When this all began . . .
We knew there'd be a price to pay.
Too late now
To turn away.
We have come so far . . .
- "Jekyll and Hyde"

now tell us what you heard

by jessica rose
© 1998

"No."

The boy had his hand up against the glass of the ornate door leading to the balcony. He was looking out, looking far out and below, so for a moment, he did not realize the brief order had been meant for him. Didn't realize someone had been reading his mind.

His father repeated the single command, "No."

The boy turned around. He glanced at his mother, perched on the edge of the bed. Her face was calm, her eyes set and resolved. The only indication of the dread and consternation that tore at her mind was in her hands; they were clasped tightly, even fiercely, in her lap.

It was a gesture the boy had seen all too often lately.

From the next room, he could hear the sounds flowing from the massive television set perched inside the burnished cabinet, and if he tilted his head slightly, he could see the images flickering across the screen. The voice droned on - " . . three-car crash, early this morning, only several blocks from where I'm standing outside the prestigious Parker Meridian hotel, right here in Manhattan."

A shot of the boy and his brothers on a recent talk show filled the screen.

The mischievous grin appeared first in his eyes, then across this mouth. "Hey, Taylor!" the boy shouted. "You're sitting with your legs apart. Surprise, surprise."

Taylor, leaning against the frame of the door, did not take his eyes from the television. "And you," he replied, "have got your damn foot up on your chair."

"Well, what do you know?" his brother roared. "I do!"

The eldest boy strode into the room, tossing a cellular phone to their father. "Lower your voice, would you, Zac?"

"Yeah," Taylor added. "I thought you were supposed to be dead."

"Not funny," Walker Hanson chided, striking the buttons on the phone as if it deserved to be punished. Zac returned to his position in front of the balcony doors, silently willing his feet to remain where they were - willing his hands to keep from flinging the door open and marching out into the early evening and taking matters into his own hands. Look at me, look at me, baby! I am one hundred percent fine, so put on your shoes, get off the floor, and get away from our hotel!

The thought brought another smile to his face.

" . . media circus has been building all afternoon, since Z100 radio, based here in New York, repeated the rumor, which spread across Tulsa like wildfire just this morning following the crash. We have yet to hear any statement from Mercury Records or Triune Music Group, but if memory serves correctly, this is not the first incident of such a rumor regarding Zachary Hanson, but it is certainly the most drastic and the most wide-spread . ."

"Ten bucks they say, 'It should be mentioned that the trio have a history of ill luck with vehicles, as Isaac Hanson once backed their van up into the car of family friend Ashley Greyson,' " Zac intoned. The withering look his brother shot him paled in comparison to the one his mother sent.

"I just talked to that girl yesterday," Taylor remarked, as the camera panned over a mass of young women who called out and sobbed behind barricades. Pointing the remote at the television, the jaded fifteen year-old silenced their voices, yet he could still hear them twenty-one floors below.

"Chris?" Walker boomed into the small phone. "Is Sheila on her way?"

Isaac tapped Taylor's shoulder and indicated for him to restore the volume; doing so answered their father's question. " . . stepping from the car appears to be Sheila Richman, publicist to Hanson - " "Ms. Richman! Please tell us what you know!" "Why has response been delayed for so long?" "What really happened this morning?"

Isaac rolled his eyes and collapsed backwards onto the lavish bed. "Could this look just a little more like a publicity stunt?" he mumbled, massaging his face.

The woman stretched out one hand, a few silken strands of tawny hair draping across her face as she bent to grasp her oldest son's shoulder. Taylor looked as the tension silently drained from Isaac's narrow body - first from his face, then his shoulders, and finally down through his taut legs and feet. Diana's gentle touch spun soundless volumes; it eased Taylor just to watch her.

The drama on the television set continued to unfold; Sheila spoke confidently. " . . Yes, there was a crash this morning involving the Hansons' van and two other cars. The boys were taken to the hospital for minor cuts and bruises; nothing more. We are unsure how the rumor of Zac's demise came about, and we do apologize for not issuing a statement sooner - this is exactly what we had hoped to avoid." She indicated the crowd of cameras and anchors, as well as the uneasy fans, with a wave of her hand.

"Have you seen young Zac, Ms. Richman?" came the shout from the crowd of reporters.

"I am on my way to do so right now, so if you would excuse me?" she answered with a firm smile. "The boys' concert in Central Park this week will go on as scheduled, and I can assure you that Zac is alive and well."

"If so, then why has he been hidden from sight since the crash this morning?" a relentless newsman pressed.

"To ensure the family's privacy, understandably," the poised woman replied as she began making her way through the small crush of bodies and microphones. The cries from the crowd intensified against Sheila's final words - "Thank you, ladies and gentleman, that will be all."

And from inside the phone, Christopher muttered, "I just bet it will."

---

What the heart gives away is never gone. It is kept in the hearts of others.
Robin St. John

---

The boy hadn't planned anything. He rarely ever did. His first instinct would have been to raise his hands triumphantly over his head, like a hero returning from battle. If he was going to plan anything, it would have been that.

Walking down the steps, his father at his side, he remembered an occasion where he and his brothers had exited their hotel, and marched down the stairs to the applause of the fans who had gathered there to send them off. He had stopped in mid-step, comically hitting his palms together with a broad grin. What are we clapping for? he had asked. Thinking back, he wondered now if anyone had answered him.

The flashbulbs went off halfheartedly; the cameras whirred briefly. No more story here - yep, the kid was fine. But it wasn't for them that he had finally convinced his parents to let him emerge - not the shouts of the photographers looking to capture his image, not the insistence of the microphones wanting to hear his words. No, these were not what had drawn him outside. Not today.

His dark eyes searched the hordes. Despite the solemnity that draped him like a cold shadow, he moved to grasp one of the hands that was extended, and in the false city lights he studied the face of the girl before him.

He didn't remember having ever seen her before - never heard a word from this tiny mouth that now shaped his name. She hadn't bothered to line her eyes, or sweep blush across her pale skin. Glistening tears.

He couldn't smile, but he tried.

She shook her golden head, her eyes never leaving his. "Oh, Zachary Walker Hanson," she whispered. "I thought I'd lost you."

The vast room was so familiar, and he had never set foot in it, not ever in his life. Yet it was all there - the polished wooden pews, row after row. The stained-glass windows with the lofty figures who gazed down and measured the worth of their souls. The flickering candles poised on the burnished altar. Peace.

The boy felt his breath relax, and his heart fill.

A few predictable gasps met their parade into the cathedral; they responded with honest smiles and small waves. The fans would keep a respectful distance here. Filing into their chosen seats, the family knelt forward as one; as one, they bowed their heads over their folded hands. Ah, but they were late - the anteroom bell was just beginning to chime. As the rest of the congregation stood, the first lovely strains of the procession hymn drifted over the church. Lyrics, simple and serene.

Come to Me, all who labor and are heavy burdened, and I shall give you rest.

Diana Hanson felt her son's body begin to tremble. She touched his silky head; wound her arm around his shoulders. Clutching the cool wood, the boy pressed his forehead against his hands.

He hummed below his breath.

Taylor, biting his lip as his eyes swept over the page in his hand, didn't answer. He waited.

Isaac wandered closer, glancing out the window, and at the drawings his brother had left scattered on the floor.

Taylor waited.

The older boy tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, and picked up a CD case off the floor, which he studied.

Taylor waited.

"So why aren't you?"

"What, sleeping?"

Isaac shrugged. "That's what you said you were going to do."

The younger boy yawned. "I was, but I can't." He returned his attention to the stack of paper, the neatly printed parade of words, and waited.

"Why can't you sleep, T?"

"Feels too good." Taylor stretched his long legs out in front of him. "I'm so tired, but it's like, I'm reading this, and I can't decide what I want more - to close my eyes, or just keep on going here . . I'm just enjoying having to choose, you know?"

Isaac didn't know, and he couldn't understand how Taylor did, either.

The younger boy raised his bright eyes, and in turn, appraised Isaac's. "You get enough sleep last night, Ike?"

"I never get enough sleep." His resolve finally crumbled, and he grabbed the sheaf of pages from his brother, who grinned. "Hell, I knew it! I knew you'd ask what this was eventually - "

"Fan-fiction." Isaac tossed the story back onto the bed. "Still that War of the Worlds one?"

"Two Worlds Collided, yeah," Taylor corrected.

"About you and Sydney."

Taylor nodded. "Yep."

Isaac shifted his weight from one foot to another. "She get it right?" he asked quietly.

His brother lifted his head once again. "More right than the papers did." There was no hint of the bitter grief that had died from his eyes only recently. "Forget it for one second."

"Yeah, let's talk about something more cheerful," Isaac decided morosely, "like how the new word on the street is that we're both in this only for money, and we're dragging Zac along for the ride."

Taylor moved his head from side to side in feigned astonishment. "No. You mean that's not true?"

"You tell me. If it is, I sure as hell don't want them all to know."

"Like I said, forget it." The younger boy leaned forward, his eyes taking in all that his brother would not say. "We were talking about you."

"No, we weren't," Isaac protested. Taylor smiled slightly, and his answer was - "Whatever. I asked you if you slept - "

"And I said no."

The smile faded somewhat. "When was the last time being homesick got to you?"

"Damn it Taylor, stop pretending like you don't know what I mean!" Isaac spat out. He kicked at the drawings strewn on the plush carpet, and the concealed fury, his carefully reined unrest, was freed. "The second I walked in you knew what I was going to say! How do you do this? How do you just - block it all away, as if things never happen, as if everything's always going to be all right? Losing our house, the shit with Zac, the hell the kids get put through! You just go on, no matter what, and I - " His hand faltered above his mouth, and the final words were forced. "I don't understand you."

Taylor gathered his legs underneath him. "I'd end up kinda like you are right now," came the matter-of-fact answer, "if I wasn't how I am, whatever that means."

"Yeah, just like me." The young man wasn't even looking at his brother now, as he swallowed back the caustic anger that gathered in his throat. "Coming so close to hating my life."

"No one hates their life, Ike." Taylor settled back, flipped a page in the story. He did not look up as he spoke. "Only thing we hate is that our lives aren't always up to us."

Isaac did not need to turn, as the thundering pace of his heart slowed. He could easily picture his fifteen year-old brother, folded up behind him. Flaxen hair spilling everywhere, blue eyes calm and patient and brilliant. Taylor - Taylor lived as if he knew unquestionably that everything happened for a reason, as if he had that proof tucked away somewhere in his heart. Strong and steady and eternal, like the flowing waters of the biblical river he had been named for. Taylor Hanson is extraordinary, some acclaimed magazine had unabashedly stated once.

Looking at his younger brother now, Isaac thought that he remembered, for the first time in a while, how he had always agreed with them.

The sunlight was the first thing he noticed. Shimmering, radiant sunlight, creating delicate beauty wherever it landed. The luminous yellow shafts poured onto the pavement and the buildings and the people. It touched their heads tenderly; illuminated their eyes and their hands as they moved. From this distance, they all looked unreal, as nearly everything did here. He wanted to close his eyes for a moment, to breathe it all in, but the city was moving so fast beneath that flickering sun, and he was afraid he would miss something.

The colors and the sounds all melted together into a glittering kaleidoscope, just as quickly as they whirled and separated once more. He listened to the clatter of tapping heels on the sidewalk and voices that eagerly spoke over one another, against the backdrop of emerald and scarlet and violet that flashed into his eyes. He drank it in; he savored every hastening instant. And he suddenly thought, realized all too sharply, just how he had -

"Forgotten."

"Yes," Isaac answered, and the word had scarcely escaped before his dark eyes snapped up to face his reflection in the window.

Only it was not his own image that he caught sight of. It was a girl beside him, silent now, who had snatched the very thoughts from his mind and spoken them to him. She was not looking at him; rather, she was watching the city race as he had been doing seconds before. For a moment, he thought he couldn't think of one single word to utter.

No matter. She was speaking again, softly. "Because you do forget, you know."

He opened his mouth; no sound came out.

"You forget," she repeated quietly. "Everyone forgets, all the time, just what something means to them after they've been away from it for long enough. And I should know - I do it all the time. I haven't stood and looked down at this city in three months, and I thought I had forgotten how much I loved it."

She turned and set her eyes on him. Misty and gray, flecked with indistinct blues. He was distracted from her arresting voice, as those eyes gazed directly into his. Nearly taller than he was, with sable hair braided down her back . . she was not beautiful, yet it pleased his eyes to look at her.

They realized at the same time that he had not said a word, and she laughed. "I do that, too," she told him. "Talk to people as if . . I know them, I guess."

He shook his head. "No, that's all right. You just - surprised me."

She stretched out a hand. "Emma."

"Isaac," the young man returned, grasping her palm briefly.

"No, Clarke," she corrected him.

"You said you didn't know me," he accused her with a smile. Emma shrugged easily. "Do you ever remember meeting me, Ike?"

He didn't, and his expression plainly said so.

"Could you tell me what I love, or...who I hate, and everything I wish?"

Isaac caught himself on the verge of being mesmerized, as if he was awakening from a dream. He shook his head, keeping his features blank.

"Then you don't know me," she said gently, "and I don't know you."

The absolute truth of it sent a grin flourishing across his face. He suddenly had to stifle the laughter that threatened to explode inside him. She was right, so right, and yet -

Emma had her head tilted slightly, carefully examining him. "How's your girlfriend, Ike?"

The young man fixed the smile on his face, and automatically opened his mouth to parrot the mechanical response. But suddenly, just as he was about to reply, he fell lost into her eyes, and the rehearsed phrase was caught. Trust those eyes, this face . . could he do that? Could he confess to this stranger that - "It's over." He heard the words coming flatly, and how alien it was to listen to them. He didn't pause to take a breath before going on. "It's been over for only a few weeks . . I still can't get used to it. She came with us for most of the tour, you know, 'cause we'd been apart for so long. I thought that would help us, and it did, for a little while anyway. It really had nothing to do with all the girls, or that she couldn't tell anyone - you'd think that would be what would end it, but it wasn't." His eyes grew vague - he was seeing her face now, as clearly as if she stood at his side. That captivating face, her silken hair, the melodious sound of her laughter . . All forever imprinted in his mind. "I still love her. I don't think I'll ever have a relationship like that, not again."

He realized with a start that he hadn't meant to voice these last words, as the girl nodded once. "I'm sorry," she said simply.

"I'm so sure you are," Isaac retorted.

He immediately regretted the harsh charge.

The girl's tranquil countenance did not change. She shrugged, and repeated, "I'm sorry." A sad smile played on her lips. "I'm sorry because you're hurt."

The dark braid had fallen over one shoulder; she moved, not impatiently, to brush it away.

Isaac narrowed his eyes. "Wait a minute . . " Something about the quick, graceful gesture had tugged at his memory. "I have met you before, haven't I?"

"More than once." Her eyes were dancing. "I don't expect you to remember - it's okay."

"Otay, you mean." Pushing past the old pain; he would deal with it later.

"Watch it, Ike, or I'll tell you that's Zac-ly what I was thinking, and that I've been Hansonticipating this moment forever, and then you'll tell me you'll see me lay-tor."

"Three months." Isaac recalled her words, and realization kindly tapped him on the shoulder. "Three months ago . . " He looked at Emma, as the impish smile rose into her face. "Three months ago, we were performing here," he mumbled to himself, and chuckled under his breath. Returning his glance to her, the young man shook his head. "It's too early, you've got to understand."

"Sure, I understand. I'm still on Tulsa time, too, you know."

"You do not live in Tulsa!" Isaac laughed aloud - he couldn't help himself.

"I do!" she insisted with a grin. "I moved there right before your little rise to international fame started. Purely coincidence."

"And you come out here . . "

"Don't flatter yourself," she warned him, and her face was lit up so joyfully. "I just happen to love New York. Definitely more entertaining to look for you here, than when I've sat for hours on end on West - "

The laughter died on Isaac's face.

Emma bit her lip, and smiled again, uncertainly. "Well, East now, huh?"

The content the young man had felt resting inside him was tersely broken, and sent on its way. "So," he said dully, "is that where else I've seen you?"

She could not answer him. Her lips parted for a moment.

"Have the good grace to look a little ashamed, would you?" Isaac offered, spite encasing every syllable. "Next thing you know, you'll be asking me why we had to move."

"Ike . . " The young woman lifted one hand, in some useless gesture. "Isaac - "

"Let me do this, Emma, to save you some breath," he cut in rapidly. "Maybe you were about to say, 'I'm not the only one who does it.' Or how about, 'It's not entirely my fault.' No, wait, the classic, the absolute classic - 'I'm a fan of yours, so you owe it to me.' " He didn't know what he was saying any longer. He wasn't seeing her. He was seeing the view from windows that he spent years staring out of, and a living room with high ceilings that had been decorated every December, and a sister who had packed up her room with hollow eyes, and a little boy who had learned quickly that he couldn't play in his own front yard. He remembered, abruptly, what it had felt like to walk out of that house for the last time.

She shook her head, and a solitary tear scalded her face. "It's not like that," she whispered. "I'm so sorry, Ike. I don't know what to tell you. I'm only human."

"Yeah," the young man answered, shoving his hands in his pockets as he turned to leave. "So am I."

Behind him, he heard Emma inhale sharply, and the sound went slashing through him, paralyzing him. "That's - not - fair, Isaac," she stammered, through clenched teeth and tightened fists. The searing tears choked her. "Not fair to me, or to you, or to anyone else who ever gave a damn about you and Zac and Taylor. You cannot put yourself in my shoes - "

"I could say the same to you!" Ike shot back incredulously.

" - so don't even try," she finished. "I never overlooked what you've all given up, and what you've taken on. I never pretended to understand how difficult your life is. Now do the same for me. Somehow I don't think your heart's been going a thousand miles an hour for the past few minutes, because you're finally face-to-face with someone you've admired and respected and cared about for over a year. I don't think you've listened to my voice when your heart was breaking and when you thought you couldn't hold on one second longer. And I know for a fact that when you turn and walk away, I'll be gone from your life, and isn't it incredible to realize that you won't be gone from mine."

The silence that hovered in the air between them was deafening.

Emma shook her head, and her eyes were very bright. "I could ask you to give me my life back, because you took so much of it away," she concluded softly. "But you can't grieve for what you didn't regret losing, and I don't know if I regret handing it over or not."

A terrible sadness was mounting inside Isaac. He suddenly recalled someone counseling him - reminding him of some timeless quote. The surest way to find happiness is to seek it for others.

He couldn't remember who had told him this - he couldn't remember where they had heard it from, either.

Emma had turned her face away, rapidly pressing her tears with the back of her hand. He realized, as she looked toward him now, that he had spoken the sage quote aloud.

"But I thought that was what we were doing," he said quietly, almost wonderingly, answering the question she had not asked.

The young woman raised her eyes to meet his subdued gaze. "Oh, it is," she promised him softly. Voice halting, beneath the weight of the remorse she could not help but know. "It really, really is."

He didn't trust any words. He wanted to move to her, take her hand, tell her something to ease the - pain? The bitterness? He could do none of these things.

Emma nodded her ebony head, and the velvety braid came tumbling over her shoulder once more. "I'll see you at the concert," she told him, "even if - "

"Even if I don't see you?" he asked.

She blinked swiftly, and the smile reappeared like sunlight refusing to be suffocated by the drifting clouds. "That's what I like about you, Ike Hanson," she answered, and the tears in her eyes were the last. "You and your brothers . . you always did seem to know what I was thinking."