Alive

by Chandler Baker

  If I fall asleep now, I can still get at least six hours of sleep. I flip onto my back and push the comforter down to my waist. I’ve been playing this game for an hour and a half and I’m no closer to nodding off than I was at eleven.

  Three days I’ve been a prisoner in my room. My legs are limp and my arms feel wilted, like cooked spaghetti. My entire body’s dwindling. Pretty soon, I think, I’ll be a pile of skin sagging off the bone. I can feel pain and sickness hanging around me like a phantom and yet somehow, in the span of these few days spent completely sedentary, marinating in my own overused bed sheets, my mind has sharpened. My thoughts ring clearer than they have in months. A side effect of this is that I can’t sleep. Another is embarrassment. I am suddenly all too aware that I was screaming my boyfriend’s name in a public space. While there are about a dozen signs that I’m not healthy, this is one of them.

  I sigh into the dark. Giving in at last, I prop myself up with two pillows and fumble for my phone on the nightstand. The screen casts a ghostly pallor over my blankets as I navigate to my various social media forums and then to my e-mail account. The Internet’s quiet at this hour. Levi isn’t on Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram, a fact that I’d found cool, mature, and a tad edgy, but now, while I’m bored and, despite myself, wanting to poke around, it’s just aggravating.

  Updates are both scarce and boring and I have no new messages save from the numerous shopping sites to which I’ve been unwittingly subscribed. So I scroll through my texts. Six from Levi. Mom and Dad are convinced that my schoolgirl crush has gone stalker-level serious. I make a promise to them—and a little to myself, too—that I’ll be better now.

  For some reason, though, I keep scrolling. What I need tonight is something different. Next on the list are texts from my mom asking if I need more notebooks and what, if anything, I want for dinner. Lydia wants to know the homework assignment on Monday. Brynn asks if she can borrow a dress for her cousin’s wedding. Below that are text messages from various numbers, most of which I don’t even have saved in my phone: neighbors, my dad’s secretary, a few nosy do-gooders from school I don’t really know, all wishing me well and hoping I feel better soon. When I got my phone back after surgery, it was flooded with them, and I’d given up on reading them all in favor of taking frequent naps. I scroll through now, trying to feel warmed by the notes of encouragement. I notice a message that looks longer than the others. It doesn’t appear as a complete thought in my window until I click on it

  My breath hitches. I recognize the conversation right away. The words I’d so stealthily typed out in a hurry before I’d been whisked away. A sort of confession and then the response that I’d missed—

  It’s ok to be scared Stel. It only means you value life. I was starting to worry that The Great Stella Cross didn’t get scared. But maybe you do that for everyone else. I don’t know. If we’re being honest here, I’m scared too. Bc ⋆I⋆ value your life.

  How had I not seen this? I scroll up and see more recent texts from Henry, but they’re from his new phone number. I’d changed the contact details. My chest pulses with a fresh ache, completely different than the one I feel for Levi. This one doesn’t hurt. This ache swells inside me like the rising tide.

  I’ve been telling myself he’s too safe, that he’s not what I want right now. But reading this, I begin to think that perhaps what I want and what I need are different. It’s funny, I never knew what bittersweet meant.

  I check the clock. It’s twelve fifty-one.

  It’s late and my eyelids are just now starting to feel heavy with exhaustion, but I slip out of bed and pull a pair of sweatpants and purple Ugg boots on over my striped socks. My Duwamish High hoodie is hanging over the back of my desk chair and I tug it down over messy hair. Grabbing my keys, I jiggle the window until I can slide it open without making a sound.

  The night outside my window is cold and damp, a rude awakening from my room, which was toasty and warm, especially when I was burrowed beneath mountains of blankets. I don’t turn my headlights on until I get to the stop sign at the end of our street.

  I drive with the radio off. My sweatshirt sleeves cover my hands so that I can barely feel the cold leather of the steering wheel. When I see Henry’s house, I turn off the lights and park several mailboxes down.

  What if I get caught? What if Henry doesn’t wake up? I think ten minutes too late. I’m already here.

  I hunch over as I creep along the thick row of hedges that line the Joneses’ yard. Henry’s room is located at the rear of the house on its right side, free from the Betsy Ross–style awning that adorns the front. When I reach it, I cup my hands on the glass and try to peer through, but the room’s pitch-black and the reflection of my eyes combined with the shadow from my hands prevents me from seeing anything other than shrouded blobs looming within. The one thing I can make out is a green light flickering a few feet above the ground that must be his laptop.

  I shouldn’t be here, I realize, my breath fogging the window. What was I thinking, showing up at Henry’s in the middle of the freaking night? This is creepy. I feel like I should be in some classic ’80s movie, holding a radio over my head while I belt out “In Your Eyes.”

  I start to turn away to return to my car when I hear…

  “Stella?” Henry whispers. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  I mentally weigh whether he said, What the hell are you doing here? or What the hell are you doing here? When I can’t decide, I unfurl my arms and tilt my chin up toward the window. “Trespassing?” I venture. This is not how I saw this going.

  Henry sighs and leans further out the window. The outline of his curly hair sticks out against the navy sky. “Obviously,” he says, “but why?”

  “Ugh, look.” I pull myself into a more dignified position. “I know this is really lame of me. But…I wanted to see you.”

  I try not to think too hard about what I’m saying. After all, it’s a little too late for that. It’s like recently, when I’m around Henry, I think I might be spewing selfishness faster than the Hoover Dam.

  “Are you sure your boyfriend would want you here?” He says boyfriend the way other people might say barf.

  “I read your text. The one right before my surgery. They took my phone away before I got it and…I don’t know, I think my parents must have opened it or something, because I didn’t see it.” I’m jogging in place now and rubbing my hands together. “Until now.”

  The silhouette of Henry’s head droops for a moment before he says, “Come in.” But he says it warily, like he’s not sure it’s a good idea.

  “Thanks,” I say in a soft voice as Henry helps hoist me over the sill. It’s hard to believe I used to swim for miles and now climbing through a first-floor window leaves me winded. I try not to remember the Before. This is who I am now. Why does anything else matter?

  I take a few moments to catch my breath, my back to the drywall, while Henry stands eyeing me.

  “What?” I ask finally, pinching my side, which is cramping. “What’s with the head shake?”

  He pushes his finger into his mess of curls. “You’re, like, the most complicated girl I know, Stella.”

  A year ago, I’d have thought he was crazy, but now I don’t bother to disagree.

  Once I’m inside, my eyes adjust to the darkness of the room. The moon provides just enough light to see by. In the corner is a bookcase overflowing with novels by H. P. Lovecraft and Ray Bradbury and Peter Straub that jut out from the shelves and spill over into stacks of paperbacks at the bottom. The bed’s a twin, pressed up against the wall, sheets hanging halfway off. I’m still freezing, so without asking, I kick off my Uggs, plop down on the mattress, and wrap myself up in the quilt bunched at the foot of the bed.

  “Stella…” Henry’s voice is cautious, low. “What do you think you’re doing?” I wish I knew. I’m not exactly clear on all the rules of relationships, but I have a sneaking suspicion I might be breaking one or two.

  I pat the spot
next to me and Henry dutifully trudges over to the bed. He’s wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a gray long-sleeved T-shirt. His weight on the mattress dips me in closer.

  We sit there, breathing together, while I wait for my toes to thaw.

  I’m not stupid, though. I know what this looks like, even if it’s not what I intend.

  “Well, this is a surprise.” Henry leans back, arms folded behind his head on the pillow.

  “A good one?”

  “Just a surprise.”

  On the nightstand I spot a familiar book, facedown, lying open. I reach over him to grab it, using my thumb to hold his spot. “Are you reading Carrie again?” I ask.

  He snatches it from my hands. “Maybe. So?”

  I push my hands in my lap. “Nothing.” I guess I wasn’t the only one feeling nostalgic.

  I lie back next to him and stare up at the ceiling. A few glow-in-the-dark stars still cling to the popcorn plaster, barely emitting the faintest hint of light. I can imagine a miniature Henry directing his dad regarding the exact placement of each one. I bet he was cute.

  “Do you ever think about what would have happened if I’d died?” I ask, letting my cheek fall against the soft fabric of his T-shirt. It occurs to me that I haven’t been this relaxed in months.

  My head rests on his shoulder and I hear a strangled grunt when he responds, “No,” that makes me think he means yes. He clears his throat. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, like, okay, we’re always hearing people call in to Lunatic Outpost, right? And they’re going on about how the ghost of their cousin’s dead uncle’s great-aunt Bessie won’t leave them alone. Do you think any of that’s, I don’t know, real?”

  I feel his chin pinch down and I could swear he takes a whiff of my freshly shampooed hair. “Do I think you would have been a ghost?”

  “Come on. Ghost is never the word they use. That sounds lame. A poltergeist, an apparition, a shade. Or do you think after you die you’re just another blip on history’s radar? Nothing.” My voice is low and gurgles from lying on my back. I listen to the sound of the overhead fan click.

  He sucks in a deep breath. “I have a hard time believing you could ever be nothing.”

  “So a ghost then.” We’re talking low so that his parents won’t hear, but we’re both giggling.

  Henry’s body tilts into me and I breathe in the smell of fabric softener and guys’ deodorant. “Would you come back and haunt me, you think?”

  “I don’t see why not.” I poke him in the ribs. “You feel as much like home as anywhere else.” I hear the crackle of Henry’s smile.

  His hand’s resting just next to my thigh, not on it, and I can feel his pinky grazing my knee.

  “Why’d it take you six years to decide you like me?” I ask.

  “It didn’t take me six years to decide. It took me six years to tell you. There’s a difference.”

  I scoff. “Okay, yeah, whatever.”

  “Shut up, Stel. You know that’s true.” He’s turned serious. I don’t know what I was thinking, taking the conversation in this direction.

  “What I know,” I say, “is that you turned me down when I told you I thought I might have feelings for you.” The truth was that ever since that day we started reading Carrie together, I’d had a crush on Henry Jones. Only he didn’t know it. He was cute and sweet, the most considerate boy in our grade by far. He never snapped bra straps or tried to steal girls’ thongs from the locker room or drew penises on other people’s notebooks. Back then, that’s about all it took to brew true love.

  Henry sighs. “We were in ninth grade. I was dating Tess then.” Tess. Henry’s big betrayal. “I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. And then, after that, you got sick and it…it just didn’t seem like the right time to bring that stuff up. It felt almost selfish. I don’t know.”

  First I was too late. Then he was. I guess that’s the way the world works sometimes.

  I sit up straight in bed. (I still can’t get over the fact that I’m in Henry’s bed, but whatever.) “Let’s go do something exciting. Let’s take a swim in the ocean. Something.” Already, I’m imagining the feeling of my hair trailing in the water behind me. The weightlessness of water.

  Henry grunts and rolls over onto his side. “It’s the middle of the night.”

  “So?” I poke his back and then when that doesn’t work I tug at his hand, trying to pull him up out of bed. He doesn’t budge. “Please?” I beg. “We haven’t done anything normal together in ages.”

  “Whose fault is that?” he asks.

  I want this small part of my life back. I want things with Henry and me to be okay so badly I’m willing to make a fool out of myself by showing up in the middle of the night.

  “Come on. You’re going to wake up my parents.” The corner of his mouth is pulled into a grin, which only serves to encourage me.

  “You know you want to,” I lean down and say this in his ear.

  “Stel…” He swats me away. I know Henry. I know he can’t stay upset with me, no matter what we are.

  “You’re turning into a lug.” I push with both hands, trying to force him off the bed. It has to be past two. “Don’t you like me anymore?” I ask without thinking. I know it’s like prodding the underbelly of a cow, and right away I feel bad for saying it.

  Henry flips onto his back and stares at me. His eyes shine through the dark. “Stel, you can’t.” My arms go limp as I deflate in an instant.

  He’s right.

  I can never swim again—or at least that’s what the doctors told me. But it’s only when I hear somebody say it out loud that I feel the limitations crushing in on me all over again. Swimming is practically a curse word in my household, the mere mention of which would cause my parents to send me straight to my room for another three capsules of Paxil just to be safe. And even I understand it could be a death sentence. But how can my parents keep bringing up Stanford without knowing that they’re making me think about swimming? The two go hand in hand for me. Without swimming, Stanford is just a school—worse, it’s their school. Their dream. I have no idea what I’m doing anymore.

  My voice is small. “I just miss you. I miss us,” I mutter.

  He rubs at his eyes. We’re both getting tired. I can feel it. Even the glow-in-the-dark stars have lost their charge.

  Gently, cautiously, he tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His hand lingers. The warmth of his skin hovers close by. “Did I ever tell you I liked your new hair?” His fingers thread through my slept-on tresses, snagging on the knotted rats’ nests. He gently lifts my face to his, and then he kisses me.

  His lips are thinner than Levi’s and taste like cherry Chap Stick. Kissing Levi is more like taking a long sip of water straight out of the Atlantic Ocean—ice-cold and outdoorsy.

  Henry’s kiss is tentative. He cradles the back of my head but gives me my space. It’s only when a sigh escapes me that I realize what I’m doing.

  I find his chest and push against it. “Stop, Henry.” Our mouths part. “I can’t,” I mutter, folding my hands back in my lap, where I can stare at them. “You know I can’t.”

  He licks his lip. “You can.” I can see by the way his fingers twitch that there’s an internal war going on inside his head as he decides whether or not to reach out and touch me. Easy. I make the decision for him.

  Grabbing my fluffy sheepskin boots, I shove my bare feet inside and toss the quilt back onto the naked twin bed. “I miss you. I do, but—”

  Henry’s nails dig into the leg of his pajama bottoms and he chews hard on his lip. “But for all the wrong reasons, Stel.”

  CONFIDENTIAL

  St. David’s Healthcare: Confidential Document

  This information is subject to all federal and state laws regarding confidentiality and privacy and to the policies and procedures of St. David’s Healthcare regarding patient information. Any unauthorized use, disclosure, or reproduction of this information is strictly prohibited.

 
; Transplant NTE

  CROSS, STELLA M.

  *Final Report*

  Document type:

  Transplant NTE

  Document status:

  Auth (Verified)

  Document title:

  Post–Heart Transplant Note

  Performed by:

  Belkin, Robert H.

  Verified by:

  Belkin, Robert H.

  *Final Report*

  Post–Heart Transplant Note

  Patient:

  Stella Cross

  Age:

  17 years

  Sex:

  Female

  Associated diagnosis:

  Acute cardiomyopathy

  Author:

  Belkin, Robert H.

  Basic Information

  Reason for visit: Patient admitted after losing consciousness

  Transplant diagnosis: measurable deterioration of the function of the myocardium; dilated left ventricle

  Transplant type: Deceased donor heart transplant

  Transplant info: Last biopsy: N/A

  Cardio allograft, needle biopsy:

  –Negative immunoperoxidase staining

  –No vasculitis identified

  Acute dehydration; immunosuppressants caused shutdown of circulatory system, exacerbated when patient moved from state of rest to intense physical exertion without warm-up; will instruct patient again on the dangers of physical exercise on current medication and at this stage

  History of Present Illness

  The patient previously returned for an unscheduled checkup related to chest pains; no signs of organ rejection

  I notice the pain more now in its absence than I did in its presence. It has, I realize, become a source of background noise, and the moment I see Levi, it’s as if someone switched it off completely. My body unwinds, adjusting to its new normal. The immediate wash of relief.