Heart Murmurs (6 page)

The ghost L
.

I hear a loud whinny, close to the house. “Stupid printer.” I crumple up the page and pitch it into the garbage, disgusted.

I cross to the window, and lean my forehead against the glass.

Not too far away, across Orchard House's acres, I can see a famous piece of earth. The stretch of uneven dirt and unexpected holes, known as Pickett's Charge, is just visible if I squint.

The hairs on my arm prickle and rise. Some say Gettysburg is the most cursed land in the United States. More men died on this plot of land than any other place in America.

A movement out across the dark barnyard catches my attention. It's Morgan, on a huge white horse.

Figures, he's alone. Not even giving a crap about tonight's football game
.

In a weird way — I like it. He doesn't care what other people think. And now — neither do I. The surgery has freed me from that particular high school bondage.

He leans forward, urging the huge animal into a canter, circling along the fences, faster and faster.

Jealousy burns my heart as I watch. I want to fly. Ride my horse.

A low humming tune escapes my lips.

My stomach plummets, my breath sucks in.

I tap against my chest, surreally trying to set the heart straight. “Hey,
excuse me,
I am tone deaf.”

I hear my denial, but the tones are perfect and crisp — like listening to someone else's recorded voice.

Words are forming in my mind, slipping down my nerve endings and landing on my tongue. And the tone… is effortless.

I'm whispering. “I am tone deaf, I am tone deaf, I am tone deaf…”

I shake my head, and force my lips to stop babbling.

I remember trying to sing in fifth grade and my ensuing frustration. Because I so wanted to be in chorus, but I so sucked.

This. Isn't. Possible.

I take a deep breath and shiver at the sound.

The notes trickle out of my mouth like a liquid sonata. Filling the quiet of my bedroom.

I belt out the song, letting loose the insistent words in my chest, in a strong, resonant alto.

 

 

My breath shudders, hitching in my chest and a choked sob clogs the last note.

And I'm crying.

Because I'm scared. And I'm thrilled I can sing. And I have no idea where I got these words.

I back away from the window. The room angles and pitches in my sight, and I step sideways, compensating for the incline. I stumble back to my laptop, still singing, repeating the words. Wondering if they'll fade away.

Abraham's daughter. Abraham Lincoln?

I type the first words into the search engine and hold my breath. “Civil War Songs” fills the search results. I click the link.

I belt out the song again, watching with mounting horror, as the words on the screen perfectly match the ones falling off my lips.

A flux of adrenaline douses my legs, leaving them instantly flaccid, useless.

My hands fly to the side of my head.

My heart. I hear its flipping and flopping beat, like a skipping vinyl record, in my ears.

How can I know the words to a song from the 1860's?

****

Saturday Afternoon

“Mia. Your college applications should've been completed months ago.” My mother's dark eyes stab me from behind her newspaper.

“Sorry. I was a little distracted a few months ago.” I scratch the scar on my chest and her cheeks flush with awareness.

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath and begins without opening them. “I know. But now, you can. The medical programs at—”

“I don't want to go into medicine. Of any kind.”

“Mia, be sensible. Your father and I have so many connections—”

The heat flushing my chest scalds its way up my neck. “Look, Mom. I don't want to pursue a career in medicine. It depresses me. I will be miserable. I'm just… not like you and Dad.”

Her knuckles slap the breakfast bar as she throws down the paper. “We are paying for your education.”

I swallow. “I know. But I'd honestly rather move out and apply for student loans than end up doing something I hate for the rest of my life.”

I stand, slipping my laptop under my arm.

Her face contorts with anger. “You think — those stories you write will keep you fed?” Her scathing laugh pierces my ears.

I push open the door and shrug. “I don't know. But I've been given a second chance at life. I'm not going to waste it being miserable.”

Her mouth drops open and I close the door behind me before she starts again.

I walk as fast as I can manage, cutting across our fields and crossing over onto Orchard House's acres. Beth knows I go to the barn for solitude. She doesn't mind.

She's seen my mother in action.

The smell of fresh-cut grass wafts on the air. I stare across the acres of rolled hay bales that dot the field.

I cannot believe I told my mother off and stood my ground. Before the surgery, I tried, but always caved.

My heart's steady beat against my ribs is a reminder of my second chance. As if every beat taps out the words, “Don't waste it. Don't waste time.”

The voices are quiet, like the murmur of a whispery river.

I think of Louisa and her writing. In her time, men dominated the written word. But she knew she had talent, believed in herself, even when no one else did.

I stop at the fence to catch my breath and to stare at the horses.

My horse, Charlotte, bolts across the yard, black mane flowing behind her. She's only three. I remember my joy the first time I rode her. When I could ride. Before the plague named hypertrophic cardiomyopathy ate my heart.

I shudder, reliving the freefall from the top of the cheer pyramid in the middle of the halftime show. I still see the circle of anxious faces peering down at me. It replays in nightmares, twisting and turning till all the faces congeal and melt.

When I was younger, my parents thought it was just a heart murmur.

The whispers rise for a moment, arguing.

I have a heart murmur now, don't I?

My life then fell apart with the same downward rush as my fall to the gym floor.

A pacemaker. I was told, “No exertion.” Which meant no cheering and worse… no riding.

My eyes flick across the two horses.

Charlotte gallops over to an Appaloosa named Bronte, nipping his neck. They both whinny, loud and clear, and I smile.

“I want to ride.”

I picture the rhythm and rock of the saddle and the powerful body cantering beneath it. It felt like flying. Then utter despair. I will never ride again.

A snort cuts into my reverie.

Charlotte and Bronte whinny, this time shrill and scared. Their ears lie flat against their heads as they gallop into the barn.

I whirl, eyes searching for the sound.

A finger of fear strokes my neck.

A movement in the fields behind a haybale catches my eye. The massive pig darts from behind one bale to the next. Only visible for seconds.

Familiarity closes my throat. The sound is from the dream, the vision, whatever they are. From the battlefield.

From yesterday…

The strum of a guitar makes me start so hard I bounce off the fence, scraping my arm.

Music wafts from the barn. A low, warm voice sings quietly.

Morgan? It has to be. I know every hand that works the farm, and none are musically inclined.

I push open the door, my heart pumping.

I follow the sound of his voice. It's beautiful and melodic and sad.

I stop at the stall and peer over the wall. The horses have found him. They both stand still and close to where he sits on a stool, absently strumming.

His eyes flick up, sensing my presence. He nods, “Milady Mia.”

I laugh. “You're so odd.”

He smiles back. “Takes one to know one.”

I shrug. “Yep. What are you doing in here?”

“Hiding. I… can't think in the house. Or at school. Or outside with all the reenactors trouncing around. I just—had some things to sort out.” He smiles.

I like this. Just talking, no snarling. He's letting me in and I wonder how long it will last.

“What about you?” he prompts.

I lift up my laptop.

“Your stories. Well, you have about one hour till the rest of the tours return.”

He stands and strokes Charlotte's flanks and she whinnies softly. “Good girl.”

“You love horses, too, then?”

“What? Oh, yes. I had one… back home. It took me weeks to break him — he was so stubborn. But worth it once we came to an understanding.” His eyes shine and stare.

I suddenly wonder if we're discussing me, or the horse…

I swallow as tingles race over my body from scalp to spine. “I'm sure you miss him. Both horses are mine — I board them here at Beth's. She uses them for the reenactments, but no one else rides for fun. Please, I'd love it if you rode them… since I can't.”

His eyes drop to my chest, to the scar. There's no pity, though. “I'm truly sorry for that, Mia.” He understands loss.

My heart pounds wildly as I think of a question, burning in my mind. I decide to leap. “Morgan, your leg. What happened?”

His eyes flinch, but he recovers. “That is a very long, sordid tale. But… maybe sometime.” He walks past me, headed outside. He pushes open the door.

“One more thing. Could you tell Beth that there's a hog on the loose?”

Morgan's head whips back, his eyes blazing. “What? Where?”

I walk toward him and slip outside and point toward the bales.

“I'll take you home.”

“What? Why? I was going to write in the hay loft.”

“It's — I'd rather you didn't. Please?”

Something in his eyes… scares me.

“Fine.”

****

Saturday
Sundown

“Mia — this discussion is over. I have to get back to work.” My mother picks up her stethoscope and whips it over her shoulder.

I glare at the phone. “Fine, whatever. I'm not done, though. I will not be studying medicine in college.”

“We'll discuss it when I get home.”

I slam the phone shut and whip it onto my bed.

I fly down the stairs, out the door, and back toward Orchard House Barn. The hushed murmurs rise behind my eardrums, and my hands fly to cover my ears in an irrational gesture to block them out. They are inside my head, not outside.

I bite my lip. Everything was supposed to be fixed by this surgery.

I run — full tilt toward Orchard House. My heart pounds, rhythmic and steady.

My mouth waters as I make a split-second decision. I let my legs free — to run. I haven't run in… I don't remember the last time. I picture my old wheel chair, and my teeth snap together in frustration.

My calves pump, my breath comes in hard gasps.

“This is stupid. This is stupid.”

But I'm addicted to the speed. A junkie for the burning in my thighs. I see the wheelchair disintegrating and blowing away. The dark grass whizzes below, underneath my feet like a crunchy conveyor belt.

But then I hear it. And feel it.

A faltering in my ribcage, almost a splutter.

My legs seize up with cold fear, leaking from my heart to fill my entire person.

Will I die now? Have I pushed this new heart too far?

My legs buckle and my face smacks the ground. The smell of fresh cut grass and dampness seep into my nose. The blades scratch my cheeks.

I think of the people I love finding me here, sprawled in the middle of the meadow.

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

My mind is dimming, picture thoughts popping in and out like a flickering candle.

Sounds are taking over.

Battle sounds
. Not again, please. I don't want to go back.

But I'm still in my mind. I'm not there — these sounds are more like memories.

I'm watching, not actually
in
the scene this time.

Men litter the ground, as far as the eye can see. Overturned wagons, struggling horses whinny for help.

The ground underneath me shakes, and an eruption of screams assault me from the left. A cannonball blast rips through the corpses, close enough for me to watch the bodies disintegrate and their parts scatter.

“No, no. I don't want to be here. Please.”

I'm on the ground, one with the dead.

A noise, foreign to the battle, but now familiar to me, only a few feet away.

A snuffling.

“Oh, please, no please.”

I try to crawl, but my legs are useless, my heart still trip-trapping in my chest. I jam my eyes shut. Hot, fetid breath tickles my cheek, and I feel a bristle slash across my cheek as I scream…

 

Take Another Little Piece Of My Heart

 

“No. Get off!”

My arms flail, trying to ward off the snuffling, foul-smelling battleground beast. My fist connects with something hard, shooting pain down my middle finger, reverberating up into my wrist.

“Easy, Mia!”

My heart obediently slows at his voice.
Like he's some sort of transplant heart-whisperer or something.

The murmurs rise in a wave, but I am ticked. Sick of sharing my emotions, my head; sick of these weird otherworldly experiences with whispery intruders.

I picture a wall in my mind and lengthen it. I hear them fade, a fraction of a tone, further and further, trailing off. I hear them whimper and then wail.

“Good.”

I open my eyes and start. Morgan's face is just inches away.

His blue-green eyes are pinched, and he's worrying his thin bottom lip. His usual perpetually peeved demeanor is gone. He looks ill.

“Are you unwell? Should I call someone?” His eyes dart to his horse, standing behind him, then to the house. “I don't have a cell phone.”

“Yes, why
don't
you have a cell phone?”

I mean
,
what self-respecting 18-year-old doesn't have a phone for crying-out-loud
?

He sees mine, flipped open, a few feet away and picks it up. His eyes narrow, like it's something dangerous. “Should I call?”

My eyes leak without permission. I laugh out loud. Fear and relief and amusement at his ridiculous expression muddle up my thoughts.

“No, don't call. Can you help me up, though?”

The war images linger right outside my door of consciousness, scratching to come in. With a haunting déjà vu. Like I've seen them before — but where?

“Of course.”

He slides his hands under me lifting me off the wet grass, onto his lap.

Headlights flash across the driveway.
Oh, no.