Page 7 of Icy Heart, Empty Chest

T he next day I could still feel the tension headache that threatened to break through the painkillers I had already taken.

I stalked to work, in a foul mood from yesterday’s encounters.

I stayed up later than I expected, expediting my indignant countenance.

As I pushed through the heavy door, Marie’s smile dimmed a few watts at my expression.

“Cora? Are you OK?”

I got behind the counter, giving myself a moment to check my own attitude; none of this was her fault.

I had decided to tell a version of the truth to Marie, else she’d be suspicious why I was suddenly talking to Damien.

“Damien’s working on an old case related to my father,” I carefully phrased. “He needs my help with it. Some less than positive memories.” I grabbed for my apron at the rack, tying it around my waist

Her elven heart broke at my words.

“Oh honey! I’m so sorry!” She threw her arms around me, holding me as tightly as her little frame allowed. I patted her flaxen hair and shrugged.

“Can’t be helped but I also can’t say much about it, OK?” She let go of me with a sympathetic look.

I wasn’t completely lying. Last night involved pulling up blueprints, messaging any contacts for any information I thought could help, and I was rewarded with a plethora of data.

There was definitely a mole in the Magical Forces, someone who was on the take.

Half of what I got could only have come from a government system or someone with access to it.

The other half of last night involved crying, rocking in a fetal position while thinking of the man who raised me. It was a weird dichotomy.

The man who broke when my mother died when I was eleven.

The man who poured his heart and soul into two things in life, me and his professional reputation.

The man who took me for walks around the city, showing me different facets of the architecture, to the museum where he worked, explaining the history of the arches, the patterns in the stones.

That man was gone. It had been years and the wound still felt fresh.

What Damien said was true. After high school, I was at the university studying as much art history as I could for my freshman and sophomore years.

I thought by making him proud, writing him every week while in jail, I could keep his spirit bolstered.

As I said, he had two things in life. Me and the museum.

Once he didn’t have that, he shut down. Money and time quickly became complicating factors.

I couldn’t balance full course loads with working once he was home.

I dropped to part time, reasoning that it was temporary.

That little voice in the back of my head told me that it wasn’t but I ignored it.

Eventually if I wasn’t working then I was at home with him.

I remember after he got out, in the days leading up to his death, that he was sleeping all the time, didn’t want to eat or drink.

I had to force him to get a few sips of water down.

I had contemplated calling the family doctor but decided against it.

He’d bounce back. He always had before. When my mother died it took a few rough years before the light came back in his eyes.

Grief is complicated and it spares no one. When my mother died, he could go through the motions of some things, taking care of me, talking, some work. When he came back, it was like his very soul had left his body.

Perhaps foolishly, I thought that once he was back out he could be free and things would go back to the way they were.

He came out coughing and hacking with a severe grey tone to his skin. He was more soft spoken; I often had to strain to hear him. It felt awkward to bring him back home; a stranger long removed from their own lands.

He looked around briefly and nodded, indicating that he would shower and then bed.

I remember brightening, saying that I could cook for him when he woke up.

He patted my head, starting coughing again and told me he didn’t have much of an appetite.

He trudged off toward the bathroom and the pool of worry that existed deep in my core started to bubble up again.

It was OK, I reasoned. He may need a few days to weeks to settle back in. But he never really did.

I sighed. I can’t blame him. I wanted to but I couldn’t.

I couldn’t imagine what two years in prison did to the sweet gentle man I knew.

How he suffered or what he went through.

My father was a simple man who liked his routines; it was what worked for him.

After my mother, I followed in his path and kept life simple: school, hobbies, Damien. That was all I needed.

The door pinged and we both made our way out of the back. It was Damien. I waved off Marie and she nodded, going to get the coffee.

Before he could say anything, I murmured, “Meet at my place at seven for planning. I assume you know where I live.”

He nodded, not daring to say much more.

Marie came over with his coffee and a beatific smile. “Glad to see you’re getting along.” She winked at him, patted me on the back and then headed into the back. I could feel the sunshine emanating from her body.

“Not exactly what I’d call it,’ I muttered. I handed him the change and took in the perfect wavy hair and immaculately pressed uniform. It really wasn’t fair. How did he look pristine, when I looked half drowned and reanimated?

Maybe I should have considered some makeup. At least I’d look less splotchy. “She has a serious crush on you,” I remarked as he added sweetener.

“I couldn’t tell.” He glanced up towards the back.

“Sarcasm?” I frowned.

“Actual.” He tapped his sternum lightly. “I thought she just acted like that with everyone.”

“You’re special.” I picked up my own thermos. The door pinged again.

“Shame. She’s not my type but good to know.” He started to turn away. “It’s nice. Talking to you like an actual human being.” He had a half smile on.

A wave of emotion flared up so all I could do was nod. The door pinged and Marie came back out. He turned to leave with a wave.

“I am glad you guys are talking again.” She put her arms around my back and rested her head on my shoulder. “You said you were friends back in the day.”

I nodded, still feeling emotional.

“Can I ask what happened?”

“Not today. I’m drained.”

She nodded and let go of me. Marie was the most inherently empathetic being I’d

ever met, hated saying no to anyone and always wanted to make sure you were doing OK. It could get annoying when you were consistently pretending to be OK.

The rest of the shift passed without incident.

Part of the reason I liked this job was the formulaic nature of it. I could do a lot of it on autopilot, which freed up my brain to think about other things as my hands did the tasks.

We were eleven. Mom had died about two months before.

Damien had come to my house with a board game but I was so distracted.

So preoccupied by Mom that halfway through, he put down the dice and pushed the board away, and came to sit on my side with his arm around me.

I collapsed into him, crying. That was the first time I remembered needing him as much as I did, how his friendship filled a hole I didn’t know I needed filled.

He was just...there. No strings. No expectations.

I thought about the presentation I’d do tonight and how’d he’d be back in my place of living for the first time in almost a decade.

I punched out at six, leaving Jenna with the few stragglers.

I made my walk home in almost record time.

I wasn’t intentionally rushing, just had a lot of adrenaline.

Wasn’t really sure what I should be feeling.

Cautious optimism? My usual caustic cynicism?

The resentment and rage I’d been dragging around for so long?

I had my materials spread out on my table and in the meantime I was just looking for things to do.

Nervous cleaning, my dad would have called it.

Calm the mind by making your surroundings neat.

The dishes were hand-washed and put away.

The laundry was folded instead of heaped on the chair (my normal method).

The one plant I had? Watered. Shoe rack?

Polished. Fridge? Cleaned out. When you can’t control anything but your own space, it should look good.

At ten of seven, a knock sounded from the door. I wordlessly let him in my space. It felt strangely intimate after all those years apart. He followed me in, stopping by the coatrack.

I gestured at the table, wordlessly. He seemed somewhat surprised. “You’ve gotten all this in less than twenty-four hours?”

“It’s easy enough with the right connections,” I noted dryly. Let’s hope after this he’ll stop underestimating me. I wish it could be a bit more dramatic, tearing a sheet off a scale 3D replica with lasers for pointing and holograms, but on my salary I have an inkjet printer and a note pad.

He ran his pale, green-tinged fingers over the map and through some of the files I had printed. Normally, my MO was more like memorize and destroy but I figured a cop likes to look at things. They tend to have evidence boards and we just can’t have that.

“We could use someone like you on the Magical Forces...” he trailed off.

I pulled out a chair, and sat down, making a disgusted face. “Ew.”

“What?” He noted my expression.

“Cops aren’t exactly my most favorite profession.”

He seemed a bit surprised. “Because you’re a professional thief?”

I glared. “No, because the ones with power are the most easily corruptible.”

“We do some good in the world,” he argued, brow furrowed.

“I’m not disputing that, I’m disputing the good you don’t do.”

He cocked his head at me. “Cora...”

I raised my eyebrow, “The amount of corruption in the average unit would make