Page 33 of Icy Heart, Empty Chest

I ’m not sure why he made me go to the graduation.

There’s only about ten of us and despite that, the speaker has been droning on and on.

There’s nobility in the healing arts. There’s wonder.

There’s the ability to help those who can’t help themselves.

It was getting tiresome. I was being my usual exceedingly patient self while sweating into my graduating Healer blue jacket, under the hot summer sun.

I had opted for a sundress in the heat, waiting for the droning man to stop so we could be reunited with our loved ones.

I had my diploma from the Healer’s Guild in my hands, my clammy palms threatening to muss the deep navy ink.

I turn back, gazing at the rows of chairs to find Damien’s beaming face.

He’s been bouncing off the walls for the last two weeks, proud that I got through the academy with honors and a job offer to boot.

I tried to convince him to spend graduation day with a few less layers, some air conditioning and a box spring but he convinced me that there would be plenty of that later and that he missed out on a lot of good memories of me.

I couldn’t say no to that and the promises of dinner.

“And finally, to wrap up these short remarks, we are so very proud of all of our graduates!” The silver-haired selkie on stage started clapping and so did I.

Turns out, my name wasn’t known through town just because of my father.

A week after I sent in the initial application, I found myself sitting in front of a team of a witch, two healers and a warlock. I wasn’t thrilled at this. I could fake an interview for a job but for something that I was interested in? That was harder and took way more preparation.

I remember that an awkward silence had passed as I stared down the mahogany desk. I hated the awkward silences. Familiarity lends a comfort to the situation that you just don’t get otherwise.

The witch was in her mid-forties with frizzy red hair and warm brown skin.

The warlock must have been pushing ninety based on the age of his robes and the bags under his eyes.

The healers were closer to my age, each in a pair of scrubs with name tags hanging on them.

Each had a sweet, encouraging smile. The pantsuit I had purchased for this was getting warmer and notably more soaked with my sweat, despite the open windows.

I already plotted three escape routes from the room, though each of them were growing more improbable by the second.

I mean, I really wasn’t sure if that drainpipe would hold my weight or not.

The warlock broke the silence, pushing a copy of my application over the pristine desk toward me.

“We had several more questions for you, if you wouldn’t mind,” he stated mildly.

“Of course.” I had plastered on my best customer service smile.

“Your resume doesn’t have much on it that relates to our line of work.”

OK, was that a question or a statement? “You graduated high school, started in university with art history, dropped out a few years in. A few years later you applied to us.”

Again, question or statement?

“I can see how externally it could seem that way. As I mentioned in the essay, after my father’s passing, as much as I liked that world, I couldn’t bring myself to go back and finish the degree in it.

Too many memories, I suppose. I couldn’t see myself being fulfilled by it full time.

My mother was a healer. She also taught me what she knew before she died.

That’s another part of me that I want to explore and make my own.

I find it to be fascinating. Lately I’ve turned over a new leaf in my life and I wanted a new direction, a way to get out of the shadow I’d made for myself.

A chance to do better with the magic I have.

Is it going to take intense study and dedication? Absolutely. It’s what I was born for.”

I hoped I was convincing.

The witch spoke up in a languid tone, “You must be very good friends with Filla for her to write you such a glowing recommendation.”

I was floored. “I did not know she did. I’d helped her a few times with things but I didn’t ask for one from her.”

She laughed. “That’s Filla for you. Always keeps you guessing. She told the committee that we’d be absolutely stupid to ignore raw talent such as yours.”

“That’s quite kind of her,” I managed. Wheels set off in my brain. Why would she do that unprovoked and who in the world told her that I had applied?

“It’s one of the biggest reasons we’re considering you,” stated the warlock. “She’s not easy to impress, whatever you did.”

“So, despite your resume not being exactly what we typically admit, we decided to give you a bit of a bench test,” the witch tells me.

What I’m not expecting is for her to take out a large knife, lay her left arm down and slice into her wrist with a bloody pffssst sound. I saw spurting and my mind went blank.

On pure instinct I launched forward, clamping my right hand around her wrist and let off a quick blast of magic, like a shotgun going off.

No thinking. I think it was the fastest I’ve ever called the magic forth.

Strangely, the color was my usual light blue, instead of the gold I’d had whenever I was around Damien.

The witch let out a barking laugh as one of the others got up. She pried my hand from her wrist to reveal my results. No damage at all. Her tissue was intact without so much as a mar. One of the other healers handed me a towel to clean the blood off my hand. The other handed me a folder.

I could only look up quizzically. With a smile she confirmed, “Classes start in two weeks.”

I left the hall that day and my knees nearly buckled from the adrenaline rush.

I really did it, didn’t I? I made it into the accelerated program.

Two years of studying with overlapping clinicals.

Being back in the hospital and not sneaking around it was new but I liked it.

I felt most at home in the most emergent cases.

I could focus most during those. It was a mix of instinct and training, doing what needed to be done most of all.

Damien met me at the door, looking quizzical and then hugged me like a rag doll in glee.

Damien started running again shortly after our ordeal. I made him promise to wait two weeks, which he did, impatiently.

In the weeks following his heart “transplant,” he was back in the gym with as much gusto as he could contain.

About three months into my program, Damien was hit with heartache. His mother was sick with a brief illness but eventually succumbed. He was near inconsolable and racked with the guilt of not moving back in to the family house after his father passed.

The funeral was a quiet affair with his mom buried next to his father.

It was the first time since his “transplant” that “pre heart” Damien was back.

Tired, moody, grieving. I gave him as much space as he wanted.

Some days he wanted to be attached at my hip, like only my presence could give him any solace.

Others, he’d try to run it out, stay some time alone.

I had some experience with the grief process so I kept the fussing to a minimum, no matter how badly I wanted to console him. He had to go through it on his own.

We went back to his childhood house for the first time in a while. The property was sprawling in size, with a spacious lawn.

As soon as we stepped out of the car, I saw his eyes go out of focus, lost in memory. I walked over and took his hand, squeezing tightly. He gathered me into his arms for a quick hug and then fished the key out of his pocket.

It was still clean on the inside, primly decorated. Damien had described it as feeling more like a mausoleum than a house, more law and order than homey feeling. My house always had an element of chaos in it, growing up.

He made his way to the couch, dropped onto it like a rock, sitting forward, running his hands through his hair.

“Cor, what I am going to do?”

I knew what he meant. The memories associated with this house were painful to say the least.

I sat next to him and put an arm through his.

“From the way I see it, you have a few options. You could clean it up, rent the house out. You could move in if you wanted to, completely redo it. You could demolish it and rebuild whatever you wanted on the land. Or, maybe, you could sell it and maybe we move in somewhere together.”

I hadn’t voiced that thought out loud yet. We’d only been together a few months and while he practically lived at my apartment, we hadn’t talked about another place.

His eyes bugged for a moment.

“You want a place together?” he confirmed, voice calm.

“Well, yeah, you practically live with me anyway,” I teased. “I’d like to but if it’s too soon we can wait.”

“No, sweetheart. I’d like to build a place with you.”

I smiled and nodded, feeling a warmth float through me. It was the first time in days I heard hope in his voice.

The process of sorting through his parents’ belongings took a few weeks, on and off.

I hadn’t been to his house as much when we were kids; we practically lived at mine.

The very air felt strict and confining. Kid Damien’s bedroom was spartan except for the medals, trophies and certificates he’d earned from school and sports.

We sat on his bed for a moment, looking at that wall. “That was Mom,” he said in a raspy voice. “Always wanted to add to the wall, no matter what it was.”

He took my hand and put his head on my shoulder. I saw a tear escape down.

“I was always so proud of you too. More than I could ever express.”

He squeezed my hand.

“Look at me for a sec?” He raised his head.

“I loved you then,” I said, pointing up at the wall, “and I love you now.”