Heartstrings

  Regardless of what Brighton said, how could life get worse? Yeah, I still had my fingers, but what good were they if they didn’t work? A pianist needs her fingers. I might as well not even have a hand.

  Then again, people would stare harder if I didn’t have something attached to the end of my wrist. From pity, concern, or curiosity, it didn’t matter. It still brought unwanted attention. No matter how hideous my fingers may be, at least I had them.

  Tugging my sleeve, I wanted to draw the fabric further down my wrist until my hand disappeared. Neither my thumb nor my index finger would cooperate. I was grateful I could at least use them. They wouldn’t help me play efficiently, but I could write, could get myself dressed, and eventually drive again. More importantly, I could hide the scars. Having a hand still proved useful.

  Having a heart, not so much.

  Terry cloth teased my fingers as I untied my robe, letting it slide to the floor. I ignored the plopping sound, but not the moisture in the air. It clung to my body, beading my skin with goose bumps. They multiplied when I walked toward the window. Had I stepped to the side, I’d be surrounded in the warmth of the water. Yet I couldn’t convince myself to get inside the tub. Instead, I stood naked, shivering, aching.

  I wiped the steam from the windowpane, shifting my eyes to the horizon. Treetops trailed across it toward the vastness that led to space. The last remnants of pink faded from the sky, giving way to a Persian blue tone. It made the stars twinkle a little brighter.

  As much as I enjoyed the sight, it made my heart pang. Twinkling stars… Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. It was the first tune I learned on the piano.

  Instinct had my fingers curling, ready to strike imaginary keys like I had so many times in the past. But unlike those previous moments, my fingers refused to cooperate. A scorching sensation formed behind my knuckles, spreading to the tips of my last three fingers. The purple scars stared at me, mocking the ache in my chest.

  The source of the ache remained a mystery, yet it tormented me all the same. This had to be about more than damaged fingers. Not that they didn’t contribute, but something was missing, like a cork removed from a bottle. It left the bottle exposed to the world. Anyone could see inside it, take the contents within, and use it to their advantage. The cork was a part of the bottle. It kept it safe, pure, whole…

  I needed to find my cork. Maybe it was the memories I’d lost or the chunk of time stolen from me. Four weeks of my life were wasted in a hospital bed, fading in and out of consciousness. I should have told the doctors that I remembered those fragments of memory, but part of me wondered if they were real.

  Patients with psychogenic amnesia had a tendency to recall memories that didn’t exist. My doctor attempted to explain more, but the bulk of it evaded my thoughts. I did remember him saying it was possible that I had another type of amnesia, but he wouldn’t know for sure without further evaluation. Thanks, but no. I’d been poked and prodded enough.

  Leaning my head against the window frame, I struggled to recall other thoughts. Beyond the dark recesses of my mind, a soft murmur floated in and out. The words sounded garbled, like a weakened radio frequency. I double-checked the radio on the shelf beside the sink, but the cord lay coiled and tucked neatly between the device and the wall.

  Either I was losing my mind or I needed sleep. Maybe it was a combination of both.

  I shrugged off the thoughts and stepped into the tub. Heat bit at my skin with every inch I submerged into the scalding water. By the time I leaned back, my legs were pink. A couple degrees hotter, I wouldn’t be able to take it, but this temperature was perfect.

  Another deep breath brought a minty scent to my nose. I held it deep, enjoying the way it cooled my chest. Blowing it out released some of the tension in my neck.

  The water continued to rise at a slow pace. I kept my feet underneath the stream, running my toe along the spout. The more steam that filled the air, the heavier my eyes grew. I’d love nothing more than to close them and drift off to sleep. Doing so in the tub wouldn’t be the wisest choice, unless I wanted to drown.

  As water splashed closer to my face, I imagined what it would be like. How long would it take my heart to stop once fluid filled my lungs? How much of that time would I be conscious?

  An array of thoughts flashed through my mind, kicking my heart into a faster rhythm. I shook my head, as if I could remove the images, but they kept creeping back. Water plopped against the sides of the tub as I jerked into a sitting position. I struggled to take each breath, yet the more I did, the more my head spun.

  Gripping the side of the tub I worked on slowing my breathing. Mom taught me a technique when I was a kid. I could hear the gentle sound of her voice, telling me to take deep breaths.

  Imagine you’re at the piano. That you’re going to play your favorite piece. You have to concentrate on your breathing. Slow, steady breaths, Jocelyn. Let your instincts guide you.

  I waited for those same instincts to kick in, but instead, an assortment of colors filled my vision. Slate. Gold. Crimson. Teal blue. The pattern repeated twice more before the golden hue overtook the others, as well as the room.

  The heavenly glow caused my mouth to part. The longer I stared at the breathtaking light, the more the golden tone switched to white. I blinked, doing my best to adjust to the blinding color, but it burned as bright as the sun.

  My mother’s voice faded from my mind, giving way to the garbled sound I heard earlier. The same static-filled frequency reverberated in my ears, clearing long enough for me to catch a word or two. None of it made sense, nor did any of the words make a complete sentence, but I kept focusing on each one.

  The crackling and popping began to fade. The words formed into full sentences as a man spoke them. I couldn’t connect a face to the voice. Still, something about the tone struck a familiar chord in my heart.

  Get Dr. Mitchell on the line. She needs a specialist. Then call Dr. Marchova. He needs to look at these fingers. Where is that Lorazepam? It needs to be administered, STAT!

  Another voice chimed in a second later. It was soft, feminine, but full of urgency.

  Dr. Wilcox, we have bigger problems. She’s hemorrhaging.

  I replayed the words in my mind…and then again. I didn’t know why the woman’s voice struck me harder than the man’s. Maybe it was because of what she implied—internal bleeding, a profuse amount of internal bleeding.

  It wasn’t the thought alone that sent a chill up my spine. It was the man’s gruff voice ringing through my head once more.

  Poor girl. When she wakes, her will to live will diminish. She has a long recovery ahead. Some scars last a lifetime.

  The blinding light shifted again, fading to a darker hue. A crimson fog filled my vision, then it blurred with a black shade. It morphed in front of me until bloody fingers came into view. My bloody fingers. I knew it in my heart before I noticed the shredded skin on the last three.

  A warm fluid splashed up my throat. I fought to keep from throwing up, but the mangled flesh proved more than I could handle. And just as I leaned over the tub, the crimson tone changed to blue. Teal blue, like the Caribbean Sea.

  The color, just like the ones before it, began to shift. Only this shift wavered like ripples in the water. Anxiety built in my gut as I waited for the image to clear. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to see what would appear before me, but before the image could fully develop, a crack filled the air.

  My eyes flew open and darted to the mirror above the sink. A newly-formed break spread across the glass. Oddly, it wasn’t a straight line, or even a jagged one like I’d noticed in other broken glass. Nor did it have a spiderweb effect. Instead, it curved toward the top before falling back down. The pattern repeated until it reached the other side.

  Hyperaware of my surroundings, I searched for something that could have caused the crack. Nothing looked out of place, though seeing the phone on the counter raised a question. Had I hit the mirror earlier when I tossed my phone?

&nb
sp; I reached for the faucet, twisting the knobs until the water ceased to pour. My mind was in overdrive, that’s all. There was a reasonable explanation for the crack, but logic couldn’t exist in an exhausted mind. The sooner I went to sleep, the quicker this day and all its oddities would be behind me.

  Pushing myself to a stand, I grabbed the towel off the rack on the wall. There was barely enough time to wrap it around me when something moved in my peripheral vision.

  Just as the door came into view, banging filled the air. The sound jarred my soul, but not as much as when the door shook within its frame.

  ~ CHAPTER THREE ~

  The door remained in my sight as I stood inside the tub. Each time it rattled within its frame, it sent a teeth-chattering surge of fear through my soul. I parted my lips, ready to ask who was waiting on the other side, but hesitated instead. One thought drifted through my mind. Someone had broken into the house.

  My cell lay in the same position on the counter. I debated jumping out of the tub and grabbing it, but would I have enough time to call 9-1-1 before the intruder came bursting through the door?

  A quick survey of the room stole any hope I had in finding a means to protect myself. Nothing proved suitable enough for a weapon. If the mirror had broken instead of cracking, I could have used a shard of glass. My only chance of staying safe would be calling the cops.

  “Jo? Can you hear me?” Brighton’s voice rang in my ears, followed by another round of banging. “Jo, answer me, please. Open the door.”

  Cursing under my breath, I wanted to open the door and punch him for scaring me. Yet something about the sound of his voice made me panic. The way it hit a higher octave. The rush of his words. His attempt to knock the door off its hinges. Something was wrong.

  “Give me just a second,” I called back, making my way out of the tub. The tile cooled my feet as I grabbed my robe off the floor, hurrying to slip my arms inside. A dozen scenarios played through my mind to explain the urgency in his voice.

  While I ignored most of them, there was one thought I couldn’t escape. Had my earlier assumption been true? Had he built my trust to gain access to my medication?

  If that were the case, it would explain why he’d been gone for hours and why he’d avoided my calls. Because he’d spent the last few hours partying with his friends—and my pills. Now he was going to put on a show to cover his ass.

  First, he would do his best to throw me off track by playing the concerned brother routine. He’d already started. Next, he would offer me an assortment of excuses. How someone had jumped him and stolen the pills. Or how he’d misplaced the prescription. Maybe he’d tell me that he owed someone money and had to give up the pills to save his butt. God only knew what he’d come up with. I’d heard plenty of his lame explanations in the past.

  Reaching for the door, my fingers lingered above the knob. I tried to school my features so he wouldn’t see how much I distrusted him, but when the door swung open, eyes as gray as a stormy sky pierced me.

  “Brighton, are you okay?”

  Each silent-filled second he stood there made my stomach clench, but not as much as when he grabbed my arms and hugged me to his chest.

  “I’m fine, Jo, but I think the more important question is, are you?”

  Clamping my mouth shut, I debated on answering him. Telling him yes would be the truth as much as it would be a lie. Physically, I was okay. Mentally, not so much. He sure as hell wasn’t helping me with the latter.

  “Jo?” His concern showed on his face when he pulled back and gazed at me.

  “I’m fine, Brighton.” I shrugged out of his embrace, hugging myself. A slight turn had me moving past him, into the hall. “I’d be a lot better if you’d stop scaring me. Did you really have to knock that hard?”

  “I scared you?” he snorted, falling in step with me. “I’m the one who was going out of my mind because you wouldn’t answer me.”

  “I did answer you.”

  “Yeah, after I’d called your name ten times. You have no clue how close I came to busting down the door.”

  His answer had me stopping short of the bedroom door. I pivoted until we were facing each other once more. “I answered you as soon as I heard your voice.”

  “No, you didn’t.” He leaned in closer, pointing his finger in my direction. “I called your name three times and waited for a response. When you didn’t answer, I started pounding on the door.”

  “Why are you lying to me?” I fisted my hand and drove it into his shoulder. It caused his body to twist at the waist, but he didn’t move away. It angered me more. “Are you high? Is that why you’re so late getting here?”

  Brighton fell back against the wall and pressed his lips together, as if he wanted to say something then changed his mind. Just like old times. All those countless moments he believed he could lie to me and get away with it. I may have lost most of my memories, but I hadn’t forgotten the hell he put me through.

  Half a laugh came from my brother’s mouth. “I can’t believe you still think…”

  Tightness formed in his jaw when he moved forward, digging into his back pocket. Something rattled behind him. I couldn’t tell what made the noise, even when he brought his hand in front of him, clenching whatever he held within it. Another step brought us toe-to-toe. Then he opened his fingers. I had just enough time to notice the bottle fall into my palm when he backed away and raised his hands to his sides. “You can count them if you want.”

  Guilt flowed like lava through my body every second I stared at the bottle. I struggled with the urge to rip off the cap and count every pill like he suggested. But I didn’t, partially because I believed him, partially because I didn’t. If one pill was missing…

  “I know you think I’m a horrible person, but before you judge me, let me tell you this. You’ve never judged me before.”

  “Watch it, Brighton. You’re influencing me again.” I hated the sound of my voice but hated his reaction even more. His shoulders slumped and his hands fisted. He wanted to fire back his own sarcastic comment. Instead, he backed up to the wall and leaned his head against it.

  “Jo, you have every right to be angry with me, but I—”

  “Stop it! Okay?” Three quick steps brought us face-to-face again. “You think I should automatically believe and trust you, but you won’t tell me anything about my life.” He tried to object, but I pointed my finger an inch from his nose. “Save it, Brighton. Don’t tell me this is the treatment plan my doctor wanted. I’m not buying it.”

  “Think what you want, Jocelyn. I can’t stop you. What I can tell you is this. The reason I was so scared when you didn’t answer is because I thought you were drowning. But honestly, I didn’t know if you’d fallen asleep or if you’d given up.”

  The irony of his words was like a slap in the face. I would have been insulted if not for the guilt thumping through every nerve within me. My shame stemmed from my earlier thoughts about doing exactly what he feared. Drowning. Guess our twin bond kept us connected on a deeper level.

  As he tucked his face behind his hands, I unclenched my fists. My heart beat in a rhythm that matched the clock down the hall. Slow, steady, monotonous beats. I’d counted to twenty before moving away from Brighton and then the wall. Going at him, full throttle, wouldn’t help. It would give him a reason to have me committed.

  I continued my retreat, letting the tension fade from my face. “What makes you think I’ve given up? I told you that I’m fine.”

  “Your actions tell a different story. One you’re too afraid to admit.”

  “And what story are they telling, Brighton? The one about a girl who lived for music because she had no one else to fill the void?”

  He pulled his hands from his face and studied the bedroom door. His sardonic chuckle grated on my nerves. Did he think this was funny?

  “Your life is about more than music, Jo. I wish I could say the same for myself. I’m not denying that I’ve made mistakes that pushed people away, but I??
?m a different person. You’re the reason I’m different.”

  “Why?”

  He met my gaze after clearing his throat, but his eyes showed the emotion choking him. “Because I knew if I didn’t change, I’d lose you too. Then I’d be alone. Nobody wants to be alone.”

  I couldn’t deny what he said was true, nor did I try. No one wanted to be alone. Including me. “I hate that the only person I can count on has a past so sketchy I have to question everything he says or does. But it doesn’t excuse me for accusing you of stealing my pills. If you would just tell me what I’ve forgotten—”

  “I can’t tell you about your life, Jo, but I can promise that I’ll be here to help you. And I can promise you that I’m not using. Can we please work on the rest?”

  My anger tempted me to refuse simply because I wanted answers. Yet the will to fight with him disappeared. I was too tired to argue and he was too stubborn to give in. We’d never get anywhere.

  “I’m going to bed. We can talk tomorrow.” I brushed past him to the bedroom door, turning the knob once I reached it. If I avoided eye contact, maybe he’d get the hint and go home. I needed time to think about everything he’d said just as much as everything I’d remembered. But the moment I reached my bed, Brighton’s hand curled around my shoulder.

  “Before I go, there is something else I want to give you.”

  I turned in time to see him disappear into the hallway. He was gone just long enough to increase my curiosity. When he walked back inside, I stared at his hands in disbelief.

  “Where did you get that? It’s beautiful.”

  “I bought it for you.”

  I trailed my fingers over the fretboard to the curve of the base. Was it possible that he was late because he’d taken time to get me a gift? I started to ask but thought better. No sense in dredging up that conversation again.

  “Think you can play it?”

  I glanced at the steel strings, then back to my brother. “Play a guitar? Are you kidding?”