 |
| Cover for Heart on a String by Susan Soares |
When ALS Ice Bucket fever hit, I had the opportunity to ask today's featured guest, Susan Soares, what she or her characters would do for charity?
What would I do to support a charity? Well I've walked in the American Cancer Society Making Strides against Breast Cancer Walk. I've also done the relay for life event also through the American Cancer Society.
In Heart on a String the main character, Marrissa's mother passes away from breast cancer. Learning how to finally face up with the fact that she can't live in the shadow of her mother's death is a vital part of the character’s growth. In the beginning of the story she hides the fact that her mom has passed away. She for sure never talks about the cancer that stole her from her life. It's shameful to her to not have a mother. She can't bear to go to her mother's grave for the pain it causes her. She finds herself falling in love with a guy who has lost his younger brother, only he has a much healthier way of dealing with his grief. You’ll have to read the story to find out how she grows, and what she does to honor her mother’s memory.
The Deets...
The only thing harder than lying about your life? Facing it.
Marissa tells lies.
To herself, about the fact that her brother abandoned her.
To her grandmother, when she says “everything’s fine.”
To the world when she pretends her mother is at home or working
late. When she doesn’t tell them her mother is dead.
She doesn’t even question the wisdom of living in a world built on
lies anymore—until she meets Brandon. Unlike Marissa, Brandon faces his grief
head-on. As their relationship sweetens, Marissa realizes the value of letting
someone in and not letting her grief destroy her. But when her past filled with
denial catches up with her, Marissa is forced to tell Brandon her darkest
secrets, or risk losing him.
The only thing harder than lying about her life? Facing it.
A Sneak Peek inside...
I held my breath as I ran past the
cemetery. Stupid, I know. Regardless, it’s one of those idiotic things that
stick with you from your childhood. Like fragments of your being that imprint
themselves on your chemical makeup. It was my older brother, Marc, who had told
me that once when we were in the backseat of Mom’s old hatchback and were
driving past the Sacred Path Cemetery.
Marc poked me in my side. “Quick,
hold your breath,” he said before taking in a puff of air and holding it in.
“What? Why?” I looked around from
side to side.
He didn’t answer me. Instead he just
kept motioning with his hands, pointing out the window, putting his hands
around his neck like he was choking or something. Finally, when we turned left
onto Harper Street he let out a big exhale.
“Oh man, now you’re toast.” He
pointed at me and laughed. That maniacal laugh only older brothers know how to
do. I was seven at the time, and Marc was ten. “You probably have a ghost
inside you now.” He grinned like a devious villain.
“A ghost?” I said.
“You didn’t hold your breath while
we drove past the cemetery. Again I state — you’re toast.” He began drumming on
his lap with his hands.
I didn’t comprehend what he was
telling me, but I knew I didn’t like it. Tears started forming in my eyes, and
I knew I had to rely on my failsafe. “Mooommm,” I cried out, and immediately I
felt Marc’s sweaty hand over my mouth.
“Yes, Marissa?” Mom’s sweet voice
carried from the front of the car to the backseat.
“She’s fine, Mom. I got it.” Marc’s
tone was of the dutiful son. He unclamped his hand from my face. “Listen,” he
began, talking kind of slow. “You’ve got to remember this. I’m going to give
you a life lesson here. Are you ready?”
His green eyes were sparkling, and I
nodded my head in agreement.
“Okay.” He crouched down a bit so he
was eye-level with me. “You must always, and I mean always, hold your breath
when you drive past a cemetery. And if you’re walking past one, you must run —
run and hold your breath until you’re clear. Otherwise, the spirits of the
undead could invade your body. And you don’t want that to happen. Do you?” I
almost couldn’t tell if the last part was a question or a statement.
“But I didn’t hold my breath back
there, and all the times before. What if one’s in me right now?” I began pawing
at my body.
Marc threw his head back and
laughed. “Nah, you’re fine. Just be careful. Now that you know you have to do
it, always do it. Understand?”
Again I shook my head. Marc gave me
a thumbs-up, and I begged Mom to take Chester Street instead of Maple because I
knew there was a big cemetery on Maple. Luckily she agreed.
So now, here I was ten years later,
holding my breath as I ran past Sacred Path Cemetery. While I ran, my new
sneakers — the ones I had to work double shifts on Saturdays for three weeks to
get — started rubbing the back of my left heel, and I knew I’d have a blister
the size of a quarter later on. It’s hard to keep your pace when you’re holding
your breath. Luckily Sacred Path Cemetery isn’t that big. Just big enough. It’s
just big enough. That’s what my grandmother said anyway. I was almost halfway through
when I heard the clicking of the tips of my shoelace on the ground. My thoughts
concentrated on what those tip things were called, anything to get my mind off
the cemetery. Aglets, I remembered! My aglets were hitting the pavement, and I
knew if I didn’t stop and retie that lace, then I would land flat on my face.
Grace has never been a character trait of mine. My mother, yes, but not me.
Marissa No-Grace McDonald should have been my legal name. How my mother came up
with Scranton for my middle name I’ll never know.
The last thing I wanted to happen
was to fall face first in front of the cemetery. Complete body invasion for
sure then. I couldn’t hold my breath that long. So I did what I had to do. I
stopped, turned my face the opposite direction of the cemetery, and took one
big breath in and held it. Next, I bent down and furiously retied that lace.
Why is it that whenever you try doing something in a rush it never comes out
right? Somehow I tied my finger into the knot. Then, I couldn’t get the loops
to line up right. Just as I was finally conquering the over-under shoelace
tying technique that Marc had taught me when I was five, I heard muffled sounds
coming from inside the cemetery. I searched for the source of the sounds. As I
looked near the line of big oak trees that lined the right-hand side of the
cemetery, I saw the profiles of a family. What I assumed was a family, anyway.
There was a woman, about my mom’s age, a guy about my age, and a younger boy,
maybe six or seven. The little boy was holding a metallic balloon, which was
red and in the shape of a heart. Bright sun caught the corner of it, creating a
glare that momentarily impaired my vision. When my eyes refocused, I was
suddenly aware of my body and extremely aware of the fact that I was watching
this family’s private moment, in the cemetery, in this cemetery. My heart beat
frantically, and I became aware that my forehead was covered in perspiration. I
stood up, held my breath again, and ran the next half a block without stopping,
my aglets clicking against the pavement all the way.
When I crossed over onto Brenton
Street, I finally slowed down. I felt like I could breathe again. My pace was
back to a more conservative speed, and after one more break to retie that
shoelace-triple-knot, I was able to refocus. The spring air felt good on my
skin. As the sun poured down on me, my face embraced its warmth. Lilacs were in
full bloom everywhere, and I made a special detour down Hazel Street to run
past the six lilac bushes Mr. Brockwell planted a few years ago. He said it was
just because he wanted to add some color to his front yard, but I knew better.
I knew they were for my mom.
Turning down Hazel Street, I inhaled
the heavy floral scent of the freshly-bloomed lilac bushes, and I could picture
my mom smiling. As I ran past the last bush, the little blue house finally came
into view. I saw Mr. Brockwell picking up his newspaper from his front step. In
that moment I wished I had magical powers to turn myself invisible.
“Marissa? Hey Marissa!” he shouted
while making his way over to the fence.
Oh great. “Oh, hey, Mr. Brockwell.”
I slowed down and began jogging in place, hoping the gesture would let him know
I couldn’t stay to chat.
“It’s been a long time since you’ve
run this route, hasn’t it?” He cinched his blue terrycloth robe a little
tighter.
Trying to remain active, I kept
jogging in place. “Yeah, I guess. I wanted to run past the lilacs.” I wasn’t
sure if it was the sun or my nerves, but I felt like my body was going into
heat shock or something.
Mr. Brockwell stared at me, and then
I saw his eyes get glassy. He began to speak but then ran his hand over his
mouth like he was muffling down what he wanted to say. His hands fumbled with
his paper, and he cleared his throat.
“It’s good to see—” he paused; it was like the
words were getting caught in his throat like tuna inside a fisherman’s net.
I realized I was standing still. My
legs began to spasm. He caught my eye one more time, but just for a moment
before he had to look away. I knew why. It was the reason I never ran past his
house anymore. The reason why we couldn’t have a conversation anymore. Everyone
used to tell me I was so lucky to look so much like my mom. She was gorgeous.
High cheekbones, perfect heart-shaped mouth, sparkling blue eyes that sat
perfectly on her oval face. Besides her hair being a stunning ash blond and
mine being mouse brown, we did look quite similar. Except that while her
features seemed to make her look like Grace Kelly, mine seemed to make me look
like, well, not Grace Kelly.
But it was moments like this — Mr.
Brockwell unable to look at me for more than a minute without having to look
away — that I wished I looked less like her. I felt like my face was betraying
him. Like my cheekbones and lips were baiting him with memories of him and my
mom together. Although now, each memory was served with a side of sorrow
instead of a side of joy.
I’ll never forget when I saw him two
days after the funeral. We bumped into each other at Have Another Cup Coffee
Shop on Main Street. First he hugged me and asked how I was doing; then he had
to look away, and he told me why.
“It hurts to look at you, Marissa.
You look so much like her.” I knew how much he loved my mom, and Marc and I
enjoyed having him around, but after that moment I made sure to keep my
distance. So he went from being Hank to back to being Mr. Brockwell.
Now, I stood there — uncomfortable
from sweat that covered me head to toe — wondering how much longer I needed to
stand there while he avoided my face. “So, I gotta go or my pace is gonna be
all messed up.”
Hank, I mean, Mr. Brockwell took one
final look at me. “Sure, sure.” He started to walk backward then stopped.
“Marissa, just so you know. Any time you want to see the lilacs you can.”
The lump in my throat held back any
words I could have gotten out, so I just waved and made a beeline for the next
street so I could start my way back home. Seeing Mr. Brockwell had put me into
a fog. My brain wasn’t able to concentrate on my pace or on my footing, and I
began to get a shin splint pain on my left-hand side. Unfortunately, this was
the same side as the blister. My run was only six miles, but my body was
starting to feel like I was at mile thirteen. I couldn’t relax my breathing,
and the back of my throat felt like it was on fire every time I inhaled. In my
fog, I didn’t realize I forgot to cross Parker Street, and now the only way to
get back was to take Fletcher Street again. And run past Sacred Path Cemetery,
again. Now, I ran past that cemetery every day on my jog, but only once. Once
was all I needed to let me get it out of my system. And it’s not like my mom’s
grave is right where I run past. She’s way on the other side, the Cranville
Street side. I never run that side. But now, in all the confusion, I have to go
past it again. My hand scratched an itch at the back of my neck as the street
sign came into view. Like always, I stopped for a moment, took a few deep
breaths in and out, then grabbed one big breath of air and held it as I started
my way past the cemetery.
My focus was way up ahead to the
stop sign at the other end. I kept my eyes on that sign and kept my feet
stepping under me, quick and steady. I wasn’t even halfway across when I caught
sight of some sort of string frantically whipping in the wind, and I was
running straight toward it. My gaze moved to follow the line of the string,
trying to see what it was attached to, and that’s when I saw it, caught in the
big tree right by the fence. The red, heart-shaped metallic balloon, and my
heart hit the ground.
Who is Susan Soares?
Susan
Soares grew up in a small town in Massachusetts, always dreaming of one day
being an author. After numerous short stories, poems and plays, those dreams
finally became a reality when her first book, My Zombie Ex-Boyfriends was
published. (Featherweight Press, 2013) Her second book Heart on a String was
just released in June 2014 by Astraea Press.
Susan
received her MA in Creative Writing and English from Southern New Hampshire
University, and will be pursuing teaching soon. When she isn't writing Susan
spends her time reading, experimenting with photography, planning her next
Disney World vacation and chasing after her kids.
Susan
loves to read YA fiction. Maybe it's because her inner sixteen-year-old still
wants to be prom queen.
Links:
The GiveAway
Remember, for more chances to win follow the tour!
a Rafflecopter giveaway
Erin
Posts You May Have Missed
The thing about flash fiction is often it's
more about what you don't say as it is what you do say. For example, the
negative space in art can tell the viewer more than the space that's filled in.
Flash fiction encourages an interaction with the reader much different than in
longer fiction. More intimate, in many ways. The writer depends on the reader
to have the imagination, the courage, and the desire to look into the negative
space and see what the writer intends. The reader, on the other hand, depends
and trusts the writer to provide enough to do that while allowing the reader to
extrapolate on their own.
A professional editor of over
one hundred novels, Annetta Ribken has also been writing since a tender young
age, when letters were chiseled on stone tablets. A precocious student, Annetta
earned her Ph.D in the School of Hard Knocks, with honors, in the early Age of
Disco. She lives and works just outside of St. Louis with her evil feline
overlord, a rescued shelter cat named Athena. Sign up for her newsletter for
updates on the havoc she's wreaking.
Posts
