Free Here by Denise Grover Swank Page A

that I know it’s there, the love knot is obvious, like an optical illusion that jumps out of a picture. The hearts are mirror images of one another, and are composed of lines that intertwine in multiple places. They seem hopelessly tangled. Around the hearts are a group of scroll designs, scrolls and arabesques. Nothing else jumps out at me, but it doesn’t mean nothing else is there. I’ve drawn these things for months and never noticed the hearts before.
    Turning to the previous page, I search for the love knot. The first one could have been a fluke, but within seconds, I spot another one. Nearly identical to the first, it’s in the upper right hand corner. Scrolls and curving geometrics frame this one as well, but are slightly different. Page after page contains Celtic knots.
    If I’ve sketched hidden love knots, what else have I drawn? I look for five minutes and see nothing. Evan found the knots so maybe I can convince him to look again. The only problem is that I want to know now and won’t spend time with him until Tuesday afternoon.
    Patience has never been one of my best virtues.
    I lay on my bed and stare at the ceiling. This should freak me out, but instead, it’s oddly comforting. My doodling means something . My subconscious must be trying to tell me something . What it has to do with two hearts representing a timeless love is beyond me.
    I sit up and finish my page, completing six trig assignments this weekend. That’s a lot of math for someone who doesn’t particularly like it.
    When I wander to the kitchen to get a drink, angry voices drift from Mom and Dad’s room. The door is closed but snippets of sentences drift through.
    “
She’s been making a real effort,” Mom says.
    Dad’s voice comes through, sounding weary. “Things have to change.”
    Mom becomes exasperated. “She’s trying. Can’t you see that?”
    Dad is silent.
    My face ignites with shame for eavesdropping, but the fact that I’m the topic of their conversation makes me nauseous.
    Dad is giving up on me.
    My head is fuzzy with worry as I get my glass of ice water and go back to my room. Sinking on the bed, I stare at the dent in the wall. The one the picture frame made several days ago. The frame still sits on the bedside table and Monica’s face smiles at me, convicting me of my crimes.
    Down the hall a door bangs followed by my mother’s shouting. I jump up and open my door a crack. Dad walks into the hall carrying a suitcase.
    Mom stands in the doorway, gripping the door jam with white knuckles. “Don’t you do this, John. Don’t you abandon us.” Her anger pierces the tense silence.
    He stops in the living room and slowly turns to face her, suitcase still in his hand. His lip quivers and his voice cracks. “I can’t do this any more, Miranda. I’m sorry.”
    “
What am I suppose to tell the girls?” Tears saturate her words.
    He looks at the ceiling and exhales. “Tell them I failed them.” Then he walks out the front door.
    Mom sags into the door, sobs pouring from her body as she falls to the floor in a puddle. I watch through the crack, unsure what to do.
    This is my fault.
    I rush to her and drop to the floor, throwing my arms around her heaving body. She pulls me into an embrace and buries her face in my hair. Mom’s body collapses on my shoulder as she cries. My hair is wet and sticks to my neck. Cramps seize my back, but I steel myself to be strong for her. As she settles down, her grip on my waist loosens. I lean my head against the door frame and close my eyes, desperately searching for a way to help her. My hand lifts to her head and I stroke her hair like she’s done for me a million and one times.
    I have no idea how long we sit when the front door opens. We lift our heads, both hopeful. Instead, Anna stands in the open doorway, the cold wind whooshing past her and down the hall, lifting goose bumps on my arms. The color on her face fades to gray. “What happened?”
    Mom sits up and wipes the