This Heart of Mine

by C. C. Hunter

  He looks again at his brother. It’s him, but it isn’t. His personality, his essence is gone.

  Seeing the clock on the wall, he realizes his time is up.

  “What happened, Eric?” The damn knot crawls up higher in Matt’s throat. Tears fill his eyes. He touches his brother’s hand. Matt’s breath catches when it feels cold.

  He glances back to make sure no one is standing outside the door. Then he stands up and moves closer to his brother’s side. “You know, you told me when Dad died that we just had to live for him. Well, now I’ve got to live for the both of you. That’s hard to do.”

  Matt runs a hand over his face. His chest feels so tight he’s sure it’s gonna break. “I don’t know how to be me without you.”

  His voice shakes. “I’m gonna try. I’ll do right by Mom.” He pauses. “But I’m pissed at her right now. If she hadn’t … I know you didn’t do this. I won’t stop trying to find out who did. I promise you. Now go hang out with Dad. Tell him I love him.”

  He hears a slight shuffle and looks back. A nurse is in the doorway. Her eyes are wet. She walks up to him as if to hug him, but he holds out his hand.

  He hurries out of the ICU and finds an empty family room. Dropping into a chair, he wipes the tears from his cheeks and tries to piece together what’s left of his broken soul.

  He leans back in the chair, closes his eyes, and attempts to smooth the emotional wrinkles from his head. Staring at the blackness of his eyelids, he lets his thoughts float away, feeling so damn tired. Maybe if he could sleep a few minutes …

  Maybe.

  He lets his shoulders relax. He’s almost asleep when he sees it and feels it again. Sees Eric running through the trees. Fear swells in his chest, his brother’s fear. He senses someone is giving chase. He can almost hear the thud of footsteps following. Who? Who would want to hurt Eric?

  Matt shoots up from the chair. Runs a hand over his face. He feels Eric. Feels him here. “You trying to tell me something?” He waits for an answer and then … worries he’s losing it.

  Unsure what he believes, he heads to his car. The heat claws at his skin. The air feels thick. Sweat runs down his brow. He sticks his hands in his jeans and thinks about Eric’s cold hand.

  He stops walking, realizing he doesn’t even know where he is. He looks around. His car isn’t where he thought it was. He stands there, fisting his hands in his pockets. Then he remembers parking in front of the emergency room. He starts that way, through a maze of cars, hurrying to get out of the smothering air.

  He rounds the corner of another building. Nearby voices float above the sound of traffic. Something familiar about the voices causes him to look up. He sees the dark-haired girl with a backpack about two rows over. Leah and her parents. His knees almost buckle.

  His gaze stays on her, on the way she walks, a little slow, her shoulders slumped over as if she’s carrying too much. And not all of it physical weight, but emotional.

  Air, with the weight of cement, catches between his Adam’s apple and tonsils. They’re walking into the hospital.

  Just like that he knows. Leah McKenzie is getting Eric’s heart.

  Eric wanted this. Matt wanted this. Yet an emotion he can’t quite name pushes its way into his already crowded and clutching chest. Leah gets to live. Eric gets to die. That feels so unfair.

  He waits for the three of them to get inside before he dares to take a step. Then he bolts to his car.

  Climbing behind the wheel, he fists his hands onto the steering wheel, as if by hanging on to it, he’s hanging on to his sanity. Five. Ten minutes later, he’s still there.

  Still hanging on.

  He’s not in a hurry to leave. Instead, he sits there trying to fit everything he feels in a nice, neat little package.

  It won’t fit.

  It’s not nice. It’s not neat.

  Even his father’s death didn’t hurt this bad.

  4

  I don’t want to do this!

  Tears. Hugs. Kisses. Then reminders from a nurse of what I can expect when I wake up from the surgery.

  If I wake up.

  My mom holds my hands. Her grip is tight. But not tight enough.

  “You’ll have the tube down your throat, just like with the other surgery,” the transplant nurse continues. “Do you remember?”

  As if I could forget waking up gagging, unable to swallow, or the ache in my chest bone that had been sawed in half and pulled apart. I still force a brave face for my parents’ sake. I see the pain in their faces. It’s worse than mine.

  “Just a few more minutes.” The nurse starts doing things to my gurney.

  They are about to wheel me back, and the smidgen of bravado I had is gone. I swallow my tears. I don’t think I can let go of Mom’s hand.

  I start shaking. I need to tell them things. Things I’ve been putting off. I start talking, fast. “I love you and I know all you’ve done for me. None of your sacrifices have gone unnoticed. If—”

  “Stop,” Mom screams, tears chasing tears down her pale cheeks. Her green eyes look too large, too much pain. “You are going to be fine.”

  “I know that,” I lie. Now my dad has tears in his eyes. Great, now I’m gonna cry.

  “We need to go,” the nurse says. But right then an anesthesiologist steps into the room and moves close to the bed. He’s already introduced himself. He smiles at me. “You ready for a new life?”

  I nod, but I’m still not sure. “I’m going to give you something to help you relax,” he says in a comforting voice. He has dark hair and soft brown eyes. He reminds me of … Matt.

  The man pushes a needle in my IV. The cold tingly current runs up my arm, and I feel as if someone is dropping a warm blanket over me. My fears float off me like steam.

  Mom kisses me. Dad leans down and whispers, “I love you, sweet pea.”

  His words are the last thing I hear. Then the last thing I see is Mom and Dad looking at me as they roll me off. Mom is crying and wiping her hands on her jeans. Dad is smiling, but he, too, has tears in his eyes.

  The last thing I feel is a tear gliding down my cheek. The last thing I think is, I don’t want to die. I want to live. Not even for me, but for them.

  * * *

  Pain. Pain. Pain. I feel as if someone sawed me in half, but then again, they have. I almost welcome the pain, because I know it means I’m alive.

  Almost. Almost welcome the pain. It hurts like hell. And I wish it’d go away.

  I try to swallow. I can’t. I gag. I remember it’s the oxygen tube. I tell myself not to fight it. To relax my throat. They won’t take it out until they know I can breathe on my own.

  Relax. Relax. Relax.

  A deep voice, a faraway voice, fills my ears. I’m not sure if it’s someone far away, or me mentally far away. But I think he’s angry. I can’t make out what he’s saying. But I just had surgery. Why would someone be mad at me?

  I try to open my eyes. At first, I can’t.

  Finally, I manage it, but my lids feel fat and heavy. I expect to see the white walls of the recovery room, a nurse hovering over me. I expect to hear the beeping of monitors. I expect the air to smell of bitter astringent.

  Nothing is like I expect.

  I see trees, spring-colored leaves, flying past me.

  I smell damp earth and night. I smell fear.

  I’m running. In the woods. My heart is thudding in my chest. I fall. The coppery flavor of sheer terror explodes in my mouth.

  Pain. Pain. Pain.

  Not in my chest now. My head. All I see is light. White light. Bright light. Oh, shit. I’m dying?

  I try to scream. Can’t. Then it’s gone. The raw panic. The pain in my head. And suddenly I’m not there. I’m here.

  I smell the hospital. I see the white walls. I feel the pain … in my chest. The beeps of the monitor fill my ears.

  The nurse is standing over me.

  She smiles. “It’s okay. Just relax. You’re doing fine.”

  Clos
ing my eyes, I let myself go away. Not back to the woods, but back to nothing. I don’t feel pain there.

  Hours later, I don’t know if it’s two or twenty, I wake up in the woods again. Running, scared. Someone says my name. I blink. I’m back in the hospital. Someone has my hand. I recognize that touch. Mom.

  I glance to the side. I can hardly turn my head, I have tubes coming and going into me everywhere.

  My mom and dad sit in chairs by my bed.

  They look like shit. Tired. Scared. But happy. They smile. I can’t smile, but then I know how much it will mean for them, so I try. Hoping they at least can see it in my eyes.

  I hear the beeping of the monitor marking my heartbeat.

  Correction. Not my heart.

  But it thumps in my chest. It’s keeping me alive.

  Is it at home there? Does it miss its donor? Will it somehow change me? Will I feel the same? Love the same?

  I recall some of this being covered in the transplant classes I had to attend to be on the list. Unfortunately, I didn’t retain the information. Didn’t think this would happen.

  Through the pain and uncertainty of my whole freaking life, a thought hits. I’m going to live.

  I’m not just going to graduate from high school. I’m going to read way more than one hundred books. I’m going to date boys again. I’m going to experience more toe-curling, blow-my-mind kisses.

  I can stop accepting and start hoping. It’s allowed now.

  Suddenly, I’m past ready for the healing to be over. I want to start living.

  I’m tired of dying.

  * * *

  “I brought you flowers too, but they took them away from me,” Brandy says. “I was going to fight if they tried to take this.” She hands me a book.

  It’s by a paranormal author we both love. “Wow, when did this come out?”

  “Last week.”

  “Thank you. I’ll start it today. I could use some vampire love.” I look up smiling.

  “Are you allergic to flowers now?”

  “It’s a mold thing, but thank you anyway.”

  This is the first time I’ve seen her since the surgery, but Mom said she was up here the day I had it. She also told me they hugged each other and that Brandy cried. She’s that kind of friend. Like a good Band-Aid, she sticks.

  I watch her tuck her blond hair behind her ear. She must be growing it out. I realize she’s wearing the purple T-shirt I gave her for her birthday that says BORN TO READ. She’s a purple lover and just as big of a book geek as I am.

  All of a sudden, Brandy stops and stares at me. “You look so good. I was worried you would … look sick.”

  “You look good too. You’re growing out your hair.”

  She makes her duh face. “Brian wants to see how I’d look with it long. I told him I’d grow it out, but then I’m cutting it off again. No boyfriend is going to dictate how I wear my hair.”

  I laugh.

  She continues to stare. “I don’t know if it’s your coloring or just … you look like you again. Not connected to anything. But … I have to tell you something. Don’t take it the wrong way, but you gotta lose the pink. It’s not your color.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, Mom’s got a pink fetish.”

  One of these days I’m going to have to tell my mom that I’m not into pink. The dozen helium balloons, pink and pink polka-dotted, are tied to a chair in the corner of the too-small, too-white, too-sterile room. Mom even bought me a new pink throw in case I get cold. And the new PJs she brought me match perfectly with the balloons.

  And that’s not even counting what she did to my bedroom at home the last time I was in the hospital. It looks like a bottle of Pepto-Bismol exploded in there.

  One of the masks from a dispenser connected to my door hangs around Brandy’s neck. I assured her she didn’t have to wear it if she wasn’t sick. Which the doctor told me I could do, but I know if Mom walks in, she’ll have a shit fit. Thankfully, Mom’s not due for a while.

  “I feel pretty good,” I tell her. And it’s not really a lie. The meds are messing me up a little, and I still have pain, but it’s only been nine days since the surgery. I might even get to go home in a couple of days.

  Mom already talked about me going back to school. The doctor recommended I wait until January. I agree I should wait. Not because I’m afraid I won’t feel healthy enough, but honestly I’m scared. I haven’t gone to school in over a year. When I go back, I really want to feel like me again.

  “Trent asked me to tell you hello,” Brandy says, her good-news smile brightening her green eyes.

  “Did he?” I ask. The only reason I broke up with him was because I was dying. Trent made me happy. I liked him. I liked his personality. I liked his smile. I liked his kisses. But not how I liked my last kiss. Crazy how, even after over a month, I can’t forget it.

  The hospital door swishes open. Dr. Hughes, my cardiologist, walks in.

  “How’s my favorite patient doing?” She pulls her stethoscope out of her white coat pocket. She’s tall and lean. I like her. How could I not? She’d actually pulled her shirt up and showed me the scar on her chest where she’d had heart-valve surgery fifteen years ago.

  “Fine.” I smile. “Brandy,” I say and motion to Dr. Hughes, “this is my favorite doctor.”

  “Do I need to go?” Brandy asks, her tone tight, fear riding each word.

  “No,” the doctor says. “I’m just listening to her and going to peek at her incision.”

  “I don’t do incisions.” Brandy runs out of the room as if something is chasing her.

  The doctor stares after her and makes a disapproving sound. “Teenagers,” she says, as if I’m not one.

  “She’s super squeamish, but she’s stuck by me,” I say, defending Brandy. “Came to see me three or four times a week.”

  “Then I’ll forgive her.” The doctor points to my feet covered by a sheet. “What is it today?”

  “I think Dumbo.” I push the sheet off, exposing my slippers and wiggling my feet.

  “Love ’em.” She grins. “You are one of a kind.” She moves closer. “How’s the breathing?”

  “Fine.” I do the routine of breathing deep, breathing normal.

  She asks me to unbutton my top. I almost don’t care that I’m flashing my boobs. I think everyone in the hospital has seen them. They try to cover them up with the sides of my pajama top when they examine me, but it never fails, something slips. Boobs are slippery like that.

  I almost flashed the janitor the other day. He walked in and thinking he was someone who needed to check out the incision, I started unbuttoning my shirt. Hell, if this was Mardi Gras I would have a fortune in beads.

  “It looks really good,” Dr. Hughes says. “Did your mom get you the cream I told her to? You can use it in another week or so and it should help with scarring.”

  “Yeah. She told me she did.” I look down at the red line running between my boobs, then there’s the scar where the drainage tube came out and another one where my artificial heart was connected. I look like a scarecrow. All patched up. They aren’t pretty, but it’s a small price to pay for having a future. And if my scars fade as much as Dr. Hughes’s did, they really won’t be that noticeable.

  The doctor closes my top. “Are the dreams and headaches going away?”

  Buttoning my PJs, I look up and frown. The dream I woke up with after the transplant has hung on. Not a night’s gone by that I haven’t woken up with it. Each time, I see a little more. I’m sure there’s a voice there in the background too. I can almost make it out. Almost.

  “No,” I answer. “But the transplant nurse said it’ll probably go away after I get moved down to a lower-dose steroid.” Unusual dreams can be a side effect of the steroids I’m taking to help me from rejecting the heart.

  “Yeah. We can lower it after two weeks.” She repockets her stethoscope. “Other than that, any complaints or compliments? And I prefer compliments.”

  I chuckle. “Everyone�
�s so nice. My only complaint is I want to go home. Oh, and the food. Are they trying to kill me?”

  “I’ve had worse. Except for their meatloaf…” She makes a funny face. “We’ll see your blood work, and if everything is good, maybe Wednesday.”

  “That’s three days. I thought we were talking two.”

  “That’s what you get for being nice to the nurses. They want to keep you.”

  “Okay, I’m taking the gloves off now. I can be a bitch.” I’m joking, but disappointment echoes in my voice.

  “You? A bitch? Bitches don’t wear Dumbo slippers.”

  I half-ass smile. She leaves. Brandy, in slow motion, walks back in. She’s sucked into her phone and frowning as if she’s reading something bad.

  “Everything okay?”

  She keeps reading.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She finally glances up, her expression troubled. “Someone posted something else about Eric Kenner.”

  “What?” Just hearing the name makes my brain spin. My shoulders snap back. I want to believe it was Matt I kissed, but what do I know?

  “What about him?” I ask, hoping it sounds casual, but I hear the quaver in my voice and it seems to come from my heart.

  Her eyes widen. “Crap. That’s right. You don’t know?”

  “Know what?” The words spill out of my mouth with impatience.

  “He killed himself.”

  I pop up off my pillow. I feel the crack in my chest. My heart, my new fragile heart, skips a beat. And that’s not good. I pull in air, but it seems too thick to swallow. “Wh…? Wait. What?”

  She sits on the edge of my bed. She gets that look, the look that says she has something juicy to tell me. I hate juicy. Or maybe it’s death I hate.

  “Everyone says Cassie Chambers broke his heart and he couldn’t handle it. But Matt swears his brother wouldn’t kill himself. He’s on a campaign to prove that to the police. He asked everyone on Facebook who knew Eric and believes he wouldn’t kill himself to go to see the detective on the case.”

  I’m trying to get everything she says, but my mind wants to reject it. “How did … What happened? Jeeezus, they just lost their dad.”