Heart on a Shoestring (18 page)

I shook my head and exhaled. “You and your loaded questions.”

“What is the story of your life if you never change?”

“This coming from the girl with pink hair.”

“Have you changed?”

“I can’t speak for the entire world. All I know is that for me . . . I don’t ever want to be a part of an abortion again and I’m sorry I ever was. Yes, I feel like I’ve killed innocent lives, but I can’t make the choice for everyone around me. Like you said, God doesn’t force anyone to do good or bad. We have to make the choices that define our lives. The really difficult thing is that even if I see something as good, someone else may think it’s horrible. I might see something as bad, but they’re seeing it as good. We can’t change people with our sap stories. Besides, it doesn’t matter what my opinion is. Whether I agree with it or not, people need to make their own choices. I don’t want to tell my emotional story in hopes of swaying people in one direction. If they can’t come to it within themselves they’ll just laugh at my story anyway.” I took her hand. “I just want to be with you, move on from that life, and live a simple life together until we’re old.”

“Are you saying you want to marry me?”

“That goes without saying.”

She smiled, kissed my hand, and wrapped her arms around me. We fell back into the pillows, laughing. She dug her sharp fingernails into my ribs, attempting to tickle me. I laughed and pushed her away. She grabbed a pillow and shoved it into my face. I grabbed another one and shoved it into my own face, pretending to throw myself off the bed. I landed on the floor and she peered down in hysterics. Our laughter filled the room as she jumped on top of me and dug her fingers into me again. I pushed her away and tickled her back until she begged for mercy. When I won and she gave up, we stayed on the floor, looking up at the ceiling like two snow angels holding hands.

After a few minutes of silence, she stood. “Be right back.”

A few seconds later she returned to the room and set a gift on the floor beside me. I sat up and took it. “What’s this for?”

“Just because.”

I shook the box. 

“Just open it,” she said.

I unwrapped the brown paper to reveal a plain brown box underneath. Her handwriting covered the top. 
Life is more colorful when you’re in love
. I laughed. “Nice one.”

She smiled. “Open the box.”

I opened it and pulled out a laminated flower. “Is this—?”

“I picked three flowers that day. I laminated each one, just in case I wanted to remember that kiss.”

“Some kiss. Knocked you right off your feet.”

She laughed. “I’ll never forget that day. Those flowers. I know we aren’t talking about the future and all, but I’d like to have my honeymoon there.” She tapped my chest. “Not sure who I’m going to marry, but if I do get married, I’d like to have my honeymoon there and make love in that field of flowers.”

Heat rushed through my body, causing sweat to instantly gather on my forehead. “Don’t tempt me, little Lizzy.” I set the flower on my lap and took her hands. Her eyes brightened. I’d never seen her so happy, and for a moment, I caught my own reflection in her glassy eyes. I’d never seen myself so happy either. So content. “You’ve turned my life upside down. In a good way.”

“I love you, Derek. I love you so much more than I ever thought I could love another person.” Her eyes looked back and forth between my eyes. “Don’t you ever make me regret this.”

“I may not be William Wallace, but I plan to give this everything I’ve got.”

She licked her lips and leaned toward mine. The chemistry between us spazzed out. I don’t think chemistry could handle the sparks when our lips met. I don’t think any word in the world could explain the way I felt with her. The closet thing I can think of, which in no way does it justice….

Electrifyingly content.

A knock boomed through the apartment. Miranda jumped. I stood and walked to the front door with her lagging behind me, her fingertips in the palm of my hand. Who could be at my door? I thought. I just moved here. Miranda seemed perplexed too, and when I opened the door we both dropped our jaws to the floor.

Her father stepped into my apartment, took off his Pittsburgh Pirates hat, and said, “May I?”

I ushered him toward the couches which were covered in boxes. I shoved a few aside and made room for the three of us. We all sat down, then he stood back up. “I can’t stay long.” He rolled his hat between his hands, then looked at us with a pained expression. “Look, I came here to apologize. To both of you.” He looked at me, still switching the hat from hand to hand. “I thought about what you said and you’re right.” He looked at Miranda and put his hat back on. A shadow hovered over his eyes. “Miranda, you are my daughter and I’m sorry. I wasn’t the father you needed. I wasn’t the husband your mother needed. I wasn’t much of anything for anyone and it took a while to realize it.” He stepped toward the door and turned back to us. “I’m trying to get help.” 

He extended his hand to me and shook, then reached for Miranda’s hand, but she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pressed her cheek against his chest. He jerked and bit his lip. I looked at my feet.

“Not every story has a perfect ending,” he said. “But I want to do my best to make my story turn out a little better. You know, I got to thinking about things . . . at my funeral what would my memory be? When my dad died I was twelve years old, raised to be tough and suck it up, but during his funeral they couldn’t find me. I was hiding under his casket shaking so hard I almost knocked the thing over. When he died I lost something and I’m afraid if I died right now people wouldn’t lose anything, they’d gain something. That’s not what I want.” He shook his head and stepped back into the room, away from the door. “When my father died I remembered fun times. I remembered playing ball and breaking in my gloves. I’m sorry I haven’t given you good memories, Miranda. I want to make it better. I want to die a better man than the one I’ve been. I’ve been through a lot.” He squeezed his eyes shut as though in pain. “But it’s no excuse . . . it’s no excuse. . . .”

“Dad,” she said, peering up at him through strands of tear-soaked hair. “I always loved you. We all did. That’s why you hurt us so much, because we loved you so much.” More tears. “I’m sorry too. I’m sorry for all of the horrible things I’ve said throughout my life. I wasn’t the best kid in the world and I know that.”

“You’re my daughter. I know I’ve never said this before since you’ve come into the world, but I want you to hear it now. And it’s not easy for me to say it. For some reason it feels like pulling hair, but I need to say it.” He drew in a breath. “I love you.” And with that he nodded his head, tipped his hat to me, and put one hand on the door knob. “Thank you both.”

He closed the door behind him. Miranda and I moved to the front window, peeled back the curtains, and watched him saunter away with his head up. 

She leaned into my arms and sniffed. “I can’t believe it.”

“I can’t either,” I said. “I think I’m still in shock.”

“You know, sometimes I wonder if more people would change if we only believed in them.” She let go of the curtains and faced me. “We are so trained into believing the worst, into thinking some people are beyond hope. What if it’s our lack of belief that makes people hopeless? What if we can change the world just by hoping for the best instead of settling for the worst?”

I kissed her forehead and pulled her into me. “I’ve never known anyone like you, Liz.”

“I’m serious though.”

“I know you are. And I love you for it.”

Another lonely park bench called my name. It’s wrought iron frame, wooden slats, and desire to hold another life filled with wonder. I sat down and admired the passing strangers. One by one they entered my life, if only for a brief moment, then exited. Kids licking ice cream off their chins. Teens running their thumbs down their phone screens. Business people briskly walking to their appointments. Couples stopping to kiss underneath the arms of a tree. Life. Passing by. Inspiring me, once again, to pull out my journal. I reclined on the bench, pressed my blue-tipped pen into the paper, and began at the place most stories leave off.

And they lived happily ever after....

Most love stories begin with “once upon a time” and end with “happily ever after.” Not Turtle and Lizzy. Their “once upon time” happened to be the beginning of their friendship, but not the beginning of their love story.

Both Turtle and Lizzy suffered from the same illness disguised in different ways. Lizzy spent her life feeling unworthy of love, so she shut down and turned herself into a revolving door and tried to blend in to her latest attraction. Turtle, on the other hand, made a few wrong decisions and became someone he couldn’t stand, so he reverted to his shell and deemed himself unworthy of the love he so desired.

Fear.

That was their illness. They feared themselves. Feared others. Feared opinions, rejections, and, well, each other.

But they didn’t give up. They tried to, but didn’t know how. So Turtle helped Lizzy learn how to find her own colors instead of being such a chameleon all the time. Lizzy also helped Turtle. He would say she helped him become a man, a real Turtle man. But Lizzy doesn’t see it that way. She believes she simply helped him discover the boy in him. Because to her, it’s the boy in the man that makes a man so valiant. 

Either way, the love between them broke down the walls around their hearts and for the first time in their lives they opened up to another person. Let someone in. Loved. Really loved.

So, how can we start the Turtle and Lizzy story with “happily ever after?” Easy. Because when two people finally find the courage to do something they’ve been fearing for so long ... they will fight forever to keep the gift they’ve been given. Because now, it’s no longer opening up that they fear... It’s losing the one they’ve let in.

He sat down by my feet and smiled at me. Serene, soothing. A few months ago the very presence of one another made us both uneasy. Now we felt at home. My best friend turned into my boyfriend and I knew without a doubt, when the time was right, we’d naturally find ourselves as husband and wife.

I locked my fingers with his and smiled. “I’ll never let you go. You know that, right? You’re stuck with me forever now.”

He draped his arm over my knee and grabbed my other hand. “Can’t think of someone better to be stuck to.”

“You know.” I sat up and snuggled into his chest. “I sat on this bench so many times. Wondering if I’d get married. If I’d let someone in and if that person would actually like what they found.” I leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Now, I’m sitting here with you and looking at the girl on that bench over there.”

“Where?”

I pointed. “She reminds me of myself. I’ve been watching her since I got here. She’s been watching others. Like I do. I can’t help but wonder if she’s looking at us and fashioning her own ideals as she imagines our love story unfolding before her eyes.”

“Well.” He laughed. “Not everyone has an imagination like you. You wonder far more than the average person.”

“Yes.” I ripped a blank paper out of my journal. “I have an idea.”

“That reminds me. Now that I’m living here I need you to help me figure out what I should do for my job.”

“Live off your savings?”

He laughed. “You know I don’t feel right spending all that on myself. Plus I need a job. Something to do.”

“Maybe deliver babies?”

He gazed into the distance. Probably imagining his son.

“Think happy thoughts. Replace all of your bad memories with good ones. Bring life into the world.”

“What was your idea with the paper?”

“Let’s leave notes on benches. Every time I sit on a bench I want to leave something behind.”

“Meaning?”

I drew a heart then tore around the edges. Still had an extra red shoe string in my purse, so I looped it through a hole in the heart and handed it to Derek. “Write something on it.”

“Like what?”

“Anything. Something that will inspire the person who sits here next.”

He took my pen and thought about it.

“Don’t think too hard,” I said. “Might hurt yourself.”

“I have no idea what to write.”

“Come on. Be inspiring.” I tapped his head. “Feel the inspiration. Be the inspiration.”

“Very funny.” He took the cap off the pen. “Still clueless.”

“Imagine a young guy sitting down here after a long day at school. He’s a senior in high school. Scholarship to every university imaginable, but he feels empty. Lonely. Now, tell him something. A quick word of inspiration that will spark his heart and bring him to life.”

“You’re something else. You know that?”

I pointed to the heart. His pen touched the paper, grazed it with gentle strokes, and formed a small paragraph. He put the cap back on the pen and handed me the heart.

If anyone is going to be the villain in your story, don’t let it be yourself. When you find the right one, give her all of you, not just the good parts, the scraps too. Let her into the worst and if she still loves you, keep her. Jump off the bridge. Leap across the canyon. Fly. You won’t die, and if you do, it’s a good kind of death anyway. Life is waiting on the other side.

I smiled. “Perfect.” We stood. I hung the shoe string on the back of the bench so the heart dangled in front. We stepped back, admired our work, and then admired each other.

He took my hand and led me away from the bench. The cool breeze flipped the leaves on the trees, making way for another summer storm, possibly the last before autumn covered the stage of life with a new backdrop. Birds chirped above us, people jogged with headphones in their ears, and the girl with a sweet sparkle in her eyes grinned as we passed her. Strangers crossing paths. Our eyes met and I could see hope beneath her gaze. Like damp soil warmed after a germinating winter, ready and eager for life. Ready for anything. Something.

Derek swayed our hands as our feet stepped to the same rhythm, carrying us into a dream where princes donned themselves in brown t-shirts and princesses had pink hair and laceless shoes. Together, we inhaled the present and exhaled the future. Every moment meant something. Every action counted. Another memory in our story. Another page in our book. The story we’d write side-by-side until the moon no longer glowed on our faces, but lit our names on neighboring gravetones.