Authors: Faith Sullivan
It’s not even dawn when Connor gets out of bed. The wind is kicking up outside as the windowpanes rattle. I can hear him rustle into his jeans. The clink of his belt buckle grows fainter as he heads toward the bathroom. Soon, the shower is running and I fall back to sleep.
A mighty gust startles me hours later. The sun is up, but there’s no sign of Connor. My ears are greeted with nothing but the wind. Am I here alone? Where did he go? Rolling over, I spy a note on the bureau. Written on the back of a gas station receipt are the words, ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be back. Had to go do something.’
Rubbing my eyes, I groan and sink back onto the bed. Could he be more vague? I knew today was going to be extremely hard for him, but I thought we’d face it together. I didn’t think he’d turn and run. It makes me nervous thinking he’s out in the city somewhere by himself in an unstable frame of mind. Especially since I wanted to keep an eye on him today.
Digging through our bag, I remove a comfy sweater and a pair of black pants. It’s going to be a long day, and I don’t know if I’ll have time to change later. I might as well dress nice right from the start. Fastening my hair in a loose braid, I slip on a pair of gold hoop earrings and lace up my boots. After brushing my teeth and applying some makeup, I proceed downstairs.
Glancing at the clock, I see it’s past eight-thirty. Turning on the lights in the kitchen, I hunt through the refrigerator. It’s pretty stocked for tonight’s event. I locate a carton of orange juice and pop two slices of bread into the toaster. Walking back out to the bar, I turn on the TV. Sitting down with my breakfast, I hear the newscasters readying the audience for the first moment of silence. Victims’ families are shown gathered at Ground Zero. My stomach clenches and I don’t want to watch this, but I feel like I have to. I’m riveted to the screen.
Hours pass. President George W. Bush gives an address. The names of the victims are read one by one. The coverage rotates to memorial services at the Pentagon and Shanksville, Pennsylvania, the field where United 93 went down. Returning to Lower Manhattan, those participating file in and form a circle in the cavern below street level.
Tears stream down my face, and I don’t even know they’re falling. An ache throbs through my heart. The wind continues to roar and throughout the live broadcast I watch the dust swirl at Ground Zero. It blankets those taking part in the ceremony down in the monstrous crater. People start shielding their eyes and covering their mouths. Their actions mimicking those fleeing the towers’ collapse a year ago.
As the clock strikes two, I reach for the remote and turn off the TV. I’m oversaturated with emotions I don’t quite know how to begin to analyze. Taking my dirty dishes back to the kitchen, I rinse them off before putting them in the dishwasher. I’m functioning robotically, my mind disconnected from my body.
I didn’t think I’d have to spend this day by myself. I thought we’d be able to support each other, not deal with things separately. My head is starting to pound. Maybe I’ll go upstairs and rest my eyes for a little bit. I don’t have the energy to attempt to do anything else. Any motivation I possess to pull myself out of this funk is at an all-time low. I just want to disappear from the world for a while.
Reclining on the unmade bed, I bury myself under the covers, tossing them over my head. I don’t want to think. I don’t want to act. I don’t want to remember. I just want this day to pass as quickly as it can.
***
There’s commotion downstairs. Blinking, it takes me a moment to acclimate myself to my surroundings again. There’s someone moving about in the room, and judging from the smell of Old Spice, it’s Connor. He’s back.
I don’t know if I should be mad at him or not. I guess I’ll give him a chance to explain. Hear what he has to say.
With a sudden movement, I jump off the bed. He’s bending down, tying his shoes, and he looks up, startled. My face is flushed, and I’m overheated after being wrapped in the blankets. My hair’s come loose and is sticking out at odd angles. My unkempt appearance causes him to raise an eyebrow. “Sleep well?” he asks before turning his attention back to his shoes.
“Where the hell were you?” I don’t say it with any hostility, but he gets my drift.
“I went to Ground Zero.”
I am truly at a loss for words. My mouth drops open.
“Miguel went with me. We watched from the sidelines, and then after it was all over I met with Danny’s family for a little while. They were pretty shaken up. I wanted to be there for them.” His eyes are red and swollen, and his voice is raw. I can tell he’s been crying.
Easing closer to him, I notice a fine layer of dust coating his hair. Retrieving a comb from my purse, I begin cleaning him up. It’s after five o’clock and the members of the support group are starting to arrive. I want him to look presentable, realizing he’s spent and probably hasn’t even look in a mirror since he returned.
His dark brown hair is thick and combing it brings out its luster. I like taking care of him like this. I wish I had time to give him a good shampoo, but my efforts are going to have to suffice. His face is freshly shaven, and he seems somewhat revived. He’s not at his best, but then again neither am I.
“I think you need the comb more than I do.” His eyes crinkle into a smile. He’s trying. He’s on the brink, but so far he’s holding on.
“Yeah, I’m pretty much a mess.” I give a tiny laugh and he gives me a tender kiss on the cheek.
Unsure of how far I want to press the matter, I say, “So you went with Miguel.”
He looks at me with concern. His brow furrowed. “Michelle, trust me. It wasn’t the place for you.”
He’s aware of how my last visit to Ground Zero affected me, so I don’t protest his claim, but it doesn’t make me feel good either.
“Deep down, I didn’t want to be there, but something inside me just wouldn’t let it go. When I talked to Miguel last week about the generator for the cabin, he mentioned that he might be going to the memorial service, and if I wanted to go with him I could.” Unconsciously messing his freshly combed hair, he tries to help me understand his reasoning. “It was a last minute decision. I couldn’t sleep, and I was dreading today. So I just got up and went.”
Clasping his hand, I give it a squeeze. “I get it. I just wish you’d have told me, that’s all. I was worried about you, and I didn’t want either of us having to face the day alone.”
He pulls me into his arms, hugging me like he’ll never let go. “I wasn’t even thinking straight, Michelle. I didn’t mean to leave you on your own like that. I didn’t think I’d be gone that long.”
Nestling against his chest, I exhale. “As long as you’re here now.”
“I’ll be here forever, baby. I promise.”
The tranquility of our lakeside abode is just what we need after making it through the first anniversary. Our spirits lift when we hit the dirt road leading to our tiny cabin. It’s small, but it’s ours. It’s truly become what we think of as home.
We return to the rhythm of our new life after wrapping up the loose ends connecting us to our old one. It’s bittersweet saying goodbye to who we once were. Cutting ties is never easy, but with a newfound sense of release, we feel lighter. Nothing is weighing us down, holding us back from what we can become.
And while it hurts leaving the people we love behind, it won’t be for too long. We have a wedding to plan, and we can’t wait to gather everyone together under far more joyous circumstances the next time we meet.
The autumn days pass as the leaves begin to fall. The woods are awash in vibrant color. The ground starts to harden and the breeze takes on a bitter chill. Hunkering down for the winter, Connor finds work at a larger resort that maintains a steady client base year round, and I secure employment in of all places, a cheesecake shop. They’re busy during the holidays so they take me on part-time until the spring semester starts in January. Needless to say, Connor’s father has received quite a few packages from me since I started working there. He’s even called me a few times to thank me himself.
I never thought I’d say this, but I’m excited about going back to school. I’m debating whether to pursue a business degree or look into the hotel and restaurant management program. I want to test things out before I commit. Either one will certainly aid in my future career prospects in an area booming with vacationers. Being practical suits me now. Connor and I are in this together, and I want to support him as much as I can. We have dreams of adding on to the cabin, especially if the pitter-patter of little feet is in our future. Yep, I ended up back in Pennsylvania to pop out a couple of kids. Who would’ve thought?
My parents are thrilled that I’m resuming my studies. They weren’t even disappointed when I told them where. For the first time in my life, I feel I don’t have to be at the top of the class in order to gain their approval. They just want me to be happy, even if Mom still gets claustrophobic when she visits our cabin.
Planning for our summer wedding is underway. We’re getting married on the Fourth of July, which is kind of appropriate given our track record. I still get fired up when I think about how we spent the holiday last year. Keeping things small and intimate, we’re renting a tent and inviting a dozen or so guests to the cabin. We can’t afford much more, and it’ll be the perfect opportunity to invite everybody over. Since we live in pretty tight quarters, everyone can spread out and enjoy the great outdoors.
Emily is searching the entire city for my wedding dress, and she’s already flooding my inbox with options. To provide the alcohol for our reception, she plans on driving her husband to the ceremony in her delivery truck—even if she’s in the ninth month of her pregnancy.
Tammy is still working with Maria at the pub, even though they butted heads in the beginning. However, she developed a deeper appreciation for her new boss when Maria used a baseball bat to stop an impending brawl. When Samuel quit, they bonded even more. Now the two of them are teaming up to do my hair and nails for the wedding.
I uncork a bottle of champagne and immerse myself in the starry night. It’s a special occasion. Being that it’s New Year’s Eve, we’re celebrating an anniversary of sorts. It’s one year ago today that we met. It seems so long ago. I feel like I’ve known Connor forever, and maybe deep down I have. He found me when I needed him the most. He’s the light that’s guided me to where I am now, out of the darkness, out of despair.
I bundle myself up in my puffy coat and hold the opened bottle in my mitten-covered hands. Closing the door, I skip down the porch steps and head for the dock. The lake is not yet frozen, and my fiancé is already there waiting. His broad shoulders are silhouetted against the beam of my flashlight.
Getting in the canoe, he extends his hand to help me in. Careful not to tip us into the frigid water, I take my place across from him as he begins rowing toward the center of the lake. Since the moon it waning, it’s pretty dark. The wind whipping through the barren trees and the rhythm of Connor’s paddling are the only sounds I hear.
Reaching our destination, Connor pulls up the oars and I offer him the bottle for his labor. He takes a swig before handing it back to me as I follow suit. Leaning back, he invites me to sit between his legs. Keeping the boat as steady as I can, I position myself against him, reveling in his warmth.
Our breath is visible on the air, but being next to him, I don’t feel cold. I feel alive. I feel awake. I feel complete.
“Having second thoughts?” he asks.
I laugh, touched that he remembered the first words he ever spoke to me, sitting outside that party, waiting for me to arrive.
“Whoever thought you were such a romantic.” This gets a chuckle out of him.
As midnight descends, a firework lights up the sky miles away. I take it as a good omen. Sometimes the best things in life are unexpected.
I really hate talking about myself. My goal is to have the shortest author bio imaginable. I would much rather have a conversation with my readers.
Are you able to escape within my pages?
Does my writing make you feel something?
Are there characters that you can't get out of your head?
Let me know!
Email me at
Follow me on Twitter at
Read my blog at
Preview of
Heartbeat
by Faith Sullivan
Chapter One
Katie
CRASH!
The force of the impact is jarring, but it doesn’t completely startle me. A split second before the SUV hurtles into Grandma’s driver’s side door, I catch a glimpse of it in my peripheral vision. Grandma isn’t so lucky.
“Are you okay?” I gasp.
“I think so,” she says, moving to unfasten her seat belt.
The driver of the SUV is already outside of his vehicle inspecting the damage. It is a miracle Grandma isn’t trapped behind the steering wheel. She is able to open her dented car door. She struggles to stand, wincing in pain. The passenger in the SUV is already on his cell phone, probably calling 911.
I don’t want to get out of the car. It is a February afternoon. The temperature is hovering in the teens. The wind is whipping through the movie theater parking lot as snow flurries begin to fall. I crouch down in my seat.
Why did this have to happen?
I don’t want to deal with a guy who drives like Rambo, taking down every elderly woman in his path. Maybe if I close my eyes, it will all go away.
A speeding police car with lights flashing arrives on the scene.
Do they really need to make such an entrance? They probably just left the donut shop down the road. No need to give in to the sugar rush.
Grandma slowly sits back in her seat as Rambo’s father comes over to our car.
“Ma’am, are you all right?” he asks.
“I don’t know…I’m awfully sore,” she says, rubbing the back of her neck.
“It’s not a good idea for you to be moving around. Why don’t you just sit back and stay as still as you can. The police are here now. Let me go and talk to them,” he says.
He strides into the wind head-on as his son bends down to analyze the damage to his front fender.
Really? He can’t even come over and see if the old lady he hit is okay? He has to send his dad? Way to be a man.
I lean forward and open the glove compartment to find the insurance information and registration card.
“Here comes someone now. Are you able to roll down the window, Grandma?” I ask.
“I think so…let me see,” she says, hitting the power button.
“How are you doing, ladies? Anyone seriously hurt?” asks a female police officer, her blonde curly hair blowing around her head like a tornado as the wind begins to increase.
“Well, I feel a little banged up,” Grandma replies.
“Look straight ahead, and keep your head against the headrest. Do not move a muscle. I don’t even want to know what happened. We’re going to give you an incident report that you can fill out later and drop off at the station next week. For now, just sit tight until the ambulance arrives,” the officer says with practiced authority.
“I don’t think I need an ambulance,” Grandma says.
“Grandma, it’s better if you go and get checked out at the hospital. Just to be sure,” I insist.
“Listen to your granddaughter. We’ll all feel better if you let them examine you,” the officer responds.
“Okay, if you think it’s necessary,” Grandma sighs.
“Try to relax. I’m going to talk with the other driver. Remember, don’t move,” the officer commands.
“Yes, officer,” Grandma replies meekly.
“Well, I guess they don’t want our paperwork,” I grumble.
What a mess.
We just wanted to get out and enjoy a movie without having it end in disaster.
It is the first time in a week that I have left the house. I’m still a little weak after what seemed like a never-ending bout with the flu. Last weekend, I was in the emergency room sick as a dog. Looks like this weekend is going to be more of the same. Except this time, I won’t be the patient.
This wouldn’t have happened if I had been driving. But the wind was so fierce that Grandma didn’t want me getting sick again. So she told me to wait at the entrance of the theater and she would pick me up. I ran from the theater entrance to the car, yet I still felt chilled to the bone. I didn’t notice anything amiss with Grandma. Everything seemed fine, until she plowed through an intersection without stopping. That’s all it took to land us in this predicament.
I look up as the ambulance pulls into the parking lot. A lanky guy with scruffy blonde hair and a face full of stubble jumps out…without a jacket…wearing short sleeves.
Is he crazy?
We’re practically living on an ice planet, and he’s dressed like it’s a summer day.
And he’s going to be the one taking care of my grandmother?
I think he’s the one who needs to get his head examined.
I watch him through the windshield as he follows his two older co-workers over to the police. Snowflakes stick to the black shirt of his uniform.
Great, they have some crazy guy who doesn’t look much older than me running the show. Perfect.
Luckily, one of the other paramedics approaches our car. He gently opens the door and looks at Grandma. He must see a lot of horrific things in his line of work. At least in this case there’s no blood or massive injuries.
“Hi, my name is Charlie, and I’m going to be taking care of you,” he says, with a smile.
Grandma nods.
“Oh, now don’t go moving on me. I need you to stay nice and still while I examine you,” he says in a soothing voice as he looks into her eyes with a mini flashlight. “Everything seems fine, but as a precaution, I’m going to put this neck brace on you. Then we’re going to put you on the stretcher and take you to the hospital.”
As Grandma is awkwardly fitted with the brace, I glance over at Mr. Short Sleeves. He’s not even shivering.