Heart Murmurs (3 page)

I return the smile at her use of our nickname for my transplant and resulting semi-comatose state. I shiver and push the images of blinking monitors, burning IV's, and breathless days from my head.

“Do tell. Dish.”

My eyes dance around the cafeteria, leaping from table to table, until they find him again. He's sitting alone, staring out at the rain. My smile dies. His solitary figure disturbs me. He, however, looks completely at ease. Three books are stacked before him, and his nose is buried in another. I have to restrain myself from bolting over — to see what could hold his interest.

“Well, Morgan's quite the mystery.” Claire follows my stare.

“Morgan?”

“Yes, Morgan Kelly. And I'm surprised you haven't heard anything about him yet.”

“How would I have heard anything?” My eyes bounce between Claire's face and the back of Morgan's head, making me dizzy. “Claire!”

“He's Beth's nephew, come to stay with her… permanently. There are oodles of conspiracy theories as to why.” Claire leans in, her voice lowering, “And what happened to his leg.”

I purse my lips, considering. “She's been to see me countless times. I wonder why she hasn't mentioned him?”

The whispers float along my thoughts, waiting for the opportunity to expand and bloat my brain with their concerns. Anxiety flushes the side of my face like a pending panic attack. Why am I afraid? I don't understand.

My stomach feels like it's folding in on itself from the dead-weight of dread settling at my core. I push my hands against my middle, trying to smooth out the worry.

“I saw his leg in gym. His calf is one hot mess. Seriously, that sucker is mangled.” Claire's blue eyes dart to him once and quickly return to me.

She looks down at her plate, ready to change the subject. I'm not. “Did anyone ask him what happened? Car accident? Where he's from?”

“He really keeps to himself. I've only heard one sentence from him in the past six weeks. And he's in all my classes.”

Which means he will be in mine, too.

Claire elbows me. “Mia, dude, you can look away from him. He won't disappear or anything.” She laughs. “When are you going back to the geeky, Alcott, history tour-guide thingy?”

“I am scheduled to work at Beth's shop after school, if I feel up to it.”

I will crawl there if necessary.

My breath struggles, and I don't know if it's my crappy endurance or a hormonally induced hyperventilation.

“Well, then maybe you'll solve the Morgan mystery for the clinging masses.” She nods her head toward Apple — whose ardent stare bristles the hairs on my neck. Apparently snagging Steve isn't enough. She, too, watches Morgan's every step. Girls like her can switch affections quicker than they can apply lipstick.

I close my eyes, confused. I'm seething and jealous. Over Morgan.

Over-the-top, rip-her-dyed-blonde-hair-out-from-the-roots, jealous.

I shake my head in confusion. This isn't me.

My feelings swell like a powerful wave, and crash down. I grind my teeth together in confusion.

I don't even know him. Yet, I feel a weird, strong attraction to him. I open my eyes to stare. And the longing, from the dream, raises its head again.

“I'll be right back.”

I stand and cross the cafeteria. As I look back at Claire, I laugh out loud at her wide eyes and gaping trap.

As I pass the tables, every head whips in my direction; like I'm some gravitational force, demanding their attention.

The whispers are humming. I keep walking toward him. I still feel everyone's stare and, wondrously, I don't care. My feet carry me closer. Ten feet, five feet, two feet. I can see the way his hair curls around the back of his neck.

My hands begin to shake. My courage breaks. I abort mission.

He has a book propped up before him as he eats.

His blue eyes speed across the page, sweeping from left to right, with the urgency of someone cramming for an exam.

I pass by close enough to read the spines of the books.

A Long Fatal Love Chase by A.M. Barnard.

I gasp as I read the second title. My obsession, my favorite. And a book I've never known a man to pick up by choice.

Little Women.

 

The Hardened Heart

 

I take a deep breath as Orchard House comes into view. Of course, it's not the real Orchard House, which would be in Concord, Massachusetts, but it's Beth's facsimile. When Beth moved to Gettysburg and ran an ad in the paper for a Louisa May Alcott historical guide, well, I couldn't believe my luck. I'd been obsessed with Little Women since I was nine, and now here was the opportunity to not only be paid to talk about my bizarre interest, but to do so under the mentorship of a true Alcott descendent.

I'd love to major in history or English — as I have no less than four historical romance novels half-completed and stored on my hard drive… but both of my parents are doctors, and quasi-intellectual snobs, so my dream is impossible. They tend to think of any career outside of medicine as ‘futile.'

And refer to my writing as… my little hobby.

I hear Beth's melodic voice as I reach the stoop. She's conducting a tour. The walk from school to the shop has left me breathless. I lean one arm against the doorframe, taking exaggerated breaths, filling my lungs. Waiting for my heart to catch up with my overachieving body.

I let Beth's voice flow over me, honey-warm and soothing. “Louisa May Alcott had three sisters — just like the famous March sisters in Little Women. In fact, the March sisters were modeled after Louisa's siblings. Louisa, of course, was Jo.”

The whispers are humming again. It's a real tune this time.

Heat rushes, tingling my nose, and I realize tears are coming.

I am tone-deaf. Or at least I was.

My new heart hammers, now from a fear-inspired adrenaline rush. This is the first time I've ever heard a tune inside my head. I forget to breathe as I focus solely on the music. Which I know. But how do I know it?

I whimper and press my shaking hands against my temples as I slump to the stoop. My breath shudders out; I swipe angrily at my tears.

Heart transplants don't rewire the brain, do they?

My perception prickles. Someone's watching me. My eyes lift, peering through the stained-glass in the door to meet Morgan's sharp gaze.

He looks at Beth, fully immersed in her theatrics, and his mouth softens. He weaves through the tour group to the door, slipping out onto the porch.

I get a good look, now. His face isn't perfect — his nose a little too large and slightly crooked, as if broken in a fight. You barely notice it though, because his lips and eyes are magnetic, alive. They both rise and twitch in a million tiny movements, expressing in tandem the turmoil in his head.

“Are you hurt? Should I have Beth summon the doctor?” His strong, wide palm cups my elbow. “You are ghost-white.”

The tune in my head stops. My mouth is open, and I'm not breathing again.

“Are you the girl who had the operation?”

Finally, my voice chooses to return to my ridiculous, love-struck vocal cords. “Y-yes. I'm Mia.”

He gives a sharp nod. “Morgan. Do you need to go home?” He bites the side of his mouth, shooting a wary glance at the car, then the barn. “I could fetch the carriage?” I almost laugh.

He plays the part perfectly… He's already decked out in Civil War attire. As is Beth. As I should be, if I could quit having a mental breakdown every few minutes.

“No, I'll be fine. Can you just help me inside? Once my hands quit shaking, it usually means I'm on the upswing.”

He grips me under the elbow, and I lean into him to hobble inside. My heart sings. Melodramatic as that may be, no other word fits. His warm chest against the side of my arm fills me like one of Beth's elixirs; the cure-all for everything that ails. I swallow and feel the squirm of unease wriggling in my stomach.

This… infatuation… bothers me, on many levels. This is not me; I've never even dated someone for more than five months. And even when I did — I wasn't one of the fawning, preening types who had no life or thoughts outside of her love life.

I can't pry my eyes from his face — and I bite my upper lip as I watch his hard mask return. The one he wears at school. Once I'm behind the sweets counter, he releases me. His body immediately stiffens, and his eyes leave mine, roving behind me, as if he anticipates an attack.

From what? A tiny, tin soldier from Beth's curiosity cabinet?

I turn around, searching for the danger.

“Be careful… Mia.”

He strides out the door, crossing the field toward the barn.

Careful of what? My new heart? My inexplicable engrossment with your every move?

I lean with both hands against the glass, registering, but not seeing, every chocolate-dipped piece of fruit on the planet.

I have to get it together. If Beth sees me unglued—she'll shoo me home.

My eyes wander around the shop, filled with Alcott replications and memorabilia. Draped over the rocking chair is Louisa's ‘glory cape' given to her by her mother. She wore it while she wrote to transport her to the worlds inside her head.

I understand Louisa; feel a bond with her despite the years between us. She had to write to stay alive, to keep from poverty.

I write to keep from going mad.

Doctor-parents make for a lonely house. I was imagining other worlds by the time I was eight. And I've been taking myself there, to my safe place, ever since.

I think of the round of rejections from my short story — which filled my inbox this morning with a cheery ‘ding!'

I fight the urge to borrow the cape — to superstitiously up my chances of getting published. Claire's voice fills my head. Why can't you have a normal interest — like running, or makeup or… something?

My eyes scan the bookshelves, filled with all of Louisa's titles: Moods, Hospital Sketches, An Old-fashioned Girl. Four whole shelves. I've only made my way through half since I started working here.

I hear Beth in the neighboring room, continuing her tour. She has a perfect grasp of the period-slang, and I laugh as she tries to explain the game of Whist to a too-interested grandma.

“Bronson Alcott was kicked out of his school for teaching a black child. He and all his family were ardent abolitionists.” The group shuffles to the next room.

“He also couldn't hold a job and was a bleeding peddler.” A male voice booms.

I startle so hard, the side of my head collides with a hanging birdcage. Morgan is back. How did he slip in without my hearing?

“So you know Alcott history, too?” I retort, buying Beth recovery time.

Beth looks shaken as she addresses the ladies. “Follow me. I will show you some wonderful Alcott artifacts we've only just acquired.”

Morgan snorts, his mouth in a disgusted twist. “Yea. I know the history. Lucky me.”

My stomach seizes, folding in on itself, till what remains is an anxious ball. I don't understand. “What does Beth have you doing?”

His eyebrows arch in the middle, and his blue eyes scrutinize me. “I'm giving Battlefield Presentations.”

Beth re-enters the room, the gaggle of tourists in her wake.

“Bronson Alcott, Louisa's father, was a transcendentalist.”

“What's that?” the same blue-haired granny pipes up.

“It means he was mad.” Morgan's voice is laced with acid. “And had more concern for his ideals than his family's welfare.”

He's loading a black powder musket, his eyes as hard as the bullet rolling between his fingers.

Beth's eyebrows disappear under her brown bangs as her face goes crimson. Her eyes widen in alarm but her mouth is furious.

A couple of old bittys looked frightened. A few others are clearly excited, ready to see a fight.

Beth clears her throat. “Don't mind him. He's battle-weary. Too many cannon blasts, if you know what I mean.” She taps the side of her head and smiles. “Follow me below. This house was a stop on the Underground Railroad. A tunnel beneath the house leads the entire way to the center of town.” Her eyes flick to the setting sun. “We'll have to hurry. I don't do tunnel tours after dark.”

I open my mouth to ask since when, but bite down the question. I watch as the group shuffles down the trapdoor stairs behind me. Beth shoots Morgan a death glare before the lid snaps shut over her narrowed eyes.

I turn to Morgan. “We used to give night tours all the time.”

He finishes setting the rifle, extracting the rod from the gun's barrel. “Well, things changed while you were sleeping.”

Anger at his flippancy rushes up my throat, igniting my words. “Excuse me? You do know that I recently had a heart transplant? That I almost died? That I couldn't walk?”

My emotions run so hot, flare so fast, now.

I never had outbursts before.

His eyes empty. “People die all the time, I'm afraid.”

“What a terrible thing to say.”

I feel the tears looming. I do not want to give this terrible boy the satisfaction. I bite the inside of my bottom lip, refocusing myself.

His heavy-lidded eyes drop to the floor. He shakes his head infinitesimally. “That was horrible. I am sorry, Miss. Half the time I don't know what I'm saying anymore.”

My heart slows, but my mind is racing and my mouth is dry as I place a hand on the counter to steady myself. To try and keep my dignity.

“Apology accepted. I guess.” As I'm going to have to see your rude self everyday.

He motions to the door. “I'm going to leave, before I say anything else I regret. Mia, please, don't go into the tunnels at night.”

 

Morgan

 

The battlefield is tainted red as I stare out the stained glass. I fill my lungs. Breathe in, breathe out.