Heartstrings Read online

  “How can I not be frustrated? No one will tell me anything. I need to know what happened.”

  “Your doctor wants you to figure that out on your own. He said you have a better chance at a full recovery if we don’t influence your memories.”

  “That’s a bunch of bull. Something happened. Something no one wants to tell me. I can’t shake the feeling that it’s something I need to know. Please, Brighton.”

  His resolve was crumbling. It brought me a spark of hope. And just like anything that sparked, the hope didn’t last. Brighton gawked at the floor. “I wish I could explain things, Jo. I really do, but I’ve caused enough damage. I can’t damage your mind too.”

  “Are Mom and Dad okay? Does this involve them?”

  The crease between Brighton’s brows deepened. The frown alone was a good clue that I wouldn’t like his answer. Not that I needed it when a slew of memories came flooding back.

  “Jo…”

  His voice buzzed through my ears, yet I couldn’t hear him or the soft, feminine voice coming from the hospital intercom. The only words I could concentrate on didn’t exist outside my mind. Not anymore. The day they were spoken had long passed.

  “They’re already gone, aren’t they?”

  Brighton nodded…

  * * *

  The ride home hadn’t been enjoyable. Not with Brighton’s lead foot. No amount of pleas on his end convinced me that he wasn’t speeding. He could swear it until his face turned blue. I wasn’t an idiot. Confused and damaged, yeah, but a moron? Hell no.

  There was no way to say for sure, thanks to my impaired mind, but I don’t think I’d ever been happier to see my house. Even now, standing in the shivering February winds, I could do nothing more than stare at the snow-covered roof. It came into view the moment we turned off Lakeview Place into the driveway. There was no memory of moving into the two-story brick home, just a vague recollection of the floor plan. But being anywhere other than the hospital was like a trip to the beach—someplace I’d rather be.

  Brighton’s boots clunked against the porch as he moved toward the door, arms full of my belongings. He shoved the key in the lock, twisted it, and pushed the door open. Before he stepped inside, he peered over his shoulder.

  “Does it feel good to be home?”

  “Yeah. It does.”

  The door closed behind me as I surveyed the room. Certain objects rang with familiarity. The grandfather clock in the corner. The fireplace in the center wall. The vase sitting on the mantle.

  Nothing looked as good as the navy blue couch. A short stroll across the Oriental rug brought me to its edge. The cushions were fluffy. I enjoyed the way they cradled me like a cocoon, keeping me safe.

  “What’s wrong, sis?”

  Brighton’s voice invaded my newly formed happy place. I spared him a quick glance and shook my head. “I didn’t think I’d make it here after the ride you gave me.”

  “What do you mean?” He slid the duffle bag off his shoulder and tucked his hands in his pockets. “Are we back to that again?”

  “You had to be going eighty, Brighton.”

  “The speed limit is sixty-five, Jo. I was going five miles under.”

  Damn it. Why would he lie? I couldn’t prove he was, but what memories I did have, I know my brother never lied unless he…

  My stomach tightened at the thought. I couldn’t count the lies that passed over his lips when he was using. I’d busted him on every single one, but I wouldn’t today, not when I wanted to climb in my bed and lose myself amongst the sheets.

  I hugged my arms to chase away the chill, but it didn’t help. All I did was yelp. Damn it. How could I have forgotten about my hand?

  “Shit. Are you okay?”

  Brighton approached in haste. He stared at my fingers then reached for them as though he wanted to inspect them himself.

  No way…

  “Relax. I’m fine.”

  I drew my hand behind me, out of his sight. His pity wasn’t wanted or needed. The truth was welcome, but the odds of getting honesty from him was a gamble, one I didn’t want to chance at this point in time. I didn’t have the energy to deal with the outcome.

  “Would you mind checking the thermostat? I’m freezing.”

  Avoiding his gaze, I pulled a blanket from the back of the couch, careful not to hit my hand on anything. The fuzzy material provided the warmth I wanted while keeping my hand from his sight. It might not be enough to deter him from treating me like a child that needed its boo-boo kissed, but by God, I’d try anything at this point.

  The furnace kicked on. Hopefully, it wouldn’t take long for the house to warm. Maybe I should have asked for a fire too. Then I could have lost myself in the dancing flames until sleep overtook me.

  “It will be nice and toasty here in a bit.” Brighton walked back around the couch. “Are you hungry? I can make you a sandwich or some soup.”

  “Thank you, but I’m tired. I just want to lay here and sleep.”

  “Okay then.” He held up a slip of paper, waving it in the air. “How about I go get your medicine filled?”

  “No.” My voice was harsh. I didn’t realize how harsh until Brighton’s jaw flinched. His attention shifted from me, to the prescription, and then to me again.

  My throat closed.

  “Wow…” Soft laughter filled the air, though nothing about his voice sounded amused. “You, uh…” He took a step back, greeting the coffee table with his leg. It took him a second to acknowledge the table and another second to place the paper atop it. Once he had, he dug his hands in his pockets and looked away. “You think I’m going to take some of your medicine.”

  Guilt rained over me. I tucked my feet under my legs as the cushion sank. Too bad the couch didn’t swallow me instead. Had it been so gracious, I wouldn’t have seen the hurt on his face.

  “I didn’t say that, Brighton.”

  “You didn’t have to. Your face said plenty.” His head shook side to side as he turned toward the fireplace. “I know this is hard on you. I’m sure I’d feel the same in your shoes. But this isn’t easy on me either. You’ve forgotten a lot, Jo. I’ll be glad when your memories are back.”

  “I’m sorry, Brighton.”

  I wanted him to look at me so I’d know if my apology meant anything, but he inched closer to the edge of the fireplace. His face no longer aimed toward his feet. It shifted to the mantle, where a picture sat beside the vase.

  The instant the photo came into view, the couple within the frame made the hole in my heart deepen. It was my favorite picture of our parents. I assumed it was the reason I’d set it next to the vase.

  Only it wasn’t a vase.

  Swiping my eyes, I drew the blanket closer and leaned against the sofa. I sucked in a deep breath, hating the stuffiness in my nose. Now Brighton would know I was crying. He’d turn around and ask what was wrong.

  And he did turn around. The knot in my stomach twisted when his eyes darted to mine. But there were no questions in them, only tears.

  “They’d be ashamed of me for all the stupid choices I’ve made. If it weren’t for you…”

  I waited for him to finish, hoping that he’d slip up as he had in the hospital, and say something that would spark a memory. But he didn’t.

  “Do you remember anything about their death?”

  “Bits and pieces,” I mumbled. “It happened ten years ago, didn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” he answered, clearing the emotion from his throat. “Just after we started our sophomore year.”

  Memories of that day came flooding back. I focused on the cinnamon-apple candle on the nearby end table, allowing those thoughts to plague my mind. “I remember being in History class. Mrs. Spangler came and told Mr. Sutton I was leaving. I had this instant knot form in my stomach.” My hand warmed my navel. “I knew people were staring at me, wondering if I was in trouble. It made my face burn the whole time I gathered my stuff. Then I stepped into the hall and saw you. The look on your face… I�
�d never seen you cry before that day.”

  “I never had a reason to cry until that moment.” He eased away from the mantle, making his way to the window. While I may not remember everything about him, I knew he had a big heart. It broke just as much as mine when we found out about our parents.

  “Do you remember anything else, sis?”

  I drew in several more breaths. Each one seemed to blow away the fog clouding my mind. “We came here, to Toledo, to live with Aunt Lucy. She didn’t have any kids. Couldn’t have them.”

  “She loved us like we were hers. Even when I—well, when I gave her every reason not to. That woman never gave up on me.”

  No, our aunt hadn’t, but neither had I.

  Trailing my fingers over the blanket, a new wave of memories crashed within my mind. Each one rocked me to the core. “It was cancer, wasn’t it?”

  Brighton peeked over his shoulder. Both brows formed a ‘v’ just above his nose. “Cancer? Oh, you mean Aunt Lucy?”

  “Yeah,” I nodded. “She died of ovarian cancer. I’d just come back from a tour with—” I gasped. My gaze lowered to my injured hand. “The piano. I play piano. For a symphony.” Each purple line that covered my fingers increased the thump in my heart. “Oh my God, Brighton.” I struggled to speak as he left his spot near the window. “My hand is useless. I’ll never play again.”

  He eased onto the cushion beside me, patting my knee through the blanket. “It’s okay, Jo.”

  This time I knew for a fact he was lying. Not because I didn’t believe him, but because I saw the worry on his face. “You’re lying, Brighton. Nothing about my life is okay. How can it be? Music is my life. Isn’t it?”

  His eyes averted from mine, as though he wanted to hide from the truth, but there was no need. Everything in my soul confirmed my thoughts. The misfortune I’d encountered had stolen more than my memories. It had stolen something more precious.

  My life.

  ~ CHAPTER TWO ~

  Wood crackled and popped in the fireplace as orange flames began their heated dance. I gazed past Brighton, focusing on each ember that floated toward the chimney, out of sight. I wished I could do the same. Disappear.

  As a moist stream trailed down my cheek, I grabbed a tissue from the box Brighton placed beside me before he started the fire. The urge to distrust him waned, especially since he’d spent the last thirty minutes begging me not to cry. He seemed genuine in his compassion, which made it more confusing that my soul pulsed a warning.

  Keep up your guard…

  I swiped my cheek with the soft paper then blew into it. I hated crying. Hated the way those tears stirred something within me. They, like the repetitive cramping in my stomach, were reminders that I was alive.

  Most people would appreciate that fact, but not me. Not with the constant throb of despair eating away my heart. Part of me wished that whatever had stolen my memories would have stolen my last breath as well.

  “Jo…”

  While his voice didn’t grate my nerves anymore, I didn’t want him trying to comfort me. Not because I was angry, but because he couldn’t.

  “Don’t, Brighton. You’ve wasted the last half hour on me. Nothing you say is going to make me feel better.”

  “Maybe not, but something you say, could.” He placed the poker back into the stand before gazing over his shoulder. Instead of looking in my direction, he concentrated on the end table beside the couch. “You need to talk about how you’re dealing with everything.”

  “I can’t.” I glanced at my fingers before squeezing my eyelids shut.

  “It’s not that you can’t, but that you won’t. Let. It. Out.”

  “No!” I glared at my brother, but his lips kept moving, as though he hadn’t heard me.

  “Cry if it helps. Cry hard. Cuss loudly, rudely, and crudely if you want. Just get it out. Holding it in will do more damage.”

  The searing pulse in my hand would beg to differ. I brought it to my chest and pointed at the bandages. “How can anything be worse than this?”

  He rose to his feet, dusted the soot off his jeans, and turned toward me. Cautious steps brought him closer to the couch where I remained, swaddled within its cushions.

  “It can always get worse, Jo. Trust me.”

  “I don’t see how. The only thing I’ve ever wanted to do is make music. That much I do remember.” I lowered my hand under the blanket and sighed.

  “You’ll make it again.”

  His eyes fell to my lap where my hand lay dormant. Knowing the blanket prevented him from staring at my hideous fingers provided me with a sliver of satisfaction. But regardless of how hidden my fingers were, it didn’t stop him from gawking. If anything, it seemed to irritate him that I hid them. The fold of his brow was a hint of such irritation, as was the way he plopped onto the cushion beside me.

  “You act as though you lost your hand. It’s just your fingers, sis. They will work once they heal.”

  I wanted to laugh at the insinuation. Had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from doing so. Did he not remember the physical therapy session at the hospital two days ago? I hadn’t.

  “I recall the doctor saying there’s a chance they won’t work. Didn’t you hear the physical therapist’s report?”

  Brighton tossed his head back, cracking it against the couch. The plush fabric muffled the sound, and hopefully, the blow to his skull. His head pivoted back and forth as he shook it, making him appear unfazed by his actions as much as my words.

  “They gave you statistics, Jo. That’s the recovery prognosis for the average person. But I know you, even if you don’t. As soon as you remember, you’ll be fine. Have a little faith.”

  “Somehow, I get the feeling that having ‘faith’ is what landed me in this mess.” Maybe that’s why my soul kept thrumming a warning when he was around. I’d placed too much faith in him and paid the price with my hand.

  Brighton’s frame grew rigid. It wasn’t the way he kept avoiding me that made me worry my assumption was true. It was his response.

  “Sometimes we place faith in the wrong people for the right reasons. We’re too blind to their faults, and they’re too blind to appreciate us.”

  My apprehension increased. “Are you saying I’ve trusted the wrong person?”

  He leaned his elbows against his knees, cupping his hands on either side of his temples. “All I’m saying is that without faith, we stop believing and trusting in others as well as ourselves. It leads us to make poor choices. Don’t fall into that trap.”

  His cryptic response made me wish I had all my memories of him. Because the more he talked, the more I wondered if his words were for me or for himself. He had his demons to deal with. The memories I regained reminded me of that fact, but it wasn’t enough to blame him for my condition.

  And I wouldn’t, unless my memories proved I had reason.

  “I know you’re trying to make me feel better, but I feel lost, Brighton. Not just because I can’t remember things, but because the one thing I can remember is out of my grasp. Literally. Music was my life. What if physical therapy doesn’t help? Who am I without music?”

  He dropped his hands from his face, rubbing them over his jeans. When he looked up, I saw his tears. “You love music. It’s your passion. No one could ever deny that. But it’s not what defines you.” He glanced down at my chest, pointing to the left side. “It’s what’s in there, Jo. The love in your heart is what defines you.”

  I didn’t argue. Not because I believed him, but more that I needed to believe him. He gave me something to hang on to. Whether it would be enough to save me from the darkness threatening to take me under, I didn’t know. But he gave me a glimpse of the one thing he wanted me to have. Faith.

  “Get some rest, Jo. I’m going to run some errands. I’ll be back in a bit.”

  He pushed himself off the couch, moving toward the coffee table. The prescription he’d placed upon it still remained, waiting to be delivered to the pharmacy. As I watched him pic
k it up, the spike of fear that pulsated within me earlier didn’t return. A smidgen of trust formed.

  At least I thought it was trust. Maybe it was just the need to believe in him or anyone at this point. Believing equaled trust, trust meant safety, and safety meant healing. I was in need of healing, not only for my fingers, but also for the part of me that craved it most.

  My soul.

  * * *

  I tapped the end button on my phone, watching Brighton’s name and ‘call ending’ flash across the screen. Five ignored calls later, doubt began to creep in again. Had his words held any merit, or was it an attempt to gain my trust so he could get my prescription? I didn’t want to believe he’d lied or stooped low enough to use me. Yet the later it grew, the more that doubt became reality.

  Pressing my list of contacts, I searched for another number. Perhaps he had a home or work number I’d saved at some point. A short scroll through the list brought up three entries: Brighton’s cell, home, and Dr. Campbell.

  How could a person only have three numbers in their cell phone? It didn’t seem possible. I played with an orchestra. I couldn’t create something as beautiful as music with a group of people and not connect with at least one of them. Didn’t I have any friends? At the very least, I should have my conductor’s number. Yet three entries occupied the phone screen.

  I tossed it across the bathroom, indifferent to whether or not it would break. There was no need to keep it. I needed my phone, not the piece of crap lying on the counter. It couldn’t be my phone. It just couldn’t…

  Brighton did something with mine, or maybe the hospital did something to it and he had it replaced. Why couldn’t he just say that? Unless it was the alternative. Maybe the bitter truth had revealed itself on that touch screen. Maybe I really didn’t have anyone.

  Water splashed against the porcelain tub, spreading eucalyptus-scented steam toward the ceiling. I drew in a deep breath then released it in one long exhale. Hopefully, the hot water would ease some of my aching muscles, like the ones in my shoulders. If nothing else, it would make me sleepy. I needed sleep, needed to give my mind a chance to stop stressing over Brighton, my old life, but mostly, my hand.