Listen to Your Heart

The pure white sheets of the hospital bed were draped across her fragile body, her skin as pale as marble, and her eyes as wide as saucers. The blue of her irises was the color of the sky outside of the small room; the same exact color of my own eyes as I watched on in dismay, as the woman within the sheets breathed the last of her breaths.

“I love you, Mommy,” I whispered quietly, and I let my tears fall as I reached forward for my mother’s tiny, frail hand. Her skin was ice cold, and it felt as if I were holding onto paper. In reality though, I was clutching for dear life to the thin fingers of my dying mother.

She had been fighting through the cancer for a few years; since I was just fourteen years old. Chemotherapy and radiation treatments had already been used, with absolutely no thriving results. There was no hope left for her, no possible way that she would survive, although I had always full-heartedly kept my faith. Yet now, as I recently turned sixteen years old, my little sister Rhiannon was nearing her fifth birthday, and our father had already got up and left Mom for another, my beautiful, strong mother felt as if she had nothing left to live for; as if she even had the choice. She knew that we--her daughters--were there for her, and she knew that we always would be. Even if Rhiannon was too young to realize what was happening to her, and I was just too scared myself to explain, she knew. Grace Foreihan, through all of the pain and fear she had been dealing with, knew for a fact that once she was gone, I would do my absolute best to live the rest of my life to it’s fullest.

My mother’s head turned slowly, the little remains of her raven hair tangled into the surface of the pillow behind her, the movements so soft it was as if she weren’t moving at all. Eventually, though, her blue eyes met my own, and I swore that I could see the hint of a smile begin to form on her thin, dry lips.

Her mouth opened ever-so-slightly just as the sound of the heart monitor at her bedside began to speed up, and I silently began to sob.

I dropped to her knees, holding onto my mother’s hand as her chest heaved, and she continued to keep our eyes locked.

“Don’t give up, Mommy,” I begged, and I shook the hand that I held as her eyes began to close. “You can make it, I know you can.”

I was in hysterics, my tears spilling from my eyes as every ounce of hope I had once held slowly left my wilted body. After all of those years of praying and hoping for my mother’s survival, the truth of it was finally hitting me harder than even possible.

And as those blue eyes opened once more, that shrill sound filling my innocent ears as the nurses rushed in, my mother, lying still on the bed, said those four final words before closing her eyes and falling asleep forever: “Never lose faith, Scar.”

The soft light of the early morning sun shone in through the slats in the cream colored blinds adorning the large bay window on the far wall of the bedroom, casting eerie shadows along the foot of the bed.

I was tucked away under the soft down-comforter of the Queen sized bed, having yet another bad dream of the horrible day when my mother passed away. My petite body curled up on the mattress, the periwinkle sheets tangling with my slender legs. My thick, night-black hair spread out in gentle waves on the pillow beneath my head, the shorter pieces framing my face sticking to my forehead from the sticky, damp feeling of sweat. A light snore escaped my salmon lips, sleep finally catching up with me as my eyelids began to flutter.

My crystal-blue eyes slowly began to open, and once they did, the light immediately flooded in and made itself at home. Quickly, I reached up a tired hand, shielding my face from the sudden brightness.

I was absolutely clueless; not knowing where I was, what had happened the night before, nor why on earth I was wearing only a football jersey over my pale pink underwear. All I knew, at that moment, was that last night’s sleep was great, yet the dream that I experienced left an aching feeling in the pit of my churning stomach.

My head was pounding; a severe migraine completely halting my train of thought, and small, circular bruises covered the pale skin of my arms. I let my hand drop to the bed beside me, staring blankly up at the tiny glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the cream-colored ceiling, trying to allow the blurriness to disperse from my vision. Where am I?

“Ash?” I asked softly. If I were with him the night before, there was a good chance of me being with him in the morning, right? I wiped at my face, running a hand through my knotted hair as I slowly sat up in the bed, pushing the sheets to my skinny ankles.

My eyes were opening wider now, as I finally began to notice my surroundings. I was in Asher’s bedroom, I noticed. I was in Asher’s bed, as well, curled up beneath the bedspread that he slept under nearly every night. Yet he, the owner of this very place, was nowhere to be seen.

“Asher?” I asked again, louder this time as I spun myself around, dangling my bare feet off of the edge of the bed. I pulled my sleek black hair together at the base of my damp, sweaty neck, wrapping it quickly with a hair-tie before hopping down onto the hard wood floor.

The surface was cold on my bare feet, sending shivers up my spine. Yet I padded across the freezing ground over to the full-length mirror on the closed bedroom door, anyway, completely ignoring the chillness of my toes.

My eyebrows knitted together as I stared back at my own reflection, boring holes into me through the mirror. My makeup was still smeared, hair still a mess, and I was wearing an oversized football jersey over the top of my plain pink underwear. My legs looked abnormally thin¾even thinner than normal¾and a lazy, defeated mood took over my entire body. There were tear stains under my eyes, greasy looking spots where I had cried in my sleep due to that awful dream without even knowing it myself, but I ignored them, and tried not to think about the dream itself.

Not finding anything interesting in what I had to look at, I sighed lightly. “Asher?” I asked again, turning away from the mirror and stretching my arms high above my head; yawning.

All I remembered from the night before was what had happened between Cedar Straehan and myself in Wendy Harris’s bedroom-an awful memory to say the least, the shocking splash of freezing Bud Light poured over my head, then being sat gently into the passenger seat of Asher’s mother’s Lincoln and driven to the Blake household; soaking wet, drunk, and violated.

I faintly remembered telling Asher not to take me home, knowing for a fact that my father would still be awake, awaiting my early morning arrival. So that would be why I was where I was, in the small, clean bedroom of none other than Asher Ronan Blake.

Then, although I hadn’t found out until just minutes before, I had fallen asleep in Asher’s bed, dreamt the same thing that I had been thinking about for the past month, and woke up as oblivious as ever.

“Asher,” I said again, rather confused as to where he had gone. Of course, it could have been late in the afternoon already. I had forgotten to look at the time on the clock on the nightstand when I crawled out of the bed, and didn’t own a cell phone or a watch to check the time either. It was Saturday, I knew that for a fact, so Asher could have been anywhere. “Where are you?”

When there was no answer, I slumped toward the door, cracking it open with gentle ease. I glanced out into the dim hallway, seeing no sign of Asher, nor any other Blake family member. If I were too see Asher’s elder brother, Aiden, I knew that I would be in for some tormenting. And at a time like this, with my recent memories only a fuzzy daze, and my head pounding as if someone was bashing a hammer into it, I just didn’t want to deal with anyone’s antics. Luckily for me, though, the hallway was absolutely empty. I sighed a reluctant sigh before retreating out of the room, closing the door behind me.

“Ash, are you here?” I asked yet again. As if on cue, I finally heard hushed voices coming from downstairs. I padded slowly toward the staircase, careful not to trip over my own feet. My hand found the guard rail, my fingers sliding along the soft wood.

The noise was quiet and not audible from the second floor of the house, yet soon, the words were becoming more and more clear. I was nearing the last step of the steep wooden staircase when I was able to hear exactly what was being said--if only parts of it.

“--for the last time, mother,” Asher groaned, his voice distant. Even from such a distance though, I could tell that he was frustrated. “Scarlett and I are just friends.”

My eyebrows raised, nearly jumping off clear off of my face. I didn’t exactly know what to think of this. Of course, I completely agreed with what Asher had said. We were just friends, and had been for nearly forever. Yet why would he be talking about their friendship then, and to his mother of all people?

My thoughts were faltered when another voice chimed in, this one quieter and in a higher falsetto. The sound of dishes scraping together, and the sudden, quiet sizzle of bacon was heard, and Asher’s mother started speaking. “I know, I know,” she said in a light whine, and the smell of the frying bacon filled my nostrils. My stomach let out a hungry grumble. I was starving. “She is just such a nice girl, Asher. And you know how hard it must be for her, with her mother gone and all, and the only thing I’m trying to say is that--”

Asher butted in once again, and I heard as his fists slammed down onto the kitchen table. The sound, even from far away, made me jump. “All you’re trying to say is that maybe she needs a friend,” he snapped, and his mother stayed silent. I felt rather awkward, standing there at the bottom of the stairs, eavesdropping on a conversation involving me. Most of all, though, I hated people feeling sorry for me. My mother was gone, yes, and I accepted the fact. It didn’t help when it seemed as if everywhere I went, someone was showing sympathy or trying to give me special treatment just because my mother had passed away. I kept quiet, though, and continued to listen as Asher went on. “What I don’t think you understand,” he said, softer this time, “is that I am Scarlett’s friend. I’m her best friend, Mom. I don’t need to be her boyfriend to help her get through things. Besides, she’s her own person. She is strong; stronger than you probably think. And she can sure in Hell make it on her own.”

I instantly felt a smile tug at my chapped lips. I was leaning around the wall by the stairs, the dining room being the only thing separating me from Asher and his mother. I could have stayed there for a while, too, just listening to their conversation, until my foot slipped on the wood of the bottom step, and I stumbled into the doorway of the dining room.

Mrs. Blake was startled, and she held a hand on her chest, and a coffee mug in the other hand, as she stared at me. I hadn’t completely fell to the ground, and I had forgot that I was only wearing underwear beneath that baggy football jersey. I figured it was long enough to cover everything, though, so I didn’t try and hide. It was too late, anyway. They had caught me. My cheeks flushed red with embarrassment.

Asher’s expression was a mix between shock, surprise, and a little bit of remorse, and I could tell that he knew that I had heard everything. He wouldn’t have been looking so worried if he didn’t think so.

“Uh, sorry,” I stuttered quickly, and I nervously tucked a strand of hair behind an ear. Both Asher and Mrs. Blake were still staring at me with the same wondering gaze. “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything, I was just--”

“No need to explain, dear,” Mrs. Blake smiled suddenly, and her body straightened. “Come on in and get some breakfast.”

I was rather stunned, and was speechless until I forced myself to nod and step into the kitchen. It was obvious that I had been eavesdropping on their conversation. But then again, Mrs. Blake was too kind of a woman to point fingers--especially when it was someone like me to blame.

Asher was seated at the table, leaning back in the four-slat wooden chair. He was wearing a plain white t-shirt and red flannel pajama pants, a pair of furry Scooby-Doo slippers adorning his feet. His light brown hair was sticking up in various directions--the way it always looked before he gained the energy to get out the hair gel and comb--and purplish bags lined the underneath areas of his eyes. He looked very tired, and I immediately wondered exactly how much alcohol he had consumed the night before.

I quickly sat down in the chair beside Asher and crossed my skinny spider legs, pulling down on the bottom of the football jersey to hide my upper thighs and the pink of my panties. When Asher noticed what I was fiddling with, he glanced under the table once before grinning from ear to ear, shaking his head with narrowed eyes.

I ignored his gesture, though, and focused solely on the aroma of the Blake’s kitchen. I could easily smell the bacon, as well as hear it as it continued to sizzle in the pan on the stove, and a sort of fruity scent drifted from a Tupperware container on the counter. I had always loved eating over at Asher’s house. Not only were his parents as kind as ever, but Mrs. Blake was an amazing cook. It was so much different than being at home, where my father preferred frozen pizzas and takeout, and my step-mother could barely cook toast without burning it. Over all, smelling and watching as Mrs. Blake moseyed around the kitchen was a welcoming sight.

“It smells delicious, Mrs. Blake,” I finally said, and I inhaled deeply as Asher focused on folding a paper napkin into a Chinese football. I rubbed my stomach as it grumbled again, and she realized exactly how starved she really was.

Mrs. Blake smiled, reaching up into one of the cabinets above her head and coming down with a stack of plates. She immediately began filling them, piling each one high with fluffy scrambled eggs and golden hash browns. My mouth began to water. “Well thank you, darling,” Mrs. Blake said finally, waltzing across the kitchen and placing a full plate on the place mat in front of my position, “and for the last time, Scarlett. You can call me Vivienne.”

The corner’s of my mouth lifted, and I picked up my fork with pleasure. I laughed lightly before digging into my eggs, anticipating the feel of eating for the first time in over twenty-four hours. They felt warm as I chewed, and the food swam down my parched throat. I quickly chased the eggs down with the glass of milk that had been placed in front of me, and then I dug into the mountain of fluffy yolks again.

I barely looked up when Asher began speaking, shoving piece after piece of crisping bacon into his mouth. “So,” he started, his mouth obnoxiously hanging open as he continued, “Are you going to the thing today?”

I raised an eyebrow, dropping my fork for the first time since I had began eating, and wiped off my lips with a paper napkin. “What thing?” I asked, confused.

Asher swallowed his previous bite, and flipped his hair out of his eyes. “You know,” he said again, grabbing the jug of milk that Vivienne had held out to him, “the visitation thing… for your mom.”

Immediately, all of those thoughts of my mother that I had been doing a very good job of keeping away came back to me at once, and my heart fell into my stomach. All of a sudden, I had lost my appetite. I slowly pushed my plate--still half full--away from me as Mrs. Blake sat down in the chair between Asher and I. When I went a long while without answering the lingering question, only staring blankly at Asher from across the table, he finally began to apologize. “Oh, God, Scar,” he said swiftly, and he nervously ran a hand through his damp hair. “I’m sorry, I-I was just wondering, and--”

“It’s fine.” I cut him off sharply, my words loud and straight-to-the-point. Mrs. Blake found it her time to leave the room, then, getting up just as quickly and easily as she had sat down only seconds before, and Asher watched her as she retreated to the living room, before turning his attention back to me.

“Are you sure?” he asked softly, and he leaned into the table, his eyes now solely on my own.

I nodded, and pushed strands of my dark hair out of my bluer-than-blue eyes. “Yeah,” I added, softer this time, and I looked down at my lap, my hands curling into the hem of the football jersey.

It was quiet again, and neither of us knew what to say. What could we say? Asher was still convinced that he had upset me, and I myself was too transfixed on my own thoughts to speak out loud.

There were a million and one different things running through my mind as I sat there, thinking about what was to come in the next few days. I had been doing very well, keeping both my mother’s death, and the events that followed, hidden way far back in my mind. The visitation was today, as Asher had said, starting in just a few hours. And then, of course, the day after would be the funeral itself. I was afraid, to be honest, scared of having to sit in the sanctuary of the local church, as my mother lay stone cold in the open casket in the front of the room. I didn’t even know how I would react as soon as I saw her face, nor if I would be able to handle the reality of it all. But as I sat there, at the kitchen table with my best friend, I knew one thing, and one thing for certain. So, with pride in my shattered heart, I looked up and met Asher’s eyes, and said simply, “I’ll be there.”