The Sound of Her Heartbeat

‘You’ve got this!’ Rachel heard the voice cry out, encouraging her, pushing her on.

Rachel worked hard. The novel was almost there. Eighty thousand words, that’s all she needed. Yet the ending eluded her. She’d given life her best shot after all. Really wanted it to work, yet though she had been following her dream and writing for some years, feedback was always the same.

‘Not good enough, wrong time. Try again.’

It had driven her to the brink. She’d lost her job, her boss telling her she was always daydreaming instead of focusing on work.

‘Writer’s block’ they called it. She’d given up, tried getting another job, but times were tough and so she’d gone back to her room.

The landlord knocked, asking for the rent.

‘I’ll have it soon,’ she’d pleaded. ‘Just one more week. I promise.’

‘That’s all you’ve got.’ The gruff voice had been patient. ‘I’ve got a family to feed too, you know.’

And so, she sat down to write…again.

Her stomach rumbled and she stared at the empty pantry. A tin of beans kept her going but she needed more food if she were to survive. Winter was coming and Rachel could feel the chill as she dressed in all the clothes she could find, fingerless gloves allowing her to type on the keyboard.

She wrote, stopping every half hour to check the word count. Fifty thousand words, she just needed the ending. Rachel was almost there but that damn ending continued to elude her.

She was tired and stretched her arms in the last rays of sunlight. The electricity had already been cut off so she’d moved her desk closer to the window to catch the light. Rachel decided to take a break. She stood and walked to the lounge. Just a few moments. ‘I’ll just close my eyes for a moment and start again.’

It seemed simpler to just end it all than continue on the path she’d been on. After all, no one seems to really care whether she made it or not. The voice inside kept going. ‘Just get it over and done with. Stop procrastinating. You’re good at that, but it’s time to just do it.’

She placed her shoes and socks by her side; the letter tucked into its sole. Someone would eventually find it and read it, and understand her decision. They’d let her only siblings know. Rachel didn’t have any friends, they’d gone long ago. She’d locked herself away for too long, tried for too long to finish that damn book and they’d given up asking her out so it was just her sister left now who would call occasionally to make sure she was still there.

As she stood on the precipice now, the wind blew savagely, yet she didn’t feel it’s bite. She’d made her peace with her decision.

Then, as she was about to jump, she stared out over the ocean and saw him in the distance.

Her dad. He had seen her there, had been waiting for her. He knew she was struggling and he called out to her.

‘Follow me,’ he said. It broke her concentration and he beckoned her to come.

Rachel climbed down from the rock. She’d been desperate, trying to make sense of her world, one that had been turned upside down these past few weeks.

She called out, ‘Dad. Wait.’

He turned, and as she approached him, he kept walking, just out of reach.

She followed. Down, along the street, beckoning always to keep coming. She tried to catch up, though he was always too far.

He turned to make sure she was still following and she cried out again. ‘Wait, dad, I can’t keep up.’ But he turned his back, looking ahead to where he was going and beckoned for her to walk on.

They passed a bakery with freshly baked croissants and she stopped a moment. She was hungry and her mouth watered, wanting to taste the savory delights in the window. Then she remembered she hadn’t brought and money, so she cried out again.

‘Wait dad, I’m hungry.’

People stared as she ran, crying. ‘Stop, dad. Please, I can’t do this. You need to stop.’

He ignored her cries and kept moving. Through the tunnel and along the streets of the city, she tried to keep pace with him.

They came to the town hall where she had once played in a recital and she could hear music softly drifting out through its doors, reminding her of that time. She was only ten, yet her parents had encouraged her to play, and she’d won the audience over with her rendition of Beethoven’s Seventh.

Someone suddenly closed the doors and the sound stopped, bringing her attention back to her father. She saw him crossing the busy street and she cried out again. ‘Wait for me.’

Continuing, Rachel darted between cars as they blasted their horns until she reached the other side. Exhausted, she stopped to catch her breath. ‘I can’t do this, dad. I can’t keep up,’ she pleaded.

He turned and held his hand out to her.

‘Yes, you can,’ she heard him say. ‘Come on, you need to see this.’

He turned again and kept walking, his legs so much longer than hers, her stride trying to keep pace, though her much shorter legs were no match for his. She began to run. Faster and faster. She picked up her pace, her heart beating to the rhythm of her feet. Faster and faster she ran as though she were a train chugging over the city pavement.

‘You can do it, you can do it you can do it.’ She could hear the words in her mind as she jogged, the rhythm of her breathing keeping time with her feet as she breathed longer and harder. It was as though her body were in sync with his now as she could feel him drawing nearer.

As they turned the corner, she stopped suddenly.

The scene was familiar and for a moment, she forgot about her father.

Turning one way and then the other, she recognised people and places where she had grown up. Yet it seemed surreal.

She continued for a short distance and stopped outside her old school, the sound coming from the classrooms, reminding her of her favourite teacher. She walked through its gates, once so large as a child, now seemingly small.

She wandered into where she once played, the sounds of laughter growing louder as she came closer to the playground.

Rachel could see the door to her classroom, and she stopped outside, peering through its window, staring at the faces inside. It was as though each child there were her own childhood friends.

The teacher walked to the door and beckoned her to come in. ‘We’ve been waiting for you.’

Rachel wandered in, to the sounds of rousing applause by those inside. It was as though she was staring at herself as the girl on the platform gave her ‘captain’s speech.’

When she’d finished, Rachel heard her father calling again.

‘Come on Rach, you need to keep going. Follow me, we’re not there yet.’

She tried again to keep up with him, stopping occasionally as she recognised people she’d known. An old friend, her aunty, her grandfather. Even the homes she now wandered past were those from her past childhood.

She blinked. Once, twice, then again trying to make sense of it all as her mind willed her to look for something.

First Street, Wentworth Road, Station Ave. They were common names, yet to Rachel they were names from her lifetime. Roads she had been on. Streets where she had once played with childhood friends. Roads where her grandparents had once lived.

She sat down on the side of the road and placed her head in her hands. ‘Why are you doing this? Where are we going? What do you want me to see, dad?’

‘We’re not finished, come on, Rach. You’ve got more to do.’ He stood beside her and lifted her, helping her to steady herself. ‘Come on, just a little further.’

She walked again, this time, his hand holding hers, as they reached the door to the library.

The mayor was there and she beckoned her inside. They sat chatting about what she was trying to achieve and Rachel told her she had always wanted to be a writer but couldn’t complete her story.

The mayor was sympathetic and outlined things she was trying to achieve in the community, saying it was always difficult to find a way to get there but with love in her heart she would achieve things she really wanted.

They finished talking and Rachel was about to leave, when the mayor waved her into the auditorium. A crowd was waiting inside.

‘They want you to tell them about your book,’ she said warmly. ‘Just like you told me.’

‘But I don’t know the ending,’ Rachel cried, her voice panicking.

‘Oh, but I think you do, you just need to say it out loud.’

She stood on the podium and began to speak, as though the words had come to her from a muse inside.

In the distance, she could see her father standing, watching and then applauding.

As she finished, he turned and closed the door behind him.

She cried out again, ‘Stop. Dad. Don’t go,’ then heard his voice.

‘You’ve got this.’

Rachel woke to the sound of her heartbeat pounding in her ears. Was it real? Was it a dream?

Her father had been gone for twenty years, yet it was as though he had been beside her, encouraging her to continue.

She stood and sauntered across to her desk, just as the sun was rising.

As she finished writing, the word count said Eighty Thousand Words.

Rachel clicked ‘Send.’