MY PARENTS GREW up during a time when if something was broken you fixed it. You didn’t throw it away. From a young age, I’d been taught the same, which set me apart from many others of my generation who were quick to simply replace.
I liked fixing things.
I’d spent my entire life fixing things.
I’d made a career out of taking the broken and making it whole. Ironic, wasn’t it? How I had an entire studio of mended creations, and yet I couldn’t manage to fix myself.
Naïvely, I’d thought receiving a new heart would solve all my problems. That it would somehow take away my fears and allow me to start living the life I’d always wanted to live. I’d thought wrong. The only thing it had accomplished was a sense of false reality. It made me feel like a fraud. An imposter. A failure.
And Cassi … I couldn’t fix her any more than I could fix myself.
Perhaps fixing things wasn’t the answer. Maybe it was never the answer. Maybe I needed to stop trying to repair what was broken and work on creating something entirely new.
With my arms hanging limply by my sides, I stood in my studio, staring at a picture of my mother, which sat on a shelf above my worktable. The photo had been taken at the beach six months before she’d passed. She’d stood perched on a rock, looking out at the Atlantic, the wind blowing through her brown hair as the salty water crashed onto the shore. Sand dusted her toes, and the sun kissed her skin. I remembered her standing there for several minutes, smiling, soaking it all in. The happiness beaming off her face had resembled that of a young, healthy woman, not one who was dying.
Cruel how deceiving perceptions could be.
Turning, she’d stepped off the rock and made her way over to where I was building a castle in the sand. She’d dropped a kiss to the top of my head, raking her fingers through my hair and asking, “How does your heart feel, my sweet boy?”
How does my heart feel?
I screwed my eyes shut, my fists tightening against the pain accompanying those words as they transferred to the present. How the fuck was my heart supposed to feel? Anything that had ever mattered in my life had been ripped away, torn from my feeble grasp before I’d even been able to fully appreciate it.
And this heart …
This goddamn heart in my chest.
Out of all the hearts I could have possibly received, it had to be his?
What the hell were the chances?
The odds were unbelievable, but when you took several factors into consideration, such as the length of time I’d spent on the donor list, the similarities Adam and I shared in terms of age and size, and then, of course, our proximity in terms of location and the small window of time for the heart to be transported and transplanted, it wasn’t completely far-fetched.
Some might even call it fate.
I grimaced.
If fate existed, if she were a real thing, then she was one twisted and sick bitch. How could she bring Cassi and I together in such a way that doomed us from the start? She’d never be able to look at me and not see anyone other than the person who ripped apart her entire world, and I couldn't look at her and not see what my life and future could have been.
“That was a good day.”
Withdrawn from my thoughts, I turned and watched as my father made his way into my studio, the blustery wind drifting in a few inches of the snow we’d received overnight. He closed the door, blocking out the bitterness of December, and then joined me by my worktable. As he took the framed photo in his hands, his expression softened. Time had faded the once vibrant colors, but my mother’s smile was still as bright as the sun had been that day. He smoothed his fingers over the dusty glass, a look in his eyes that said he remembered exactly how it had felt to smooth them over her skin, and my heart clenched.
He loved her, deeply and with every ounce of himself, and it wasn’t his undying love for her I resented over the years. It was that he hadn’t been able to find it in his heart to love me, too. He hadn’t been the only one to lose her. I’d lost her, too. But he had been so deep in his own sea of grief, he couldn’t see his son struggling through the same storm. He’d allowed his devastation to cripple our relationship, but we were making progress, slowly. We were finally learning to need each other the way we should have back then.
“You know, that day we knew the chances of her receiving a new heart were slim, but she never gave up hope. And even when that hope died, she never stopped smiling.” My father continued to stare at the photo, a fondness on his face I could only ever recall seeing when he looked at my mother. “I know it has seemed as though I’ve been absent these last nineteen years, and I won’t deny a part of me has. A part of me died along with her, but even if it hasn’t felt like it, I’ve always been here. I’ve celebrated all of your successes. Every single one. I’ve watched you grow from a curious young boy to an exceptional young man, and I’m so damn proud of the person you’ve become. Your mother would be proud, too.”
“Why did you do it?”
Confusion marred his features. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re asking—”
“If you were there the entire time, then why? Why did you shut me out after Mom died? I realize you were hurting, but fuck, Dad. I was hurting, too. I was lost and lonely and scared. I was nine years old and dealing with the same shit that had taken my mother. My heart was failing, just like hers, and I needed you. I needed you just as much, if not more, than I needed her.”
From the corner of my eye, I witnessed a frown appear on my father’s lips, but I didn’t turn toward him.
“I’m sorry, Sam. I’m so damn sorry.”
A painful lump clogged my throat. “She always used to ask me how my heart felt, do you remember that?”
Setting the photo back on its shelf and sliding his hands into his pants pockets, my father looked at me. His gaze remained on my face, and for the first time in a long time, he understood. “How does your heart feel, son?”
“Broken.” Tears pricked the corners of my eyes. “It feels broken. And I hate that she’s not here to help me fix it. I don’t know how to fix it.”
My father and I had never been ones to exchange comforting gestures, and I wasn’t sure we ever would be, but as he pulled a hand from his pocket and placed it on my neck, I felt closer to him than I ever had. “You’re your mother’s son, through and through, Sam, but if there is one trait of mine you inherited, it’s that you’ve always been a silent fighter. We battle our wars eternally and hide our scars, but sometimes, sometimes we need to let others see our wounds in order for them to properly heal. Whatever war you’re fighting, I want you to know you don’t have to do it alone.”
My voice cracked, the wetness finally making its way down my cheek. I hated it. I hated how weak it made me feel, how vulnerable. “I feel like I’ve spent my entire life fighting to live, and now that I finally get the chance, I’ve managed to lose the one woman I thought I was meant to live it with.”
“How do you know she was the one?”
“I didn’t. My heart did.” On a deep and painful sigh, I glanced down at the gold and silver glass creation I’d spent the last month working to piece together. It had been meant to be a gift, but I couldn’t bring myself to finish it. Most days, I couldn’t even bear to look at it. “Why?” I whispered, not wanting nor expecting a reply but just needing to get the question off my chest. “Why did it have to be his heart? Why?”
My father’s lips thinned. “Maybe fate knew it was only his heart that could save you.”
I shook my head, fighting the emotion threatening to spill, and his grip on me tightened.
“Maybe … maybe you were the only one capable of saving her.”
We hadn’t been saved though, had we?
We were still broken—perhaps far more than we’d ever been.