A Change of Heart
by Terry Flint

The house was so quiet. So dead. He thought of it as a house, not a home. It was no longer alive with music. It was no longer warm and welcoming. There were no voices, no toys strewn in the upstairs bedrooms. No lingering scents of jasmine candles. There was only the odd creak as it settled for the night. An owl hooted in the distance. He wheeled himself over to the bedroom window and saw the bird perched high atop a tree, silhouetted against the well-lit night sky. The moon was full. He noticed these things now. He noticed everything now. How he wished he could turn back the clock, to when they had just moved in. It was everything they had been looking for - this spacious, well-planned, Tuscan style house, with its magnificent garden bordered by gigantic fir, acacia, pecan-nut and avocado trees. The pool was set in lush tropical surroundings, and rolling lawns gave the property a Mediterranean feel. It had reminded him a little of his family home in Sicily. He had had a loving wife and two beautiful children, his own thriving business and everything money could buy. The irony of it all was that he never had enough time to really enjoy his home and family. He closed his eyes trying to purge the images that haunted him. All that mattered was gone. Forever. He was alone. He deserved to be alone and lonely.

Dynamic, articulate, astute, difficult and impatient. These words best described his old self. That is the way he had been his whole life. He had worked so hard to get his business off the ground. Life had been a rush of meetings, deadlines, reports and airports. As the business grew more successful, he had little time for himself, let alone the family. He had tried to make time, or at least, he thought he had tried. The guilt he felt, told him he had. But on reflection, his work consumed him, and he had let it. He had allowed it to take over. He had been doing all of this for them. Building an empire, a fortune, a legacy, for them. But, as it turned out, it had all been for nothing.

His mind wandered back to that hellish, life-changing Tuesday. The roads were wet and slippery after a recent downpour and fading light made for poor visibility. He should have been driving slowly - he didn't normally drive fast with the family in the car, but time was tight. She had kept him late. She was still packing for the trip when he had arrived home from the office. The kids still had to be dropped off at her sister's house. There was no way he could miss the flight. Too much was riding on him being present for the takeover bid. It had been a last minute decision for her to join him. "Bloody hell", she had said angrily when she found out he was off yet again," I'm going along. You can damn well put some time aside for me. It's our anniversary!" He had felt he was doing her a favour by letting her join him, but in hindsight he realised it was she who was doing him the favour. They had needed to be together. They had needed some time alone. But it was not to be. He didn't notice the broken down truck as he sped around the corner. They never made the flight. They never got to celebrate their 13th wedding anniversary together. He lost his wife and his two precious children. No amount of money could bring them back and no amount of time would ever heal the pain.

The five months in rehabilitation were hard. The doctors said his recovery was being hampered by his negativity. It was true. Everyday he wished he had died along with them. Living like this was worse than death. His type A persona had given way to a depression of the blackest kind. He had rejected everyone, even his own well-meaning family. So much so that they had stopped phoning. They had stopped visiting. The death of his wife and children had affected them all so deeply, but he could not see that. He was too wrapped up in himself, in his guilt, in his heartache. Instead of talking openly about his loss and the tragic circumstances that had brought it about, he chose to bottle everything up. He felt that the pain and suffering and months of torturous physiotherapy were nowhere near the punishment he deserved. The doctors felt that being in hospital was doing him more psychological harm than good. He should try and get back to a sense of normality. He was discharged under the condition that he made the necessary arrangements to enable him to return home.

So, here he was back in the house, with a chairlift and a caregiver. His business was being run by very competent people. How naïve to think that it would all collapse without him. He suddenly realised that in business no one is indispensable. Not even the boss.

The owl he had been watching so intently, suddenly flew off, into the night. Quietly, stealthily. He didn't know how long he had been sitting there, gazing out of the window. Remembering. He turned absently back towards his desk, which was now a part of the bedroom. The wheelchair bumped into a large free-standing bookcase behind him, crammed full of files, notes, paperbacks, and documents. He cursed. A huge house and yet his whole life had to be contained in one small area. He heard something thud onto the carpet. He glanced down at what appeared to be a photograph album lying beside him. It must have fallen from one of the shelves. Shifting and stretching himself, he reached over to pick it up. Strange. It didn't seem familiar. Loose photographs slipped out as he lifted it up. Shit. Frustrated, he clumsily reached over again and grabbed at them. He sat upright, placing them carefully onto his lap and wheeled himself over to his desk. He looked closely at the album. There was still no recognition. It looked quite new. The deep burgundy fabric covering the album, was embossed with small white flowers on golden branches. Chinese? He opened it. The first few pages were filled with a mix of photographs, some sepia, others black and white. As he paged through, the photographs became more modern. Most were in colour. He was puzzled. Who the hell did this belong to and how did he come to have it? He went back to the beginning of the book, studying the faces that stared out at him from each page. The old sepias were of great grandparents, perhaps? Serious, and uncomfortable. Black and white wedding pictures, possibly of parents? The next few pages were of the same two people. Babes in arms. Babes in prams. Toddlers. Family holidays by the sea. Two young girls in bell-bottoms and tank-tops. Happy teenagers. Happy brides with handsome grooms. Babies. Toddlers. A young boy and his little sister, posing by a Christmas tree. Smiling parents hugging their children. The circle of life. He stared into space, trance-like, allowing his thoughts to wander back in time, to the comfort of family and friends. A time of belonging and of contentment. Tears pricked his eyes. Feelings of anger, guilt and loneliness welled up inside of him and he cried out in pain. He cried out for his wife Anna. He cried out for his two beautiful children, Jason and Katie. Months of anguish and devastation seeped from every pore. Drained, numb and broken he looked over to where the telephone and his gun were lying, side by side, on his desk. He reached out.

© Terry Flint