What the Heart Knows. Margaret Daley

up. We used to drive our parents crazy.” The lights in the hall dimmed again. “Too bad they’re on vacation. They’ll hate missing my son’s performance. They haven’t seen him play in a while.”

      “I didn’t realize he was one of the performers. This will be a treat for us.” Jared settled back to enjoy the show as the curtains opened on the first act.

      Mark appeared on stage after the fifth act. Kathleen shifted in the seat, crossing and uncrossing her legs. He sat on a stool in front of the mike and adjusted its height, then began to play the Beatles’ song, “Yesterday.” With his gaze fixed on the floor, he made it through the first verse with not one mistake. A constriction in Kathleen’s chest lessened as her son continued playing. Even though he didn’t look at the audience, she saw a glimpse of the old Mark on stage.

      Halfway through the second verse Mark stopped playing and shot to his feet. He stared at the people at the back of the recreational hall, his posture ramrod straight as though he would break any second. Silence, thick and heavy, reigned. Transfixed, Kathleen held her breath.

      Suddenly Mark raised his Les Paul guitar and smashed it against the floor. Once. Twice. Several people gasped. Mark tossed the fragments toward the back curtain, then spun about and raced from the stage.

      Breathe, Kathleen’s mind commanded. She sucked in a deep gulp of air and nearly choked. Her heart pounded against her chest while she continued to draw air into her lungs between coughs. The empty stage and the unearthly silence hammered home what had just happened with her son.

      Then all at once people began to talk around her, their voices bombarding her from every side. She had to get to Mark. Bolting to her feet, her chair toppling over, she hurried after her son, faintly aware someone was following her flight from the room.

      She scanned the long hall leading to the classrooms. Nothing. The outside door beckoned. She moved toward it. Her sister called out.

      Kathleen pivoted. “Please go reassure everyone. I can take care of finding Mark.”

      Laura started to say something.

      “I’m fine. I’m sure Mark raised a few eyebrows.”

      Laura headed back into the recreational hall, leaving Kathleen alone in the lobby. She fought the desire to call her sister back, but Laura was very good at making a situation not seem so bad and she was sure many people had questions about what just happened. She had questions.

      Kathleen pushed through the double doors. Heat still hung in the air. Bright oranges and reds streaked the sky, proclaiming a beautiful sunset. Kathleen turned away from its beauty and searched the parking lot. The beating of her heart thundered in her ears, drowning out all sounds of traffic on the road.

      Where was Mark? She thought for sure he would be standing by their car. He wasn’t anywhere in sight. Panic gnawed at her insides. She remembered the time he had run away a few months back in Shreveport. It had only been for a day, but—

      “Kathleen?”

      A hand clasped her shoulder. She twisted about to find Jared Matthews standing right behind her. “I can’t find him!”

      “I’ll help you look. He couldn’t have gone far. Maybe he’s still in the building.”

      Stepping back, she shook her head. “I don’t think so. I—” Words lumped in her throat. Tears misted her eyes, blurring her view of Jared.

      He came to her side and placed a comforting hand on her arm. “It’ll be all right. I’ll look in the parking lot and that area beyond. You search the playground and garden. Okay?”

      She brushed away a tear that slid down her cheek. “Yes.”

      Kathleen hurried toward the playground, suddenly remembering the times her son used to love playing on a jungle gym or swinging on a swing as high as he could go. Years ago. Had she lost him? Why would he smash his Les Paul guitar? He loved it. It had been her son’s most prized possession, cherished even more because it was one of the last things his father had given him before he’d died. It had been John’s guitar when he was growing up.

      A deserted playground greeted her. The wind stirred a flag but that was all that moved. When she started for the garden, she caught a glimpse of the barrel that Terry had written on. The sight of Hannah and Dylan’s names brought a faint smile to her mouth that hovered for a second then vanished. She pressed on, wishing she had the time for something frivolous.

      In the middle of the garden of tall pine trees from past parishioners’ Christmases, Kathleen located Mark sitting on the ground, propped against a stone bench. He clasped his knees to his chest and stared, unblinking, at a spot a few feet from him.

      “Mark?”

      He didn’t move.

      Kathleen knelt down in front of him and blocked his view, forcing him to look at her. “Mark, what happened back there?”

      “I don’t want to play anymore.”

      There wasn’t any emotion in his voice or on his face. The sight made Kathleen shudder. He slid his gaze from hers, again finding a spot to the side of her to stare at. Icy tentacles burrowed deep inside her. Even though the temperature hovered in the eighties, she hugged her arms to her. So cold.

      “Mark, you don’t have to play music if you don’t want to.”

      “I want to go home.” He uncurled himself and pushed to his feet, his movements jerky.

      Kathleen rose, taking that time to school her features into a calm facade that was no indication of what she was really feeling inside—fear, fear that she was losing her son, fear that something was going on beyond teenage rebellion. “I think you should see someone about—”

      He whirled on her. “No! I told you no doctors.” Anger lined his face, his heavy dark brows slashed downward. “I’m fine. There’s nothing wrong with me. I don’t want to play. That is all.”

      “But you destroyed your guitar, the one your father gave you.”

      “It’s my guitar. I can do what I want with it.”

      Again his expression smoothed into a bland one. For a fleeting moment Kathleen wondered if she had imagined her son’s anger. Now he looked as though nothing had happened in the recreational hall, as if every day he smashed his favorite things.

      “Mark, please let me help you.”

      He stiffened, pressing his lips together, but his expression remained neutral.

      She thought of Mark at his father’s funeral, supporting her through the ordeal. All Kathleen wanted to do was pull her son into her arms and hold him. She ached with the need, but his rigid stance forbade it. What had she done wrong that she couldn’t reach her son when he needed her the most?

      Footsteps sounding on the stone path drew her attention. Jared approached from the parking lot.

      Mark stared at him. “I’m going to the car.” He rushed past her and Jared.

      Kathleen started forward.

      “Wait. Give him a moment.”

      “Why? He—”

      Jared stepped in front of her, blocking her path. “You need it.”

      The tight rein she had on her composure broke. Tears streamed down her face, unchecked. She couldn’t seem to stop them. She rarely cried, and now she was crying in front of a practical stranger. “I don’t know what to do anymore.” She paused, inhaling deeply. “These past six months have been so difficult. He’s not sleeping like he used to. He often roams the house at night. He’s not eating well, either. In fact, this past week I’ve hardly seen him eating at all. Last night I saw him crying during a movie that was funny.” Swiping at her tears, she hiccuped.

      His eyes showing his concern, Jared lifted his hand toward her but stopped. Instead he removed his handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to her. “It could