Pieces of a Mending Heart (20 page)

             
“Sweetheart, look at me. Do you want me to take you to the hospital?” Tristan asks, dabbing cool water on my face with his hands.

             
My eyes flutter and I think I hear a voice and see faces but I’m not sure because everything is swaying and all I can think is “I’m scared.” Tristan presses his lips to my forehead and the pain and fear and dizzying blurriness halts immediately.

             
“Woah, that was beyond strange,” I say, blinking repeatedly as Tristan leans back, giving me space to breathe. I go to sit up, but he pushes me down.

             
“Katie, I think you should lie down. I don’t mind being your pillow,” he smiles sweetly, but I can see the worry in his blue eyes.

             
“I think she’s had her full of craziness today, Tristan. Why don’t we let her stay here and you and I can go outside. I’ll explain everything to him, Kath,” Sorren says, patting my knee.

             
“You really think leaving her alone right now is a good idea?” Tristan asks rhetorically.

             
“No, I feel fine now. Honestly, Tristan. I wouldn’t lie to you,” I say, sitting up. Instead of lingering pain or fatigue, I’m refreshed and more awake than I was before this dramatic little episode. “Can you explain everything, Sorren? I’m going to go… wash my face.” My excuse is silly, but I know that with Tristan here I won’t be able to hold in my speculations about the vision with Sorren.

             
“Do you need help walking there? I can stay with you,” Tristan offers, helping me up by taking both of my hands in a steady grip.

             
“No, I’m alright. Really, Tristan, don’t worry about me,” I smile, squeezing his hands.

             
“I’ll always worry about you,” he says, and I get locked in his gaze like some cliché heroin in a romance novel.

             
Sorren clears her throat theatrically loud and I pull my hands away from Tristan’s, heading to the bathroom. I hear them
walk out the front door and I splash my face with cool water and stare at my reflection.

             
Two months ago, I’d have cringed. I would’ve stared at the blonde-haired green-eyed girl in the mirror and thought,
“Who are you?”
I would’ve despised my few freckles dotting my nose, which my old boyfriend made fun of so often. My eyes would’ve welled up with tears thinking of the taunts from the girls at school about my slightly crooked bottom teeth and
tiny
spots of acne.

             
A lot can happen in two months. As I look in the mirror, I still think
“Who are you?”
but I think it with curiosity. Inquisitiveness as to who I will become, and what I am capable of. Bouts of insecurity and fear and loneliness and regret still harbor places in my mending heart, but today, my green eyes brighten with the knowledge that I’m not alone anymore.
             

             
A figure moves behind me in the mirror, and I see the heavenly blue eyes I was blessed to have sent to me. His arms wrap around my waist and his chin rests on my shoulder, cheek touching mine. The stance and embrace is intimate, but instead of being seductive, it’s comforting and innocent.

             
“Have I ever told you that you’re beautiful?” he says, his breath tickling my cheek.

             
I watch my reflection smile as I gently move my arms around his neck, returning the embrace. “You might’ve mentioned it before. I can’t remember,” I say.

             
“I don’t ever want you to forget it. You’re beautiful.”

             
The warmth in his tone sends peaceful shivers down my body, and I want nothing more than to freeze time in this moment; to avoid discussing the unknown or the past or the future. But that is a dreamers reality, and mine is much different.

             
“Sorren told you, right?” I say, breaking the spell.

             
Tristan sighs and stands to his full height, brea
king our encirclement. “Yes, but
I want to know what you really think. She didn’t mention anything about us…
looking
for one another. I didn’t tell her, but I was wondering why you didn’t. It’s not important right now, but I’m curious because you told her everything else.”

             
I look away from our reflections and turn to face the real thing, and I realize that the last time I saw him in a bathroom, he killed himself. The thought turns my blood to ice and I swallow, hard, to keep the bile from rising. Thinking of
that
literally makes my stomach churn.

             
“Can we go in my room?” I ask, wanting to leave the bathroom as soon as possible.

             
“Absolutely,” he says, leading me to the room that was once his.

             
I move past him to sit on the bed, my back against the headboard. Tristan looks conflicted; like he isn’t sure I was okay with him sitting.

             
“You can sit down, ya know. We’re home alone, and even if we weren’t, we’re just talking,” I say, giggling.

             
He immediately complies, sitting at me knees, facing me.

             
My giggling turns into a huff of irritation. How I long to be able to sit on my bed with Tristan without all this heavy talk weighing us down.

             
“I didn’t tell Sorren about how I was looking for you because I feel… weirdly protective of that information; like I’m not supposed to share it with anyone. Do you feel that way?” I ask, sounding like a therapist asking
“And how do you feel about that?”

             
He nods, eyes brightening. “I feel that way, too. I felt this weird tugging in my head, when I was about to tell her; like I’m not supposed to let her know. Tell me what you think of that vision, of you and Sorren.”

             
My eyebrows knit together, unsure of how to put my feelings into words. “I felt really connected to the body I was in, Tristan; like I was remembering things I’ve forgotten. Almost as if… it was a dream that I could never quite remember. But I couldn’t control the body’s actions. I was myself, though. I saw my reflection in the dirty mirror on the wall. And I called Sorren Cassandra. Your name was mentioned, and some guy named Adrian,” I stop talking when Tristan’s face pales a shade. “What?”

             
“Katie, I’ve been having dreams, every night, about a man named Adrian. I always wake up frightened, but nothing ever happens in the dreams. I just know he’s looking for me,” he says, looking genuinely freaked out. I don’t know what to say, and Tristan must know this because he urges me to continue.

             
“I was really afraid. Not
me
me, but the body I was in. Which was mine… it’s hard to explain, but my feelings and thoughts were o
verlapping with those of the ‘twenties
me.
’
Do you understand? Am I making sense?” I say, getting frustrated with my lack of couth in my explanation.

             
“Yes, it makes sense. But what were
you
feeling when this was happening?”

             
I open my mouth, but then shut it again, because I’m not sure how to answer. I had wanted to be afraid, but I wasn’t. “I thought the only rational reaction was to be afraid. But I wasn’t, I
just knew I should’ve been, so I convinced myself that I was scared. I was… relieved; like a burden was lifted off my shoulders upon seeing what I saw.”

             
“What did you feel like twenty minutes ago? When you were about to pass out?”

             
“I was scared. My vision blurred and my head hurt like hell, but when you kissed my forehead, it all stopped as if a switch was turned off.”

             
Tristan takes on his
“I’m deep in thought”
look, but I don’t think either of us has a perfect explanation for what happened today.

             
“Should we just stop trying to figure it out and let it explain itself? Stop speculating and wait until God wants us to know more?” I suggest.

             
He nods, eyes meeting mine. “There’s not much more we
can
do, is there?”

             
We sit in
unsatisfied silence, the unknown looming over our heads like a dark cloud.

             
“Let’s pray over it, tonight. Before we each go to bed, mention it. Not now; let’s just let it rest for now,” he says, moving his hands as he speaks.

             
I nod, pulling my knees up to my chest, feeling the soft material of the gray sweatpants I changed into when I arrived home. I don’t like the feeling of mystery on my shoulders, and I’m sure my face is compressed into a frown.

             
I move, getting under the covers and laying down as if I were going to sleep.

             
“Come on,” I motion for Tristan to join me, so he does. He climbs under the covers, careful not to jostle me, and we lay there, facing one another, eye to eye.

             
“What’s your favorite band?” I ask, continuing our game of “truth” from two weeks ago. He chuckles, remembering how we never did get to finish.

             
“Band or solo singer?” he asks, smirking.

             
“Both.”

             
He thinks for a moment before saying, “My favorite band is
Young the Giant
. My favorite solo artist is Keith Urban. I’m a country fan, you know that, but I listen to practically anything. What’s your worst fear?”

             
“Mmm… are we being heavy or light?” I say, referring to the weight of our conversation.

             
“Light,” he says immediately.

             
“Okay. I’m terrified of heights. Even walking up a staircase makes my heart pound and hands shake.” I’m happy we’re playing the light version, because my worst fear would definitely put another damper on the day.

             
What
I’m truly afraid of, what I had to write my English essay on, is that I would’ve died the day I tried to kill myself. It’s in the past, but I dread ever feeling that way again. So worthless, so full of self-hatred and guilt over driving my brother away and disappointing my parents and forcing them to lash out at me. That’s what my parents made me feel; guilty. They pinned all their problems on me, and I was so brainwashed by self-loathing that I grew to agree with them. Ultimately, I went to kill myself because I truly believed I was worthless. Irrational, misplaced guilt motivated me, and it clung to me like suction cups.

             
“Baby?” I hear a warm voice say, bringing me out of my own thoughts. I blink repeatedly, casting away the memories.

             
“Sorry,” I say, and I’m surprised to feel warm tears running down my face.

             
Tristan wipes the tears away, giving me the comfort and reassurance I’ve never felt before. His touch is so tender, so light yet so compassionate and kind, I feel the desperate urge to kiss him.

             
So I do. I kiss his palm, turning my head to do so. My lips barely touch his skin when I see a figure standing in the doorway. With eyebrows raised, hands on hips, lips curved into an amused smirk, my aunt watches us.

             
I screech, a knee-jerk reaction to seeing a looming figure in a place you didn’t expect to see one. Tristan jolts like he’d been stabbed, head banging against the headboard in the process.

             
“Aunt Rachel! What are you doing home?” I sputter so fast it’s a miracle she understood me.

             
“You told me that you’d be home after fourth period. It’s almost one-thirty, so I came home early to make sure you’re alright,” she says, sounding stern, which is frightening.

             
“I’m feeling fine now! It’s been a rough day and Tristan is done with his classes by noon. Did you know he’s so ahead in his school work that he only goes for a half day? Isn’t that inspiring? He’s such a good influence,” I blabber, which would have made Tristan laugh if he didn’t look so afraid.

             
“I’m not your mother, Katherine. I trust you. If you wanna lay in bed talkin’ with your boyfriend, you go right ahead. Just keep it to talkin’ and I won’t bother you about it. Nice to see
your face today, Trist. I’m so happy you kids are together; it’s like fate made it so,” she says, leaning against the doorframe.

             
The entire situation is kind of funny: I’m in my bed, under the covers with a boy, and my aunt is telling us how happy she is about it. Unexpectedly, I start laughing.
Really
laughing, which causes my stomach to hurt because it’s sore from all the hysterical heaving I experienced when talking with Sorren in the living room. It isn’t until I start snorting, albeit a dainty, tiny snort, that Tristan starts laughing with me. I throw my head back, hitting the headboard as I do so, which makes me laugh even more.