Found My Heart

"Recognition"

                                                                            (Mitchell) 

Watching Abby's face, I can tell she is remembering the night that her parents were taken from her. I don't know what she is seeing, but I know it has pulled her back to that moment. I can see her pain move across her features. I don't know if she remembers seeing me, and I don't know if she ever thought about that little boy, or wanted to know him, but I have thought of her, and wanted to get to know her all of my life. From that moment forward. Some people might call me a stalker, but its not stalking. It's more of wanting to know she is okay, and wanting to see that she is happy and healthy as much as possible. Okay, maybe that does sound like a stalker, but I never followed her and I never tried to interfere in her life until now. It was asking someone to check on her, keep track of how she was in a general sense. I really want to help. I don't know how to get her to see that, but I want to try. That is why I am here. 

"Who are you?" Her words suddenly brought me back to the moment. 

"What?" 

"Who are you? How do you know anything about my family, my parents, or...anything?" She has her arms crossed tightly across her chest and she is all but shaking. 

"My name is Mitchell Hendricks. My father is Malcolm Hendricks, and he is the man who ran the red light and hit your family's car. He is responsible for those actions, but I am the cause of them. I am the reason it happened. I am here to help you. I know it doesn't make up for the loss of your parents, but I want to help." 

"And a baby brother." Her statement stopped me short. It was so soft and filled with pain. 

"What? I didn't know there was another child in the car with you." 

"He was in my mother. We were on our way to find out what we were having. She was pregnant! The doctor's office that she used was open late for families that couldn't come during the day. Our appointment was at 7, and we were on our way there. When my mother died, they were not able to save my brother. Your father killed my parents and my baby brother. He is buried in my mother's arms in the coffin with her." 

I didn't know what to say to that. I hadn't known. I thought I knew everything about that accident, and about the fall out from it. I didn't know there was another life taken. 

"I'm so sorry. I didn't know. I knew about your parents, and I knew that you were raised by your grandmother. I didn't know you had lost more than that. I am so sorry for what he took from you." 

"Why would you be sorry. It isn't your fault. He drove drunk, and he ran the red light, and he killed my parents. He didn't get more than a broken arm, a year in jail, and then he bought his way out of it. It wasn't you, as you could not have been much older than  I was at the time. 

"Your right and wrong. I know you just opened, and I know that things are rough, but could you close down and us talk? I want you to make you an offer, and I really do want to help you. I know about the expansion, and I know its a great idea. This neighborhood can use what you are trying to put in place." I could tell by her face that she just wanted me out of her store, and out of her life if possible. I couldn't let that happen. "Please, Abby?" I took a step toward her, and she took a step back. I stopped. The last thing I wanted to do was make her afraid of me. I know how I look, with my height and my build, and I don't want to push her away. I took a step away from her, deeper into the store. I hopped if I gave her enough space, I would be able to convince her to let me at least stay and talk to her. So, I stepped away, and waited. 

                                                                                (Abby) 

    I don't know what this man is thinking! Does he think that I am desperate, okay, I am, but that desperate? Does he really think that I want his father's help, or his, if he is here to ease his father's guilt? No! Why would I want that? Should I talk to him, though. The emotional part of my brain thinks I should toss him out and forget all about him and move forward trying to do this on my own. The rational part of my brain is telling me to at least hear him out. His father never paid any restitution to my family, as his high dollar attorney was able to get him out of it, and my grandmother did not have the money to fight him in Civil Court. What could the harm be? Besides, there is something about him. His eyes look so familiar, and there is a strange tug in my chest that is pulling me toward him. I felt it the moment I looked into his eyes when he caught me. I feel like I have felt that before, though. I don't know where or when, but that doesn't have anything to do with this situation. 

    "Fine. You can buy me lunch. I haven't been eating much since my Nana passed away, and I need to eat. That is the deal. Take it or leave it." I state as I walk forward and go behind the desk for the keys and my bag. Looking at him after I have collected those items, I wait on a decision from him. 

    "Perfect. I will take you wherever you want to go. Money is no object, and thank you. I appreciate you at least talking to me." I walk toward the door and turn off the lights. Opening the door, I let him leave first, then I look the door. Turning to face him, I see that he is standing next to a sleek, black car. Not a sports car, I see, but a sensible Sedan that looks very expensive. He is holding the door open for me, patiently waiting for me to have a seat. This hadn't entered my mind. I thought I would drive myself, but his car is so shiny and the seat looks soft as butter. 

    "Anywhere I want?" I ask as I walk towards the car. 

    "You just name it. I will make it happen." 

    "Okay, then. Let's go." I say as I slide into the seat. He runs around the car, watching for oncoming traffic as he opens the door and slides in. 

    "Where to, my lady?" He asks with a slight grin as he pulls out onto the one-way street. Pulling up to the stop light, he waits patiently for the light to change. I should make him take me to the most expensive place in the city, but I really want to go to my favorite place. Its a drive, but I think it will be okay. 

    "We need to go to Bryant." I watch his face when I say it. I want to see his expression and reaction to my statement. He never even flinched. Hmmm...

    "You got it. Maybe we can talk on the way there. It's about an hour, so it would be a good use of the time. What do you think?"    

    "Sounds good. We can start with why you think this is your fault. Don't think I didn't hear that part. I don't see how your father is not responsible for his own actions, so you can start there." He flinched then. I don't think he was expecting me to want to know about that. 

    "It just is. It doesn't really matter, not really." 

    "It matters to me." I see his eyes go up in surprise. I truly want to know what happened to make this man think he is responsible for his father's actions and behavior. 

    "Okay, well. I am just going to state it as simply and plainly as I can. Can we leave it at that when I am finished?" I nod at him, just as the light turns green and we start moving again. I wait for him, and when he starts it is like listening to a news report. Very dry and cutting to the point with no emotion. When he stops talking, I glance at the clock on the radio. It took him ten minutes, and he looks exhausted. 

    "I'm sorry, Mitchell. I know what that feels like, and I am so sorry." 

    "It was my fault. I shouldn't have pushed her to take me in that weather, but...it is what it is now. So, you can see why this is ultimately on me. It is my fault that my father was in that state the night your parents and brother died." He looked so guilt-ridden, and sad. Part of him still seems to be that little boy that just lost his mother, and his father seems to have been gone before that. 

    "I know I said we would leave it alone, but I need to say this to you before I let it go. And you need to hear me. I do not blame you. I won't blame you. It was not your fault, just as your mother's death was not your fault. Your father was to blame for his actions, and your mother's accident was not your fault. It was just that-an accident. If we are going to talk about what it is you want to do for me, then we will, but I will not have you doing this because your father finally feels some guilt over what happened. And I won't have you doing it out of some misplaced guilt on your part either. It is not your fault." I watch his face as I speak, and his face seems to tell me that he is not really hearing me. "Mitchell, pull over up here, please." 

He looks over at me, then pulls to the shoulder, turning on his flashers as he stops the car. I unbuckle my seat belt, turning to face him in my seat. He turns his head toward me, and I feel that strange pull again. I don't know where that is coming form, but those blue eyes are like a magnet. I don't know what moved me to act, but I reach out and take his hand from the steering wheel and wrap both of my hands around it. Looking at his hands, I notice that they are callused and not the smooth hands of a spoiled rich-kid. These hands have done hard labor, and I find that funny. 

"What's the grin for?" His voice brings my eyes back to his, and I look into those bright blue eyes, and suddenly I know them. I know those eyes. A clear picture forms in my mind of a boy, a little older than me, at the hospital the night my parents died. I remember the pull, and I remember thinking I needed that boy in my life. I never did find out about him. No one would listen to the grief stricken four year old, but I have thought about that boy off and on over the years. Now I am seeing that boy again, but he has become a man. "Abby?" 

"You're him! I remember you." I squeeze his hand tighter. That was not what I mean to say to him. Where did that come from. "You were there, in the hallway, outside my hospital room that night. I remember seeing you. You were standing in the hallway looking at me. I didn't know who you were, but I remember feeling that you were hurting like I was." 

"You remember that?" 

"Yes. It is one of the clear memories I have of that night. You in the hallway. I wanted to come out there to talk to you, but the door was closed and everything was happening so quick. I went with my grandmother and no one knew who I was talking about when I told them about you." 

"I was there to see my father. He had a severely broken arm, three or four places I think, but he didn't want me there. He told me to leave, and I saw the police officers escorting your grandmother. I knew it had to be you she was going to see, and I had been told the little girl that was in the car was in the hospital too. I followed them, but I couldn't go in the room. I stood there watching, and then you looked up like you felt me watching." 

"I don't know why I looked out the door. I just felt the need to look, and there you were." 

"I was so sorry for everything, even then. I felt so guilty, and I wanted to come tell you, but my uncle pulled me away and took me home. As I got older I found out information about you, and kept track of how things were going in your life, and, I always wanted to meet you and talk to you. To tell you I was sorry." 

"You kept up with me? Why?" 

"Not anything creepy and stalker-like. I just felt that I needed to know that you were okay. I felt a need to do that. I don't know how to explain it to you." 

"I get it. I appreciate you being honest with me. I also appreciate the reasons you feel guilty, but I don't blame you. I blame your father. He should be the one trying to make it up to me, not you." 

"He never felt a single moment of guilt or pain or regret. He didn't feel he was at fault, he felt it was my fault because I turned him in to that person. It doesn't matter now, anyway. He died a year ago, and the company he owned has been sold off. I just signed the papers about two weeks ago, selling the last parts off. I made more money that I know what to do with, but I know what I would like to do with it first.That is why I am here." 

"Okay. Well, I don't blame you. I fully blame him. Just so we are clear on that." This conversation is not going the way I though it would go. "Let's go." I start to pull my hands away, but Mitchell grabs one of them, and holds onto it for a moment. I look back at him and wait to see what he wants with my left hand. After a few seconds he lets it go. Turns forward, flips off the flashers, and pulls the car back into traffic. I buckle up, and we continue toward Bryant. 

Something strange is going on in that man's head. I don't know what he is thinking, but I have a feeling his guilty conscious is not as eased as I had hoped. I guess we will see.