anyway.

  I’m a mass of nerves, hoping I won’t have to go to prison for something that had been completely unintentional, at the same time believing absolutely that I deserve to be punished for causing the death of my mother.

  My father has taken the day off work, and has managed to be sober and clear-eyed as he drives me to the courthouse. He’s very quiet, and I know he’s as nervous as I am, though I don’t know why. It won’t really change his life much if I’m home or in prison.

  Rufus meets me at the courthouse, calm and soothing, a complete contrast to my previous courthouse experience with my first lawyer. We walk inside, and I see Henry waiting for me, sitting on the row behind where I will sit, with Emma and Dr. Jamison next to him. He reaches out as I pass and touches my hand, which nearly undoes me. I want to step into the protective shelter of his arms and hide there.

  I move into my seat at the defense table, glancing back at him. Behind him I watch as Jessica comes in and sits on the back row. She smiles at me tentatively. I’m still unsure of her motives, not sure if she’s here for support or to gloat.

  Since the night of the prom, she’s been marginally friendly to me at school. It’s a bit awkward between us from all of the previous animosity. I don’t think either of us are quite sure what to do with this truce.

  The judge is announced and the woman walks in who is to decide my future. She’s older, professional, face unreadable. She doesn’t even glance my way as she takes her seat. The court is called to order, with my case announced and the prosecutor raises a hand, making an announcement I hadn’t expected.

  “Your honor, in light of the evidence and sworn testimony provided us by the defense, and the reports filed by police officers on the scene as well as the ME’s report, the people move to dismiss the case against Kathryn Mosley at this time.”

  “I assume the defense has no quarrel with this?” the judge asks, sounding bored, as if she had expected no less. She peers at Rufus over the tops of her glasses.

  “No, your Honor.” He doesn’t sound as stunned as I feel, but I can hear the relief in his voice nonetheless.

  “Good.” She removes her glasses and turns her gaze on me. “Ms. Mosley, I have reviewed your case, and I see no fault here on your part. I’m sorry for the trauma you have suffered. The system failed you; you should have been better protected. I believe the state owes you an apology for that.

  “Case dismissed.” Her tone has remained even throughout this speech, so when she pounds the gavel, I look at Rufus, confused. He’s smiling at the prosecutor, shaking her hand and thanking her. I look back at Henry who’s sitting behind me. He looks hesitantly hopeful. The judge rises along with the rest of us and leaves the room. This time she does look at me, and a slight smile lifts her mouth.

  I look back at Rufus.

  “What just happened?” I ask.

  “I guess you could say we won. The charges have all been dropped.”

  “Dropped? Forever?”

  He laughs. “Forever. They read your statement, saw the pictures. They knew they had no case; there was obviously never any malicious intent, only self-defense. I would have been surprised had they pursued this any further.”

  “So that’s it?”

  “That’s it. You walk out of here free and clear. You don’t ever have to think about this again.” He shifts uncomfortably as he realizes how his words sound; how do you tell someone to forget their mother is dead by their hand, whether intentional or not? “I mean,
as far as legally you don’t have to worry about it anymore.”

  Henry understands before I do. He gives a whoop and scoops me up, right over the wooden divider, into his arms and twirls me around. He plants a kiss on my stunned lips, and then sets me down for Emma and Dr. Jamison to hug. My father walks over, in his slightly crumpled suit and stands before me, shifting nervously. I’m not sure what to say to him. We haven’t spoken at all about what happened, and I’m not sure how he feels about the fact that his wife is dead because of me—and that I’ve just been given a get-out-of-jail-free card.

  His eyes shift anxiously between all of us, including Rufus, who Henry belatedly introduces to my father. They shake hands, my father uncomfortable with his strange role here; he’d been required to be here because I’d been seventeen at the time of the incident, but now he’s no longer necessary.

  He rubs my arm awkwardly.

  “See you at home, then,” he says, following the rub with a pat.

  Abruptly I lean forward and hug him. He’s surprised by the unexpected motion, his arms coming up spontaneously to touch me at the waist.

  “Thanks, Dad, for being here.” I want him to know I appreciate his effort.

  He nods, then turns to leave, assuming, I guess, that I’ll get a ride home from the Jamison’s. Paul, Emma and Rufus follow him, Emma tucking her arm through my father’s. I watch him walk out and my eyes land on Jessica, still sitting at the back of the room.

  “I’ll be right back,” I tell Henry.

  I make my way to the rear of the room, Jessica standing as I come near.

  “I… I hope it’s okay that I’m here,” she says.

  “Why are you here?” I ask, genuinely curious.

  She looks down, then beyond me, searching for words. Finally her eyes come back to mine.

  “A lot of guilt, I guess.”

  I’m surprised at her honest answer.

  “I mean, I can’t stop thinking about everything…especially earlier this year, when I…in the bathroom at school…” my mind flashes back to her cornering me and slamming my head against the floor. I could have told her that her beating was amateurish at best compared to what I’d been reared on, but it suddenly seems unimportant.

  She shudders at the memory. “I can’t help it; all this time you were suffering so much, and I added to it.”

  “Jessica,” I touch her arm, and she wilts miserably under the contact. “It’s over now. It can’t be undone. I forgive you.”

  “How can you?” she wails wretchedly. “How can I?”

  “You can because I can,” I tell her. Suddenly I have a thought. “I’ll make a deal with you.”

  She looks at me curiously.

  “I might need a favor someday soon, and I will need a…friend…I can ask it of.”

  “Anything,” the word is a rush of breath. “I’ll do anything so that you can know how sorry I am.”

  I nod. “Thanks for coming.”

  She shrugs.

  “I wanted to. Besides, everyone at school is waiting to hear. I told them I would be coming so I’m sort of the designated spokesman.”

  I feel that old rush of sickness flow through me; the wolves again waiting to hear of the lamb’s humiliation. My feelings must have shown on my face, because she rushes to correct me.

  “Because they care. They will be happy for you.”

  “Happy.” The word is bitter on my tongue. Happy that I have gotten off for something I had done?

  Henry comes up behind me then, sliding his arms around my waist from behind.

  “Everything okay?” he asks, and I can hear in his tone that he knows at least a little something of Jessica’s history concerning me.

  “Yes,” I say, smiling up at him.

  “I guess I should go now,” she says. I look back at her, sliding my hands along his arms without conscious thought, but with absolute awareness.

  “Thanks, Jessica.”

  She smiles at me, turning to go. Henry turns me in his arms, and my hands slide up around his neck.

  “What was that all about?” he asks.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say, leaning into him as the day’s events catch up to me and I feel the enormity of what has happened wash over me. “I need to get out of here.”

  We walk out into the hallway where his parents stand talking with Rufus and something about it strikes me as odd, though I can’t quite put my finger on just what it is. Henry waves to them, and they come my way, followed by Rufus.

  “Thanks,” I tell him, “for everything.”

  “I hope I never have to see you again, at least professionally,” he says. “See you later, Paul, Emma.”

  “Thanks, Rufus,” Dr. Jamison says, patting him on the shoulder as one might a friend.

  “Why don’t you come by the house later for dinner?” Emma asks, turning to me. “Bring your father, too.”

  “Thanks, Emma. I’ll have to check with him, see if he’s available,” the response is automatic, distracted as I watch my lawyer leave the room, then turn back to the Jamison’s.

  “Do you know him?” I ask Dr. Jamison.

  “Yes, he brings his dogs to me.” But even as he says it, he’s shifting nervously.

  “Coincidence, huh?” I ask suspiciously.

  Dr. Jamison shrugs. “He’s an old friend. He owed me a favor, Kate. It didn’t cost anything.”

  I look at Emma, her face betraying her knowledge, then at Henry.

  “Did you know?”

  He nods warily, watching for the explosion he seems to fear will come, then qualifies, holding his hands up towards me. “Not at first. Only after he’d come to your house that day, and I went home to tell my parents about it.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because you have a problem accepting help, and I knew you’d be mad.”

  I want to argue, but know he’s right. So I look at Dr. Jamison instead.

  “It really didn’t cost anything?”

  “No.” His look is open and honest. “Lawyers have to do a certain amount of pro bono work each year. So I called him.” He looks at Henry. “Henry told me about your first lawyer. Kate, we just wanted to help.”

  I sigh. I guess I can live with their help, as long as it hadn’t cost them anything.

  “Okay, thank you then. I really appreciate it.” I hug the Jamison’s, then wrap my arms around Henry, conveying the message that I’m not angry with him. He hugs me back, tension draining from his body.

  “Where do you want to go?” Henry asks me, after he’s taken me home to change into jeans and a t-shirt—nice ones that belonged to Claire. It’s a beautiful day, sky blue and sun shining.

  “Let’s swing,” I tell him, a fantasy I’ve been nurturing for some time now.

  He follows me out back, and for the first time in my life, I sit on my beloved swing-set—not alone. Henry sits next to me, holding my hand between the chains as we swing softly back and forth.

  “Bet I can go higher than you,” I challenge teasingly, releasing his hand and pushing back with my feet, laughing as I pump higher and higher, Henry by my side, inexperience slowing him down in spite of his longer legs.

  I push myself, watching the familiar pattern of grass, fence, neighbor’s backyard, treetops, then finally sky, deep blue and bright white with fluffy round clouds like mounds of whipped cream placed there; then the whole pattern in reverse, and then forward again, Henry passing through my peripheral vision as he swings beside me. I’m laughing, and then suddenly I’m crying, gradually at first with tears running slowly down my cheeks as the laughter tapers off. Memories inundate my mind and soul beginning with the first day I had set eyes on this swing, traveling through the unraveling of my childhood and the loss of a normal life by my parents’ hands; through the forced servitude and starvation and torture; through the beatings at the hands of the woman who should have loved me more than anyone else, and whose death was my fault.

  My tears have become great gulping sobs and Henry
has stopped swinging, calling my name as he tries to slow my swing, to catch me between my flying arcs. He steps behind me, timing it as I swing forward and wraps his arms tightly about my waist, stopping my progress, jerking us both forward with the momentum. He leans backward and I let myself be pulled off the swing.

  I drop to the ground in a rounded mass, and he goes with me, curling his body around me from behind, knees against my sides, arms bound tightly about me as he holds my shuddering, heaving form, rocking me as we huddle there together in the dirt and I keen and wail, pouring out my grief in a way I haven’t allowed myself since I first woke up in the hospital.

  When my cries soften into moans, he turns me sideways and pulls my face against his shoulder. I wrap my arms around his ribs, grateful for the solid strength there. I’m shivering now, a belated reaction, and his heat surrounds me.

  “I killed her,” I moan.

  “Sweetheart, it was an accident,” his voice is full of emotion, persuasive.

  I shake my head.

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s my fault.”

  “Katy, you were trying to get away. She would have killed—” his voice catches and he stops.

  I press tighter against him.

  “Maybe,” I concede. “But maybe not. I didn’t give her the chance to find out.” I take a breath, then tell him the one thing I’ve never told anyone else, ever. “I wished for it, Henry. More times than I can count. I even prayed for it. What kind of person prays for her mother’s death? What if it wasn’t an accident…what if I subconsciously knew what I was doing?”

  “Kate, look at me.” He turns my face up to his with one hand, his other still clasping me tightly. “Don’t do this to yourself. I saw you. You almost died! One more swing at you and she would have…” his face is terrible with memory, ravaged with the thought of it. His desolate eyes hold mine, dark with feeling.

  “Kate, sweetie, you only pushed her away. It was a freak accident. Do you hear me? An accident! She could just as easily have only been knocked out. Or even not been hurt at all, and then come after you again. It wasn’t anyone’s fault that she hit her head the way she did, especially not yours. It was her fault she put you in the position to have to defend yourself in the first place.” His tone is urgent, pleading with me to understand.