Kayla followed Sage to the bleachers. “What’s happening?”
“I don’t know.” She nabbed her duffle and backpack, conscious of the team watching, and let her game face still her features. “I’ll text you.”
* * *
As soon as the gym doors banged behind them, Sage whirled on Mom. “Tell me what’s going on!”
Mom’s face tightened. “It’s just precautionary.”
That word again. “What’s precautionary?”
They were outside now, both of them squinting. “Dr. Surrage called.” Mom shaded her eyes. “She told me she gave you an EKG and she thinks, well, she wants you to get an echo. Just to be safe.”
“An echo?”
“Yes. It’s an ultrasound of your heart.”
Sage stopped. “But, why?”
Mom tugged Sage’s wrist lightly, forcing her to keep walking. “All she said was that it was better to be overcautious, so she wanted a more conclusive test. Which is good because nothing less will satisfy your father.” A tired breath escaped her. “Come on. Dr. Surrage knows the cardiologist and he added you to today’s schedule as a favor.”
Sage frowned, trying to make sense of Mom’s broken bits of information. “Dad’s the one insisting I get the echo?”
“No. It was Dr. Surrage’s idea. But I’m sure it’s mainly to placate your father.”
Sage climbed into the car, keenly aware of the quick pounding in her chest. Nerves, she told herself. Just nerves.
“What was on my EKG, then?”
Mom released the parking brake and flipped on the engine. “I don’t know exactly. Maybe nothing. She said it wasn’t conclusive. Hence the echo.” She pulled onto the road.
Sage thought of the scout. The perfect, but missed, opportunity.
Mom blew a loose length of dark hair off her face. “Try to think of it as a good thing. You’ll get cleared and then everyone can breathe easy.” She gripped the steering wheel tighter. “And Dad won’t be able to hound you about any more tests.”
Sage nodded. “I guess.” The storefronts zipped by and her gaze settled on BAKED, the dangerously delicious pie shop that had opened when she was a freshman. It had been a long time since she’d let herself go there, or have sweets of any kind. It’d be worth it, though, keeping her body in prime condition. Just a couple more months, maybe less, and she’d have a signed contract.
Only…
She shifted, wishing she’d brought a volleyball to steady her hands. She wouldn’t get the kind of offers she wanted if she wasn’t around when Division 1 scouts showed up. “I should be back there, Mom,” she said. “I have to prove myself to get an offer.”
“You’re going to get an offer,” Mom said quickly. “More than one if Coach knows what he’s talking about.”
“But only if I’m on the court!”
Mom reached over and squeezed her hand. “I know how much you want this, honey. And it’s going to happen, okay? I know you. I know how you work. You’re going to make it happen.”
Sage squeezed back. Mom might think she knew how badly Sage wanted a full ride to a big-time program, how it would set her up for a professional career overseas and maybe even—when she really let her dreams run wild—a bid on an Olympic team.
But the truth was, no one truly understood how much Sage wanted those things. How volleyball felt as much a part of her as her brain or lungs or any other organ necessary for life. Sometimes Sage thought she might ignite from the sheer force of wanting.
Mom pulled into a medical park. Sage had passed it umpteen times on the way downtown but had never been inside.
“This is it,” Mom said.
Sage took in the three-story building with the humongous blue heart on the side, annoyed by how the sight of it made her pulse pound a bit harder. Elite athletes controlled their bodies, not the other way around. What was she even worried about anyway? She was in great shape. She took a few deep breaths, slowing her heart rate, then slipped on her game face and followed her mom inside.
Dad sat alone in the waiting room. A patient clipboard balanced on his lap while he typed on his phone. “Sage.” He stood up. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine, Dad. Really.”
He nodded. To Mom, he asked, “You okay, Rena?”
Sage glanced between them. “Why wouldn’t she be?”
“He means my meeting,” Mom said quickly and gave Dad a sharp look. “It was fine. Tiring. I’m fine.”
The waiting space was small but pristine, with warm colors on the wall and chairs softening the hospital feel of the place. A children’s nook complete with chalkboard wall and a basket of toys took up one corner.
“I’ve filled out most of your paperwork.” Dad handed Sage the clipboard. “You just have to sign a few places.”
“I’m missing a scouting session right now,” she said.
Dad frowned. “From where?”
“A PAC 12 school!”
Dad’s mouth fell open. Mom shot him another look.
“There’ll be plenty of those,” he said. “Let’s just get this over with.”
A woman in scrubs stepped into the room. “Sage Zendasky?”
“Yes.”
“Right this way.” She nodded at Sage’s clipboard. “You can sign that back here and then we’ll get you all set up, okay? Mom, you’re welcome to come back now, if that makes Sage comfortable. Dad, I can get you when Dr. Friedman’s ready with the results?”
Dad nodded and resumed his seat.
“We so appreciate you fitting us in,” Mom said as they followed the sonographer.
The woman gave a tired smile. “Dr. Friedman bends over backward to make sure people get proper care.” She led them into a darkened room where a large machine sat next to the patient table.
“How long is this going to take?” Sage asked, studying the mass of wires.
“Forty-five minutes or so.” The sonographer stepped around the examination table. “And I know it looks scary, but it doesn’t hurt. We’ll get these leads on you, use the scope”—she held up a wand-like tool—“to take some pictures of your heart, and that will be that.” She handed Sage a hospital gown. “Go ahead and put this on, opening in the front. I’ll come back when you’re ready.”
The woman was right. Nothing about the echo hurt, although all the electrodes on her chest did make Sage feel a bit like an experiment in a sci-fi movie. Despite her annoyance at missing the scouting practice, she found her eyes glued to the monitor. She felt her heart beat every day, but she’d never actually seen it.
She pointed to a largish, gray area on the black-and-white screen. “What is that?”
“That,” the sonographer said, “is one of your ventricles. The right one. Could you turn toward me just a little?” She adjusted the probe higher on Sage’s chest. “See that pulsing there? That’s a valve, opening and closing. Cool, huh?”
She typed something into the machine, then pointed out the different chambers of Sage’s heart, and how the blood moved through them. It was clearly against office policy, however, for her to offer any opinions about a diagnosis. Sage tried multiple times.
“Don’t worry,” the sonographer said as she unplugged Sage’s leads. “Dr. Friedman knows what to look for and he’ll be in to discuss the results as soon as possible.” She handed Sage paper towels to wipe the excess ultrasound gel off her chest and turned on the lights.
As soon as Sage was back in her normal clothes, Dad knocked.
“How’d it go?” he asked as Sage opened the door.
“Fine.” Sage hopped back on the exam table to keep her injured ankle elevated.
“They were very professional,” Mom added.
“Good, good.” Dad pulled out his phone, eyes gleaming. “I just saw some photos of last night’s game. Check this one out.” He leaned against the table, turning the screen so Sage could see. Mom squeezed in on her other side, clasping her hands when she saw the image—a close-up of Sage spiking, her head just under the
top of the net.
“Oh, Sage,” Mom said, “you look like you’re soaring!” She squeezed Dad’s arm. “Send it to me! I’ve got to order some for the grandparents. And my desk at work.”
Dad pushed back from the exam table, grinning like a little kid. “I already put it on Instagram. And made it my Facebook profile.”
“Oh, my God, Dad,” Sage said. “That’s kind of embarrassing.”
“What?” said Dad. “It’s the perfect photo. My daughter—volleyball warrior.”
Sage’s face split into a huge smile. She couldn’t help it.
“I’ll upload it to your recruitment profile when we get home,” he added.
A light knock made them all look up. In the excitement surrounding the photo, Sage had almost forgotten where they were. “Come in,” she said.
A curly-haired man stepped into the room, a stack of papers in his hand. He looked younger than her parents, but not by much.
“Hey, everyone,” he said. “I’m Dr. Friedman.” He shook Sage’s hand first.
“Good news, I hope?” asked Dad.
Dr. Friedman glanced at him, then turned his full focus to Sage. “I understand from Dr. Surrage that you’re a fantastic athlete—”
“A Division One prospect,” Dad cut in. “Guaranteed, actually.” His face beamed, radiant.
Dr. Friedman nodded. “Which is why this is going to be really hard, and I feel horrible having to talk to you about it.”
The air rushed from Sage’s body, like she’d taken a ball to the chest. Mom wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders.
“Your EKG revealed a thickening of your left ventricle,” Dr. Friedman continued. “That means the left side of the heart. Your echo results are very consistent with that, so I’m afraid there’s no doubt that you have a condition called hypertrophic cardiomyopathy.”
Sage took in his folded hands, the sad tilt of his head.
“Just say it!” she blurted, startling the room. Her mom tightened her grip, and Sage realized she was shaking. “What does that mean? For me, as a volleyball player?”
“It means,” said Dr. Friedman, “you have a thickening of the heart muscle that’s very dangerous. It’s the number one cause of sudden death among athletes—”
“I could die?” Sage asked as Mom gasped.
“Yes,” Dr. Friedman said. “Absolutely.”
“How do we fix it?” Dad asked. It was his lawyer, take-action voice. Sage sat straighter. Whatever it took—surgeries, physical therapy, special diets—she’d do anything.
Dr. Friedman glanced at his papers, then back to Sage. “I know this is terrible for you to hear, Sage, but I’m afraid there’s nothing medicine knows how to do right now that can make it safe for you to play volleyball.”
Mom’s hand went to her mouth. For a moment, no one breathed. Then Sage’s cold bark of a laugh pierced the room. “No,” she said. “You’re wrong.” She was fine. She felt fine. No, she felt excellent.
Dr. Friedman held out two pieces of paper to her, seemingly unfazed. “These are some images so you can see what I’m talking about.” Sage just stared at him. Mom and Dad took the papers together.
“This is a normal heart,” Dr. Friedman said. He pointed to the first sheet. “And this,” he indicated the next image, “is what a heart with hypertrophic cardiomyopathy looks like. What Sage’s heart looks like.” He handed over more papers. “We’ll go over everything and I will answer any and all questions, but I wanted to go ahead and give you some additional information—”
“No.” Sage slid off the exam table, her eyes level with Dr. Friedman’s. “You don’t understand. I have to play. Volleyball is everything to me. My whole life!”
Again, Dr. Friedman didn’t break eye contact. “I know this is difficult—”
“Difficult!” Sage’s voice turned shrill. “You’re trying to ruin my life!” She whirled on her parents. “I’m not stopping,” she said. “You can’t make me stop!”
Mom was full-on crying. She turned to Dr. Friedman. “There was a kid, um, in the newspaper last year…” Her voice had a fragility Sage wasn’t used to hearing. “From Hendersonville. He died playing basketball. Is this hyper… whatever-it’s-called? Is this what he had?”
“Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy.” Dr. Friedman nodded. “Yes, I remember that. And yes, it is. Whenever you hear those stories, about sudden death in teen athletes, that’s almost always the case.”
Dad put his hand against the wall and slumped into the orange plastic chair by the exam table.
“So, Sage could have—” Mom covered her face. “Oh, God.”
“Truthfully, she’s fortunate she passed out,” Dr. Friedman said. “For a lot of people, there are no warnings.”
Sage shook her head so hard her brain hurt. “You’re wrong. You have to be wrong. Dad, tell him!”
But Dad only stared at her. Sage had never seen her father look that way, the olive complexion she’d inherited from him so pale and faded. He looked like someone had opened a valve and drained away his spirit.
“Dad!”
He stood, regaining himself, and faced Dr. Friedman. “You’re really telling me there’s no other option? In this day and age, with all the medical advancements we have, there’s nothing we can do to make it safe for her to play?”
Dr. Friedman’s pained expression said everything. “Please try to understand,” he told Sage. “It would be like playing Russian roulette with your life. Every practice. Every game.” He kept his voice calm and even. Sage hated him for it.
“I want a second opinion,” she spat.
“Of course.” Dr. Friedman nodded. “That’s a lot of information and it’s not what you want to hear. You can see one of my partners here in the office, or I can send you to a practice in Charlotte. If there’s someone else you have in mind, I can facilitate that as well.”
Sage didn’t know what she’d expected, but the fact that Dr. Friedman wasn’t the tiniest bit bothered by her demand somehow made it worse. Because he’s that sure, she thought. She covered her face.
“Is this the kind of thing that’s not always clear?” Mom asked. “Can there be false positives?”
Dr. Friedman shook his head. “EKGs can sometimes give false positives, which is why we order the echocardiogram,” he said. “The echo, however, is quite clear.”
Sage heard her parents ask more questions and press for more specifics—Is it genetic? Has she always had it? What’s the next step?—but everything sounded muffled and far away. Dr. Friedman answered it all evenly, occasionally pointing to the papers, like he had nothing else to do but talk about her defective heart. He mentioned more tests and the possibility of something called a defibrillator, but her brain wouldn’t focus enough to understand it. Her mom still hadn’t stopped crying.
If this was real—if she truly couldn’t play volleyball again—none of the tests or next steps even mattered.
“But she can still go into games?” Dad asked. “For a few plays at least, maybe in the back row? As long as she doesn’t jump or increase her heart rate?”
“I’m sorry,” Dr. Friedman said. “She can’t participate in any kind of competitive play at all.”
“But practice is okay, right?” Mom asked, making a sad attempt to salvage her smeared mascara.
Dr. Friedman clasped his hands. “I understand this is hard to fathom, especially for someone as talented as Sage. But no. A person with this diagnosis cannot participate in sports at all, not even in a practice setting.”
There was a terrible, heart-splitting sound, so raw it convulsed Sage’s body, and dear God, why wasn’t someone stopping it? She looked up, taking in her parents’ wide eyes, Dr. Friedman’s worried frown, and it hit her like a serve to the face: the sound came from her.
“Sage.” Mom tried to hug her.
“No.” Sage pulled away, gulping air. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. She’d figure it out. She couldn’t think was all. None of them could think straight in this awful,
suffocating room. “I need to go,” she said. “There’s a scout at practice. I have to get back.”
“Sage,” Dad said. Why did he sound that way? What was wrong with him?
“Come on, baby.” Mom wiped her face and took Sage gently by the arm. “Dad can finish here and set up your next appointment. I’ll take you home.”
CHAPTER NINE
LEN
LEN DIDN’T EVEN BOTHER TRYING TO CLOSE THE FRONT door gently. The glass panes bounced as she tugged the rusted knob and snapped the door into its jamb.
“I know, I know,” she called out, waiting for Dad to chastise her from the next room, but the house stayed quiet. The thin scent of acrylics pricked her nose. Len peeked into the living room. One of Dad’s easels was missing. A note hung from another: Painting at the lake. Back by dinner.
Unexpected good luck. She could be alone while she did this.
Len slipped into her room and dropped her bag on the bed before heading to the narrow desk in front of her closet. Her gaze, as usual, avoided the empty cobwebbed area below the single window, as if the space didn’t exist. She added a recharged battery to the Canon that Fauna and Diane had given her two birthdays ago, and pulled the photography prompt list from her pocket, flattening it against the desk with her palm.
1. Vertical
2. Gravity
3. Reflection
4. Part of whole
The list went on—twenty-four prompts in total. Len slipped the camera strap over her neck, eyes glazing. The only word she could focus on was the one Ms. Saffron had used to describe her recent submissions: sterile.
She crumpled the list and, before she could lose her nerve, took off, letting the door slam as she jumped the stone steps that led to her thickly-treed front yard.
A horn blared from the four-lane highway that sat below the small cluster of homes opposite hers, followed by the loud belch of an 18-wheeler. Len ignored the tightening of her throat and snapped a few test shots, measuring the light.
Then she froze. She’d forgotten the first prompt.
Her gloved hands fumbled to uncrumple the paper. Vertical.
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