Vacant Heart

Chapter Twenty-Five

The sixty-year-old steps to my mother's two-story Victorian home groans under the weight of our shoes. The house I grew up in over the years has seen some storms, battled through the always changing seasons with wondrous stability. Even now, with hardly any effort provided by my mother, only a landscaper that comes by once a month, the reliable home stands erect and proud.

The neighbors have graciously paved her walkway to the street, although they know she rarely leaves the house now, except when she's with me. Wind chimes dance in the harsh wind, creating song for our entrance.

My hesitance is palpable. Even though the nurse on rotation informed me she was sharp today, which at the time seemed like a sign that this wasn't a total mistake, it's now settled in that I'm introducing her to Aidan Hughes, a man that a couple weeks ago was an assignment of mine. Nothing more.

Now, he's entering behind me, and I'm introducing him to the nurse I've only met a few times. She's kind, all of them are kind. You have to be in this line of work. It's not hard to notice him taking in the warm surroundings, the doorway into my childhood, into my soul.

The walls are clustered with collages of pictures, drawings, article clippings of mine. The curtains are of floral design, and I recall her telling me they came with the house when we took it on. She never bothered changing them. I extend my arm for his coat and gloves, folding my fingers in when it becomes apparent that they are shaking.

I hope he doesn't notice.

After I've taken them, leaving him to admire the lines of memories on the walls, and on the tables, I remove my layers of clothing, setting them collectively on the steps that lead to the second floor.

"It's overwhelming."

He chuckles, eyes sweeping over the walls. "She's clearly proud of you, despite her wanting to marry you off."

My smile doesn't touch my eyes. I'm too unnerved.

Aidan knows more than I'd like him to regarding my family, and if I've learned anything since my time meeting him, it's that his brain is virile, an endless compilation of knowledge. He doesn't forget things easily.

"She's in the bedroom," I say, swallowing. "We won't stay long. I know you must be tired."

The sun is setting outside the windows as we climb the steps to the second story. There may be mounds of dirty snow outside, but the rays of sunlight are melting the ice quickly. The last step squeals, a result of the time when my foot came down hard enough on it to break through the wood. The repair man merely added a plank onto it, thus creating the world's noisiest step.

At first, I think against opening the doorway to my bedroom, the place where I experienced the worst and best moments of my life, but expecting he'll ask to see it later, I decide to get it over with.

"This is my room...was my room."

Aidan moves through the doorway, nearly knocking his head against the doorframe, which was no doubt constructed for a short family. When I hit puberty, my legs soared, and even I have slammed into it a time or two.

He smirks, admiring the girlish charm. The posters, the second-hand vanity wedged into a corner, the pictures of me and friends I cannot even remember names of. Even my bedding is as I left it, a quilt of small butterflies, something I adored as a growing teen.

"It's sweet."

"It's hideous," I object, amusedly, which makes him laugh.

"You know, Lily had a blanket like that one. We kept it in her crib. She loved to point at the butterflies individually."