This Heart of Mine

by C. C. Hunter

  Ojar leaves. I look at Matt. “I’m sorry.”

  “I probably should’ve told him, but … I hate … I get tired of doing it. It happens all the time. You’d think no one in this town reads the paper or watches the news.” Pain laces his voice, and I feel it all the way down in my empty stomach.

  How hard it must be to have people mistaking him for Eric.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it.” I set my fork down. “You want to get these to go?”

  “No. Eat.” I see him put up a front, and I know I’ve only gotten a glimpse of how much he’s hurting.

  I want to say something, but I feel my stomach about to speak up, so I dish a big bite of chicken and sauce into my mouth. The flavor dances on my tongue. It tastes even better than it smelled. How could I have gone this long without trying Indian food?

  “This is … it’s really good.” I don’t wait for him to reply, I’m already pushing another bite into my mouth.

  When I look up, he’s staring and not eating his lunch. “What?” I reach for my napkin, thinking I’ve spilled something on my chin. The napkin comes back clean.

  “Nothing,” he says.

  “You want my salad?” I push the bowl to him. “I can’t eat it.”

  “You’re allergic to lettuce?” He smiles.

  I start to tell him the truth, that I can’t eat raw foods because they might have bacteria on them and it could kill me. That, because of the immune-suppressant drugs, which I have to take for the rest of my life, I can get sick at the drop of a hat. I stop myself from answering.

  I gaze down and then up. He’s still looking at me as if expecting an answer.

  “I don’t like salads,” I say. “Eat it.”

  “I’ve got plenty.” He picks up a fork and takes a bite of his food.

  His expression makes me laugh and chases away the mini pity party I’m secretly having. I chuckle. “Ojar is right. You don’t like his food.”

  He makes a face and leans in. “Even when I ask for no curry, it tastes like curry. I think their pots and pans are seasoned with it.”

  “Well, all I can say is that your tastes are off.” I fork another bite, this time of the lemon rice. “Why am I just now discovering Indian food?”

  Matt relents and pulls my salad over. He picks at it while I eat. At one point I notice him watching me, and I realize I’ve almost cleaned my plate. I probably look like a pig. I stop.

  “I was in a hurry because of Lady,” I say. Then add, “But that was really good.”

  “I’m glad you liked it.”

  “Not liked. I loved it. It’s like … the food of the gods.”

  Matt’s eyes widen.

  “Do I have something…” I run my tongue over my teeth for fear I have something nasty caught right in front.

  Matt shakes his head. “You’re fine. It’s just … weird.”

  “What’s weird?”

  He stabs my salad as if to kill an innocent cherry tomato. “What?” I ask.

  “You liking it so much. Because … Eric did. He even described the food the exact same way. As ‘food of the gods.’”

  I take in a small gulp of air. “You think I like this because … because Eric liked it?”

  “No, I didn’t … I’m sure it’s nothing. Just feels odd.”

  I digest what he’s saying. It’s not easy, because my body is busy digesting more food that I’ve eaten in one sitting in a year.

  And just like that I’m back to wondering how many of New Leah’s feelings aren’t about me but about Eric.

  * * *

  When I get home, Mom asks me to help out in the kitchen. She and Dad have friends coming over tonight. I don’t think she really needs the help as much as she wants to pick my brain about Matt.

  I don’t want my brain picked right now. It’s too full of shit that I’m trying to rationalize.

  “Did you have a good time?” she asks.

  “Yeah.” And I did. I just need some time to sort things out.

  “I was hoping Matt would come in. I was going to ask him to stay for dinner.”

  “Don’t do that,” I say, remembering I don’t want Mom putting the whole heart thing together.

  “Why not?”

  “He’s not … my boyfriend or anything.”

  She lifts a brow, her green eyes tighten, and she gives me that motherly you’re-lying-to-me look. “That’s not how it appeared when he came and tutored you.”

  Okay, so I’d suspected she saw us kissing. “That was a onetime thing.”

  “If you say so,” she says, and grins suspiciously.

  Dad walks in from the backyard. I smell the grill smoke on him.

  “Did your boyfriend go home?” he asks.

  I roll my eyes, and my heart rolls with it. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  Dad studies me. “Well, that’s a shame. I liked him better than the last guy.”

  Mom laughs and waves him out of the kitchen.

  I finish loading the dishwasher and start it up. Then I stand over the sink and stare out the kitchen window. At the garbage can where Matt and I had that moment.

  I remember him not saying anything about my “it’s not a date” comment. I remember Brandy looking shocked that Matt even kissed me. I remember school is going to start and he probably won’t even speak to me because I’m not in the cool-kids club. I remember he already bailed on me once.

  My throat tightens, crowding out my tonsils. I can taste my salty unshed tears in my mouth. “Can I go to my room now?”

  “Yeah.” Mom smiles. “I’m always here if you need to talk.” I hear her just-spill-it tone and know she wants me to explain things.

  I don’t want to explain anything. More than that, I can’t. Not only am I afraid I’m about to burst into tears. But … hell, I’m more confused than ever.

  I snag my purse and run to my room. I feel a few of those salty tears roll down my cheek. Shutting the door, I don’t even pull out my phone. Instead, I grab my laptop. I turn it on, pull up Google, then hesitate.

  I’m not sure what to type. Part of me says this is ridiculous.

  But then my fingers start moving.

  Stories about transplant patients feeling their donors are haunting them.

  I’m sure it’ll take several tries to get the wording right. I probably won’t even find anything at all.

  Wrong.

  The list of links on the page are so many, I feel attacked.

  “Shit,” I mutter. After a second, I start clicking the links.

  It’s all there.

  Dreams.

  Feeling unexplainable emotions.

  Strange changes in a person’s taste in food.

  I might not have listened that well in those transplant classes, but I’m positive they never discussed this.

  My heart races. No wonder I don’t feel like myself.

  13

  When Matt pulls up at his house, he sees his mom dressed in sweats, cleaning out the flower garden in the front yard. He cuts off the engine and listens to Lady bark, eager to go greet his mom. But he still doesn’t move. He just sits there, watching his mom, remembering Eric wanting to take her to the nursery.

  She wouldn’t go then.

  Now she went.

  She’s getting better.

  That thought lingers. It makes him happy, and yet it hurts too.

  It reminds him of the things he’s not doing. Of the things he used to enjoy. Hanging with his friends for longer than a few minutes. Reading. Sports. Working on cars.

  He and Eric had dropped football after Dad died, but then Eric talked him into signing up for basketball with him. We gotta start living again, Eric had said. Matt had actually started. Then …

  Mom waves. He forces a smile. For her. He’s happy she’s getting better—even if he’s not.

  Getting Lady back on her leash, they walk over. Lady is so happy to see his mom, she’s whining and climbing all over her.

  His mom looks up—smiling. They’d gone for
a run this morning. His mom hadn’t mentioned the detective, but a couple of times he’d thought she was going to.

  “That was a long walk at the park.”

  “I … waited until a friend could go.”

  “Who?” She pulls her hand out of one glove to pet Lady.

  “L … Lori,” he says quickly, remembering he didn’t want to bring up Leah in case his mom has heard she got a new heart. With his mom doing better, why tempt fate?

  “Lori who?”

  “MacDonald.” The lie lands on his conscience.

  “I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.” Her smile widens.

  “I’m not. She’s just a friend.” It’s not like this is a date. His ego takes another ding just thinking about it. “You need help?”

  “Nah, I’m almost finished with this bed and I’m stopping. It’s getting colder.” She gives Lady a good scratch behind the ear. “One of my New Year’s resolutions is to get this yard in shape.” She swipes hair out of her eyes. “You got any resolutions?”

  Find out who killed Eric. He doesn’t say it. “Haven’t given it much thought.”

  She looks at the dead plants she pulled out of the ground. “I went online and found the grief group counseling meeting is Friday night. I wish you’d change your mind.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m doing okay. I’ve been talking to … Lori.”

  She nods, but her eyes tell him he’s disappointed her. But what can he do?

  She dusts off her hands. “I’ve got some chili cooking for supper.”

  His mind moves to food, but not chili. The food of the gods, he remembers Leah saying. Then realizes his mom is still looking at him. “Chili sounds good. I’m going in.”

  “Yeah,” she says. “If you’re hungry, we can eat early. I skipped lunch.”

  “Sounds good.” He snatches up Lady and carries her inside. The rich, hearty aroma reminds him how much he’s missed his mom’s cooking.

  He lets Lady off her leash, then heads toward his bedroom.

  He thinks of Leah. Of how much he wanted to kiss her before she got out of his car.

  He makes it to his room, tosses his coat in a chair. He thinks of how he wishes she’d put on his jacket, so he could replace the image of her wearing Trent’s in his mind.

  Dropping on his bed, he laces his fingers behind his head and stares at the ceiling. Could he do that? Find a way of getting her into his jacket. Maybe even into his arms.

  Then bam, he realizes something. A small something, but it doesn’t feel so small.

  He sits up on his bed. This is the first time he’s walked past Eric’s door without … without feeling as if he would drown in grief. Walked past like … like maybe one day he could find his way back to his own life.

  He’s not quite there. He’s sure he won’t be until he finds out who killed his brother. But he’s closer now than he’s ever been.

  He knows why too.

  “Because of you, Leah. Because of you.”

  He pulls out his phone, stares at it, and thinks about calling her. Then he closes his eyes. He told her he’d call her tomorrow and they could talk about her seeing Cassie. She even agreed to meet him at the park afterward.

  He can’t push her. If he does, she might push back. Push away. He can’t let that happen.

  * * *

  “Damn!” Brandy sounds freaked as she reads the stuff I found on my computer. But not so freaked that she stops eating Dad’s smoked chicken or my mom’s black-eyed peas and cream potatoes. Both her parents are engineers, hardworking overachievers, and firm believers in takeout. At her house, frozen pizza is considered homemade.

  I’d called her and bribed her to come over by inviting her for dinner. I need to talk to someone. Someone needs to talk me down from the ledge. Reading all this shit was scary. Life-altering, my-life’s-not-my-own kind of scary.

  When she got here, I asked Mom if we could eat in my room. She agreed too quickly. Probably because Ms. Frankly had sneezed. If they weren’t about to sit down to dinner, she’d’ve asked her friend to wear a mask. Mom’s still obsessed about germs and me catching them. Just build me a bubble already.

  When Brandy and I first got to my bedroom, I poured my heart out to her. Told her everything: the dreams, Matt having the same dreams, the feeling that … I’m being taken over by Eric.

  She listened to me ramble while she polished off a chicken leg.

  Then I told her I wasn’t the only one. I pulled up the links for her to read.

  Now we’re sitting here, TV trays on each side of my bed. Her plate’s almost empty. My plate … untouched.

  I’m not hungry. I don’t know if it’s because I was a glutton at lunch or if I’m just scared shitless.

  Brandy finally closes my computer. Calmly. Like she’d just read Jane Austen and needed to absorb it.

  She looks at me, but instead of talking, she picks up her last drumstick and takes a big bite and chews. And chews. She never stops studying me, and I can tell she’s thinking.

  What if she thinks I’m crazy?

  No, she wouldn’t. She’s my best friend.

  After a few seconds, she swallows and then says, “You really don’t believe that crap, do you?”

  Wow. Wow. That stings! “What … do you mean?”

  “I mean it’s … crazy.”

  I guess best friends can think you’re crazy. “But what about the dreams and about the buttered chicken and lemon rice?”

  “I like Indian food.” She looks hesitant to continue, but she does. “And Eric has nothing to do with it. And didn’t you tell me that the doctors blamed the dreams on the medicine?”

  “Yeah, but … I’m only taking a small dosage of steroids now, and I’m still having them. And how can you explain that Matt and I are having the same dreams?”

  “Everyone dreams about running away from something.” She says it so calm, like it might not hurt me as much. “I’ll bet it’s the most common of dreams.”

  Hearing her say that none of what I’ve experienced is true just makes it feel truer. “I thought you’d believe me.”

  “I do … I mean … I don’t. It’s so weird.” She lets go of a sigh, like she knows she’s disappointing me. “You know, I like weird stuff. I love sci-fi and paranormal books, but … This isn’t a book, Leah. This is your life.”

  And that’s the freaking problem. I’m not sure it’s all mine anymore. “You think I don’t know that?” A lump, the size of a fat-ass frog, leaps into my throat.

  “Did Matt put this stuff in your head?” Brandy frowns. “Everyone at school’s saying he’s losing it. I feel sorry for him, everyone does, but I don’t want him to make you crazy.”

  “Stop.” My chest tightens, emotion swells inside me, and I recognize it. I’m angry. Angry that my best friend thinks I’ve lost it. I probably shouldn’t be, because I’ve considered it myself. Then I realize something. I’m pissed off not just because she doesn’t believe me but because she doesn’t believe Matt. And, as at the restaurant with Ojar, I want to protect him. He’s been hurt enough.

  I pop up and go stand at the window and pretend to stare out. All I’m really trying to do is stop myself from reminding Brandy of all the times I believed her. Like when she was sure she was adopted. Or when she thought she was Jane Austen reincarnated. Yeah, all of that was in sixth grade, but I still believed her.

  Yet I keep my mouth shut, because I don’t want to make her mad.

  “Now I’ve pissed you off,” she says.

  I guess I can’t fool Brandy.

  I take a deep breath and turn around. She’s sitting on the side of my bed. Her rust-colored pants and orange sweater clash with my pink bedspread. The doubt I see in her eyes clashes with what I want from her right now. I want understanding. Empathy. Advice.

  Am I going to start feeling as if Brandy doesn’t fit in my life, too? I can’t lose Brandy.

  “I just … I need you to believe me.”

  Her shoulders slump. “I believe that
you believe it. Just like I believe Matt believes his brother didn’t kill himself. But…”

  “But what?” That’s when I recall a flash of doubt I felt when Matt told me the gun his brother used was his dad’s. That there was gunpowder residue on his hands.

  I’ve read enough mystery novels to know that’s solid evidence. But I still believed him.

  “Have you read all of the articles about it? About Eric’s death?” she asks.

  “Just the recent ones.”

  “Go online and read the old ones. They spell it out pretty clear.” Brandy stands up. “Read them and be open-minded.” She walks over. “Both you and Matt have been through hell. And it’s totally freaky that you got his brother’s heart. But I think you both might be … I don’t know … not seeing things right … and then feeding into each other’s ideas in an unhealthy way. It’s not your fault. Your emotions are just really out of whack right now.” She hugs me.

  I let her, but only because I don’t want to lose my best friend. I don’t buy what she says, even though I hear the logic in it.

  I hate hearing it too. Because I’m a logical kind of girl.

  Or I used to be. I’m not sure what kind of girl I am now.

  * * *

  I feel my new heart pounding, faster, faster. I’m afraid. So afraid. The sound of my footfalls hitting the earth clamors in my ears. I look down and see the tennis shoes moving, running.

  Immersed in fear. I feel the object I’m grasping in my hand. I glance down. My heart trips on the beats. It’s a gun. It’s heavy. It’s cold. I don’t like the gun.

  But I need the gun.

  I’m winded. Can’t get enough air. My sides pinch. My legs cramp. I need to slow down. I can’t. I can’t. I’m going to die. Then I hear it. A gun explodes.

  It’s not the gun I’m carrying. Or is it? The footsteps are closer.

  I wake up. A scream, lodged in my throat, is about to pour out of me. I roll over, smother it, so I don’t wake my parents. Then I roll back over on my back, trying to catch my breath. Gasping for air, the fear, the raw, ugly panic I felt in the dream, hangs on with sharp claws. My heart thuds against my rib cage. I can’t breathe.