Page 122 of The Wrong Heart

She nods. “I created this group so I could reach other troubled souls. So I could make a difference. Even if I only touched one person—if I could only change one person’s fate, if I could help them see the good in life, the beauty in living andsurviving, then it would all be worth it. Daniel’s death would not be in vain.”

Hot tears continue to fall, and I feel her words as much as I hear them. Glancing at the journal still clutched between her fingers, I lick my lips and inquire, “Can I ask what’s inside your journal? You bring it to every meeting, but I’ve never seen you open it.”

Ms. Katherine’s smile breaches her sadness. “It’s my starting points.”

“Your starting points?”

“Yes.” She rises from her chair, hesitating for a moment before she hobbles over to me on shaky knees. Taking her place beside me, where Amelia used to sit, she hands me the journal. “Here. Have a look.”

Faltering at first, I blink at the offering, eyeing her outstretched palms holding the beloved journal. It feels invasive somehow, like I’d be intruding on her privacy. On her secrets. But Ms. Katherine doesn’t appear apprehensive, and she continues to hold it out with assurance. With a hard swallow, I take the heavy booklet made of leather and paper, and bring it to my lap. Tracing curious fingers down the spine and over the front covering, I inhale sharply.

Then, I open it.

I’m startled at first, taking in the names at the top of each crinkled page. Familiar names. Robert, Jane, Nancy, Kevin, Stacy… Amelia.

My eyes widen, a breath lodging in the back of my throat. I glance to my left.

Ms. Katherine greets me with a knowing smile. “My starting points areyourstarting points.”

More tears rush to my eyes, and I can hardly see the pages. The ink and pencil sketches become a blur as I frantically wipe my eyes with trembling fingers, not wanting to stain the entries. Collecting myself, I sift through, eyeing the scrapbook of our sessions—of our lives. Each member has pages dedicated to them, riddled with quotes and hand-drawn pictures of our starting points.

Robert pushing his young daughter on the swings.

Stacy picking strawberries with her grandmother.

Kevin playing the piano.

A small cry breaks free when I discover Amelia’s page subtitled, “The Storyteller.” A lifelike drawing of Nutmeg is shaded in pencil as a beautiful girl with ribbons of dark hair clutches the animal between her hands.

I feel Ms. Katherine’s warm palm glide up my spine, an offering of solace. It’s enough to keep me turning the pages until I find my own dedication.

Melody.

I’m dancing in the lake beneath a picturesque sunset, my hair flying free, my arms spread wide. I’m smiling. I’m living.

I’m not ready.

My emotions twist into dread when I continue to flip the pages, unprepared to see Parker’s sad, blank pages. He never gave his starting points—not once.

Anxiety grips me, and I close my eyes, my heart thrumming with mournful beats. My chest aches. My skin turns clammy.

I don’t want to see… I don’t want to see his empty pages.

But I force myself to continue until I land upon his entry.

Parker.

It’s one page, and it’s not blank.

My stomach pitches when my eyes land on the drawing. It’s a sketch. Carved in pencil, shaded with color, brimming with detail.

Looking back at me is a woman with straw blonde hair, irises spun green, and a smile as bright as the summer sun.

It’s me.

Quiet tears manifest into a heart-rending sob as I break down, falling sideways into Ms. Katherine’s welcoming arms.

Parker’s starting point is me.

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