The Strings Of Her Heart

Jack got a violin for Christmas.

I didn’t mind at first, blissfully unaware that my future was now going to be constantly interrupted by sharp, squeaking notes that whined incessantly, filling every corner of our small house.

Jack absolutely loved his gift; ever since he’d heard Grandfather ring out a tune on his own violin, he’d borne a deep wonder for this instrument that possessed the ability to sing any emotion.

And now he had his own.

“Grandfather will teach you.” Father had promised.

And so he did; coming around every time he was in our hamlet, and showing Jack how to bring his violin alive. But Grandfather lived five hours away, in a miniature town called Sandseville, and thus Jack’s progress was slow.

He was still just as content though; always happy with what he was given. Jack had always been a peaceful child, even despite an accident that had left him hobbling since the age of three.

* * *

“Jack, please take a break!!” I shout, my ears aching after enduring the last hour filled with rasping notes, as my little brother draws his bow back up across the strings, and then into a sudden nose-dive.

“Oh Bef, please - a little longer?” His chocolate eyes plead with me.

“No, that’s enough. You’ll learn better by not constantly playing.” Being three years older than Jack means I know everything. Or at least, that’s what I think.

My attention returns to the book I’m desperately trying to finish; but I still notice the little sigh that escapes the room next door, and can hear him locking the latches on his case.

I’m perched in the window seat, with an unrivalled view of the sprawling garden that slopes down to the lake.

In the corner of my eye, I notice something move.

It’s Jack, hobbling outside, his small head hanging down; honey curls shuffling in the breeze.

He turns, and looks at me, an oversize smile creasing his face.

“Will you play with me?”

I stifle the initial resistance, and smile back, placing my book on the seat.

“I’m coming…”

The sun smothers us with kisses as we play with a patched ball, tossing it high into the azure sky. And then we turn to hide’n’seek, finding our secret spots among the towering giants that have besieged the field; their entangled limbs providing us some relief from the golden rays.

“Bef, do you hate my violin?” Jack asks me, after I sneak up, discovering him concealed behind a stout oak trunk.

Even at seven, his lisp still hasn’t disappeared, and I can’t help but smile softly at his sweetness. “No, I don’t. But I don’t like it either.” My tone is gentle, unwilling to hurt his fragile heart.

His face pulses with sadness. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, holding my hand.

“When I get as good as Grandfather, then you’ll like it.”

* * *

Winter is making its annual return, gifting the land with a new sparkling white outfit. And with it comes the wind, grasping at anything in its path; scraping its’ long frozen fingers against the shuddering trees.

Jack and I both soon find ourselves bedridden, thanks to a bout of influenza that is ravaging our town. For a whole week, we are up every night, a hacking cough stealing all of our strength.

“It could be worse,” Jack reminds me one evening, as he looks longingly at the closed case that rests against his cabinet.

I nod numbly, regretting I don’t possess the same positiveness as he.

There is one good thing about this illness, though; it’s providing my ears a solid week of rest from hearing his violin.

In the three times Grandfather has been able to visit, I’ve seen little improvement in Jack’s playing.

But maybe that’s because I don’t want to see it.

“Here you go, darling.” Mother kneels beside my bed, holding a steaming cup of chicken broth. “Are you feeling any better?”

“No,” I whisper, my face flushed red. She carefully lifts the spoon to my lips; I can’t taste it, but I know how good my mother’s broth is.

“Thank you!” My smile is weak, but she knows I mean it.

On the other side of the room, where Jack’s bed is, Father is doing the same.

Chicken broth has always been Jack’s favourite.

“Come Sunday, I’m sure you’ll both be up and running around.” Father’s wide smile is always a comforting sight, and his eyes sparkle teasingly. “Though I must say, your Mother and I have enjoyed a slight rest from our little mischief-makers.” He winks at us.

Sure enough, Father’s words come true on Sunday. But only for Jack.

If anything, I feel worse than before. My head pounds, as if I’ve been pelted with a thousand blows.

And then I hear that sound.

A rasping, whining sound that grates against my burning ears.

I drag my aching body out of bed.

My head is spinning, and my legs feel like lead as I stumble into the living room.

In the corner of the room, a hungry fire is flickering in the hearth. A couch and a couple of chairs adorn the area.

And beside them stands Jack, violin in hand.

He looks up at me, an innocent smile shadowing his pale face.

“Are you feeling better, Bef?”

I ignore him, snatching the violin from his little hands. “Stop playing your stupid violin!” My body trembles as I hold it, my heart torn as I watch his eyes look at me in horror.

Then I throw it on the ground.

It fractures.

I instantly regret what I’ve done.

We both drop to our knees.

“Bef? How could you?” He weeps, scrambling to pick up the pieces.

“I’m so, so sorry Jack!” My eyes sting as tears flood them.

“What’s happened?” Mother’s tone is worried as she steps inside the room, gasping as she sees the carnage. “Oh no!”

I run to her. “It was so wrong of me.” I sob, my shoulders heaving.

She kneels down, pulling Jack into her arms. His face is dripping.

Then she turns and looks at me. “Why did you do it?”

“Because I am so over hearing that horrible noise…and…and I feel awful. My head is pounding, and I couldn’t stand the sound as well.” I drop down beside her. “But I know it was so wrong of me…and I am so dreadfully sorry.” I whisper.

“I know you’re feeling unwell, Beth. But yes, it is absolutely wrong what you've done. He'll forgive you if you're truly sorry, and willing to make it right.” A sorrowful smile shadows her face.

I nod slowly, knowing the truth in her words. It’s a truth I’ve heard so many times before, but never really lived out. “Jack, I am so sorry for destroying your violin. It was awful wrong of me.” My voice trembles. “Please forgive me…”

His sodden eyes meet mine. “I do.”

* * *

It’s been a month since I broke Jack’s beloved violin.

And I’ve been working hard to save enough money to replace it for him. Although he completely forgave me and demonstrated more maturity than I ever have in my eleven years of existence, my parents and I still agreed it was right for me to buy him another one.

It’s his eighth birthday today, and Grandfather is coming down to see us all. He’s written to Father and Mother, requesting permission to take Jack out in his brand-new automobile.

Jack will be thrilled. Most boys love new inventions, and my little brother is no exception.

The clock strikes three when we hear the roaring sound, and a trail of dust filtering along the winding driveway that leads toward our house.

“Is that Grandfather?” Jack hobbles to the front door, shaking with excitement.

A few moments later, a shiny black automobile rolls to a stop outside, and a grey-haired man, with a rumbling laugh and twinkling blue eyes, steps out.

“Grandfather!” Jack stumbles towards him, embracing the aged man.

“Ah Jack, dear boy. Happy Birthday!” Grandfather’s smile is as wide as the golden field that lies just beyond the house.

The minutes seem to last for an age before all the greetings are done. “Now Jack,” Grandfather kneels beside the grinning boy. “I have a special birthday treat for you. What do you say to a drive in my automobile?”

Jack is wide-eyed with excitement. “Really?”

“Of course,” Grandfather laughs. “We should go, though, while it’s still light. We’ll be back around five.”

Jack hobbles back towards us, as we stand waiting by the door.

“Goodbye Father and Mother.” He hugs them and then turns to me.

“Bye Bef - I love you,” he whispers, squeezing my hand.

And then Grandfather is lifting him into the passenger seat.

The engine roars back to life, and Jack has to shout to be heard. “Love you all.”

A swirl of dust and smoke wrestle in the air, and then the automobile is gone, disappearing down the driveway.

“Oh Jack will love that.” Mother smiles, wrapping an arm around me.

Time is in no hurry that afternoon, and it feels like ages before the clock strikes five. Mother and I are busy preparing dinner; Jack has chosen his favourite again.

The shrill tone of the telephone breaks through the silence. Mother glances at the clock, and then steps into the hallway to answer the call.

The broth bubbles away, spitting drops of liquid.

I can hear her voice answer - “Hello? Who is it?”

And then I hear a gasp.

And a thud.

I stumble into the hallway. The phone is swinging back and forth as it dangles from the box.

And there is Mother, slumped against the wall.

Her face is pale white.

“Father?” I yell, as I kneel beside her, my mind racing with the worst. “Mother, what’s the matter?”

She looks beyond me, her eyes glazed and her lips wobbling. “There’s been an accident.”

* * *

Two weeks later, we bury both Jack and Grandfather.

The policemen said there had been a collision with a loose horse.

They were both dead when they arrived.

Jack’s coffin looks so small against Grandfather’s; it feels so wrong that one whose life has hardly begun is ended at the same time as one who’s lived so long.

Mother and Father are absolutely devastated.

So am I.

But for some reason beyond my control, I can’t cry. The tears just won’t come.

The day after the funeral, I climb up into the attic.

It’s filled with odd bits and pieces, a hidden trove of memories.

But there is only one thing I’m looking for.

In the corner of the room lies a basket. And inside that, rests the pieces of Jack’s violin.

Oh, how I long to hear the squeaking notes now; to see Jack hold it so lovingly.

I imagine him holding the bow, dipping it up and down across the strings.

I would give anything to hear him play…even the off notes, rasping and whining, would be music to my ears.

Because the violin, now, is all I have left of him.

I gather all the pieces together; washing the dust away with my tears. In the end, there’s still a piece missing.

Just like my heart.