Free Heart Like Mine by Amy Hatvany Page A

care of Kelli defined her when she came in. Thirty-three-year-old woman, approximately five-one, one hundred pounds, blue eyes . I flashed on what she might look like laid out on a gurney. Her skin pale and cold. Those blue eyes shut. Not moving. Not breathing anymore.
    “Thank you,” the secretary said, placing my license back in my hand and snapping me back to the moment. I blinked and tried to erase Kelli’s image from my mind.
    “Are they still in class?” I asked.
    She nodded. “I’ll buzz their teachers and let them know to send them to the office.” She glanced at the clock above the door. “We weren’t sure exactly when you’d get here. Why don’t you have a seat?”
    Again, I nodded, and I plopped myself into a hard, black plastic chair, anxiously gnawing on my fingernails, a childhood habit that only returned when I was nervous. The air was thick with the scent of stale coffee and the secretary’s powdery perfume. A few minutes later, Max entered the office, and I stood to greet him.
    “Hey there, Maximilian.” I used the familiar nickname his father used, then suddenly wished I hadn’t. It was theirs, not ours.
    He stopped short in his tracks and stared at me with his mother’s eyes. “Why are you here? Where’s Mom?”
    I smiled. “Your dad asked me to pick you guys up. We’re going back to our house, okay?” It still felt a little strange to call it “our” house, even though I’d lived with Victor for several months now. The kids were only there on the weekends and I wasn’t sure they were all that happy to have me be there for breakfast when they woke up. I reached out and put what I hoped was a reassuring hand on Max’s shoulder. “He’ll be there soon.”
    “But where’s Mom?” Max asked, dropping his backpack tothe ground. His brown hair was mussed and a curious expression quickly etched itself across his freckled face. He was small for seven, his frame delicate—almost birdlike—and the top of his head barely reached my chest. “When am I going to get my growth spurt?” he often asked Victor, who was just over six feet tall. “Next Wednesday, three A.M .,” Victor always joked in return, and Max would giggle—a bubbly, guttural sound.
    “She couldn’t be here to pick you up today,” I said carefully. “Your dad will talk with you about it when he gets home, okay?” I forced a smile, feeling the stiffness of the motion in the muscles of my cheeks. “Look, there’s Ava.”
    Max’s sister entered the office and stared at me, too. “Grace.” Her tone was flat. “Where’s my mom?” She wore slim-fit jeans, a purple fleece jacket, and knee-high black boots that appeared too big and too grown-up for her skinny legs. I wondered if they were Kelli’s. Ava was petite and pretty like her mother, but I could definitely see the shadow of her father in her dark brown hair and the almond shape of her eyes.
    I sighed internally, keeping that fake smile on my face, and told her the exact same thing I’d just told her brother. “We can make cookies this afternoon, if you want,” I said, desperate to find some way to get them out of this school and into an environment with which I was at least familiar.
    “You don’t bake,” Ava said quietly. Man , I thought. Too perceptive for her own good. Still, they both picked up their bags and followed me out to my car.
    We arrived at our house after a silent car ride, and the kids trudged inside, eyeing me. “When is Dad going to be here?” Max asked. “Doesn’t he have to be at the restaurant tonight?” Victor usually worked at the Loft on Friday nights, then picked up the kids from Kelli’s place first thing Saturday morning. I knew fromtaking care of my brother that kids do best when they know what to expect, so both were clearly thrown off by this deviation from their normal routine.
    “And why aren’t you working?” Ava said before I could respond to Max. “You’re always working. Mom says so.”
    I’ll bet she